#and the idea that we are the ones controlling our destinies

[tacticalhimbo]

watched end of evangelion for the first time...

[dreamersworldduh]

Hi, I love your stories. The way you write is truly incredible.

That said, if you don't mind, I'd like to make a story request. You see, I couldn't help but look at your profile picture and wonder.

How about a Damian Wayne x Male Reader story where the reader is an Anodite (or Gwen Tennyson's race, I can't remember her name well, I think she was an Anodite? Correct me if I'm wrong)

I don't know, maybe during an argument with Bruce and his brothers, Damian angrily escapes from the mansion where he is surprised by a boy with apparent amnesia who escaped from Lex Luthor? It turns out the evil bald man wanted to use him to experiment with his body, Damian a little doubtful, but at the same time curious takes him with him. Maybe you could add a Thamarean rank and have them learn the language with a kiss? I don't know 🤭 but that's the main idea.

I hope I'm not bothering you with this 😓

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

• DAMIAN WAYNE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — After a disastrous mission strains his relationship with his family, Damian Wayne isolates himself in Gotham City—only to witness a meteor crash in a local park. Expecting debris, he instead finds a teenage boy—unconscious, glowing, and surrounded by a powerful pink aura.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence. PG.

WORDS! 15.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with our first request of the list and yes, Gwen is an Anodite. This was very interesting to write because I wasn’t sure of the angle that I was going for. I wrote two separate versions of this and chose this one. I’m still working on my other requests/works while trying to do my character animation finals. Anyway, enjoy your reading.✨🫶🏽

DAMIAN WAYNE carried a legacy that few could imagine and even fewer could survive. Every name tied to him was a weight—a title soaked in blood, power, and expectation. He was the grandson of Ra's al Ghul, a man whose name whispered through history like a ghost story told in secret, the immortal leader of the League of Assassins, who sought to shape the world through violence and control. From that lineage, Damian inherited a destiny forged in centuries of conquest, strategy, and unwavering purpose.

He was also the son of Bruce Wayne—Gotham's enigmatic protector, the Batman. A man who turned grief into mission, who wore trauma like armor and demanded excellence from all who stood beside him. Bruce raised him not as a boy, but as a soldier. Under Batman's watchful eye, Damian was expected to be more than just capable—he had to be precise, composed, and morally grounded in a world that had offered him little reason to believe in right and wrong.

Then there was his mother—Talia al Ghul. Brilliant, calculating, and lethal, she raised Damian with the League's doctrine etched into his bones. Before he could read, he was trained to disarm, to disable, to kill. Before he ever understood mercy, he understood efficiency. His childhood was a battlefield disguised as education. Every lesson came at a cost. Every success was expected. Every failure punished. He didn't grow up; he was forged.

When he finally took up the mantle of Robin, it wasn't to play sidekick—it was war. He fought beside Batman not as a boy eager for approval, but as a warrior trying to reconcile the man he was raised to be with the one his father hoped he could become. Every punch he threw, every enemy he brought down, was a step in a lifelong tug-of-war between legacy and identity.

But through all of it, there was one truth Damian held tighter than any blade: he was not a liar. He might be brutal. He might be cold. His confidence often came off as arrogance, and he rarely bothered softening his words. But he didn't deal in lies. To lie was weakness. It was dishonor. It was betrayal—not just of others, but of himself.

He had been trained to see deception as a tool, to use it, master it. But he refused to let it define him. Honesty, to Damian, wasn't kindness—it was a form of strength. It was control. Every truth he spoke was deliberate, sometimes cruel, always unflinching. It was the one code he had carved out for himself, separate from both the League's corruption and the Bat's rigid morality. Truth was the one thing no enemy could twist and no ally could question.

Damian Wayne could be many things—an assassin, a vigilante, a son, a warrior. But a liar? Never.

THE MISSION had gone sideways before it even started. The intel was bad—half-sourced chatter from unreliable contacts. The timing was off—an hour too late to catch the deal in progress, and just early enough to walk right into a kill box. It was supposed to be a clean op: in, intercept, out. Instead, it turned into a firefight in a warehouse rigged with explosives and death traps, where every exit led to another ambush. Damian fought alongside Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin, each of them moving like parts of a machine built for war. But even the best-trained machine breaks when every variable turns against it.

By the time they limped back to the Batcave, suits scorched, blood dried on knuckles and faces, the air was already thick with tension. No one said it, but they all felt it—that heat beneath the surface, that pressure building in their lungs and throats. The silence didn't last long.

Damian had barely unclasped his gauntlets when Nightwing's voice snapped across the cave like a whip. "What the hell was that?" It wasn't just frustration—it was betrayal, confusion, disbelief all rolled into one.

Red Hood didn't wait for answers. He stepped forward like a fuse already burning, shoulders squared, helmet off, face dark with fury. "You want to explain why the whole damn place was rigged and you didn't say a word?" His voice was sharp, his stance aggressive—like he was ready to throw more than just words.

Tim stood a little apart, arms crossed, expression drawn tight. He didn't raise his voice, but the weight of his disappointment hit harder than the others' rage. "There were choices made that didn't line up with the plan," he said, gaze locked on Damian. "You made calls no one authorized."

They closed in—not physically, but verbally, surrounding him with doubt and accusation. It was like standing in the eye of a storm while lightning cracked in every direction. Each brother threw their own version of the same demand: What were you thinking?

Damian stood at the console, the pale blue light casting shadows across his face. His arms were crossed, shoulders rigid, every muscle tight with restraint. He didn't back down, didn't shift under their stares. His expression was unreadable—anger buried beneath control, emotion masked by discipline. But his eyes didn't waver.

Nightwing moved like a caged animal, pacing in quick strides, his voice rising as he listed out every misstep. "You ignored protocol. You split from formation. You led us into the ambush."

Red Hood's voice cut in, louder, raw. "You could've gotten us all killed, and you act like it was just another sparring session."

Tim didn't yell, but his dissection was surgical. "You made decisions alone. You didn't trust us enough to share intel. That's not how a team works."

And still—Damian didn't flinch. His voice, when he finally spoke, was level. Cold. Final.

"I wasn't wrong."

"I didn't lie."

"I did what you wouldn't."

His tone wasn't defensive. There was no desperation to be understood. He wasn't trying to win them over—he was stating facts. Stone on steel. He held the line, unshaken even as Red Hood stepped into his space, fists clenched at his sides, daring a reaction. Damian didn't give him one. When Tim shook his head, eyes heavy with disappointment, Damian didn't look away.

They were furious. And maybe they had the right to be. But anger didn't rewrite the truth. He hadn't betrayed them. He hadn't sabotaged the mission. He'd made a call in the field when no one else had all the facts. And he'd saved lives, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

So he stood there, letting their anger wash over him, letting their words crash and echo through the cave. Not defending himself. Not apologizing. Just holding the truth in front of him like a blade—and daring anyone to call it a lie.

Even Bruce joined in.

He had stood apart during the chaos—silent, still, barely more than a shadow cast by the glow of the Batcomputer. Arms folded across his chest, cape draped like a curtain of judgment, the cowl masking everything but the weight behind his silence. The others had raged, thrown their accusations like blades, but Bruce had waited. Watching. Listening. Measuring.

When the storm finally began to die down, when his sons' voices dropped from shouts to heavy breaths and clipped remarks, Bruce stepped forward. One step. No theatrics. No anger in his voice—just cold certainty.

"Damian," he said, his voice low and steady, "your actions nearly cost lives tonight."

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice or add heat. He didn't need to. The sentence landed with surgical precision—clean, quiet, and devastating. It wasn't just a critique. It was a verdict. The kind that didn't invite a response. The kind that carried the weight of both the cowl and the father beneath it.

Damian didn't blink, but his jaw tightened like a trap springing shut. His fists curled so tight at his sides that his knuckles whitened beneath his gloves. Every breath was a battle—shallow, controlled, forced through clenched teeth. He said nothing. Because if he spoke, the words would come out as venom.

It wasn't the team's outrage that hit him hardest. It wasn't Red Hood's fury or Nightwing's disbelief or Tim's cold precision. It was that. One sentence. One judgment. Delivered without anger, without hesitation, and without faith.

The Batcave felt colder than it had minutes before. Every monitor hummed like a reminder of everything that had just been said. The shadows felt deeper. The walls closer. The air tighter.

Damian looked at Bruce—just once. His father stood like a statue of finality, eyes hidden behind white lenses, unmoved. Unreachable.

That was enough.

Without a word, Damian turned. His cape snapped behind him like a second heartbeat, echoing each sharp footfall as he walked away from the console, from his brothers, from him. He didn't have a destination. He didn't need one. He just needed distance—space between him and the fury tightening in his chest like a vice.

He wouldn't beg for understanding. He wouldn't explain himself to people who had already decided who he was. Not to his brothers. Not even to Bruce.

Let them think he was reckless. Let them believe the worst. He knew the truth. And right now, that truth was the only thing keeping him from tearing the place apart.

As he reached the main hall of Wayne Manor, the warm glow from the chandelier cast long shadows across the marble floor. Alfred stood at the base of the grand staircase, perfectly composed in his crisp suit, hands folded neatly in front of him. His expression was calm, but his eyes tracked Damian with quiet concern.

"Master Damian," he said, gently, like someone easing open a door they weren't sure they had the right to touch.

Damian didn't answer. He didn't slow. His shoulder brushed past Alfred's arm, sharp and unyielding, and he kept moving like the words hadn't been spoken at all.

Alfred didn't follow. He didn't call after him. He'd seen that walk before—shoulders rigid, head low, stride too precise to be anything but restrained fury. It wasn't the time to intervene.

Up the stairs. Down the west hall. Past oil paintings and silent clocks. Damian reached his room and shoved the door open, then slammed it behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

He stripped off the Robin suit like it burned him. Gauntlets peeled off and thrown across the room. Boots kicked aside. The cape—torn, soot-streaked, still reeking of smoke—hit the floor in a crumpled heap. The tunic came last, dragged over his head and tossed without care. He stood there, chest heaving, the silence pressing in around him like a weight.

Cold air from the manor's vents hit his sweat-damp skin. He yanked on a black hoodie—plain, loose, anonymous. Dark jeans. Sneakers. Civilian gear. No symbol. No armor. Nothing to connect him to them.

He didn't leave a note. Didn't shut off the light. Didn't even look back.

He walked to the tall window that faced the estate's southern grounds. His fingers moved automatically—unlocking the latch, sliding the glass open, letting in the rush of cool night air. Trees rustled in the distance. The moon cut through the clouds, casting silver across the hedges below.

Without a moment of hesitation, he stepped onto the windowsill. Crouched. Focused. And dropped.

He landed in the hedges with barely a sound, rolled once, then straightened, already moving. No backup. No comms. No tracker. He'd made sure of that.

He didn't have a plan. Didn't need one. He just had to get away. From the cave. From the silence. From him.

Because staying meant swallowing what they'd said. Accepting what they thought of him.

And Damian Wayne refused to be caged by anyone's version of who he was—not even his father's.

DAMIAN’S FOOTSTEPS echoed in soft, steady beats against the cracked concrete, a quiet rhythm in the stillness of Gotham's late-night sprawl. The city, always restless, had slowed to a quieter pulse—no sirens, no crowds, just the hum of streetlights and the occasional hiss of wind slipping through alleyways. His hood was pulled low, shadowing his face. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, fingers curled tight against the lining. He walked without urgency, but with purpose, like movement alone could keep the storm inside him from surging back to the surface.

The roar of the Batcave, the voices, the judgment—all of it felt distant now, like a memory already starting to erode at the edges. The chill of the night air nipped at his cheeks, grounding him. Each breath came easier than the last. Every step further from Wayne Manor loosened something tight in his chest.

He turned a corner onto a quieter block and spotted a tiny juice bar nestled between a closed laundromat and a graffiti-covered bodega. Its flickering neon sign buzzed lazily in the window: OPEN 24 HOURS. Inside, it was empty, save for a tired-looking clerk half-asleep behind the counter.

Damian stepped in, keeping his hood up. The place smelled faintly of citrus and disinfectant. He scanned the menu, pointed at the only thing that sounded remotely tolerable. "Spinach, apple, ginger," he said, voice low.

The clerk didn't ask questions. Just gave a nod, blended the drink with mechanical efficiency, and slid it across the counter. Damian dropped a few bills on the counter—cash, always—and walked out with the cup in hand, the door's bell jingling behind him.

He made his way toward Robinson Park, slipping past shuttered storefronts and dim intersections. The smoothie was cold and sharp on his tongue—the kind of flavor that woke you up, cut through fog. The mix of bitter greens and ginger burned just enough to feel real. That was what he needed. Something real.

The edge of the park was quiet, the lamps casting soft halos across the paths. Trees rustled with wind overhead, branches shifting like old bones. Damian moved along the perimeter, not drawing attention, not needing to. His silhouette was just another shape in the dark—small, hunched, hooded. No mask. No emblem. Just another teenager in Gotham.

His heart wasn't racing anymore. The fire in his chest—the heat from the confrontation, the shame, the fury—it had cooled to a low burn. Still there, but manageable. His mind, usually a battlefield of reflexes and calculations, was still. Not empty, but quieter. Focused.

He sipped the smoothie again and took a breath so deep it stretched the tightness in his ribs. No shouting. No orders. No father waiting in the dark, arms crossed in judgment.

Just wind, and concrete, and space to breathe.

He didn't know how long he walked. It didn't matter. He wasn't chasing anything. He wasn't running from it either. He just needed to exist outside the weight of legacy and expectation. Outside the cave. Outside the mission.

Tonight, Damian was just a teen in a hoodie, walking under streetlights in a city that didn't know him.

And for the first time in hours, he could finally think.

Damian eventually drifted toward the heart of Robinson Park, his footsteps slow, deliberate, worn smooth by the weight of everything he wasn't saying. The smoothie was long gone, tossed in a bin near the rusted entrance gate, forgotten like the rest of the night's bitterness. The park was nearly deserted—too late for joggers, too early for the early risers. The only sounds were the soft hum of the city beyond the trees, the flickering buzz of half-dead streetlamps, and the breeze whispering through overgrown hedges.

Moths flitted lazily around the lamps, wings catching the dim light like flakes of ash. Damian moved along the winding path, eyes low, hands deep in his hoodie's pockets. The chaos of Gotham—the noise, the fire, the shouting—felt miles away, even though it was barely out of sight. The park existed in a pocket of stillness, insulated by tall trees and iron fencing. The skyline loomed on all sides, but here, in the center of it all, it felt like time had slowed.

He reached a worn bench near the park's neglected fountain. The wood was weathered and slightly crooked, one leg sinking into the dirt, but it held his weight as he sank into it. He slouched back, arms folded, his breath fogging in the cool night air. His eyes drifted upward, scanning what little he could see of the sky.

Gotham didn't allow for stars—not really. Too much light, too much smog. But Damian looked anyway. A few dim points of light clung to the black, stubborn and far away. A plane passed overhead, then another, blinking methodically. His thoughts quieted. The silence wasn't loaded, wasn't judgmental or tense. It was clean. Uncluttered. He could almost feel the anger draining out of him, like heat leaving metal.

Then, a flicker.

A streak of white light cut through the sky—fast, silent, unmistakable. A shooting star.

He blinked, barely believing he'd seen it. It was gone in an instant, like a thread yanked from the edge of the universe. He didn't make a wish. That wasn't his style. He didn't believe in signs or fate or magic falling from the sky.

But still... something inside him eased. Not healed. Not fixed. Just—eased.

He kept staring upward, his eyes searching the darkness, half-expecting to see another. And then, he saw something else.

The light hadn't vanished.

It was growing brighter.

Larger.

And it was coming closer.

His breath caught. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as instinct surged through him like a jolt of electricity.

That wasn't a meteor.

It was a missile. Or worse.

And it was aimed straight at him.

The moment shattered. The calm ripped away. A piercing, high-pitched whine screamed through the sky, followed by a trail of fire and smoke that tore through the atmosphere like the world was splitting open. Damian didn't think—he moved.

He launched off the bench, diving to the side just as the object blazed overhead. The heat was searing—so intense it singed the back of his hoodie and stung his skin. The air cracked with a sound like thunder and metal colliding.

The impact was cataclysmic.

The object slammed into the park with a roar that shook the earth. A shockwave erupted, ripping through the grass and soil, flinging debris in all directions. Benches splintered like matchsticks. Streetlamps bent and shattered. The fountain exploded—chunks of stone and jets of water hurled into the air like a dying gasp.

Damian hit the ground hard, skidding through the grass, dirt flying into his eyes and mouth. He rolled, coughing, until he landed behind a toppled trash bin. It wasn't much, but it was cover. He crouched low, hoodie scorched, adrenaline pumping like fire in his veins.

Everything rang. His ears. His head. The world was chaos again.

And at the center of it—the crater.

Smoke coiled from the ruptured earth, glowing embers littering the torn grass. The heat was still radiating, pulsing like a heartbeat. And in the middle of it, nestled in molten soil and fractured rock, was something that wasn't metal, wasn't stone.

It was glowing. Faint at first, but steady. A soft, pulsing light—like it was breathing.

Damian pushed himself upright, his muscles tense, boots crunching over scorched grass and broken stone. He brushed the dirt from his sleeves with short, sharp motions, never once taking his eyes off the smoking crater that had carved itself into the heart of Gotham Park. His breathing was shallow but steady, the aftermath of the blast still echoing in his bones.

Somewhere beyond the trees, car alarms blared in overlapping patterns—a chaotic symphony of sirens and panic that rolled through the dark streets like a wave. Shattered glass glittered in the grass. The park's lampposts flickered erratically, casting long, jerking shadows across the wreckage. The air was thick with the acrid scent of scorched earth, burnt wiring, and something stranger—something faintly metallic and ozone-slick, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Damian moved forward, slow and methodical, his footfalls silent despite the debris underfoot. The crater yawned before him, a jagged hole ripped into the earth, at least ten feet across, maybe deeper. Its edges were charred black, ringed with hissing embers and twisted patches of melted stone. Heat pulsed from its center, a wave of dry intensity that prickled his skin through the fabric of his hoodie.

And then he saw it. Or rather, him.

At the center of the crater—surrounded by fractured earth and glowing debris—was a boy.

Damian stopped cold, the tension in his frame going taut like a wire about to snap. His eyes narrowed, scanning the scene with trained precision, breaking it down like a tactical feed. The teen looked... normal. Human. No claws. No wings. No grotesque mutations or cybernetic implants. He appeared to be around Damian's age, maybe slightly older—fifteen, sixteen at most. His build was lean, wiry. His skin was dusted with soot and sweat. His dark hair clung to his forehead in messy strands. His clothes, though scorched and singed at the edges, were mostly intact—black pants, a thin jacket, shirt torn near the collar.

But the thing that shattered any illusion of this being ordinary was the light.

A soft, radiant aura pulsed around the boy's body. It shimmered with a strange, translucent pink hue, almost liquid in the way it moved—like it was alive. It didn't burn like fire or spark like electricity. It throbbed, slow and steady, mimicking a heartbeat. The glow bled into the surrounding crater, casting flickering shadows and distorting the air like rising heat off asphalt. Damian could feel it—tingling across his skin, humming in his teeth, stirring something ancient and electric deep in his chest.

He took a half-step closer.

Every instinct he'd ever learned screamed danger. This was unknown tech or alien power—or something worse. No parachute. No protective gear. The kid had fallen out of the sky, torn through the atmosphere like a comet, and was lying there breathing like it was nothing.

Damian's hand inched toward the hidden blade tucked inside his sleeve, fingers brushing the familiar grip.

Still, the boy didn't move.

Was he unconscious? Faking? Waiting?

The silence thickened around them, broken only by the soft crackle of burning debris and the distant wail of emergency sirens approaching from far across the city. Damian didn't flinch. He stood at the edge of the crater, eyes locked on the glowing figure below, his body ready to move in any direction—attack, defend, retreat. But his mind raced with sharper questions.

Who is he? What is he?

And what the hell did he just bring to Gotham?

Damian moved in, step by slow step, his boots grinding softly against scorched grass, crushed leaves, and fractured bits of concrete still warm from impact. The air thickened with each footfall. It wasn't smoke or fire—it was the aura, radiating off the boy like heat off molten metal. The closer Damian got, the more it pressed against him. Not painful, but oppressive. Like standing too close to a reactor—silent, thrumming, and ready to blow.

That glow—bright pink, tinged with violet at the edges—pulsed in steady rhythm, forming a thin shell around the boy. It rippled every few seconds, warping the air around it like a mirage. There was no sound, no crackle or hum, but Damian could feel it, deep in his bones. Every instinct told him to be careful. To back off.

He didn't.

He studied the boy's body, every inch of it, eyes sweeping over the shape, looking for twitches, breath, flickers of motion. Nothing moved, except the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. Not labored. Not ragged. Controlled. Like sleep—or sedation.

Damian stepped right up to the edge of the crater, the pink light casting faint shadows across his face. And now, for the first time, he got a clear view.

This wasn't some civilian who fell out of the sky. The teen was wearing a suit—a full-body tactical ensemble, sleek and streamlined, with overlapping armor plating that looked forged more than manufactured. It wasn't bulky. It was precision-built, contoured to move. The materials didn't match anything Damian had ever seen in the League or the Batcave. It shimmered faintly under the aura's glow—silver and deep matte black, threaded with microscopic circuitry that pulsed through the fabric like living veins. Tech that was way beyond anything most people had access to.

And then his eyes locked onto the chest plate.

Beneath a layer of ash and dust, half-obscured by scorch marks, was a logo.

A stylized green and purple "L," ringed by a polished metallic circle.

LexCorp.

Damian went still. The muscles in his neck coiled tight. His breath slowed.

Luthor.

The name hit like a punch to the sternum. Cold. Familiar. Dangerous.

Lex Luthor didn't do charity. He didn't hand out suits to lost children or build armor for random experiments. If this teen was wearing LexCorp tech—this advanced—it wasn't by accident. He was designed for something. A test subject. A weapon. A ticking bomb. Maybe all three.

Damian's mind went into overdrive, piecing together every angle. A boy falls out of the sky in a Luthor-built suit, radiating some unknown energy, and lands in Gotham of all places? That wasn't bad luck. That was a message. Or a move in a game no one else knew had started.

He circled the crater slowly, eyes never leaving the boy. The aura pulsed again—brighter this time—but didn't expand. No sudden flares. No instability. Just that constant throb, like a heartbeat out of sync with the world.

Damian reached for the communicator in his hoodie pocket, fingers brushing the edge.

He should call Bruce. He knew that. This was bigger than him. It was alien tech—or worse. The kind of thing that demanded containment protocols, scans, lockdown procedures. A dozen contingency plans were drilled into him for situations exactly like this.

But his hand stopped.

He remembered the way Bruce had looked at him—past him, really. The cold judgment. The distance. The lack of trust. He thought of his brothers, surrounding him with doubt, accusing him, cutting him off before he could even explain. They'd see this teen and jump to conclusions. Just like they had with him.

Weapon. Threat. Contain it.

Damian clenched his jaw and lowered his hand.

Not yet.

He'd figure out who this boy was. What he was. What Luthor had done.

On his own.

Before anyone else got their hands on him.

Suddenly, Damian's head snapped up at the sound—faint, but unmistakable. Sirens. At first, just a single wail somewhere in the distance, but quickly joined by others, layering over each other like warning bells in a war zone. Red and blue strobes began flickering through the canopy of trees that bordered Gotham Park, distorted by branches and leaves, but getting closer with every second.

He clicked his tongue sharply, annoyed at himself. His hand moved on instinct to his side—reaching for the comfort of his utility belt, for a smoke pellet, a grapnel gun, something.

His fingers met empty fabric.

No belt.

No gadgets.

No weapons.

No commlink.

Just jeans, a hoodie, and scorched sneakers.

Civilian.

His jaw tightened. He hadn't planned for this. He wasn't on patrol, wasn't chasing leads or tailing suspects. He'd left the mansion in a storm of anger, needing space, needing air. This was supposed to be a walk. A night to breathe. To be left alone. Not... this. Not a living weapon falling from the sky wearing a LexCorp insignia like a branded curse.

His mind spun fast, recalibrating.

No gear meant no backup. No way to ping the Batcave, no call to Oracle, no silent signal to Nightwing or Tim. Bruce would know something had happened—he always did—but he wouldn't know Damian was here, standing at ground zero. And that mattered. Because if the GCPD showed up first, or worse, if ARGUS or DEO or one of the other government agencies monitoring Gotham's paranormal messes got their hands on this guy...

It would be over. Damian knew how they worked. The boy would be bagged, tagged, and dissected before anyone even figured out he had a name.

He looked down again, the pink light from the aura casting a soft glow on Damian's face. The kid still hadn't moved. Still breathing, still unconscious. Whatever force shield protected him hadn't weakened, but it hadn't lashed out either. It pulsed gently, steadily. Like a warning. Or a countdown.

This was no ordinary tech. LexCorp hadn't just built a suit—they'd built this. A person wrapped in power, disguised as a boy. Or maybe a boy buried under the weight of something far more dangerous.

The sirens were getting closer now, echoing across the park in sharp bursts. And then—thump-thump-thump—the deep, mechanical rhythm of helicopter blades cutting through the night sky. Searchlights flared to life in the clouds above, wide beams sweeping the park, carving through the darkness like knives.

Damian's breath hitched for a second. He backed away from the edge of the crater, eyes flicking across the treeline, scanning escape routes, blind spots, anything that would get him and the kid out before the spotlight locked in.

They had maybe two minutes. Less if someone on the ground already had visual.

No plan. No gear. No time.

But Damian had never needed permission to act.

He made a call, quick and quiet, to the only person who wouldn't question it.

Himself.

He turned back toward the crater, narrowed his eyes, and prepared to move. This boy didn't belong to the cops. He didn't belong to Lex. And he damn sure wasn't getting left behind.

Damian crouched low at the lip of the crater, the ground beneath him cracked and scorched, still radiating a dry, searing heat that clung to the soles of his boots. Smoke drifted in lazy spirals from the fractured earth, and the stench of ozone and burned metal lingered in the air. The boy lay sprawled across the torn ground like a dropped marionette, limbs slack, his chest rising and falling in a slow, almost mechanical rhythm.

Damian moved with practiced caution, shifting his weight forward until he was just within reach. His fingers hovered over the pink glow that cocooned the boy's body, the heat prickling against his skin like static before a lightning strike. The aura buzzed faintly—not a sound, exactly, more like a pressure in the air, vibrating against his bones. It was wrong. Not magic. Not tech. Something else entirely.

Still, he pressed in.

The instant his fingertips brushed the edge of the armored suit, the boy's eyes snapped open—wide, bright, and electric with terror.

Before Damian could fully process it, the boy lunged upright, his movements impossibly fast, as if his body had been spring-loaded for panic. He jerked into a crouch, limbs tense, hands braced against the dirt like an animal about to bolt. His mouth flew open, and a stream of words came tumbling out—fast, frantic, and completely unintelligible.

It wasn't English. It wasn't anything Damian had ever heard before. And he'd heard a lot.

The language was guttural and sharp, but carried a strange rhythm, like there was a structure to it, maybe even a syntax—like it was half-spoken, half-transmitted. Not random babbling. Not madness. Language. But alien.

Damian's brain raced through his mental database: not Kryptonian, not Martian, not Tamaranian or Rannian. Nothing from Thanagar. Nothing from the League's interstellar records or the Batcave's archives. This was something new.

The boy scuttled backward in jerky, uncoordinated movements, as if he wasn't entirely sure how his own body worked. He stumbled over his own legs, breathing fast, shallow, frantic. The aura around him pulsed hard—hotter, brighter, erratic. It crackled with raw energy, casting streaks of pink light across the crater walls like lightning in a storm cloud. Damian could feel it on his skin now—tingling, alive, almost sentient.

The boy's eyes darted everywhere—trees, sky, shadows. His hands clenched into fists, then opened again like he couldn't decide whether to attack or run. His muscles were locked in survival mode. His face—too young for this, too human for this—was twisted in fear, not aggression.

Damian slowly raised his hands, palms up and empty. No weapons. No sudden moves. His voice was steady, even. "Easy. I'm not here to hurt you."

The boy didn't flinch at the sound of his voice—but he didn't understand it either. His eyes locked onto Damian's face, scanning him with a mix of suspicion and desperate hope, like he wanted to believe the tone, even if the words meant nothing.

Damian held his ground, every instinct telling him to stay low, non-threatening, patient. He watched the boy closely—the way his gaze jumped to exits, the way his body flinched at every distant noise, every flicker of movement. There was trauma behind those eyes. Not fear of a stranger—fear of what would happen next.

Someone had done this to him. Had conditioned this kind of reaction.

Damian's gaze dropped to the chest plate again, and the LexCorp insignia stared back at him like a brand burned into steel. Green and purple. Cold. Corporate. Clinical.

And suddenly it all fit.

This wasn't just a LexCorp suit. It was containment. Control. A cage. The boy wasn't wearing it. It was wearing him.

Someone—Luthor—had built this boy into a weapon. Had torn out whatever life he had before and filled it with fear, programming, instinct. Damian didn't know if it had been surgery, brainwashing, genetics, or all of the above. But he knew what he was looking at now.

A victim.

And possibly the most dangerous one he'd ever encountered.

Damian's jaw clenched. His voice dropped to a near whisper—more for himself than for the boy.

"I don't know what he did to you," he said quietly, "but I'm not him."

The boy didn't answer. Didn't understand. But he didn't run either. Didn't strike. His breathing was still ragged, but slower now. Controlled.

For now, that was enough.

However, the sirens were no longer a distant echo—they were here, howling through the city like wolves circling prey. Their pitch bounced between the high-rises that framed Robinson Park, echoing off steel and glass with maddening intensity. Spotlights from incoming helicopters swept across the treetops, cutting long, blinding arcs through the smoke and casting flickering shadows across the cratered ground.

Damian's pulse surged—not with fear, but with focus. His mind snapped into overdrive, calculating routes, timing, probabilities. If the GCPD arrived first, they'd lock the scene down, raise questions no one had answers to, and cart the kid off to a black site before anyone could intervene.

They were running out of time.

He turned to the boy, still seated at the center of the crater like a fuse waiting to be lit. The pink aura around him sparked erratically, no longer a steady pulse but a wild, unstable shimmer, like the shielding was struggling to hold its form. The boy's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, but his eyes were locked on Damian—watchful, cautious, uncertain.

Damian stepped forward, carefully, extending a hand again.

"We have to move. Now."

The words were firm, urgent—but low. Controlled.

The boy tensed, eyes narrowing—

BOOM.

The sky split open above them with a sound so loud and sharp it tore through the air like a bolt of steel. Not thunder. Not natural. Something designed to announce its presence.

Damian's head snapped up.

A streak of silver and violet burned through the clouds, trailing smoke and static behind it like an open wound in the sky.

They came in fast—two of them—descending with terrifying precision.

Robots.

Sleek. Streamlined. Built for war.

No bulky joints or exposed mechanics—these things were clean-cut and refined, humanoid only in shape. Their alloy plating was matte silver with faint traces of violet light pulsing beneath the surface, and propulsion jets roared from their backs and legs in perfectly controlled bursts. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Military drones—LexCorp military drones.

Each one had a red, horizontal visor glowing across its faceplate like a scanner locked in permanent sweep mode. Their arms, thick and modular, were weaponized—no hands, just built-in tech: plasma cannons, grappling systems, something bristling beneath panel plates that hadn't fully deployed yet.

And right in the center of their chests, plain as day, was the LexCorp insignia.

Damian's stomach turned to stone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement—fast. The boy reacted the moment the drones pierced the cloud cover.

His entire body tensed, every line of him pulled taut like a bowstring. His fingers clenched into trembling fists, and his aura surged with raw, unfiltered energy. What had been flickering and weak suddenly roared to life—brighter, angrier, hotter. Pink light bled into white at the edges, casting wild shadows against the crater.

His breathing shifted—sharper, rougher. His eyes flared, fully glowing now, not just lit by panic but something else. Something darker.

Rage.

Recognition.

Damian didn't need translation. The boy knew exactly what those machines were.

These weren't just weapons. They were memories. They were trauma in metal form.

Damian's mind connected the dots instantly: LexCorp drones. Precision-engineered. Retrieval tech.

This boy didn't just fall out of the sky. He escaped.

The boy sucked in a breath, chest rising like he was about to scream or explode. Maybe both. The air around him began to shimmer with raw heat, distorting reality like a broken lens.

Above them, the drones locked on, their visors glowing brighter as targeting systems engaged. Limbs shifted. Panels opened. Servo motors adjusted with terrifying exactness as they initiated descent, flanking the crater like vultures circling a carcass.

Damian backed up a step, instincts flaring.

This was about to go loud.

The first GCPD squad cars screeched to a halt at the edge of Robinson Park, their tires carving deep grooves into the grass as they swerved off the road and slammed to a stop. Doors flew open. Officers spilled out in a rush—guns drawn, eyes wide, adrenaline firing before they even knew what they were looking at. Flashlights flicked on. Shouts pierced the night.

"Hands where we can see them!"

More cruisers arrived behind the first wave, their red and blue strobes bouncing wildly across the trees and grass, throwing frantic shadows across the crater's edge like a strobe-lit battlefield. Within seconds, the chaos multiplied. GCFD trucks rolled up next, firefighters already jumping from their rigs, lugging stretchers, oxygen tanks, and hose reels. Smoke still hung in the air like a shroud, forcing some to pull masks up over their faces as they moved through the wreckage, looking for casualties.

In the center of it all, Damian and the boy stood alone—surrounded.

The boy was still in the crater, huddled in the pulsing glow of his aura, which flared and dimmed like a short-circuiting sun. Damian crouched close, shielding them both from panicked eyes and twitchy trigger fingers.

He didn't get the chance to explain.

Because that was when the sky cracked open.

Whrrr-KRAAAACK!

The sound ripped through the night like a lightning strike from a god.

The human-sized machines, built like soldiers—sleek, armored, efficient. They didn't hover awkwardly or stumble on landing. They glided, using bursts of blue-white propulsion to position themselves with surgical control.

Damian didn't have time to react before the first drone opened fire.

Blue plasma streaked through the air in neat, controlled bursts—retrieval fire, Damian realized instantly. Designed not to kill, but to disable. Paralyze. Subdue.

One bolt struck just feet from a GCPD officer, sending him flying into a tree with a choked cry. Another tore a gaping hole through the side of a fire engine. Panic exploded across the scene. Officers dove for cover, some screaming into radios, others dragging the wounded out of the line of fire. Firefighters dropped their gear and scrambled behind their trucks, eyes wide with disbelief.

Damian reacted on instinct, spinning toward the boy. "Get down!"

But he didn't have to.

The boy's body was already responding. His eyes flared—pink light pouring from them in full, unfiltered brilliance. His hands snapped up, not in defense, but in reflex—pure, unconscious survival. The aura around him swelled outward with a sudden boom of invisible force, expanding into a dome of shimmering light.

The plasma bolts struck the barrier with high-pitched hisses, splashing across the surface like acid on glass. The dome held. It absorbed the hits, sending ripples across the mana field that shimmered like heat over asphalt.

Damian blinked. His knees hit the scorched ground beside the boy.

Not tech. Not Kryptonian shielding. Not a force field.

Mana.

Raw magic.

The energy wasn't being controlled—it was channeling through him, untrained, instinctual, but real. The boy didn't even seem to realize he was doing it. His jaw was clenched, his breathing ragged, sweat beading on his face as he tried to hold the shield. His gaze flicked wildly between the drones above and the cops behind them, panic fighting instinct in every movement.

He was protecting everyone. Even the people who had pointed guns at him moments before.

The drones kept firing—precision bursts, low-yield plasma meant to weaken shields, not destroy. The aura flickered under the pressure, pulsing erratically, and Damian knew it wouldn't hold forever.

His brain shifted gears. He scanned the battlefield like a general, every moving part a variable. The cops weren't the target. The fire crews weren't even in the equation.

The drones were locked onto the boy.

They're following a directive, Damian realized. Retrieve the asset. Ignore everything else.

He crouched beside the boy, voice low and sharp. "They're here for you. Just you. If we can draw them out of the park, they'll follow."

The boy didn't speak. He didn't need to. His glowing eyes locked onto Damian's with recognition—maybe not of the words, but of the intent.

He nodded once. Quick. Nervous. Willing.

Damian rose to a crouch, scanning the perimeter. Flashing lights. Guns. Civilians. Confusion everywhere. No time to explain. No time to get clearance. He shouted toward the nearest group of officers, ducked behind a cruiser.

"Get everyone out of the park! Now! They're not after you—they're here for him!"

An officer popped up. "Who the hell are—?"

"MOVE!"

The tone in Damian's voice cracked like a whip—pure command, clean and lethal. It was the kind of voice Batman used when the time for questions was over.

That got them moving. One of the lieutenants began shouting into a comm unit, barking orders.

"Evacuate the perimeter! Move the wounded to the south end! Get the civilians clear!"

Damian turned back to the boy, hand on his shoulder.

"Drop the shield when I say. Then run. Don't look back."

The pink dome flared again as another volley slammed into it, cracking the air with heat and static. The drones tightened their formation, weapons whirring, scanners pulsing red.

There was no more time.

Damian's plan was reckless, half-formed, and dangerous as hell.

But it was better than watching this kid get dragged back into whatever nightmare Luthor had built.

And if they pulled it off, they'd both live long enough to figure out who he was.

And what exactly Lex Luthor had turned him into.

The instant the last of the civilians were cleared—herded south under frantic GCPD commands, stumbling through smoke and flashing lights—Damian acted.

"Now," he said, low and sharp, eyes locking with the boy's.

The boy hesitated—just for a breath—but then exhaled hard, a ragged, shuddering release of tension. The barrier flickered, pulsed once in defiance, then shattered like glass under pressure. Pink light dissolved into a mist of glowing particles that drifted upward, catching in the smoke before fading entirely.

Damian didn't wait.

His hand snapped out and latched onto the boy's wrist—tight, firm, not hurting but unbreakable. He pulled.

"Run."

They moved as one.

Damian led the charge, weaving through the edge of the crater with fluid speed, his boots hitting scorched grass and cracked soil in perfect rhythm. Behind him, the boy stumbled at first, legs unsure, body disoriented from trauma and overload. But Damian didn't slow. He yanked once, just enough to force motion—and then, the boy matched his pace.

Not perfect. But fast.

They tore through the wreckage-strewn remains of Robinson Park, weaving around shattered benches and smoking rubble, darting between trees half-crumbled from the crash impact. Sirens blared behind them. Radios crackled. Shouts echoed off the trees.

But none of that mattered now.

Because the drones noticed.

The shift was immediate.

In the sky above, the two LexCorp units pivoted mid-flight with eerie synchronicity, scanners pulsing a deeper red, their bodies rotating with a mechanical hiss. Their weapon systems shifted, recalibrated. Their target designations changed.

They weren't focused on the crater anymore.

They were focused on movement.

On escape.

On them.

A shrill whine split the air as both drones surged forward, propulsion systems igniting in a howl of blue light. They dropped altitude fast, engines screaming as they locked in on their fleeing targets.

"Move!" Damian barked, yanking the boy hard as they ducked around a crumbling statue, the marble split from base to head by the shockwave. They dove through a twisted line of hedges, limbs whipping at them like claws, dirt and soot kicking up underfoot. "They're locked on. We pull them away from the park, they'll follow. They won't risk hitting bystanders."

The boy didn't answer. Couldn't. But Damian felt it—the resolve in the way his grip tightened, in the way he kept pace, his breath ragged but steady. No more hesitation. Just forward.

They sprinted through the park's darker edges now, where the lights from the police cruisers couldn't reach and the trees formed jagged silhouettes in the smoke. Around them, the world became a blur of motion—branches cracking underfoot, ruined lampposts leaning at dangerous angles, scorched grass giving way to raw earth.

A plasma bolt struck behind them—FOOM!—exploding a tree in a burst of splinters and flame. Another followed, slicing through the air with a flash that lit Damian's path in eerie blue. Heat licked at his back, close enough to feel, not close enough to kill. Yet.

"Keep low!" Damian shouted. "Cut left!"

They ducked beneath a bent steel archway once meant to mark a walking trail. The boy moved faster now—fear or instinct, Damian couldn't tell—but he was keeping up. Close.

More shots rained down, tearing craters into the ground just feet behind them. One bolt slammed into a light post ahead, sending it crashing across their path. Damian vaulted it in a single motion, tugging the boy with him. They rolled, hit the ground, and kept going.

His mind ran calculations with every breath. The drones were fast, but predictable. Tactical AI. They'd prioritize capture over chaos. That gave him an angle—if he could get enough distance, enough cover, he could set an ambush. Maybe hijack one. Maybe lure them into a blind spot. Something.

But he needed time.

He needed a minute.

Even thirty seconds.

And so far, they were still alive.

His lungs burned—not from the exertion, but from the pressure that tightened in his chest with every step. The tension was suffocating, coiled tight beneath his ribs, a mix of calculation and cold adrenaline. They were nearing the edge of Robinson Park now, the eastern border—where the trees thinned out, the manicured grass gave way to cracked pavement, and the ruins of an old greenhouse rose up ahead like the bones of a forgotten time.

It was open ground.

No dense foliage to duck into. No alleyways. No shadows deep enough to disappear in. Just broken walkways, overgrown vines, and shattered glass that crunched underfoot like brittle ice.

They had maybe twenty more yards of breathing room. No more.

And the drones knew it.

With a thunderous boom, the ground jumped under Damian's feet. A LexCorp drone dropped from the sky in a controlled descent, landing directly in their path. Its propulsion jets scorched the ground in a flare of blue light, blasting debris outward in a ring of smoke and ash. The pavement buckled beneath its weight, and it landed in a low, mechanical crouch—like a predator bracing to pounce.

A second later, another drone crashed down behind them, cutting off their retreat with the same brutal precision.

Boxed in.

Damian skidded to a halt, boots grinding against cracked stone. His arm instinctively shot backward, tightening around the boy's wrist to steady him. He shifted, placing himself slightly in front, his body falling into a low, ready stance—compact, balanced, dangerous. His eyes locked on the machines.

The drones stood tall, rising from their landing crouches with eerie synchronization. They towered over Damian, their frames built like humanoid tanks—sleek matte alloy plating with violet-blue trim, no wasted mass, just pure design. Their visors glowed blood-red in horizontal bars across expressionless faces, pulsing in slow sync like they were breathing together. Shoulder panels hissed open with sharp mechanical bursts, revealing retractable weapon ports and compact launcher units embedded just beneath the surface.

The air felt charged, vibrating faintly with the hum of active systems powering up.

Then, for the first time, one of them spoke.

“ANODITE: COMPLY."

The voice was low, processed, and inhuman—cold as steel, flat as glass. It echoed slightly, like it wasn't meant for ears but for data logs.

The boy behind Damian went still. Completely still.

"ANODITE: STAND DOWN. RETURN FOR IMMEDIATE DECONTAINMENT."

Damian's eyes narrowed.

Anodite?

Not a name.

A classification. A tag. The way you labeled a weapon, a test subject—something made, not born.

The boy—Anodite—reacted like the words had struck him across the face. His chest hitched. Shoulders tensed. The soft pink glow that had been dimming since the start of their flight now flared to life, bursting in erratic pulses down his arms, lighting up the veins across his neck like molten lightning. The air around him seemed to warp, distorting slightly with every flicker of the aura.

Damian glanced over his shoulder.

The boy's expression had cracked.

Terror still lived behind his glowing eyes, but something else was bleeding through now—anger. Raw, wounded, buried deep and starting to surface. The kind of fury born from being caged for too long. From being named by people who never once asked who you were.

Damian's voice cut through the silence, sharp and flat.

"He's not going with you."

The drone's head tilted—just slightly. It processed the voice. The refusal.

"NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED. LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED IF RETRIEVAL FAILS."

With a high-pitched whine, the drones' weapon systems extended fully—barrels telescoping into place, emitters glowing with concentrated plasma, targeting optics clicking and adjusting with precise, cold efficiency. Their stances shifted, locking into combat posture. No more warnings. No more restraint.

They were preparing to end the resistance.

Damian felt the boy step closer behind him, his aura flaring brighter, the heat radiating in waves now—raw energy with nowhere to go.

Cornered.

Outgunned.

And out of time.

But Damian didn't flinch.

He raised one hand, fingers flexing slightly—no weapons, no tech, just intent.

"Then you'll have to go through me first."

And in that instant, between the machines' hum and the boy's rising power, Robinson Park became a powder keg.

The words "lethal force authorized" were still hanging in the air, echoing in the static-charged silence, when Damian's eyes snapped left. His mind processed the terrain in a flash—debris, shattered stone, broken limbs of trees—and then he saw it.

Half-buried beneath a mound of scorched dirt lay a fractured metal pipe, about three feet long, likely torn from underground infrastructure during the impact. It was twisted, blackened at the edges, one end jagged like a broken blade. But it was solid. Dense. Enough weight to matter in the right hands.

‘Mine.’ Damian lunged without hesitation.

In one fluid motion, he snatched the pipe off the ground, twirled it once in his grip to feel the balance—slightly front-heavy, but manageable—and then launched forward.

The nearest drone was already tracking him.

A bolt of blue plasma screamed through the air, passing inches from his shoulder and slamming into a nearby tree. The explosion lit up the park like a flash grenade—splinters and bark raining down as the trunk shattered in a bloom of fire and smoke.

Damian didn't flinch.

He'd faced live fire before. He'd trained in worse. The only difference now was that he had no armor. No gadgets. No WayneTech to bail him out. Just a pipe, his speed, and a lifetime of learned violence burning in his blood.

He ducked under another shot, muscles tight with adrenaline, and sprinted toward a crumbling stone bench. His foot hit the edge and he vaulted up, using the fractured structure as a springboard. In midair, he twisted his body, bringing the pipe down like a hammer.

CRACK.

The metal slammed into the drone's shoulder joint with a sound like a car crash. The casing dented inward with a crunch of metal and a burst of orange sparks. The impact staggered the drone, forcing it to reel back half a step, its servos whining as it recalibrated.

Damian hit the ground in a roll, recovered instantly, and came in again—this time low, swinging the pipe in a brutal arc toward the joint behind the machine's knee.

CLANG.

Direct hit.

The drone jerked violently, systems compensating to stay upright, but the damage showed—its movement glitched for a split second, just enough for Damian to register a small victory.

Then came the counterstrike.

The machine pivoted with terrifying speed and swiped at him with its forearm, the limb moving like a piston. Damian barely avoided the brunt of it, but the blow grazed his ribs and sent him tumbling across the pavement. He hit hard, rolled, and came up on one knee, chest heaving, pipe still in hand.

His side screamed with pain.

But he didn't stop.

Behind him, the second drone stepped forward, weapons still trained but not firing.

Because the boy—the Anodite—hadn't moved.

He stood frozen, his feet planted in the dirt, the glowing aura around him flaring with erratic surges of light. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, and his whole body trembled like a live wire. His breathing was shallow, panicked. His eyes, wide and haunted, were fixed on the drones—not with confusion, not anymore, but with raw, animal fear.

The name had done something to him. Anodite. It wasn't just a code—it was a leash. A trigger. A wound.

He wasn't acting like a weapon now.

He was acting like a prisoner who knew the guards had come to drag him back.

"Hey!" Damian shouted, teeth clenched as he dodged another shot that seared past his ear. The heat of it burned a streak across his cheek. "Snap out of it! I can't do this alone!"

The drone pressed forward, stepping into range again. Damian ducked another swipe and swung upward with the pipe, slamming it into the joint beneath the machine's arm. More sparks flew, and the drone recoiled—but barely.

Damian's grip slipped. His stance faltered. One more hit, and he might not get back up.

He planted his foot, pushed through the pain, and struck again—aiming for the joint at the hip this time.

Another hit.

Another hiss of heat.

But he was running out of gas. Fast.

The drones were recovery units built for battlefield extractions. Subdue. Secure. Survive. They were machines designed to outlast resistance, not overpower it immediately. Which meant Damian wasn't fighting for victory—he was fighting for time.

And time was almost gone.

He turned, bruised and bleeding, toward the boy still frozen in place, trembling behind him.

"You have to fight," Damian growled, voice low, ragged. "Whatever they did to you—whoever they made you think you were—forget it. You're not theirs anymore."

The boy's glow intensified, veins lighting up like molten circuits beneath his skin.

Still trembling.

Still scared.

But something in his eyes shifted.

The light stopped flickering.

And for the first time, it started to focus.

Meanwhile, the drones recalibrated with cold, mechanical efficiency, their movements precise and terrifyingly fast. Both units shifted their weight in perfect sync, armor plates realigning with sharp hisses and clicks as internal systems adjusted. The one directly ahead of Damian stood to its full height—easily over seven feet—plasma cannon sliding into place along its right arm, glowing coils locking into alignment. Its chest thrummed with energy, the LexCorp insignia pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

The second flanked him to the right, every motion clinical. It stepped wide, positioning itself to cut off any escape route. Their formations were textbook—military-grade containment tactics. Squeeze the target, fire from opposing angles, eliminate resistance before it could gather.

Damian didn't need to guess what was coming.

The cannons charged.

A rising, teeth-clenching whine filled the air as energy built within the weapons—concentrated plasma, drawn into glowing, unstable spheres at the tips of the barrels. They pulsed like sickly stars, their light staining the smoke-polluted air. The frequency of the sound made his skull ache. His fingers tensed around the pipe—a weapon already warped and blackened from impact. It shook in his grip, half-useless now, but he didn't let it go.

His breath came ragged and shallow, muscles screaming from the last round of fighting, every inch of him bruised and burning. But he stood his ground.

He wouldn't beg.

He wouldn't flinch.

If this was it, he'd face it on his feet.

Then—everything changed.

A sudden pressure surged through the air, not a sound but a sensation—a deep, resonating hum that rippled through the ground like the distant thrum of a monolith awakening. It vibrated through Damian's boots, through his chest, through the bones in his arms.

He had just enough time to pivot halfway—eyes wide, instincts firing—

Then the world exploded in pink light.

A tidal wave of raw mana energy erupted behind him, slamming into the drones like a battering ram made of sound and fire. The force of it knocked Damian off his feet instantly. He didn't resist—it was like being hit by a shockwave from a grenade. He tucked into a roll, just like he'd been trained, letting the momentum carry him across the torn ground. He hit hard—shoulder, hip, ribs—but he kept the pipe. Always keep your weapon.

Air punched from his lungs.

He landed hard, dust and ash in his mouth, stars in his vision.

But when he looked up—he saw him.

The boy.

No longer frozen. No longer trembling.

He stood in the blackened heart of the battlefield, feet planted in the scorched earth, back straight, chin raised. The fear was still in his eyes, but it had changed. It wasn't paralyzing now. It was forged. Channeled. Controlled.

His arms were raised, both hands glowing with radiant pink energy, pulsing with raw power that lit up the entire clearing. Not flickering. Not wild. Focused. The aura wasn't just clinging to him anymore—it expanded outward in arcs and tendrils, crackling through the air like enchanted lightning. Magic, but alive. Elemental.

A force becoming aware of itself.

The drones had been thrown like toys—one smashed into a thick tree trunk, splitting it down the middle with a deafening crack, its body sparking and twitching. The other had been launched into a shallow ditch, skidding across gravel and soil, leaving behind a smoking trail of gouged earth and shattered plating.

And the boy hadn't moved an inch since.

He just stood there.

Breathing hard.

Power flowing around him like a storm barely held in check.

Damian, still on one knee, eyes stung from the light, felt something rare coil in his chest—a flicker of awe, tightly laced with relief.

He did it.

He fought back.

And now the battlefield wasn't two drones closing in on a boy too scared to move.

Now it was them who had something to fear.

Though the silence after the blast was short-lived—just a breath, just long enough to register the devastation the boy had unleashed. Then came the sound.

A shrill, mechanical screech tore through the smoky sky above them.

Damian's head snapped up.

From the haze and cloud cover, more shapes dropped like fangs falling from a steel jaw—dark silhouettes lit by blue flame. Jet thrusters ignited with a banshee howl, scorching arcs into the smoke as they descended. One by one, they hit the ground with bone-rattling force, their landings throwing up waves of dust and dirt, impact craters blooming beneath their armored feet.

Two.

Four.

Six.

Eight.

They formed a perfect half-circle—symmetrical, exact. No wasted movement. A wall of precision-engineered soldiers in humanoid frames, their matte alloy surfaces gleaming under the flashing light of the fires they'd left in their wake. The whir of internal mechanisms followed, a rising hum that grew into a chorus of death. Red visors flared to life across all eight units, scanning and locking on with laser accuracy.

No voices this time. No commands.

No mercy.

Just war.

All eight drones raised their arms.

Click. Whine. Lock.

Then came the storm.

A blistering barrage of plasma fire roared toward them in synchronized bursts, white-blue bolts screaming through the air in arcs of deadly light. The sky itself seemed to catch fire. The first impacts hit the ground around them like bombs, vaporizing grass, splitting earth, turning once-familiar trees into erupting columns of ash and splinters. The remnants of park benches twisted into molten slag. The very air shimmered from the heat, folding in on itself like it was being torn.

Damian barely had time to brace before the world turned white.

But they weren't incinerated.

Because the boy didn't fall.

He held.

The mana shield sprang up around them like a rose blooming through fire—vibrant, alive, defiant. The magic expanded in a radiant dome, stretching wide enough to protect them both. Every blast of plasma struck it like a drumbeat of war, hammering it again and again, and with each strike the shield rippled violently—but held.

Flashes of pink clashed against the white-blue of LexCorp's assault, bathing the battlefield in surreal, flickering light. Every impact sent tremors through the ground. Every second it held felt like a miracle.

Damian stood close, shielded just behind the boy, his arm raised to protect his face from the worst of the radiant heat. The air smelled of ozone and scorched metal. Smoke rolled around them like waves.

He risked a glance sideways—and what he saw hit harder than the explosion.

The boy was rooted in place, arms raised, fingers spread wide as if physically holding back the incoming storm. His whole body trembled—not with fear, but exertion. Veins along his arms glowed faintly pink, like the power was running directly through his bloodstream. Sweat poured from his brow in thick rivulets. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes wide, but focused.

The shield shimmered. Cracked. Reformed.

But it held.

"He's pushing himself too hard," Damian muttered under his breath, his voice nearly lost in the roar of weapons fire. He dropped low, eyes scanning the chaos—looking for angles, escape routes, blind spots in the drones' formation. Anything. He'd fought trained soldiers, maniacs, meta-humans—but this was different. This was cold, relentless, designed.

They were being driven back inch by inch. The drones advanced like a living wall, precise and unrelenting. Every few seconds, they moved forward in formation, stepping through the smoke like executioners, never breaking rhythm.

The plasma never stopped.

Still, the boy didn't fall.

He didn't cry out. He didn't collapse.

He refused.

He stood between them and death like a dam holding back a flood, his magic flaring brighter with every breath he took—every heartbeat a declaration of defiance.

Damian could feel the ground beneath them crack.

Could hear the drones' servos tightening.

Could smell the ozone burn rising sharper.

They couldn't hold out forever.

But for now—for this moment—

He was still standing.

The boy hadn't spoken—not a word, not even a sound—but his silence said everything.

His expression had changed. The fear that once dominated his face had drained away, leaving something colder, something ancient. His jaw was set. His stance, unshakable.

And his eyes—

They blazed.

Not softly. Not subtly. Not like before.

Twin beams of white-hot light erupted from them, brilliant and absolute. Damian instinctively raised a hand to shield his face, the intensity forcing his pupils to contract. It was like staring into the heart of a star.

Then he realized: the shield wasn't holding anymore.

It was growing.

No longer a barrier fending off attacks, it was a siphon—pulling in power. The boy wasn't just defending. He was feeding.

The earth trembled beneath their feet, but it wasn't the drones this time—it was him.

The grass around them blackened in seconds, shriveling into brittle curls before turning to ash. Leaves on nearby trees quivered violently, vibrating as though caught in a wind that didn't exist. Then, one by one, they collapsed inward, disintegrating as their color drained. The life was leaving them, funneled somewhere unseen.

Damian's eyes dropped to the ground. Cracks spiderwebbed beneath the boy's feet, veins of glowing pink mana pulsing through the earth like bioluminescent roots. They spread outward, claiming more of the park with every second. The boy was drawing energy from the world itself. Nature, space, air—all of it bled toward him.

Damian stepped back—carefully. His heart beat faster, not from fear, but from caution. Something was happening. Something huge. And he wasn't sure if even the boy could control it.

Then it broke.

The shield burst outward—not violently, not destructively, but like a soap bubble finally collapsing under pressure. A wave of pressure exploded across the park, visible in the way leaves and dirt flew away in concentric ripples. Trees bent. Benches overturned. The closest drones staggered, forced to adjust, recalibrating their stances mid-step.

In the center of it all—at the epicenter of the storm—he changed.

Damian could only watch.

The boy's skin darkened in real time, shifting from its pale tone to a deep, flawless shade of purple. It gleamed like wet obsidian under starlight, smooth and mirror-like. But it wasn't just color—it was texture. His form became partially translucent, as if his body was made of magic wrapped around light. You could see the mana moving within him, arcing across his limbs, pulsing beneath the surface like liquid lightning.

Then his hair ignited.

It flowed upward, no longer strands but streamers of radiant energy—pink, impossibly bright, alive. It moved like silk caught in a current, trailing behind him in long, elegant tendrils. Each strand flickered and flowed as if responding to the rhythm of the power now bursting from his core.

Wings formed next.

Not feathered. Not mechanical.

Wings of pure mana erupted from his back—arched, swirling constructs of energy that flickered like candlelight but held shape like blades. They shimmered in constant motion, wingspan wide, fluid, alive.

His eyes—if they could still be called that—were gone.

No whites. No irises.

Just twin orbs of solid, blinding white light, glowing with a purpose that was no longer human. They burned with will, not emotion. Not anger. Not fear.

Power.

Damian stood frozen, pipe still clutched in one trembling hand, breathing hard as he stared up at the boy.

He had seen gods wear flesh. He had stood beside Kryptonians. He had fought Martians. He had stared down monsters built in labs and legends born of prophecy.

But this—this was different.

This wasn't a weapon.

It was a being.

Raw magic, concentrated into form, barely human at all anymore. Alien. Elemental. Alive in a way most people could never be.

The drones hesitated. Their visors flickered rapidly, red light blinking in erratic patterns as their targeting systems faltered. They were trying to process what they were seeing—trying to match it with any profile in their databases. But this form... this transformation... wasn't in their programming.

Damian didn't speak. Didn't move.

He wasn't sure he could.

Because the figure standing before him might have once been a terrified boy.

But now?

Now he was something else entirely.

All eight drones locked on as one, their targeting systems flashing crimson in synchronized pulses like a war drum. The transformation hadn't caused hesitation—it had triggered escalation. The LexCorp protocols didn't register awe. They registered threat level. And this new form—the radiant figure cloaked in energy and pulsing with alien mana—had just maxed out that scale.

The drones reoriented with chilling precision, each adjusting its stance a fraction of a degree, forming a deadly arc around their target. Their cannons rose in perfect unity, mechanical joints whirring, targeting optics focusing to microscopic tolerances.

Then they fired.

Eight streams of superheated plasma exploded from their cannons in a blinding volley—pure destruction compressed into white-blue lances of energy. The park lit up in a cataclysmic blaze. Trees, grass, earth—everything around the line of fire was swallowed in screaming light. The blasts converged on the boy like a pack of guided missiles, air howling in protest as the barrage ripped toward him.

And yet—he didn't flinch.

Not an inch.

As the plasma reached him, his body reacted in an instant. The glowing tendrils of mana that trailed behind him like a living comet snapped forward. They coiled around him with impossible speed, weaving into a tight, spiraling shield—an armor of energy that wrapped around his form like a chrysalis.

But this was no dome. No static barrier.

This was living defense—dense, reactive, hungry.

The plasma struck.

And vanished.

No explosion. No concussive backlash.

The bolts hit the mana shield and were absorbed, sucked into its swirling layers like water disappearing into dry sand. Each blast disappeared on contact, devoured by the boy's shield with eerie, effortless silence.

No smoke. No heat.

Just light.

And the light grew brighter.

The boy's entire body pulsed with it. From his chest to the tips of his fingers, from the soles of his feet to the fiery strands flowing from his head, veins of glowing energy flared in brilliant, branching patterns. The plasma wasn't damaging him—it was feeding him. He was a conduit now. A living conversion engine. Everything they threw at him only made him burn hotter.

The drones kept firing, locked into their loop of calculated aggression, their systems blind to the futility. To them, it was just math—more fire, more pressure, more control. But they didn't understand what they were facing.

And neither, Damian realized, did he.

From his position crouched several yards away, hidden in the shadow of a shattered tree, Damian watched in stunned silence. His chest heaved. The air smelled like scorched ozone, and the earth beneath his boots was still trembling with residual power.

He had seen shields. He had seen absorption tech—hell, Bruce had once built a suit that could store kinetic energy.

But this wasn't tech.

This was instinct.

The boy wasn't just protecting himself. He was consuming their weapons. Drinking down the very force meant to destroy him. And growing more powerful with every passing second.

The energy around him shimmered in waves, heatless and surreal, warping the air like a mirage. Debris floated. Cracked bits of stone and twisted grass hovered for moments before falling again. Gravity itself seemed to bend near his form.

This wasn't containment.

This wasn't defense.

This was ascension.

Damian's jaw tightened as the truth settled like ice in his gut.

LexCorp hadn't just created a weapon.

They had awakened something ancient. Something magical. Something far beyond the limitations of code and steel and protocols.

And now, as the drones poured their fire into him—unaware that their efforts were only sharpening the blade that would soon be pointed back at them—l

Damian felt it in his bones before his mind caught up. Static crawled across his skin like a warning, prickling the hairs on his arms and neck. The ground beneath him vibrated—not violently, but with a deep, steady rhythm, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

At the center of it all stood the boy—no, Anodite—bathed in radiant, otherworldly light.

His entire form glowed now, not in flickers or pulses, but in a sustained brilliance that outlined every muscle, every motion. The pink energy around him was no longer wild—it was shaped, refined. Controlled. His skin shone like polished crystal laced with veins of liquid light. His eyes, twin spheres of blinding white, stared into the distance without blinking, emotionless and infinite. The space around him warped with heatless pressure, air bending into waves, like reality itself was trying to accommodate his presence.

Then—he moved.

A single breath escaped his lips, silent and calm.

He raised both hands, palms open toward the sky, as if offering something—or preparing to take it.

The glowing tendrils of mana trailing from his back snapped to attention, then surged outward like awakened serpents, crackling with raw power. They spiraled into the air, twisting and coiling, each one a conduit of focused energy waiting to strike.

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

The drones—still locked in combat protocol—began to reposition. Their targeting systems flickered. Red lights scanned and re-scanned, recalibrating to track this new level of power. They were preparing to adapt, to fall back, to change tactics.

They didn't get the chance.

The boy unleashed hell.

With a flash of motion and no audible command, a massive pulse of mana erupted from him—pure energy forged into a blinding sphere of pink-white light. It didn't roar. It expanded. The initial blast was silent, almost peaceful, a radiant bloom of power stretching outward at impossible speed.

Then came the sound.

A deep, thunderous boom exploded outward, rolling across the park like the voice of a god. Trees bent and snapped. Park benches were flung like matchsticks. Nearby windows shattered in waves. Dust and debris were swept up in a spiraling vortex of displaced energy.

The drones were caught mid-movement.

They didn't burn. They didn't explode.

They came apart.

The mana hit them like a cleansing flame, unraveling them on a molecular level. Their sleek, armored shells cracked and split open, light spilling out through every joint. Their bodies disintegrated into showers of particles, glowing briefly before dissolving into the air like ash in a storm.

One by one, the eight advanced LexCorp combat units were erased.

Gone.

The explosion left behind a massive crater that radiated outward in jagged lines, earth torn up in concentric rings around the boy. Chunks of soil and stone still rained down as Damian threw himself behind a nearby tree stump, shielding his head as the heat of the blast rippled over him. The sound left his ears ringing, and for a moment, his vision blurred from the intensity of the light.

Then—silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

When Damian lifted his head, the battlefield was unrecognizable.

The scorched remains of the park smoldered quietly. Trees were stripped of leaves. Ground was blackened and cracked. At the epicenter of the blast, framed by a slowly fading corona of pink lightning, the boy stood motionless.

His body still glowed, though the light had dimmed slightly. Mana flared gently along his skin, flowing through him like a current. His hair—still a streaming flame of ethereal light—floated weightlessly in the air behind him, shifting in patterns that made no sense to physics.

His expression was blank.

Not angry. Not triumphant.

Just... still.

The ruined earth beneath Damian's boots crackled faintly with residual mana, glowing pink veins slowly dimming, pulsing slower and slower as the energy bled away into the cooling night. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was unnatural—too complete, too heavy, like the entire park was holding its breath.

The boy—Anodite—was swaying.

His body, once radiant and charged with impossible power, now shimmered weakly, the glow around him flickering like a dying star. His dark, obsidian-like skin rippled as if struggling to hold its shape, until slowly—inevitably—it began to fade. His ethereal form unraveled in layers, like a mask peeling away under heat. The mana tendrils that had whipped and defended, that had torn drones apart like paper, flickered out one by one, vanishing into the night like embers carried off by wind.

His skin lightened.

His glow dulled.

The celestial pink fire that had made up his hair collapsed into soaked, black strands clinging to his face and neck, heavy with sweat and heat. His wings, once broad arcs of liquid energy, crumpled inward and dissolved into thin air.

And then his eyes.

The blinding white orbs dulled. Dimmed. Faded until only his natural eyes remained—glassy, dazed, unfocused. He looked around like he didn't recognize any of it. Not the crater. Not the smoke. Not even himself.

His head turned, slowly, like he was underwater.

And his gaze found Damian.

No fear. No panic. Just exhaustion so deep it looked ancient. Like he'd been carrying it for years, not hours. Their eyes met—and then his body collapsed.

Everything gave out at once.

His knees buckled. Shoulders sagged. His entire frame folded like a puppet whose strings had been cut mid-movement. He hit the ground with a heavy, graceless thud, the impact stirring a cloud of dust and ash around his slack body.

"No—" Damian breathed, already moving.

He sprinted across the crater without thinking, his boots kicking up broken earth and scorched grass. In seconds, he dropped to his knees beside the boy. His hands moved with urgency born from training—checking the pulse in the neck, pressing a hand to the chest. Still breathing. Still alive. But barely.

His skin was damp with sweat, clammy and cold beneath Damian's palm. His breathing was shallow, every breath thin and uneven. His limbs trembled faintly with residual power, like the echo of a storm long passed. He wasn't injured. There were no burns, no bruises. But he was spent—drained down to the bone, every ounce of energy poured into that final surge of defense and release.

"You held it together through all that," Damian muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the boy. "You don't get to crash now."

He pulled the boy gently into a recovery position, cradling his head with one hand and keeping the other steady over his chest, counting the rhythm of each shallow rise and fall. Damian's eyes flicked up to the skyline beyond the shattered treeline. Still no movement. No cops. No drones. But they wouldn't stay alone for long. Someone was coming. Bruce, probably. Or worse—LexCorp, ready to reclaim what they'd lost.

But for now, they had this moment.

And then the boy stirred.

Barely.

His lips moved—dry, cracked, trembling. The sound that came from them was a whisper. Delicate. Soft and fragmented, like a language bleeding through a cracked window. Damian leaned closer, heart thudding in his chest.

The boy spoke.

The words were foreign. Not gibberish—structured. Beautiful, even. Fluid and melodic, filled with syllables that had never been shaped by a human tongue. The language wasn't from Earth. Damian knew dozens of alien dialects, and even he couldn't place it.

But the meaning... something about the tone hit differently. It wasn't a command. It wasn't even a warning.

It was grief.

It was memory.

It was a name—or a goodbye.

Damian didn't know which. And he didn't ask.

Before he could try to respond, the boy moved again.

Slowly, trembling, one hand rose and found the front of Damian's hoodie. Fingers brushed the fabric, soft, searching, as if to confirm something was still real. Damian froze, uncertain.

Then, the boy leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn't forceful. Wasn't romantic. It was gentle. Quick. A press of warmth against Damian's lips—trembling and featherlight. Not driven by adrenaline. Not desperation. It was something quieter—a gesture stripped of logic, shaped by instinct.

Then the boy slumped, the last of his strength gone. His head rested against Damian's chest, body limp, his eyes fluttering half-closed.

But just before he slipped away, he whispered one more word.

"Thank you."

Soft.

Breathless.

In heavily accented English, but unmistakably clear.

And then he passed out.

His body went still, a faint smile ghosting across his lips as unconsciousness took him.

Damian knelt there in silence, the smoke still curling through the ruined park, the ground warm beneath them. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder. The breeze stirred ash and leaves, but he didn't move.

He just held the boy close, watching over him as the chaos faded.

Whatever this was—whoever he was—this wasn't the end.

But right now, the boy was safe.

And Damian would make sure he stayed that way

LATER THAT night, high above the Earth, the Justice League's Watchtower hovered in its eternal orbit—silent, pristine, a fortress of steel and starlight among the void. Inside, in one of the war rooms ringed with holographic panels and data streams, Damian stood with his arms tightly crossed, his posture rigid. Behind him, a large 3D projection of Robinson Park flickered in midair, the display rendering the damage in hyperreal detail.

The scene spoke for itself: a blackened crater at the heart of the park, ringed in scorched earth, melted walkways, and fragmented metal. Traces of pink energy shimmered faintly across the terrain like residual heat from an invisible fire. The flickering trails of magic danced in slow pulses, still too volatile to classify by Watchtower sensors.

The silence in the room was thick.

Superman stood nearby, tall and unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was set in a mask of quiet concern, but his eyes betrayed unease—an unease that deepened as Damian finished recounting what had happened.

Jon Kent stood beside his father, posture tense and leaning forward slightly, eyes wide. He kept glancing between the projection and Damian, like trying to reconcile the two—what he was seeing and what he was hearing.

Batman loomed behind his son, cape draped over his shoulders, silent and unreadable. His face betrayed nothing, but Damian could feel the intensity of his father's scrutiny, the sharp, surgical calculation of a man who was already mapping out contingency plans behind that mask.

"And that's when he passed out," Damian said flatly, his tone stripped of emotion but not of weight. "After obliterating eight fully armed LexCorp drones in under ten seconds. They were in kill mode. He didn't hesitate. The amount of mana he drew in... it wasn't ambient. It was alive. Instinctual. Like it responded to his will the way muscles respond to pain."

Superman exchanged a glance with Batman, his brow furrowed. "And you're certain the armor was LexCorp?"

"I saw the insignia myself," Damian said. "It wasn't slapped on. It was part of the suit's internal architecture. He wasn't wearing it—he was fused to it."

Jon spoke next, his voice quieter. "But... he looked human?"

Damian paused, eyes narrowing as he remembered the boy's collapse, his hands shaking, the soft weight of his body against the charred grass. "Almost. But when he changed, it was like watching a mask dissolve. His entire physiology shifted. Skin, bone structure, light displacement. Magic didn't just cloak him—it rewrote him."

Until now, Starfire had remained silent, her arms loosely folded, her golden gaze fixed on the projection. The soft glow from the hologram lit her orange skin with shifting patterns of light, but her eyes were focused far beyond the room.

Then she stepped forward.

"You said he became dark," she said, her voice calm, thoughtful. "Semi-translucent... and his hair became pink flame?"

Damian nodded slowly, gaze narrowing. "Like it wasn't hair at all. More like... energy, shaped into strands. It moved without wind. It moved like it was alive."

Starfire nodded once. Her eyes flared slightly as a memory surfaced. "I know what he is."

All eyes turned to her.

"Or rather," she corrected gently, "what he is. He is not from Earth. That boy is an Anodite."

Damianmoan straightened slightly. "That's what the drones called him before they initiated fire."

"They knew," Starfire said. "Because they built their weapons with him in mind."

She turned to the others, her voice steady, but serious. "Anodites are ancient. A race of mana-based beings that exist almost entirely outside known galactic governance. Most of them dwell in uncharted sectors—places not even the Green Lanterns map regularly. Their bodies are not made of flesh in the way we understand it. They are born of magic—pure magic. They do not learn to wield it. They are it."

Jon looked visibly stunned. "You've seen one before?"

"Yes," she said. "Tamaran was briefly allied with their world during a peacekeeping mission in the Outer Nebula. They are not violent. But they are feared. Because if provoked... a single Anodite can alter the course of a war."

Superman's eyes narrowed. "And this one was enhanced by Luthor."

"Worse," Damian said. "He was altered by him. Engineered. That armor wasn't armor—it was a cage. A conduit designed to control how and when he accessed his own abilities."

"And it failed," Batman said quietly.

Damian nodded. "Completely."

Starfire's gaze darkened. "That makes him vulnerable. An Anodite raised away from his people, stripped of his identity, forced to serve someone like Luthor... He may be powerful, but emotionally? Psychologically? He is fractured. A being made of instinct and emotion, trained like a weapon and left to rot."

"He didn't trust anyone," Damian said. "Not at first. He didn't speak. He didn't fight until he had no choice. When he looked at me, it wasn't with fear—it was with expectation. Like he was used to being exploited."

Superman exhaled slowly. "If Luthor put his hands on something like that... we can't afford to let him get close again."

"He won't," Damian said firmly. "We'll make sure of it."

Batman stepped forward finally, the weight of his presence grounding the room. "We don't just protect him from Luthor. We protect him from everyone who will come next. Because now that he's revealed himself, every agency, every intergalactic faction, and every corporate predator who traffics in power will come looking."

Starfire nodded. "He is a star-born being of magic, left stranded among humans. If he is to survive, he will need more than shelter. He will need a place to belong."

Damian's eyes dropped for a moment, his expression tightening.

"Then I'll give him one."

The room fell into silence again, the image of the destroyed park hovering behind them like a ghost.

Outside the Watchtower's viewing windows, the stars drifted silently across the blackness—cold, endless, and watching.

THE HUM of the Watchtower's life support systems thrummed softly beneath their boots as Damian, Jon, and Starfire moved down the long corridor that curved gently with the arc of the space station. The polished silver walls reflected the low amber lighting of the simulated night cycle, casting long shadows that followed them in silence. Though Earth had long since rolled into the early morning hours, the artificial calm of the Watchtower did little to soothe the weight pressing on all three of them.

No one spoke as they walked. They didn't need to.

When they reached the reinforced doors to the infirmary, they parted with a gentle hiss, letting out a cool, sterile breeze tinged with antiseptic and ozone. The lights inside were soft and dim, set low for rest, but everything gleamed with precision. Med-pods lined the far wall in pristine rows, their curved exteriors like sleeping shells awaiting occupants. But only one was in use.

The Anodite boy lay within it.

He looked almost normal now—blanket drawn to his waist, arms limp at his sides, eyes closed. Peaceful. If you didn't know better, he could've passed for any unconscious teenager recovering from exhaustion. But if you looked closely, there were signs: faint ripples of pink light still traced delicate patterns under his skin, glowing softly with every slow breath. Mana. Dormant, but present. Waiting.

Jon drifted closer, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, the corners of his mouth turned down in something between concern and wonder. He stared at the boy's face for a long time before speaking.

"He doesn't look like someone who took out a fleet of LexCorp drones by himself."

Damian stood beside him, arms crossed tight, eyes narrowed. "That's what makes him dangerous," he said. "He doesn't look like a threat. Not until you're already on fire."

Jon glanced at him, but said nothing.

Starfire moved to the other side of the pod. Her posture was relaxed but attentive, the soft glow of her skin reflecting faintly off the medical interface. Her eyes were fixed on the boy—not in suspicion, but in recognition. Like someone looking at an ancient text they hadn't seen in years.

"You said he spoke?" she asked Damian quietly.

He nodded. "Right before he blacked out. Before he spoke English. Not any dialect I recognized. It wasn't even structured like language—more like... vibration. Something tonal. I've studied dozens of alien scripts and syntaxes. This wasn't one of them."

Starfire stepped closer, her eyes never leaving the boy. "That was Anoditian. Their speech is more than language. It's resonance. Their mana carries their meaning. They don't just speak—they express."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you understand them?"

Starfire turned to him with a serene smile. "Again, Tamaraneans and Anodites share a long, quiet history. We shared... customs."

Jon tilted his head. "What kind of customs?"

Starfire's expression didn't change. "Kissing."

Damian blinked. "What?"

Starfire nodded. "Tamaraneans absorb language through physical contact. A kiss creates a neurological link—temporary, but complete. Anodites... their version is deeper. It is tied to mana. It creates an imprint, a resonance link between two beings."

Damian stiffened slightly. His arms remained crossed, but his jaw tensed. "So when he kissed me—"

"He was reaching for connection," she said gently. "To understand you. To anchor himself. That kind of gesture, especially for one of his kind... it means trust. Rare, deliberate trust."

Damian looked down at the boy in the pod. The calm rise and fall of his chest. The fragile mana pulse under his skin.

Jon spoke softly. "He's really not just some experiment, is he?"

Starfire hesitated for a breath. Then she moved toward the pod and laid her hand lightly on its rim. "He's more than rare," she said. "I recognized the pattern of his aura. The fractal formation that pulsed when he transformed—it's unique. It belongs to the House of Noctyrae."

Damian frowned. "That means something to you?"

"It should," Starfire said. "That is the ruling family of the Anodite system. He's not just one of them. He's their heir."

Jon's eyes widened. "He's a prince?"

"The crowned prince," she confirmed. "And he is here. Alone. Bound in LexCorp tech. That suggests only two possibilities—he was stolen... or he fled."

Damian felt his stomach tighten. "Luthor got his hands on the heir of a mana-based civilization. And he tried to turn him into a weapon."

Starfire nodded solemnly. "And failed."

The room went quiet again, the soft beeping of the pod's monitor the only sound. The boy stirred slightly, a ripple of light fluttering beneath his skin like lightning behind clouds. Damian stepped closer, watching him carefully.

"He didn't trust me at first," Damian said. "He didn't trust anyone. But when he looked at me after the fight... something changed."

Starfire gave a small smile. "You carry his imprint now. His bond. When he wakes, he will look for you first."

Damian's eyes didn't leave the boy's face.

"I'll be here," he said quietly.

And he meant it. Every word.

[utilitycaster]

I wanted to explore the idea of people who dislike C3 not engaging with its themes because I haven't actually seen anyone making the argument give a full rundown of said themes, and this may end up being several posts. I'd like to start with anticolonialism. Perhaps it is a theme; if so, I think it's presented exceptionally badly, in a way that appeals uniquely to white westerners desiring to see themselves as a combination of victim and savior, rather than as a complex issue in a story centering the colonized. It got very long, so it's under a cut.

If this is the theme with which we as the viewers are not engaging, I'd argue neither is the work itself - it's largely projection. As many others have pointed out, the use of Marquet, a setting inspired by Africa and Asia (and presented in a highly stereotyped and Orientalist way in Campaign 1 no less) as nothing more than a casual backdrop with little engagement with the cultures present, and with much of the story elsewhere, undercuts that badly. I'd actually argue this is a recurring issue with Critical Role's works; Ank'Harel appears and is even fleshed out more in Call of the Netherdeep, but the story follows, and mostly takes place, among the Calamity-era ruins being excavated and amid faction squabbles concerning them. The culture and politics of Ank'Harel remain a distant second to the greater mythology of the Calamity, and again, after the society and culture and everyday people of the more European-inspired Wildemount took such a front seat in Campaign 2, it seems like a worrying pattern. Given the increased sensitivity and investment towards the cultures based on those in our own world that (for the most part) did the colonizing, and the "set-dressing", as others have called it, status of Marquet, perhaps this world is not a good one to tell that story. What's also interesting, and telling, is that the African and Asian - especially West, South, and Southeast Asian - was even a defense within the fandom: the reason so few of Bells Hells were from Marquet, we were told, is because the cast is white. In that case, and given how Marquet is so poorly integrated into the story that multiple beats relying on knowledge of the Apex War fall flat, why didn't we set this in Issylra (notably, the continent in which modern, mortal-driven occupation efforts are occurring)? And more importantly why are we trusting a group nearly entirely made of white culturally Christian Americans to tell what is argued to be an exceptionally leftist story on religiously-motivated colonialism if we can't even trust them to play a character from a real-world culture heavily impacted by said colonialism?

Another rather significant wrinkle is the fact that those wishing to release Predathos in the service of destroying the gods were happily working with the Kreviris Imperium, who desired to colonize Exandria. Remember how everyone was just talking about how the poor Ruidians would die if the planet were destroyed and how they're the victims in all this (and honestly, I don't disagree that the commoners of Ruidus, especially those without psychic powers, have a uniquely rough deal) when the planet cracks? Well, let's talk that through. I think the role of the Vanguard's Ruidusborn in this is rather important, ie, if they are throwing off the colonialism of the gods (to be discussed later whether I consider that valid), they are doing so by stepping on the necks of the common people of Ruidus. And if those people will be doomed by the release of Predathos, it is Bells Hells who doomed them.

The people of Ruidus were told of their manifest destiny of the Blue Promise by their governing body (which also served, effectively, as religious leadership, with mind control). I think "Propaganda" is a poor real-world metaphor for "sends dreams of the land promised to you each night, making you both jealous of what they have and very much influenced by their culture, while you have no dreams of your own" but it's the best I have, but that itself occupies an interesting space. It's a great beat for sf, but this actually leads to a rather worrisome metaphor regarding the nature of cultural influence (which was spoken of on a 4-sided Dive and is often cited here, and I think the way it's discussed fails to consider the implications). The idea of cultural hegemony and globalization is a very real one. It can occur within one's country (I, a non-Christian American, am well acquainted with many Christmas songs and traditions and am given Christian holidays off work but must use vacation for my own). It can also occur outside of it, as with globalized beauty standards - white ideas of beauty leading to light skin being prioritized in India, or double-eyelid surgery becoming common in South Korea. The situation on Ruidus therefore has some interesting implications. What does it mean for them to have inherited culture from Exandria - but at the hands of their own government that seeks to colonize Exandria? Is this a good way to explore these topics, when Exandrians are neatly excluded from the spread of their own cultural hegemony (as they had no idea) and are also poised to become the victims in this colonization? This idea, incidentally - that the people of Exandria exist in an impossible in-between space in the colonization metaphors, blameless victim yet free from the ugliest consequences of being a colonized culture - will recur, and I think that is the most damning evidence that this is at best a story of anticolonialism stripped of nuance and complexity.

In a further exploration of the cultural impact of colonialism, what does it mean that, again, I, Jewish from birth and raised in a Jewish home and sent, even, to a Jewish school through middle school (though not a Jewish preschool) have a pretty thorough knowledge of not just Christmas songs, but could probably name a bunch of individual Christian denominations and maybe even the intricacies in how they depict their crosses - while generally having freedom to practice my religion within the dominantly Christian US, if not equality in doing so - but Bells Hells, living under the presumed thumb of the gods, can't reliably tell their symbols or domains? Others have already covered this but if the gods are the dominant force, why have Bells Hells managed to largely avoid any actual consequences for godlessness other than "when I asked for something, I didn't get it?"

Why have all the governments we've seen, save Vasselheim (which, again - we haven't ever spent a ton of time in, so why did we go to Marquet again?) failed to convey religious dominance at the hands of the gods? The Clovis Concord, Tal'Dorei, Whitestone, Niirdal-Poc, Syngorn, and as far as I can tell Ank'Harel, Jrusar, Bassuras, Court of the Lambent Path, and the Stratos Throne (and if the latter isn't then Imogen and Ashton grew up in its borders without any religion forced upon them) are all secular governments that at most have outlawed Betrayer God worship. The Empire (in which Ludinus Da'leth has been a major political force for centuries) has strong restrictions on worship of all but six gods, and if you look at the first Tal'Dorei Campaign setting, it was at the timed conceived of as banning all deity worship. The Dynasty is a theocracy for a non-pantheon entity, engaging in missionary work but largely depicted as (if I may, oddly) devoid of violence. While Uthodurn's King Imathan Talviel is himself a worshiper of the Arch Heart, Uthodurn appears to have no state religion. Indeed, I'd say, as again, someone of a frequently persecuted religious minority, who lives in a country with a dark history of forced conversion of the native colonized people into Christianity [the Native American residential school system] I'd say that for a world in which the gods are objectively real? Exandrian governments are bizarrely lenient and bloodless when it comes to religion. Only the Dynasty even has a state religion of the aforementioned locations, and they don't even outlaw worship of non-Betrayer gods. The Empire, Concord, and Dynasty have, at most, fines or incarceration for worship of illegal deities. Hearthdell lost more people from their own attack and from the people teleported away by the solstice than from the missionary work; you think the might of Vasselheim couldn't have slaughtered the entire town if they went in? The only places we know of as even possibly more brutal are the Betrayer-worshiping Iron Authority, which remains vague and undescribed (weirdly, actually, given that the Crown Keepers might have gone there in the time between EXU Prime and Bells Hells); and Aeor (execution by hanging for deity worship).

I am not saying that any outlawing of religious worship (nor lack thereof) is a good thing, but we live in a world where people have - and still are - killed for gods for which we have, in my opinion, no proof of existence. It is unbelievably telling that the grievances provided (Tuldus, Ludinus, and members of Bells Hells) are all entirely individual experiences rather than anything systemic. It's people mad at their small communities or their parents, and that anger is valid, but it is immensely dangerous to take one's own individual negative experiences and treat it as systemic. This is the underlying motivation of how countless people are radicalized into hate groups (see: MRAs/incels, who are mostly mad at their mothers or at the fact that increased rights for women means women don't have to date or marry men if they don't want to - men are still the dominant class here, but their perceived individual slights and their extrapolation to this as systemic dominance of women is the radicalizing factor). The fact that Exandria has failed to set up a world where this is any sort of religious hegemony - Vasselheim is certainly important, but they aren't even a centralized governing body of worship a la the Catholic church, let alone a force outside of Othanzia, and are seen as an ally by the nonreligious Percy and Keyleth - again lethally undercuts the idea of this as anything but the most softened and childish discussion of colonialism and religion. Even Deanna's question to Pelor regarding Hearthdell reveals it as inaction - a failure to stop - rather than a command to act. It's at the level of how we teach American kindergarteners of the first Thanksgiving, except unless the entire narrative is wholly unreliable this is the actual story of Exandria. One giant pulled punch.

To quickly cover other items highly relevant to any sophisticated discussion of decolonialization/postcolonialism/colonialism in general that are absent from Campaign 3, and indeed Exandria as a whole: as multiple other fans have discussed, there is no concept of people of mixed race if the gods are the colonizers here. There is insufficient discussion of how, for example, many colonized or oppressed cultures have adopted western religions and see them as highly integral to their culture today - Catholicism in Central and South America and parts of Southeast Asia; Islam in other portions of Southeast Asia; Christianity within Africa and among African-Americans descended from slaves. This does not make the original forcing of said religion right or just; but any discussion of decolonization must account for the wants of those colonized, and I find that Campaign 3 fails to do so. The lack of meaningful conversation with common people across Exandria is something many of us have brought up. If we assume the members of the Accord are not necessarily speaking for those they rule, why do we have no concept of how the people at large of Whitestone, Gelvaan, Jrusar, Bassuras, Uthodurn, the Silken Squall, the Empire, the Dynasty, and the Tal'Dorei Republic feel? And if they are speaking for those they rule, well, we know how they feel.

I finally want to discuss that weird and, in my opinion, nonexistent irl space between actual colonizer and the colonized that mortals occupy. I personally reject the idea of the gods as colonizers given what we've seen in Downfall and because the metaphor is rather messy given the mythic scale. However, let's let treat them as such in this moment. Exandria was populated by titans. The lore is (possibly deliberately) vague and at times contradictory here, but either the titans lay dormant for a time after the gods arrived but before mortal society developed; or they lived in harmony with said mortals (who were created by the gods). They assisted, in some tellings, of the sealing of Predathos by the gods. They then, for unknown reasons, either awoke, or turned on the mortals; in the resulting schism they were killed and sealed by the Prime deities and the mortals. The Betrayer gods were those who wished to leave. The Betrayer gods too were sealed. The last known titans, sealed but not dead, were either destroyed or banished by the Ring of Brass during the start of the Calamity in order to prevent complete annihilation. The titans are now dead. Per Ashton's commune with them, there may be something that will rise again should the gods be eliminated; [only] the strong will survive it.

Questions to consider:

Why are a number of fans arguing that this story is one of anticolonialism so eager to place blame on Asmodeus and hope Predathos eats him first, when he is arguably the ringleader of those who most hoped to leave Exandria to the titans while they were still living? Do you hate the leader of the one most willing to decolonize? Or is the issue that this would also mean abandonment of the mortals, in which case, which is worse - destabilization or maintenance of a current situation (ie, the status quo)?

If the gods are colonizers, why isn't Predathos? It is no more a native of Exandria than they are. We know the gods were driven by an existential danger to their lives (which may or may not have been Predathos). Did Predathos lead the gods to Exandria and later corner them there, setting all of this in motion? Or is Predathos no different from them, driven to Exandria out of the need to survive? Given the titans opposed Predathos as well it is difficult to paint it as their savior (and the idea of an external savior of the colonized is, as discussed, one with unfortunate implications)? What is Predathos, and why is it better than the gods, if you believe it to be?

What are mortals here? They are not colonizer, nor are they native. I've discussed the (also very unfortunate) implications of treating sentient beings as ecology metaphors, but given that mortals truly did have, per the story, no agency in arriving on Exandria but were rather created here, are they akin to a non-native species? Such a species can be either invasive or beneficial, which fits with the idea of mortals being unique in their ability to change. Mortals were the ones under threat from the titans despite, again, being neither colonizer nor colonized; mortals participated in their destruction.

Where do the eidolons - seemingly unaffected by all of this - fit in? For a story about how change and newness might bring a better world, why the focus on the long-dead titans instead of the nature spirits that have seemingly taken their place? Why are many of Bells Hells constantly looking back and not forward?

And that last point feels particularly salient. The people of Exandria - a people whose opinion, again, in this campaign, it feels we have failed to explore - exist in an in-between state. They are more the heirs of the colonizers, in this assumption that the gods are colonizers, than the colonized. They cannot undo what the gods did. The gods can at this time only act through them.

What does it mean that we as the audience are intended to see ourselves most in a people who were not themselves those doing the colonizing, who are now under threat from colonization, and who might cooperate with the driving force behind that colonization? What does it say that our mortal viewpoint characters put more effort speaking to and for the dead than to the living? What does it tell us that many of them see themselves as the victims? What does it say that past campaigns had multiple characters subjected to actual systemic oppression (the twins, Jester, Molly, Veth-as-a-goblin, and Fjord all experienced racism) and explored the concept of the other (the Dynasty) and Campaign 3 never did? And when we add that to all of the above - that this world has failed to set up religion as even remotely close to both the meaningful and the oppressive force as it is in our own, despite the gods being real, that the grievances are individual and not systemic, that nearly all actions by the gods are motivated not by greed but by survival - is this an anti-colonialist work? Does it grapple with the problems of decolonialism meaningfully? Or does it let a white American viewer fantasize about a world where they are the oppressed, under threat of colonization, where their personal grievances are all forms of systemic oppression, cleansed of their own complicity in these systems, and where they can never be blamed for their actions because this is all so hard to choose- despite a far softer and gentler world than the one in which we actually live. And does it do so in a work they were going to watch anyway because they've been watching since well before this was introduced, thus permitting them to pretend they are experiencing a sophisticated anticolonialism narrative without having to go through the effort of actually reading that linked pdf of Orientalism they reblogged?

[ancientgoddessofegypt]

The Sun & The Nakshatras.

Here My Take On The Sun In Each Nakshatra. Staring with Ashvini thru Chitra!

Let me know what you think!

Ashvini Suns

Very fun light-hearted individuals when you give them a try. Have a hypnotizing presence that can go overlooked. Not for everybody and they don't try to be. Def needs a friend who fully understand them because they can be misunderstood a lot. There character plays nicely with more arrogant personalities, this is so that they can make space for their own confident nature that people typically mistake as egotistic. They know what they want and want it right then and there. Can have a tempting vibe to them. Can be promiscuous or charismatic, if they're both we might have a problem (all jokes).

Bharani Suns

Intellectuals. Have this inner knowing that somethings up. Can be gentle, carefree and fun or can be your worse nightmare. Your pick. The universe picks them as the harbringers of light. Destiny awaits them to conquer the messages aligning with the stars, and they use this gift of knowledge in the fruits of creation. Creativity is their strongest suit. They can merge religion and knowledge from outside things into some practical magic. Destined for greatness even at an early age.

Krittika Suns

Strong prominent auras. They are capable of shining a light in a room when it is time to remove what no longer works. They are fiery in nature, and are connected to the lightening that strikes within everything and everyone. The Krittikas with the sun placement deal with issues with males in society if they are a woman, if they are a male they may deal with power plays and might not like dealing with individuals to much. They can have a temper on em. When they utilize their power, they can make the world shake with just their energy alone.

Rohini Suns

Sweet like candy bar. The definition of a muse. Talented individuals. Have a liking for things that get their minds going. Super patient and can hold a conversation about anything. Philosophers who just want someone to listen to them. Rohini suns can definitely keep you on your feet with how they move. There is a intriguing energy when it comes to them. You have no idea who they truly are under the surface.

Mrigashira Suns

Mystifying with their words. Their vibration. & Their sword. Practical minds, divine creators. These are definitely people you want to get to know, and possibly understand a bit more. Their behavior comes solely from the mind but their environment is what inspires them to continue on and evolve. They have a lot of options in this life, and they try to use as much of it as they possibly can. Genuine spirits who's heart is just that of gold. However, once you cross them, it'll be hard to get to know them again.

Ardra Suns

The most useful. Can be a beacon of joy, a lover, a fighter, a friend. Someone you can truly depend on. They have issues with people who voice their opinions too much when it comes to their expression. Ardra suns have a glow to their auras that most can find pretty intriguing, but they've got to keep new company every so often due to jealousy and other tangent things becoming an issue after a while. If they aren't careful with the company they keep, they can go down to ruin. But if they commit to being true to themselves, and finding solace in their divine nature they can conquer just about anything in this lifetime.

Punarvasu Suns

Like the ocean, they're waves morph into the wisdom of the merits deep inside of their big bodies of divine magic. Their words are impeccable, their energy is soothing and magnetic. They are enraged with a guilt from past lives, family members, or things out of their control. They are mother natures favorites, and they are gifted in the worlds of writing. Journals, Poetry, Film, all the like... They are storytellers who's worlds bring us to our knees. They are angels in disguise and need a voice hear and there. Mystical in expression, Odd in one, and pretty special in another.

Pushya Suns

The muses of the water. Mothers gift to the Gods. There is a deep bond to the roots of the tree, and they give their all to bring forth this beautiful energy from within. They take knowledge very seriously, and go out there way to search for it in many regions if they would like. A natural at connecting the dots. A open minded individual who's heart is sure to keep beating for the thousands of children and people who need it most. Love is infinite, and they give their all to let you know it.

Ashlesha Suns

Seduction is their foreplay. Very magnetic. Their powers and abilities manifest in getting what they want when they need it, and can have it in the palms of their hands by tomorrow. That is because their minds are like that of the serpent. They use their minds to go after what they need by hypnotizing you as a form of conquest. You think your tantalizing them until they finally strike. You never see them coming. Can be sweet and charming, but can also strike you like a siren.

Magha Suns

A strong & deep bond with the universe. Individuals who know how to create a good power play. You can't one up these people. A very dignified, regal presence. Ancient in devotion, which means they put power displays of ancestral divination in all that are, and all that they commit themselves to. In this heaven that they live in, they must commit to the soul in so many ways. So that they can move higher into devotion to source, their creator. It is so deep, that they will push many mountains just to receive the divine insight of the ancestors, so that they can build castles & creations for the like-minded. Powerful energies connect them to higher planes.

Purva Phalguni Suns

The kings & queens of diamonds and rings. Luxuries and all things that glitter. This venus nakshatra has is AAALLLLL. and they know it too! Natural born creators whose soul purpose was to make art, be noticed and be heard! Can be well known for their looks, their attraction, their mystery, and their artistry. Can be animated, fun, loving, sensual creatures. Definitely keep your eyes peeled for em, their devoted to themselves like the gods & goddesses that they are! Playful spirits with an easy going energy. High maintenance personality.

Uttara Phalguni Suns

Devoted to the ancestral knowledge of creation. Very deep bonds with people that they truly care about. Can have the whole entire universe if that is what they claim. Can have books full of knowledge inside of them, go on, ask them anything! Star power is infinite, and they shine the brightest when they do what works. Their energy is enchanting, oozing with delight. Carefree, bright, and intriguing souls who's very purpose is to shed light on the things that matters most. They are loving, divine creatures who captivate you with just their very essence.

Hasta Suns

Temptress energy. Devoted to themselves & God. The original muse. They can keep the world talking about them, thats just their nature. No, they aren't the gossipy type. Just the one to really get things going when they have something in mind they want to manifest. Speaking of manifesting, they are impeccable with attracting things to them. Their known to have magical hands, after all ;)

Chitra Suns

Known to be the bright one, their energy is polarizing to say the least. They have a unique beauty to them. Something that no one could compare it to. Their energy is a one of one. Magnificent beings who came to let the world know that they exist. Like a goddess, they deserve offerings. Their energy is the prize and they know this too! Highly intellectual but you just don't know it yet. The definition of a bad b! On everyone's mood boards too! Can have what they want with just a blink of an eye, because their faces are just that damn good looking. ;)

This is pt.1 on my astro observations on the sun signs in these nakshatras. will post the others soon!

[patchwork-crow-writes]

One thing that Deltarune seems to keep coming back to is the idea of being discarded. Or, to put it more accurately, to be cast aside and made obsolete by circumstances entirely outside of your control. We see this in the very beginning with the vessel we create - the narration literally says it "will now be discarded" before we can even inhabit it. We see echoes of this in Jevil and Spamton, both being made from objects that are generally discarded (literally in the former's case) and are desperately reaching out for some form of freedom and control over their destinies. We can even see it reflected in the teens of Hometown, who in one sense or another have been left behind by events outside of their control.

And this throughline has me thinking. At some point, I feel that the fun gang - more specifically Kris and Ralsei - are going to turn on us in an attempt to reclaim some sense of agency for themselves (see the concept art of the two of them holding a sword and facing us, which I talk about in more detail here), and that WE will end up being discarded in much the same way that the vessel was. Perhaps we reunite with the vessel as a result of this, and must spend a portion of the game trying to regain some semblance of influence over the story, bumping into the Fun Gang (or perhaps just Kris by themself) in an attempt to convince them to, if not necessarily let us possess them again, then at least to accompany them to their journey's conclusion.

Perhaps we would even have to fight the Fun Gang in said attempt to convince them. Perhaps our vessel would occupy the right hand side of the screen, much as a boss might. Much like someone like Jevil or Spamton might.

That's right - I think that there's a not-zero percent chance that in a future chapter, we will become our OWN secret boss.

[threepandas]

Bad End: The Nunnery

The Queen's portrait was a magnificent thing. A masterpiece of light and color, detail and delicate symbolism. She was immortalized. Forever in the prime in her life. The height of her beauty. Regal and magnificent as the day the King first saw her.

She was gazing to the left, face cool, and too those who might not know her? She might even seem cold. But, according to her? She had been a WRECK. Terribly nervous that she would trip or embarrass herself. She had been, after all, new to this country. Still uncertain. Standing before a VERY important figure in both the social and political circles of her new home.

So she defaulted to her "princess mask" as she called it.

Focused on her maid.

It? Was one of many such stories the Queen has told me. Over tea. On walks in her garden. Practicing etiquette or dancing. At meals. The King often joining in fondly. Reminiscing about those earnest and awkward early days in their marriage. Assuring me that my own will be just as warm and lovely.

But...

I know it will not.

Otome games. Oh, otome games. Why did I ever love you? What could I have done to anger you so? That you would cast me in to a role such as this? The woman to be scorned. Who must dedicate her life, work and work and WORK... only to have it all ripped away. Have everything she's ever known stolen by some upstart. One with no training, no support, no IDEA of what she's doing.

Who will lead everyone and everything to disaster, RUIN, with her careless tounge and unthinking ways.

Too Rule is not a GAME.

It is a SACRIFICE.

The crown not some trinket you wear just to match your DRESS! The crown prince some man you marry for mere LOVE! If love comes, you are blessed. Lucky. But the reality is? You sit on a chair that bleeds you dry. Beneath a crown of suffering. Asked to make impossible choices. Blamed for things beyond your control. Expected to live, bleed, then die there.

With some gods damned DIGNITY.

Can she do that? CAN SHE? Your pretty, flower brained, indecisive child of a lover? The one who is so "different" and so "carefree"? Who's lives has she held in her hands? What futures? Does she even KNOW who our current trade partners are? What the tax on sheep's wool is?

For that matter...

Where were YOU?

No. My husband to be? Will never marry me. I know there will be no happy ending here. And... and it hurts. Because dispite KNOWING my "role"? My destiny? Time moves slowly. Day by day. And I have a schedule to keep. A part I must play.

Unlike my Cannon counterpart, I am not haughty. Nor am I cruel. I behave as best I can, for a young lady of my station. Dignity, compassion, but with leadership. I am being trained, after all, to be the future Queen.

I play with my young brother-in-laws. Rolling balls in the flower garden. Clapping games. Listening to them practicing their reading. And as they grow, practicing their swords. I attend my lessons. Attend the rare party. Barely see my birth parents, who were only too happy to all but sell me off for power.

And my fiance?

Can barely tolerate me.

Cruel "jokes" and mud. Only getting angrier when I do not shriek and howl like the upset child he expected I would be. The more he gets punished for trying to torment me, the worse a witch I apparently am. Clearly, having planned it all. His poor mother is distraught. His father furious with his tutors. Who is allowing this behavior, they wonder? It is certainly not them.

But they can not be everywhere. So instead, I am brought where they can supervise. I do not mind. Find quite joy in how the Queen plays with my hair instead of her fan. How the King will pick me up, when I was small enough, to place me on his lap and show me his work. Then sets aside a chair, so we may "work together" as though my lesson's work could ever rival his own in importance.

They had wanted a daughter.

Love their sons.

But...and here they always trail off. The weight of something heavy and unsaid passing between them. The King hand usually warm, cradling, on my head. They do not want to say it. Worry me so young. Or worse, traumatize me.

After all... the King's family has a nasty paternal lineage trait, in which boys tend to try and kill the competition. Be it their siblings, parent's, or sons. They don't... share well. It had been flavor text in the game. For the "only kind to me" type prince.

Daughters however? Generally normal. Tend to take after their mothers.

The King had widely been known to want twenty and maybe a prince... if he HAD too.

They got several prince's instead. Worse, it had nearly killed her Grace to give birth to them. After that? The King refused to try again. Turned his hopes to his future daughters-in-law instead. It... it was beyond what I could have ever dreamed.

It was WARM. Dream like.

Gentle.

They radiated the sort of strength and dignity that made you WANT to listen. To lean into them and be protected. Sitting with the Queen in her parlor, side by side, as I leaned against her? Cradled against soft fabric and rich dyes. Her unique perfume delicately filling the air like tendrils of mist in a dream, the scent of tea and the melodic hum of her voice as she talked. It was like a beautiful trance sometimes.

Or when the King took me riding on his massive beast of a warhorse, just because he knew I loved the scared up old menace. I had to sit practically in his lap, side saddle, because the old grouch was a gremlin who wouldn't behave otherwise. But WOULD let me pet them with enough bribes.

I... I tried to be a good child.

A daughter they could think fondly off.

And... and I knew it would HURT. It would HURT so, so fucking bad. Not to lose my ASS of a fiance. No, he was a fool. But... but to lose the closest thing I had to parents in this world. I... I didn't want to go...

But.

BUT!

If I must? Then I would be well trained. Have a spotless reputation and dignity befit a royal. His Majesty could no doubt help me find a new engagement befitting my station. And I doubted her Grace would just toss me aside. I... I hoped.

When the Protagonist came? It was every nightmare I'd ever had. Endless scandal and horrifying indignity. Even my political rivals, my social foes, were grimacing. Were taking me aside to "freshen my make up" so I wouldn't have to see my intended behaving so... unforgivably.

Just fornicate in public, why don't you?

Can't be any LESS subtle.

I held the fiancee of the heir to Minister of Defense, a lovely girl I had known but not well, as she wept. The son of the prime minister's fiancee stared, grim faced, into the distance. She had come from several nations away as part of an alliance. I offered her my guest rooms. Whatever she should need.

Things spiraled.

They played out their happly little love story. Acting as fluttering children as their actions caused chaos and destruction all around them. She refused to choose. Somehow her father allowed this. I kept myself in the public eye, knowing better then to hide, for all that I desperately wished too. It payed off.

Someone tried to frame me. Spread terrible rumors about henious acts. To bad that everyone had SEEN me suffering with dignity and grace, in public where they could watch me.

It seems I was not the only one to reincarnate.

Why could not just be happy? Fall "in love" and steal one live from one soul? Was your greed so great? Did it really anger you that much? That I would not play along?

It certainly angered His Majesty, the rumors. They were unforgivable, according to Her Grace. But... BUT, sadly, the girl was pregnant. And the idiot was their son. The other idiots their allies foolish, foolish offspring. What could be done?

Simple.

Send them to His Majesty's brother.

It was, after all, tradition to spread out after coming of age. What with the whole "I want you dead" tendency that ran in their family. All the better so as to not step on metaphorical toes, as it were. And the King? Had one surviving (for now) brother. The high priest of the High Northern Temple. Good and remote.

Perfect for banishment and a life of reflection.

That, however, left me I reminded them. I was met with matching smiles. Adopted or marry the next youngest prince! Obviously. Ah. I see. But wouldn't that be-?

The queen takes me arm, tucking it in hers, and tells me not to worry about it. Leads me towards the gardens. Have I seen the new flowers they've just ordered? They are quite lovely. I had not. I let myself be distracted. Lean my head against the Queens shoulder as we walk. And finally... relax.

I'm safe.

The Queen smiles. We are joined by the King, his expression warm. I feel at peace. Protected. Treasured. I love them so much. A warm and perfect family. I'm glad I don't have to leave. I say as much and they laugh, hugging me.

"Oh, of COURSE Darling! We would NEVER let you go!"

"That's right, my dearest. You're here forever."

[brujamala-aka-gigi]

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ mini pac ｡⋆｡ ﾟ

random tarot messages

150 word readings <3

these are bite sized tarot messages with no specific questions being answered, just leaving things to chance and hopefully getting you a piece of knowledge from the cards.

pngs by @florietas

dividers by @aquazero and @cafekitsune

pile one pile two pile three

pile four pile five pile six

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‧͙˚ *༓ scroll down for the readings ⋆ִ ‧͙⁺˚

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〰 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 〰

˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ pile number one 𓂃⊹

page of wands

It's a good moment to reevaluate the source of your opinions and ideas, as soon you will feel a streak of creative energy and it'd be good to build stronger ideas before you begin to place them in reality or to manifest them onto it. Also an amazing moment to look for connections between the mundane and the divine, not waiting for explicit answers but instead, you should expect the way in which you ask questions to allow for more profound relationships with knowledge. Ideally, you’d channel your creativity in a way that enhances your freedom and expands your possibilities instead of imposing complex dogmatic beliefs to yourself.

˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ pile number two 𓂃⊹

the empress

Allow yourself to get in touch with the things that come naturally to you instead of forcing yourself to align with actions that are too detrimental for them to bring any actual value or positive impact in your life. I wouldn't take this card into the “divine feminine” approach to things, as it seems more like a calling to nurture your inner world and your personal environments by being in tune with what is genuine to you, and to the way in which you bring value for yourself. I think you are underestimating the valuable qualities you possess and how your energy can be channeled and empowered by just paying more attention to what you deem as “low effort” but can be “high effort” to others. Don't shy away from being confident in your virtues. 

˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ pile number three 𓂃⊹

five of wands 

Avoiding conflict at all costs is not ideal, but engaging in conflictive situations guided by your ego is no good either. Sadly, you will be provided with said tense situations so it's better that you take the time to think about how you process feelings of anger, stress and insecurity. You need to be as aware of your own feelings as much as you are capable of deciphering how others might deal with them, especially if their approach to them is outwardly aggressive. There's nothing completely wrong with impulsiveness and emotional reactions, they can lead to meaningful emotional or existential developments; only if there's time, energy and will to do so. Learn how to know when to face obstacles like these and when they're not exactly obstacles, but more of an annoying temporary situation. 

˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ pile number four 𓂃⊹

the wheel of fortune

Although it is impossible to have full control over one’s perceived destiny or the chaotic nature of the universe, good fortune relies on the ability to humble our needs for control. As much as it’s healthy to navigate difficult and stressful situations without allowing our emotions to have a negative impact, it is also necessary that we don’t become overly confident and arrogant when things seem to be working in our favor. There’s plenty of our surroundings that we are unable to control and many things within ourselves that are just as difficult to deal with, therefore, it is in our best interest to develop tools and structures that can function as guidance towards a consciousness state that allows us to navigate the ups and downs of life without neglecting the feelings we deal with as a consequence.

˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ pile number five 𓂃⊹

the moon

You need to allow yourself to distrust and question others. Although it's “common sense” to have good intentions, to be kind, to be respectful and so on, at this point in time we cannot truly have faith that everyone shows a tendency towards having a bare minimum of empathy or at least good intentions. It is easy to follow your intuition or your gut feelings when danger is easily perceived, but trusting your intuition is harder when there are deceptions or illusions that make it so we are almost gaslighting ourselves about how awful we are for not trusting in something or someone because there isn't anything negative in sight. Key word: IN SIGHT. If something doesn’t make enough sense to your peace of mind, it's most likely not worth making it fit into your life. 

˚ ༘`✦ ˑ ִֶ pile number six 𓂃⊹

page of swords

This card serves as a reminder to keep nurturing your curiosity, specifically by putting an emphasis on the knowledge you can acquire by being more open to hearing about others' experiences. I don’t think you are particularly interested in finding a sense of belonging by allowing people to impose their beliefs onto you, but I do see that maybe you are in need of company to further develop and deepen your relationship with knowledge. You don’t need to hurry up and become desperate to know everything about anything, you also don’t need to limit yourself and your possibilities to traditional ways of learning. At this moment, embracing the unconventional and unexpected teachings, everyday life observations and your own personal thoughts and opinions, will give you the motivation to strengthen your relationship with the more intellectual parts of yourself.

if you enjoyed this post, feel free to check the rest of my account <3 ppssst keep an eye on this blog, there's going to be some ask games and im giving away some free readings soon ;)

masterpost ✶ pac readings ✶ ko-fi page ✶

⋆bookings for personal readings are open ཐིཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[shorthaltsjester]

i’m scrambling through the transcripts from eps 104 & 106 of campaign 1 because i’m writing something and god this quote from ioun when she’s speaking with vox machina is rotting me from the inside out:

“We the creators did breath beauty into this world, we planted the seeds that would blossom into this incredible weave of Exandria. However, what is the purpose of the parent but to teach what they can then set their children free? Some gods rule through fear, others through love, and others still through perceived fate. Destiny has its place, but the real deception if that you have no choice. A path can be groomed before you, but it is you who must take those steps. Not every rosy walkway leads to a better day. For me, our greatest purpose has passed the moment we granted your forebearers the spark to seek their own purpose. We now stay to inspire, to guide, to guard the Gate, to keep the hate of ignorance we spawned in our hubris from burning away everything. The rest is up to you. We need you, perhaps, but you do not need us. That is our gift.”

It’s delicious for a lot of reasons but namely in that it situates the gods once again as sentient beings who did not choose to come here but have found and maintain purpose in their continued presence - and that purpose is not to control mortals but to support them, something like aging parents who in some ways need to be looked after and can provide guidance and inspiration and limited protection but who need that to be returned. given the current state of affairs in campaign 3 even pre-downfall insights, ioun’s emphasis that one of their purposes is to keep ignorance (born from the god’s own hubris) from burning away everything. i mean even the fact that the god of knowledge admits that the gods are even capable of hubris — and i say this not because i think the gods would assume themselves to be above hubris but because i’m uncertain how much it can be called hubris for literal gods to view themselves with immense amounts of self importance — reveals the degree to which (to me at least) the gods are just beings who have immense amounts of power they did not directly ask for but were given when thrust into a new context. like brennan spoke of in the cooldown for 3x99, the power wasn’t power until given a material context and it is completely fair for mortals to be fearful or hateful of that which causes them harm as much as it is understandable for the gods to have a bitter disposition that something beyond their control and in fact a symptom of their care for their family is something that paints them as evil and cruel. it reminds me of ruidusborn in many ways — who have a stifling reputation so strong that people avoid giving birth during flares and look down upon even children born under the red moon but that reputation is contextualized by the fact that ruidusborn are and have been incredibly dangerous until it becomes a self-perpetuating cycle.

i am such a fan of critical role just for Good Story reasons but the historian in me has such deep respect for the lore keeping and weaving of different ideas into the fictional cultures and dispositions of the world that fit together like puzzle pieces and makes exandria feel not just lived in but truly as if the world has been minutely changed by every moment that we the audience have witnessed and will someday come to witness.

[sultrybaby]

Born To Die (Manjiro 'Mikey' Sano)

Bonten Mikey x fem!Reader

Warnings 🦢: suggestive at times, brief mentions of violence, guns, etc. Angst (kind of) - I recommend listening to the actual song by Lana or searching up the lyrics to get an idea of the kind of angst I'm talking about, occasional profanity, ambivalent ending <3 *all images and banner from pinterest / online. i don't own any of it*

Synopsis 🦢: You were sent to seduce and destroy him—the infamous head of Bonten, Manjiro Sano, the man standing in the way of everything your organization, the Echelon, has built. The plan was simple: make him fall, make him talk, and when the time comes—make him die. But somewhere between hands that shouldn’t linger and kisses that taste like cigarettes and blood—the line between deception and desire begins to blur. Now, with the truth unraveling and the noose tightening around both your necks, there is only one way this can end.

Do we control our destinies in love, or are we simply acting out a predetermined tragedy?

The bar is half-lit and half-forgotten, a ruin tucked between crumbling brick and the ghosts of crime syndicates that have long since met their downfall. The walls hold old secrets, stained with whiskey spills and the kind of violence no one cleans up.

The air is thick—leather, cologne, the bite of cheap scotch, the sharper bite of expensive gin. In the far corner, a piano plays something slow and aching. The bartender doesn’t look up—he’s seen too much to care. The lights are low. Too low. Shadows stretch in ways they shouldn’t.

To any and all that have the misfortune of being there, one thing is clear- this isn’t a place for love.

The moment you walk in, the bar stops breathing.

Not because of the man beside you—though he is a presence in himself, all broad shoulders and heavy silence, a man who has killed enough to no longer be impressed by death.

But because of you.

The red dress, silk that moves like sin, the slit running dangerously high—an invitation or a threat, depending on who's looking.

The white fur coat, draped lazily over your shoulders—a symbol of something too pure for this place, too delicate. A lie.

He looks at you and sees glimpses of a pretty face behind a desk, serving coffee and filing paperwork for a man far more dangerous than her. But Manjiro 'Mikey' Sano has bigger issues at hand. Bonten, his empire, is crumbling, and your boss' is taking over.

Your boss doesn’t make introductions.

He doesn’t need to.

His reputation does it for him. A man built like war, voice like gravel, hands large enough to crush empires and innocents.

Mikey Sano later finds out that you are the boss' secretary (who is also proficient in the law, no doubt contributing to the organization's rapid success). However, it is clear regardless of how impressive you may be that you are here merely to serve.

He studies you like a puzzle, like something that doesn’t quite fit—like a face in a dream he can’t remember. He looks at you and despite the gold and glam, sees a bystander, someone caught in the crossfire. Maybe he can save you from this world.

Mikey's thoughts are interrupted as the man across gruffly clears his throat. He finds himself enamoured by the way you do anything and everything. You move without needing to be told. The leather folder is already in your hands. Thick. Heavy. The weight of empires shifting. You obediently place it in front of him—the man across the table, the man with the sharp eyes and the sharper mind, the one who Mikey needs to push down from his throne.

And to his irritation, the one who hasn’t stopped watching you since you walked in.

They talk business, and he's wondering if you hear the way his voice lingers when he says your name. The way his fingers tighten around his glass when your pretty lips part just so and he wonders how they would feel when…nevermind that.

The boss' fingers brush the edge of the folder. Your fingers brush his. A second too long. A second too much.

And then—you lean in.

Close. Closer than necessary.

Your voice is a breath against your boss’s ear, soft, obedient.

"The docks will be cleared by midnight."

Your hand lingers on the table.

"They won’t see it coming."

Your lashes lower, your lips part, just enough to make it look unintentional.

And when you pull away—

You don’t miss the way he exhales just a little too sharp.

Mikey's hand tightens around his glass. His jaw twitches.

His breath comes a fraction too slow, then too fast.

He doesn’t like this.

He doesn’t like the way you moved like silk and smoke.

He doesn’t like the way your boss didn’t have to say your name for you to act, like you’ve done this a thousand times before, like you’ll do it a thousand times again.

He doesn’t like that you are so perfectly trained, so perfectly placed but not for him, for some other guy.

And worst of all—

He doesn’t like that he wants you anyway.

But the worst is yet to come.

You straighten, smooth the fur coat over your shoulders, tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear with deliberate grace.

Your boss, satisfied, leans back in his chair. His hand finds your thigh—casual, absentminded, a touch that means ownership, not affection.

And then—

He pulls you onto his lap.

And that’s when Mikey feels it. The shift. The undoing.

He knows what this is.

A message.

A reminder.

A warning.

The rival boss doesn’t even look at him as he runs one slow, deliberate hand down the curve of your thigh.

"Sign the papers," he says, bored, careless. "Or do you need more convincing?"

Silence.

For just a second.

Then—

Mikey laughs.

Soft. Low. Sharp.

He tilts his head, lips pulling into something dangerous and amused, but not kind.

"Does this bother you?" your boss asks, and you can feel the sneer as he breathes against your neck. But you can't help but stare at the silver-haired maniac.

His fingers tap against the folder. Slow. Calculating.

"Not at all."

But you see it.

The tension in his shoulders. The barely concealed twitch of his jaw. The way his gaze flickers—not to your boss, but to you. And in that moment—you know.

You’ve won.

Because the game has already started. Because the trap is already set. Because he wants you.

And soon enough, he won’t care what it costs him.

Without even bothering to see whether Mikey has signed, the boss gently but firmly places you back on the sofa, and then leaves. The confidence of a madman that has gotten everything he wanted.

He doesn't know what overcame him, but Manjiro finds his legs moving beyond his control. And suddenly, he's talking to you.

"I feel like you shouldn’t be here, angel," he says, voice low, dark.

But he doesn’t mean it. Not really.

Because he’s already leaning in.

Because he already wants you.

The whiskey burns. The ice is melting. His gaze is a slow drag of a cigarette down your skin.

You've seen this a million times, the gaze of a man in power who believes you're the helpless Ophelia, caught in a game played by men, bound to be hung by ropes pulled beyond your control.

Let him see what he wants to see. Let him think you’re something soft, something delicate, something caught in the teeth of men sharper than you.

As if the city outside isn't a labyrinth you built, brick by brick. As if he isn't fighting a war you started.

He didn't know that you were the mastermind behind 'Echelon.'

You knew what the people said: "I heard Echelon was created by serial killers who escaped prison" "I've heard it was the boss' cold cunning that got them to these heights" "I've heard…"

Idiots. All of them.

Yet, when he leans in close—when the smoke curls between you, when his breath teasingly warms your cheek, only to then pull your hands to his lips—you wonder.

What would it be like to be the girl he thinks you are?

Just for a night. Just for the taste of something pure.

But then the moment passes. The whiskey is gone. The war presses against the walls. Your boss is waiting outside. You get up.

You smile at him and bow.

"Pleasure doing business with you." You say formally- too formally, for Mikey. Despite his will that throngs against his heart, all he seems to be able to do is watch pathetically as your beautiful frame exits the bar.

Who the fuck are you?

"Sometimes love is not enough and the road gets tough, I don't know why. Keep making me laugh, let’s go get high. The road is long, we carry on. Try to have fun in the meantime."

You weren’t supposed to be here.

Not in his bed, not in his arms, not in this mess of heat and hunger that coils tight around your ribs. Not kissing him back when there’s nothing left for him to tell you.

This was about nothing more than winning. Echelon wins, they don’t feel, they don't sympathize, they don't love.

This is only about winning- never wanting.

About playing the part so well that he never saw the knife in your hand. About drawing him in, unraveling him, pressing close enough to hear the things no one else was meant to hear.

And you had him. You had him. The information you needed, the secrets he should never have whispered against your skin—it’s all yours now. He’s reckless with his secrets. He spills them like whiskey, like blood on pavement. And you drink it in, every word, every doubt.

You listened to him as he talked of paranoia, of a life of suffering, of loss. You caressed his head as he cried for every one he's lost. You learned of Izana, of Emma, of Shinichiro. That was part of the plan- you had already known all of that.

What wasn't part of the plan was the aching in your heart.

A storm snarls against the rooftops, rain clawing down the glass of his penthouse windows. He kisses you in the dark, mouth searing, hands desperate—like if he holds on tight enough, he can carve something permanent into you.

You let him.

You let him trace every inch of you, let him whisper secrets against your collarbone, let him believe he is the only one who sees you as you are.

And maybe he is.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because every night you spend tangled in him, his empire shrinks. Because every time you whisper his name, his enemies grow stronger. Because every time he touches you, you carve another crack in his foundation.

And yet—

There’s a moment, just before dawn, when the city is nothing but cold emptiness, when his arm is draped over your waist and his breath is warm on your skin, and you wish you had met him in another life.

One where your hands weren’t already stained red.

One where your lips weren’t pressed to his throat, whispering the things that would ruin him.

But this isn’t that life.

You were never supposed to wake up worrying about whether he's killed himself. You were never supposed to miss the warmth of his body when you woke up in an empty bed- in fact, you were the one who was supposed to leave.

And yet—

You’re still here. Still breathless beneath him, still chasing the taste of his mouth, still lost in the way his hands know exactly where to hold you.

The line was supposed to be clear.

But somewhere between the first stolen glance and the second glass of wine, between the nights spent talking in the dark and the mornings spent wrapped in sheets you were never meant to wake up in—

The line blurred.

And now—now it terrifies you.

Because you’ve seen what happens to those who forget which side they stand on. Because desire is dangerous. Desire makes men weak- you know that better than anyone.

And if you aren’t careful—You might not be able to kill him.

And that was never supposed to be a possibility.

Not for you. Not for him.

But the worst part?

You don’t know if you want to save him, or if you just want to burn with him.

Maybe in another life, Manjiro Sano was a man that didn't know the feeling of killing a man with his eyes closed, and you were a woman who didn't go to bed with the test of gunpowder on her tongue.

A woman who didn’t already know how this story ends.

But despite the odds, despite the futility of this life, you let him love you.

You let him trust you- this man that has lived in a world of mistrust and betrayal, who has never known what it is like to hold someone close to his heart. You let him trust you as you hold that knife behind your back. And the longer he kisses you, the harder you press it until it is your blood that spills to the ground built on stolen money and the sins of a billion men.

Oh god,

Manjiro is going to fuck you up.

"Choose your last words, this is the last time."

You have to do this.

If you don’t—if you hesitate, if you let the weight of his hands, his mouth, his voice linger for even a second longer—you never will.

You’ve seen it happen before.

People who think they can balance on the edge of the blade, who think they can hold love in one hand and a knife in the other. But sooner or later, they always drop one.

And it’s never the knife.

So you tell yourself—it ends tonight. You will meet him.

You will press close, like always. You will kiss him slow, kiss him deep, kiss him like nothing is wrong. Even when your heart bleeds. Even when the tears threaten to fall and burn his skin like acid.

And when he least expects it—when his guard is down, when his breath hitches just so, You will do it. You will finish what you started.

You will walk away.

And this time, you won’t look back.

It was a plan that has been hanging in your heart for the longest time now, but then something shifts, and you know you have to kill him.

Because as you sit there, gripping the phone tighter than you should, your heart hammers with something far worse than guilt.

It’s suspicion.

It’s the slow, sinking realization that something isn’t right.

Because you start noticing things. Small things. But in this world of crime and punishment, small things are always the loudest.

The way his men look at you now. Not with curiosity, not with lust, but with something colder. Calculating. Like they know something you don’t. The way he holds you lately. Tighter. Longer. Like a man saying goodbye before he’s ready to let go. The way his words weigh more. Each one careful. Measured.

As if he’s waiting for you to notice.

And then—the final crack.

A single misstep, a single breath too sharp, a single pause before he answered something simple.

And you know.

He knows. Maybe not all of it, not yet, but enough to be dangerous.

You press the phone to your ear, trying to steady your breathing.

“We need to talk, jiro”

A beat of silence.

Then his voice, calm. Too calm.

“Yeah,” he says. “We do.”

--

It’s raining. Of course it is.

You knew this moment would come.

The moment his eyes go sharp, his voice drops low. The moment he looks at you and doesn’t see the girl he kissed in the rain—only the shadow of the woman who ruined him.

"Go on," he says, quiet, patient, waiting for the final betrayal to fall from your lips.

"Tell me."

And that’s when it hits you—

He isn’t angry.

Not yet.

No, the way he’s looking at you now—it’s worse than anger.

It’s acceptance.

Like he knew this was how it would end. Like he saw this coming long before you did. Like he was just waiting for you to catch up. Manjiro Sano never knew what it was like to trust someone- you knew this. You were the fool.

"It was you," he breathes.

The Echelon inside you screams: Hold his gaze. Don’t flinch. Don’t break.

Don’t let him see the part of you that wishes it wasn’t true.

"You used me," he says. The words land like gunfire.

The truth is this: You didn’t have to.

He handed himself over willingly. Laid his empire at your feet, kissed you like a man praying for mercy.

And you took it. You took it all.

But he doesn’t understand that you never meant for him to drown. He doesn’t see the way your fingers tremble at your sides. He doesn’t hear the way your breath shudders under the weight of his silence. He steps forward.

You could lie. You could tell him it wasn’t your fault, that you were caught in the tide, that you had no choice. But you don’t. Because despite everything he deserves the truth.

You step closer. Lift a hand to his cheek. Let your fingers trail down to where his pulse beats—fast, too fast.

"You knew?" you ask, and your voice doesn’t sound like yours.

He exhales, a slow drag of smoke, before flicking the cigarette to the ground. He crushes it beneath his heel.

"I knew."

A simple answer. A final answer.

You want to ask how long. You want to ask what gave you away.

You want to ask if he ever really wanted you, or if he was always just waiting for the knife.

But none of that matters anymore.

What matters is that this should be easy.

You’ve done this before. You’ve walked into rooms and left men bleeding in their own shadows. You’ve whispered secrets and stolen breaths, then pulled the trigger without a second thought. Bullet after bullet after bullet. The lifeless trail of blood leaking down the heel of your stiletto never meant anything to you.

So why won’t you move?

Why do your fingers tremble when you reach for the weapon?

Why does your heart feel too loud, too alive, too much?

Why does it feel like killing Manjiro would be the same as killing yourself?

"‘Cause you and I, we were born to die."

A moment stretches between you.

His gun is heavy at his hip. Yours is closer, safety off, heartbeat ticking in your palm.

Somewhere, far below, a city hums. Neon flickers. Cars pass. People go on living.

But not you.

You are trapped in this moment. A breath away from an ending neither of you want, but both of you deserve.

Maybe he walks away. Maybe you do.

Maybe one of you pulls the trigger, and the other never breathes again.

You were always meant to destroy each other. Because love was never enough.

"Say it," he murmurs, stepping closer.

Not a demand. A plea.

"Say it, baby, and I’ll believe you."

And you know what he’s asking. Lie to me, just one more time.

Tell me you never wanted this. Tell me I was nothing. Tell me it was all a game.

If you do, maybe he’ll let you go. Maybe he’ll walk away.

Maybe he’ll make this easier.

But you can’t.

Because for the first time in your life, the lie won’t come.

And Mikey sees it.

His breath shudders. His lips part, like he wants to say something else. Something cruel, something final, something that will sever the last thread holding you together.

But in the end—

He just shakes his head.

And he steps back.

The silence between you is thick, suffocating. The rain doesn’t stop. It hammers down in sheets, running in rivers down your skin, slicking your hair to your face. It tastes like iron.

You don’t remember reaching for the gun.

Maybe you always knew it would come to this. Maybe that was the truth neither of you ever dared to say out loud, that you were always meant to be each other’s end.

And then—

A flash of silver in the dark.

Both of you move at the same time.

Two guns raised. Two fingers on two triggers.

Two hearts that beat only for the other.

You don’t know if it’s the water or the agony, but there are tears in his eyes. Or maybe they’re in yours. Neither of you blinks or breathes.

He’s looking at you, not like an enemy, not like a mistake but like something he was never supposed to love—but loved anyway.

Like something he was willing to die for.

And you know he sees it in you, too.

Because in this moment, Sano Manjiro is not just a man, and you are not just a weapon.

You are two people who walked too far into the dark and found each other there. Two people who never learnt how to feel, feeling something to depths they did not know how to crawl out of, now standing here with no way out.

Don't make me sad, don't make me cry

Sometimes love is not enough, and the road gets tough

I don't know why

Keep making me laugh, let's go get high

The road is long, we carry on, try to have fun in the mean time

Come and take a walk on the wild side, let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain- you like your girls insane.

Choose your last words, this is the last time

Cuz you and I,

We were born to die. - 'Born to Die,' Lana Del Ray.

[astrolovecosmos]

Chart Ruler in the Houses:

Your chart ruler is the planet associated with your rising sign. e.g. Libra rising means your chart ruler is Venus, Sagittarius Rising means your chart ruler is Jupiter. The chart ruler can be similar to the rising in that it represents an aspect of your self-expression. It can also act like a guide or marker to areas of life that greatly impact you and motivate you. See below the chart ruler in each house:

~1st House~

Individuality is not only important to you and your life, but questions surrounding individuality, developing it - these are a big part of your life lessons, struggles, wins, and fulfillments. How you develop as a person, your self-expression, independence, and how you stand out acts as motivation. Early life may have been unique, intense, or hazy depending on the planet, but frequently revisiting it or taking inspiration from it is common for this placement. Having your chart ruler in the 1st House may indicate someone who has high expectations for themselves and their life or even "destiny". It is common for these individuals to be on either side of the scale with pessimism vs. optimism in their approach and view of their own life. A fear of being rejected, ignored, and possibly used or controlled may exist here. When the chart ruler is in the 1st House these people will always ask themselves who they are and/or may have a huge drive to always prove themselves or define themselves. They may face many challenges involving depth, intensity, intimacy vs. shallowness and detachment. Self-love and acceptance are their strength, their crown.

~2nd House~

The 2nd House is a house of the physical world but also our relationship to the physical world which many times can be highly intangible. The most straightforward way to understand this is through ideas around value and resource. The 2nd House is what we value from our favorite piece of clothing to our loved ones to our own self-worth. This is also the house of security, quality, spending, resources, energy that is taken or received, it is physical manifestations or materialism which can extend to ideas of the spirit having a body (6th House may be body and health, but the 2nd also has connections to the body and physiology, especially the throat, neck, voice). When the chart ruler is in this house challenges, lessons, and guidance may seem very practical with lessons about work, money, and possessions. Other times it can be hard to recognize or follow with lessons about restraint, boundaries, or defense. The chart ruler pulls on individuals to practice self-care and stability. People here may feel like their stability, safety, and maybe sanity are frequently questioned or being threatened. They learn early on how important options, skills, tools, money, space, being resourceful is. These people for many reasons may also constantly seek comfort and contentment. They want the peace that comes with more passive attitudes towards living like attraction, patience, routine, and indulgence or relaxation. The 2nd House is also about potential and when the chart ruler sits here motivation can come from self-belief. Endurance and determination are their crown.

~3rd House~

Self-expression, learning, communicating, connecting - all of these things are brought front and center with the chart ruler in the 3rd house. Motivation can be from a curious mind or possibly a bored mind, being highly involved or removed from a community, or social status or pressures. Learning from others is very important for this placement, even those who are shyer may crave this. Many of their internal conflicts or conflicts throughout life may involve some sort of lone wolf. vs social butterfly themes. Their main motivation may come from, their self-expression and personality shaped by, or possibly one of their guiding lights in life may be their siblings, extended family, students, or possibly a teacher in some form. These individuals are likely observant, mentally quick, possibly talkative or social, and likely adaptable. Even if someone with this placement has a lot of fixed sign influences, life will pull them through many situations that will demand flexibility or an open mind. There is a focus on how these people are in their attitude towards others in their most immediate environment and inner circle outside of highly intimate or hierarchical roles like a spouse or parent. Think friends, coworkers, siblings, their network, their community. The planet will have a lot to say about this, Venus for example indicates a very easygoing, nice, possibly loving attitude. Mars may mean competitive, aggressive, or passionate interactions and relationships. The Sun or Pluto can indicate power struggles. Saturn indicates a lot of responsibility, reputation, maybe burdens form being part of a community. This attitude or approach to their community will be extremely important to them. Knowledge and adaptability or an openness to learn are their crown.

~4th House~

This individual's motivation and personality may be heavily based around family somehow. They are prone to holding onto old feelings and grudges and this may be a major drive for them. The 4th House can represent our homelife, our private life, private selves, ancestry, cycles or patterns, intuition, and nurturing. Having a happy, safe, or stable home is a need for everyone but here their home life may impact their most basic self-expression constantly. A hurt or disturbed home life may be worn on their sleeve somehow. The 4th House can represent our parents both in a literal or metaphorical sense. I wouldn't be surprised if those with their chart ruler in this house find that they seek a parent type of relationship with others frequently OR has to parent themselves or others somehow. There may be a great drive to carry on a family's legacy or to start a new found family with this placement. Questions and insecurities may frequently revolve around one's place in their family, starting a family, or leaving one. This person may be good at hiding intentions, may be highly private or guarded, receptive, perceptive, and sensitive. Where they feel most at home can be determined by planet and sign but the chart ruler in the 4th indicates that there is a huge need to always "return" home or feel at home in the self, with others, and in a place. Getting in touch with one's past or heritage may be important to them throughout life. An understanding of the pasts' impact on the present and future is a major theme and lesson. Understanding and caring are strengths of theirs to cultivate. But...Loyalty, love, and trust of family is their crown.

~5th House~

A general love for life may be a major motivation for this placement. The 5th House is the house of recreation, love affairs, romance, drama, creativity, creation, pleasure, celebration, hobbies, self-expression, vibrancy. Expressing the self through what one creates whether that is art, a reputation, food, crafts, ideas, debatably children are all important to this house. The chart ruler in the 5th House may have a huge desire to leave a legacy or impression through what they make and share. There might also be a drive to indulge, experience, and love. This house has a positive reputation but the chart ruler here depending on sign, planet, aspect may indicate a struggle to enjoy life or express one's creativity. There may be a need to shine, fight, rebel, create a new path. A desire for adventure, admiration, romance, and leisure can exist in a way that is desperate or hard to satisfy. The 5th House has been interpreted as a place of self-discovery, carefreeness, play, or self-creation and in this sense, there is a huge push to be confident in oneself and to let your energy or vitality burn. The 5th House has also been interpreted as a place to look at how you learn and celebrate others and through them also learn about and celebrate the self. This can take a lot of giving and risk. Because of these aspects bravery and generosity is this chart ruler's crown.

~6th House~

This is the house of the everyday - habits, work, physical health, cleanliness, collaboration or teamwork, routine, service, help, support, practicality, skills, work ethic, pets, efficiency, uses. On paper this house can sound dull but similarly to the 2nd House the relationship of the tangible to the intangible can make interpretations or manifestations of this house sometimes hard to recognize. Work and health are two very common motivators for this placement. Other common motivators may be a desire to be useful, to heal others, to fix something, or possibly to be part of a team or cause. Depending on the influences involved a chart ruler in this house may spell out a person who craves recognition or reward for their status, good deeds, or accomplishments. There is nothing inherently wrong with this but it may cause a lack of fulfillment for the individuals. The chart ruler in the 6th House may work themselves to death or be distracted from people or things that truly feed their soul and help their mental health because they can get distracted with "the right way" to do things, with daily tasks they need to check off, or a sense of heavy duty. In this way modesty may be needed not to humble but to cut through the b.s. of more shallow pursuits and relationships. Some with this placement may need to be brought down to earth sometimes, just not in the way they or most may expect. Some may fear leaving their routine and habits, easily getting stuck in ruts. This will take courage to break routines or unhealthy habits, but it will also take self-discipline and even gratitude. Being thankful for the past and the present may help them to overcome fears of regret, failure, losing, or even imperfection. Boundaries, self-worth, discipline, physical and mental health, and self-sacrifice are all subjects that can make or break this placement's expression. Those with this placement likely want to be part of something that is bigger than them. Something that gives the everyday purposes or light. They can find this in the simple things and in everyday happenings. Because of that humility and gratitude are this chart ruler's crown.

~7th House~

The house that is all about relationships, you can expect that having your chart ruler here means plenty of action, karma, lessons, struggles, highs and lows to one's friendships, romances, rivalries, and enemies. This may have been a person who learned early on how important it is to get along with others or possibly to stand out from others. The chart ruler in the 7th does not automatically make one easygoing and cooperative. Mars or Aries in this house may drive someone to be competitive, overly independent, or antagonistic with others, finding this to bring them the most excitement or even peace in their life. Questions about relationships and who they are to others may always be part of their life. The 7th House is about projection and how you present yourself to others and how others reinforce your self. Those with their chart ruler in the 7th may find that they have deep insecurities about being loved and accepted. The chart ruler here may indicate someone who struggles a lot with boundaries, people pleasing, and balancing the needs of themselves vs. the needs of others. Even with a hotter or more self-focused influence like the Sun or fire element can find themselves easily losing themselves in others or forgetting to take care of themselves. Equality, respect, and honesty are pillars they need to build in their relationships. Some with this placement may need to unwrap their ego from their relationships and loved ones, others may need to overcome a fear of loneliness. They feel fulfilled when in a happy relationship. Things like self-love and healthy boundaries will be important for this placement but I would say their biggest virtues, what they will find strength from is with both unity and independence. 👑

~8th House~

How does the house of secrets, the taboo, intimacy, sharing, death, rebirth, inheritance, loans, and the metaphysical and occult motivate one and their life? This darker house can have abstract or intangible influences on one's self-expression. First those with their chart ruler in the 8th likely have a strong connection to their intuition, emotional side, depths, religious or spiritual beliefs, or psyche. They may have learned at a young age the importance of listening and of staying away from or investigating the dark, scary places of themselves and others. They learned about monsters under the bed or in the closet early on. One of the physical ways this house manifests is through physical intimacy. The 8th House rules over all forms of intimacy, physical or not. Those with their ruler in this house will likely have a life greatly impacted by this somehow. Maybe they are in tune with their body and libido, others may struggle to tame it or get in touch with it. Maybe they easily become attached and close with others, or maybe they are extremely guarded and detached. Chart ruler in the 8th commonly indicates someone who is more secretive or private. What they share or don't share with others may be a huge focus. Rewards and punishment for being overly open or overly closed may be a common challenge. A fear of looking weak, wrong, or bad can exist. Speaking of fear, this house rules over it. I could see someone with their chart ruler here struggle with nightmares in their life. This may be someone who struggles with timidness, or even acting cowardly. Others may be addicted to adrenaline, finding it an escape or confidence boost. Some assign psychology to this house and with this can be a huge desire to know and master the self. With the ruler here their self-awareness game may be strong. This is also the house of transformation and joint, inner, or (will)power. These people may very likely have vibrant, passionate, intense inner selves or personal lives that are very much hidden or a mystery to others. Abuse, trauma, and life-changing events are not exclusive to the 8th House but this placement may find immense insight, wisdom, and empowerment from them. Just like the cliche of the phoenix, they get stronger after turmoil, rising from the ashes. Vulnerability and compassion are their crown.

~9th House~

This is the house of travel and higher education but also philosophy, beliefs, meaning. Having your chart ruler here indicates high energy, enthusiasm or a zealous nature, curiosity, and optimism. A passion for learning and exploration, an open mind and heart, or a desire to be part of something higher and greater than them are common motivators. They may frequently find themselves asking philosophical questions throughout life or big pictured questions. Some simply like to think and wonder while others get too stuck on "what ifs" in their life. This placement is likely passionate about their beliefs and opinions. Even if their beliefs aren't rooted in religion or the spiritual, they may be opinionated and forceful about them. Being highly open and changeable about your beliefs may be a theme too. This could be a person who is very open-minded to different religions and cultures and wants to try them all in some capacity. Either way belief is central to their life and character. The 9th House can be associated with worldly matters, foreign affairs, how culture and ethics differ, form, and are practiced. Being a globetrotter may be a common manifestation or being highly active in politics or foreign relations. This house is also about rituals, publishing, hopes, the future, storytelling. Those with their ruler in this house may find they have a complex relationship with truth vs. lies or illusions. The duality between hope and despair may exist in their conflicts and challenges. There can be a thirst for knowledge, especially specialized, privileged, forbidden, or secret knowledge. These people may live in their own cages or horizons based on their beliefs. Their worldview may mean everything to them. Belief either in themselves or something else and curiosity are their crown.

~10th House~

Status, reputation, or reward, especially the material kind are the most likely motivators for someone with their chart ruler in the 10th. The 10th house is about career, reputation, ambition, public life, authority, parental influence, discipline, recognition, purpose. There may be a huge need for a great sense of purpose. Responsibility and reputation are hot topics for those with their chart ruler here. These may be two things that haunt or bring joy to them throughout life. A fear of failure, embarrassment, or a lack of control can be a huge challenge for this placement. Seeking approval from or rebelling from an authority figure may be a huge drive for some. Their self-expression is focused and monitored, criticized and restrained so it fits within their society or family. Matters of support and providing are important for those with this placement. Both receiving it and giving it may be challenging or rewarding. Those with this placement may be passionate about campaigning for or providing for those who lack help much like they may have lacked when younger. These people typically strive to be helpful, depended on, the leader or decision maker, the problem solver. Even those that are more independent, unconventional, and rebellious may find themselves leading a rag-tag team of outcasts. Control issues and obsession with career or work can be challenges. Many with this placement find purpose and identity through their career. Some are driven by places of fear and insecurity around control. But it is commitment and honor that makes up this placement's crown. Through these virtues/traits they can find strength and energy.

~11th House~

The 11th House is the house of social awareness, collective action and consciousness. How one fits in with society or a group is very important here. Individuality has a place in this house but the story is more about how one fits in or stands out with their individuality than just defining that individuality. The 11th House is also about friendship, acceptance, alienation, awareness, trends, the higher mind, intellect and intuition, wishes/aspirations. This tends to be a hopeful and extroverted house in terms of its general influence. Having your chart ruler here means you may find meaning and direction by being part of organizations or groups. There may also be a struggle to find people you belong with. Motivation tends to come from social expectations/pressures, societal norms, rebellion, isolation, idealism, or fear of missing out. Friends and peers may be very important to those who's ruler sits in this house. From an early age this individual learned the importance and need for acceptance by one's peers or may have found refuge, learning, and understanding in them. Expanding their mind and knowledge through others may be a drive for them. Having a charismatic and confident self-expression may be important for some, or finding those who celebrate or are attracted to their unique sense of self-expression. Those with this placement may sympathize with or find purpose through humanitarian pursuits. There can be a part of them that wants to do good on a large scale - to help humanity, the world, society. Motivation and a guide for the self may come from seeing the big picture and caring for groups or humanity. But depending on the sign, planet, and aspects having your ruler in this house may also cause one to be highly selfish and focused on how a group can benefit them. There may be a desire to control or dominate a group of people or organization. Conformity and nonconformity can also be pulled to one of the extremes with this individual. Getting carried away with group fear, hope, promises, deception, and division can also happen with these people. They can understand the pros and cons, the depths of tribalism. It is important for them to learn quickly a healthy separation between the self and the group. But ultimately tolerance of others and cooperation are this chart ruler's crown.

~12th House~

The House of the subconscious and hidden or secrets can be tricky to explain. When the chart ruler is in the 12th House one's motivation can be elusive or at times, they may feel that they lack motivation or that they struggle to express and define the self. Being introverted or shy is common with this placement. Getting to know oneself is a lifelong path for many with this placement. There can be a desire to be found, to discover from the self and from others something meaningful, a desire to be connected spiritually, for intense intimacy, or possibly a feeling of wholeness. They themselves may struggle to pinpoint their desires, needs, and motivations, but once discovered they can be highly empowered. This is also the house of isolation, loss of power, loss of ego or identity, and loss in general. This person may confront many uncomfortable questions, truths, or experiences surrounding loss. This house shares similar themes with the 4th and 8th Houses - family karma and secrets, depth, psychology or psyche, spirituality, magic, intuition. A yearning to understand the self can be present for those with this placement. There may also be a drive to understand themselves and others through spiritual lenses. A drive to heal and help may exist here as well. This house covers many intense and bleaker subjects, but it is associated with surrender, forgiveness, reconnection, rebirth, reparation, hidden strengths or potential, and the good and bad of spirituality, oneness, and karma. People with this placement may be natural healers, counselors, or teachers. Fearing or embracing loneliness and separation may be a common manifestation. Through the dynamic between creation and destruction that this house has, they can find great insight and power from their pain. Empathy and listening to one's soul or intuition are what makes up their crown.

[scoobydoodean]

how much do you think chuck was actually affecting the movement of the plot throughout the series?

personally, i think he was just observing them from season 6 to season 10, but then he actually had to get involved upon amara’s return. and i do like the theory that he was responsible for the “vision” that cas thought he saw from jack, and that he kinda let mary get killed after cas’s prayer in 14x17, before again becoming fully involved throughout season 15. but for the other seasons 1-5, most of 12-14, and really for the overall universe, idk how much can, or should, be ascribed to chuck’s machinations. like i can never decide which route would be most satisfying for me as a viewer, and so i’m just curious as to what your opinion might be :)

Jack visions theory

Probably helps just to say starting off for anyone who might be coming from a different perspective, that my own understanding of Chuck's machinations in Supernatural (at least when it comes to Sam, Dean, and Cas) do not involve directly violating their free will. Chuck's machinations involve shaping the experiences around our characters to convince them to make the choices Chuck wants them to make. For example, when Dean tosses the gun aside in 14.20 and refuses to kill Jack, Chuck shouts "Do it!" instead of putting some kind of mind whammy on Dean that makes him kill Jack because Chuck either can't do that or won't do it because it wouldn't get him off. Chuck needs Dean to do what Chuck wants him to do (kill Jack) because Dean was brought to a point psychologically where he chose it. The same thing is true of Sam in season 4. The demons or the angels or Chuck don't operate Sam like a robot—they slowly convince him to take one turn after another based on the psychological state he's in, the things happening around him, and the things being whispered in his ears until he's killing Lilith and Lucifer's cage is opening, and Ruby says,

No. It wasn't the blood. It was you... and your choices. I just gave you the options, and you chose the right path every time. You didn't need the feather to fly, you had it in you the whole time, Dumbo! I know it's hard to see it now... but this is a miracle. So long coming. Everything Azazel did, and Lilith did. Just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it.

I refer to Chuck's influence on the narrative as causality rather than fate. I have a tag for this called #spn and causality. 4.18 goes to great lengths to show how difficult it can be to subvert causality. For example, Dean tries to defy the writing by moving himself and Sam to a different hotel than Chuck wrote them to be in, but the motel's neon sign goes out, causing the name of their motel to "change" to "The Red Motel"—the motel Chuck wrote. ("No matter what details you alter, we will always end up here" etc etc). However, this episode goes on to show that it is possible to leap out of causality's flow. Chuck's control of the narrative ultimately works via anticipation. If he can anticipate his creations choices, his writing realigns everything with the narrative. If they do something he is unable to anticipate? They can leap out of his narrative just long enough to make a difference.

How do they leap out of causality's flow? Two things together: Dean and Cas. Quoting myself here in this post:

Leaping out of causality is something Dean and Cas do together in 4.18, 4.22, and 5.22. In 4.18, Dean pleads with Cas to help him save Sam, even though Cas thinks what’s going to happen is fate and can’t be subverted. Cas doesn’t personally act, but he gives Dean the idea that Dean then executes, leading Chuck to say “What are you doing here? I didn’t write this.” In 4.22, Dean pleads with Cas again. They again fight about the inescapability of destiny. This time, it’s Dean’s pleading but Cas’s actions—flying Dean out of the green room (somewhere Dean is incapable of escaping from on his own). Chuck says when they pop into his house, “Wait. T-t-this isn’t supposed to happen” and then “Yeah, but you guys aren’t supposed to be there. You’re not in this story”. In 5.22, after Lucifer takes Sam over (something that was foretold to happen in Detroit), Cas and Bobby despair, but Dean refuses to give up and calls Chuck, who says, “Oh, uh, Dean. Uh, wow. I, uh, I didn’t know that you’d call.” Then Dean goes to Stull Cemetery alone. However, the moment that Michael begins to walk up on Dean and says, “You little maggot. You are no longer a part of this story!” Guess who suddenly appears with a holy oil Molotov cocktail?

Dean and Cas are something Chuck seems to have a lot of trouble anticipating. I think this is true both individually and as a unit. Individually, Dean is the narrative heart, to an extent that his capacity for love is always exceeding the bounds that Chuck anticipates, leading to confounding leaps like showing up at Stull in "Swan Song" and dropping the gun in "Moriah" and saving the world with the power of love in 11.23. Dean in turn pleads with Cas with that heart, and Cas is angel with a crack in his chassis straight of the line. Naomi/Chuck cannot get Cas to do what he's "supposed" to do no matter how many times he's reprogrammed. He has Loving Dean Winchester/Humanity (same thing) Disease and it's incurable no matter how many lobotomies are attempted.

In the season 1-5 setting, Chuck is actually fairly hands off despite all of this being his prophecy foretold. He told the archangels that everything would end with Sam and Dean as the vessels for Lucifer and Michael (5.08) and Lucifer passed these stories on to his princes, and the angels and demons brought that prophecy to fruition—including with deliberate meddling in the Winchester/Campbell bloodline (5.13, 5.14). Heaven and hell act as Chuck's hands and feet, carrying out his plan out of desire and (in some cases) religious fanaticism. Because Chuck's so painstakingly worked on this narrative and everything is set up in advance, he can just watch it play out. When he interferes directly, it's actually to give Team Free Will a better shot at subverting him. Chuck only directly interferes in

4.22/5.01 to transport Sam and Dean to the plane, un-demon blood Sam, and resurrect Cas

5.22 to resurrect Cas again

All that said, I think season 1-5 is the original Chuck canon, which is subverted by Team Free Will working together, and most specifically, by Dean and Cas interfering in ways Chuck did not anticipate. And Chuck was fine with this. His narration at the end of "Swan Song" reveals that he's pleased, even if the story turned in a direction he didn't anticipate (maybe the Michael and Lucifer story started to bore him—they bore me, and him wanting Sam and Dean to mirror them so rigidly was rather uninspired).

I get the sense that Cas is probably a good litmus test for whether Chuck's entertained or not by the story subverting his expectations, because Cas is not "supposed" to be a part of the original story, but Chuck keeps bringing him back anyway. And yet, somewhere down the road, Cas falls wildly out of favor with Chuck, and Chuck is hurling rage at him for never doing as told—the very thing he seemed to like about Cas at first.

Maybe I'll see things that will make me change my mind as I work through seasons 7-10, but so far, I agree with you that season 6-10 seems to be a mostly "hands off" period, with Chuck only arguably interfering once, to bring Cas back a third time in season 7, depending on how seriously/literally you take Daphne's recollection of events in 7.17:

EMMANUEL/CASTIEL A few months ago, she was hiking by the river, and I wandered into her path, drenched and confused, and... unclothed. I had no memory. She said... God wanted her to find me.

It's not necessarily clear exactly where Chuck loses interest (or if for example, Cas might fall out of favor with Chuck before Sam and Dean do). Chuck shows up in season 10's "Fan Fiction" to see a play of his work, so he was clearly feeling fond enough to celebrate his handiwork in an very non-prestigious but intimate setting. But when Chuck shows up in season 11's "Don't Call Me Shurley", he talks to Metatron about traveling (to his other universes, perhaps?). Chuck's writing his memoir, and Metatron claims it's full of self-doubt and nebbishness. Chuck's apathy jumps out to Metraton quick too. Metatron criticizes Chuck for writing only two paragraphs on the archangels in his memoir, lending to the notion that Chuck had come to a point where they bored him. Metraton tries to remind him that Lucifer was his favorite because he rebelled, but Chuck then denies that Lucifer was ever even his favorite! He doesn't like this rebellion thing so much anymore... which might also tip his hand as far as how he's beginning to feel about Team Free Will. I think it's likely that Amara is the catalyst for his change of heart, but I'll have to wait until I circle back to season 11 to have a fully formed conclusion on this.

Then we get seasons 12-15 where—at least arguably—Chuck begins planting the seeds for a new final ending, trying to force Dean into the role of Michael—the son so loyal to him that he killed his own brother. The problem is that Dean's never really been like Michael, and that's the whole reason season 5 never worked. It's also the reason "Moriah" doesn't work. Lilith claims in season 15 that Chuck has a creepy obsession with Dean—Dean specifically. Dean whose loyal love fills Lucifer with such seething jealousy in "Swan Song" that he loses control of Sam's body just as Dean's pleading brings Sam's consciousness to the surface to fight. That same loving heart thaws Amara toward Chuck in 11.23, and I think Chuck... decides that he does not like this. It is something beyond his capacity to express or to anticipate and write around. It is transformative, causality-defying love, that ruined his original ending (and he's BORED and TIRED). And has given Cas Winchester Derangement Syndrome so he can't be controlled. He decides that he hates Dean Winchester's heart, and he tries to obliterate it out of existence and force Dean into the Michael role once and for all.

[subtextdecoder]

TBHX: Focusing on the actual cinematographic metaphors

In my last posts I've been theorizing a lot about the multiple reality possibility and all. But it's hard when all different theories seem to make sense somehow. That's why I decided to focus more on the cinematographic metaphors without thinking too much about what it means in the story. I'll let you decided what it means. My intention is that, next time you see any of these in the show, this helps you understand the context and make your own theories on top of that. I'll leave many images out due to the max possible being 30, but there are a lot more.

1. Mirrors and mirror cracks

Here are a few aspects that mirrors can represent, extended to reflections too, even if not from a mirror:

-> Truth/perception

Mirrors reflect what is seen, but they can also distort. They’re often used to explore the idea that what we perceive may not be the full truth, or may be influenced by personal biases.

-> Self-reflection/identity

Mirrors are often used to symbolize introspection, the search for one’s true self, or confrontation with one’s inner reality.

-> Duality/multiplicity

They can show two sides of a person—public vs. private, good vs. evil, conscious vs. subconscious—highlighting internal conflict or hidden truths.

-> Illusion/deception

Mirrors can act as portals, tricks, or traps—blurring the line between reality and illusion.

Based on that, mirror cracks can be used to show:

-> Fractured identity or psyche

A cracked or broken mirror typically symbolizes a character's inner turmoil, psychological break, or fragmented sense of self.

-> Loss of illusion or truth revealed

Mirrors often reflect truth or perception. When a mirror breaks, it can signal the shattering of illusions, self-deception, or a moment of revelation.

-> Distorted reality

Cracks in a mirror can represent how a character’s perception of reality is skewed, or how the world they’re in is unstable or unreliable.

-> Bad luck or fate disruption

Drawing from superstition, breaking a mirror can foreshadow misfortune or the disruption of destiny.

-> Irreversible change

A broken mirror can't return to its original form, making it a powerful metaphor for events or choices that mark a point of no return.

2. Eyes

-> Perception & Truth

Eyes often symbolize how we see the world—our point of view, our biases, or our understanding of reality.

"The eyes don’t lie" suggests they are a window to hidden truths or emotional authenticity.

-> The Soul

“The eyes are the window to the soul” is one of the most enduring metaphors—used to convey deep emotion, inner life, or a character’s true nature.

-> Surveillance or Control

In dystopian or thriller contexts, eyes represent being watched—power, authority, or oppression (e.g., Big Brother).

A disembodied eye watching from a screen or symbol can imply omnipresence or godlike control.

-> Knowledge or Insight

Enlightenment, awareness, or intelligence is often represented by sight or the eye (e.g., the "third eye" as spiritual wisdom).

A character “opening their eyes” may symbolize awakening or realizing the truth.

-> Judgment

Eyes can suggest moral scrutiny—whether from society, a higher power, or even oneself.

"The eyes of the world" implies collective judgment or pressure.

-> Illusion or Deception

Sometimes eyes represent false perception—when what is seen is not what is real.

Can be tied to themes of illusion, manipulation, or unreliable narrators.

The first image is from episode 1 right before "Nice" and Moon go to the reality show. It mixes a clock, an eye and a fish. The clock means a passage of time, because we see them looking at each other while the background changes, giving the idea they didn't see time pass in that moment. Then we have them sitting on the couch when they find out the host is not who it was supposed to be, it's the Enlighter, who wishes to reveal the truth about Nice being a fake. Fisheye is a type of camera lens, usually used in surveillance cameras, so the idea is that they're not only being observed, but exposed.

The second image it is right after we enter X's eye, and it mixes eye, cassino roulette and a stage. This metaphor suggests that fate isn’t as random as it seems. Beneath the surface, all the chance and chaos are actually intertwined with control, and what we think is a spontaneous event might be part of a much bigger, carefully crafted plan. It’s the illusion of randomness—when in reality, everything is being steered by someone behind the scenes.

The gambling aspects in the show: The use of cards, dice, roulette, coins. -> Risk and Uncertainty - Life as a gamble — making choices without knowing the outcome. - Can reflect how fragile or chaotic control over life really is. -> Fate vs. Free Will - Gambling suggests a tension between control and chance: -> Power and Manipulation - If a character controls the game, it implies manipulation. -> Identity and Bluffing - Card games especially can reflect masks and performance. In Visual Storytelling: Dice rolls, coin flips, or roulette wheels symbolize turning points, fate being left to chance, or unseen forces deciding outcomes. When paired with a character like X, gambling becomes a metaphor for probability manipulation or illusion of chance—where it only looks like luck, but it’s actually control.

This last eye image shown is a slight transition in the first episode while Lin Ling is looking at his reflection on the car window. Since it mixes eyes with spirals, let's talk about spirals to understand what it could mean.

3. Spirals

-> Journey or Transformation

Inward spirals can represent introspection, a descent into the self, madness, or a journey into one's subconscious.

Outward spirals can symbolize growth, enlightenment, or the expansion of consciousness.

-> Cycles and Repetition

Spirals can illustrate how life, history, or trauma repeats itself—not in a circle, but evolving slightly with each loop.

They represent time as non-linear: events may recur, but with variation, like spiraling through phases rather than returning to the exact same point.

-> Chaos and Loss of Control

A downward spiral is a common metaphor for a situation or person deteriorating mentally, emotionally, or socially.

In visual storytelling, spirals can convey disorientation or descent into chaos (e.g., seen in thrillers and psychological dramas).

-> Spiritual or Cosmic Order

Spirals appear in nature (galaxies, shells, hurricanes), so they can symbolize natural law, universal patterns, or divine order.

In mysticism, spirals can reflect the soul’s path, karmic cycles, or the structure of the universe.

-> Obsession or Fixation

Characters caught in spirals might be trapped in obsessive thinking, unable to break free from a pattern or idea.

-> Portal or Transition

Spirals can suggest moving from one state of being to another—crossing into dream, memory, or alternate reality.

4. Eclipse

This one is what I consider the biggest key to understand the show, but as I said, I won't dive into theories in this post. But it sure leaves us wondering many things, since it appears to be tied to a very important occurrence.

-> Sudden Obscuration of Truth or Identity

The sun (light, clarity, truth, or identity) being blocked by the moon (shadow, mystery, subconscious) can symbolize:

A moment of confusion, denial, or loss of self

A character's true self being hidden, masked, or temporarily overwhelmed

Truth being concealed—whether by fate, others, or the character’s own mind

-> Transition or Turning Point

An eclipse often marks a shift—something is changing, whether emotionally or cosmically:

The beginning of a descent into darkness (or a slow return to light)

A before-and-after moment; the world won't be the same after this

Often used to foreshadow transformation, death, rebirth, or revelation

-> Cosmic Alignment or Fate

Since eclipses are rare and celestial, they can carry fated or divine connotations:

A sign that something greater is at work

That events are aligning in an inevitable or destined way

Often used to emphasize a mythic or epic scale

-> Repressed Forces Rising

The moon can represent the unconscious or emotional mind, and during an eclipse it overpowers the sun (rationality, order):

Symbolizes the irrational taking over

The moment when what's hidden inside (fears, desires, rage, truth) surfaces

-> Loss of Light / Hope

In darker metaphors, eclipses can mark the moment hope disappears:

A descent into darkness, either literal or emotional

Moments of trauma, isolation, or existential dread

Cinematic Use Example:

A character silhouetted during an eclipse can imply their becoming a vessel of fate, change, or darkness.

In short, an eclipse is a cinematic metaphor for transition, concealment, cosmic power, or internal upheaval—a brief but intense moment where the natural order is disrupted, and something hidden comes into view. It can mark deep emotional and moral turning points. It's interesting since we can see him changing in the first shots. Then he seems to destroy everything, and while E-Soul is seeing the horrors that happened, the next frame shows the guys like an enlightened being in the eyes of people., which could mean that's how he was seen by the people before killing them all. In other words, that second frame comes before the first one, reinforcing the change in that characters identity.

The only theory I'll mention is that, maybe, this is our main enemy in the show. The one X is playing chess against. The one who, somehow, has a leverage over the heroes. Maybe he is the reason why X came to be? I don't know. He was probably defeated, or is he just waiting for a good opportunity to return? If you notice on the 4th to last image, the silhouette looks like that of E-Soul. And the last two images happen in sequence right before E-Soul strikes him, so it's like we get to see who he used to be and who he is now, through E-Soul's eyes. Why did he change this much? Could he be this character?

And the last observation I wanna share is that in the OP, close to the end we see these fast shots:

Well, I hope this post helps you give your own meaning to things!

[angelaness]

The Dance of Fate and Free Will

Do we really have free will, or is everything already mapped out for us?

It's the kind of question that's kept philosophers, poets, and theologians up at night for ages. Just asking it feels like standing on a beach, staring out at this massive ocean where what's logical and what's just plain mysterious kind of blend together. If it's all predetermined, then are our choices just an act? Are we just going through the motions in a play we didn't even write? But if we do have free will, then what's setting the limits on what we want, what we can do, and those invisible walls that pop up in our lives?

This push and pull – this back-and-forth between fate and our own choices – it's really what being human is all about, isn't it?

The Illusion of Choice

We like to think we're in the driver's seat, right? Every day, we get up and decide what to wear, what to eat, who to love, who to say goodbye to, and the kind of person we want to become. The world tells us if we just try hard enough, if we're disciplined and really want it, we can create any future we can imagine. "You can be anything," they say. But, can we, really?

Think about how life actually plays out. The family we're born into, the country we call home, the body we're in, those moments of pure luck or just plain bad luck that shape us – we didn't pick any of that. Someone born into a wealthy family in a rich country will never know what it's like for a kid born into war somewhere else. Someone who bumps into their soulmate on a train – are they really more deserving of love than someone who just happened to be on a different train that day? So much of who we become, it's just not in our hands, no matter how much we wish it was.

Even neuroscientists are saying our brains make decisions before we even realize it. If a machine can guess which button you're gonna press before you even "choose" it, what does that tell us about free will? Are we just following a script, but we're tricked into thinking we're the ones writing it?

The Beauty of Predestination

And yet, there's something strangely comforting about the idea that it's all already decided. If fate is a real thing, then nothing is truly wasted. The heartbreaks, the screw-ups, the chances we missed – they all had to happen exactly like they did. You were never meant to end up with that person, never meant to get that job, never meant to be anywhere else but right here, right now. In a way, it takes this huge, exhausting weight of regret right off our shoulders.

Some of the most peaceful people I've ever met are the ones who truly believe in destiny. They just trust that what's meant for them will find them, and what's not will just fade away. They move through life with this quiet confidence, like they're not even bothered by problems. There's a kind of beauty in just letting go and going with the flow, seeing life as something that just unfolds, instead of something we have to fight and control all the time.

But Then Again, What If?

But even if it's all predetermined, does that mean we should just give up and do nothing? If a river already knows it's going to end up in the ocean, does it just stop flowing?

Maybe free will isn't about controlling everything, the whole grand plan, but about how we feel it. Maybe the whole point is just the joy of making choices, of having dreams, of just acting on whatever we feel like doing in the moment. Even if your future is set in stone, isn't there something exciting about not knowing what's around the corner? If fate is real, then so is the amazing thing of being clueless about it. You still get to feel things, to move, to chase after whatever calls to you. And isn't that a kind of freedom in itself?

Think about this: Say your fate is to become a painter. But the second you pick up a brush for the first time, it just clicks. It feels like your choice, like you discovered something amazing. That feeling of joy, it was always going to happen, but that doesn't make it any less real, does it? Maybe you were always meant to read this, to think about this, to feel that little spark of "aha!" Maybe even the feeling of free will is part of the plan, and isn't that actually kind of a relief?

So, whether you're team fate or team free will, live like your choices actually matter. Love like it wasn't already written in the stars. Create like it wasn't a done deal. Because, when you think about it, if destiny does exist, it's probably already figured in your rebellious side anyway.

With thoughts of G♡

[jo3ydr3w]

Okay, stobotnik week day 1. Yes, I did all three prompts.

Prompt 1: Book (Alice is one of our favorites.)

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of a reading lamp, its warm light casting long shadows across the room. The faint rustling of pages filled the air, accompanied by the steady rhythm of a gentle sigh. Agent Stone lay back against the plush pillows, his eyes half-lidded in the comfortable haze of the evening.

Across from him, Dr. Robotnik sat in an armchair, his usual sharp features softened in the intimate glow. He held an old, leather-bound book in his hands, the pages turning as he read aloud in a low, soothing voice. Stone’s head rested against the pillow as he listened, feeling the quiet companionship between them settle like a soft blanket.

"…and so, the young hero was left alone on the mountaintop, his gaze fixed on the horizon, the weight of his destiny heavier than the mountains themselves…" Robotnik's voice trailed off as he glanced up, catching Stone's gaze.

Stone smiled softly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "What about Alice in Wonderland?" he asked, his tone curious but playful. "It’s a fun read."

Robotnik raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smug grin. "Alice? Bah!" He scoffed, lowering the book slightly as if the very idea were beneath him. "Foolish children who follow silly rabbits into nonsensical holes, only to be met by more absurdity. What’s the point of following a rabbit who can’t even stick to a schedule?" He huffed, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand.

Stone chuckled, rolling onto his side to face Robotnik, propping himself up on one elbow. "Maybe she’s just looking for adventure. You know, to escape from all the rules that seem to trap us. Not everyone’s like you, you know. Some people like a little whimsy now and then."

Robotnik’s lips twitched into a faint smirk, though he didn’t seem entirely convinced. "Whimsy, you say? Fanciful nonsense," he muttered, though the hint of affection in his tone betrayed his true feelings. "If you want adventure, you don’t chase after absurd rabbits. You take control of your own destiny." He said this as though it were obvious.

Stone’s smile softened, and he shifted to sit up fully, the blanket draping around him. "I think there’s room for both, don’t you?" he asked quietly, his eyes warm as he met Robotnik’s gaze. "Maybe it’s not about following the rabbit… Maybe it’s about finding your own way through Wonderland."

Robotnik paused for a moment, his sharp features softening, contemplating the words. His lips parted as if to retort but then simply closed again, and instead, he let out a deep breath. "Perhaps," he murmured, looking back down at the book. "But only if it leads somewhere useful. No time for nonsense."

Stone chuckled again, his fingers gently brushing against the edge of the book in Robotnik’s hands. "You’re incorrigible," he teased, but the fondness in his voice was unmistakable.

With a dramatic sigh, Robotnik closed the book and set it aside, shifting his gaze back to Stone. "Fine, then. If you must have your nonsense, you may have it. But I’m choosing the next book." His voice was playful now, a rare softness peeking through.

Stone grinned, settling back into the pillows. "Deal."

As the room settled into silence once more, the only sound was the soft rustling of the pages as Robotnik picked out a new book, and Stone’s contented sigh as he relaxed, feeling utterly at peace in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

Prompt 2: Movie (Based on the fact that we had SO MANY as a kid.)

The evening was slow and peaceful, with the only sounds in the room being the occasional creak of the leather couch and the soft hum of Robotnik’s machines whirring faintly in the background. Stone sat on the floor, surrounded by a scattered collection of DVDs, his fingers absentmindedly flipping through the stack as he hummed to himself.

Robotnik sat nearby, deeply focused on some project—likely a new machine or a brilliant scheme, as usual—but he couldn’t help but glance over at the odd collection Stone was inspecting. He watched as Stone pulled out one DVD after another, reading the poorly printed labels with an air of nostalgia.

“What are those?” Robotnik asked, his voice laced with confusion. "Some sort of… library?"

Stone looked up, the corners of his mouth lifting into a knowing smile. “These?” He held up a DVD case with a completely mangled cover art that looked like it had been printed by a nine-year-old on a home computer. “My childhood treasures. Bootlegs.”

Robotnik blinked. "Bootlegs? You’re telling me these are counterfeit DVDs?" He sounded almost offended, as if the very concept of such a thing was an affront to his brilliant mind. "But why? Why not just buy the real thing?" He gestured to the pristine selection of official media in his own collection.

Stone laughed, though there was a fondness to it as he set down the bootleg DVDs and moved closer to Robotnik, pulling out a few more cases from the pile. “When you grow up with no money to spend on proper DVDs, you make do with what you can get.” He pulled out one with a faded cover that read, "The Incredible Adventures of Super-Kangaroo vs. The Evil Space Pirates." “These were the only way I could watch movies back then. You’d be surprised how creative people got with these things.”

Robotnik’s eyes widened in disbelief, looking at the DVD case in his hand like it was some sort of relic from another world. “That… is a movie?” His voice was laced with genuine disbelief, though there was a trace of amusement beneath his confusion. "I… I don’t understand. How did you even find these? How did you watch them?"

Stone’s grin widened, and he leaned back against the couch, holding up a DVD with the word “Batman” hastily scrawled on it in Sharpie. "We had people who made them. Friends of friends, or people at the market. You know—underground." He gave a mock whisper, clearly relishing in the memories. "The movies were always the weirdest part. I remember this one where the opening credits were upside down for no reason at all."

Robotnik's jaw dropped slightly as he processed this. “But… but how did you even know what was going on? Couldn’t you see the flaws in those films?” His eyes widened even more. "No proper graphics, no clear plot! How did you make sense of it?"

Stone shrugged casually, clearly unbothered by the quality of the films. “Honestly? You learn to fill in the blanks. Like, the sound was awful, the picture was glitchy, and sometimes entire scenes were out of order. But the stories were always there. And if you watched enough, you could tell what they were trying to do.”

He pulled out another one, this time labeled "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles: Fight for the Future". “This one was so bad, but I loved it anyway. The turtles were just… I dunno, fighting a giant evil pizza monster or something. Couldn’t even tell if they were supposed to be in New York or on Mars.”

Robotnik stared at the DVD case, his face wrinkled in bewilderment. "A pizza monster? What in the world…?"

Stone chuckled and leaned back, holding the DVDs up like trophies. “Yeah, the stories didn’t always make sense, but you had to appreciate the effort. And I think, in a weird way, it made me appreciate the real movies a lot more later on."

Robotnik still seemed disoriented by the whole concept, his brows furrowing as he picked up another bootleg and scrutinized it. "But… why? Why go through the trouble of bootlegging these? Surely you could have just watched a normal movie on television like a regular person."

Stone gave him a fond, almost amused look, clearly enjoying the contrast between Robotnik’s obsession with perfection and his own quirky nostalgia. “Because, doc, sometimes the charm of the movie is in how imperfect it is. It’s like a weird little treasure hunt to figure out what’s going on, and then you just make your own fun with it. Plus, some of the worst ones turned out to be the most fun to watch."

Robotnik was silent for a moment, his mind processing this strange form of entertainment. He glanced back at the DVDs one last time, a small, bemused smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose I can’t completely dismiss the… charm of such an approach.”

Stone raised an eyebrow, holding up a particularly poorly made DVD with the title "Giant Robots: The Final Battle." “So, you want to watch one of these with me?”

Robotnik, though still slightly bewildered, couldn't help but let out a small laugh. “Why not? It might be… amusing to see what you consider entertaining."

Stone grinned widely, already popping the DVD into the player. “Trust me, you’re in for a wild ride.”

Prompt 3: Telenovela

The dim glow of the television screen illuminated the small, cluttered living room of their hideout. The scent of something burning—likely one of Robotnik's experiments—hung faintly in the air, but the two men were distracted by the melodrama playing out on the screen.

“¡No! Juan!” the actress wailed, her hands thrown dramatically into the air as she gazed at her love interest with a mix of rage and heartbreak.

Stone sat on the couch, half-sitting, half-lying, and completely captivated by the absurdity of the scene. He didn’t know what exactly had drawn him to the show, but La Última Pasión had a strange way of being utterly ridiculous while also deeply compelling. It had become their nightly ritual to watch it together, with Robotnik—surprisingly—being the one to provide commentary.

Robotnik, seated in his usual spot in the armchair, was staring intently at the screen, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest. He had clearly seen this episode before, and his eyes glinted with an odd mix of disdain and amusement as he glanced over at Stone.

“So, Gabriella and Juan are fighting again,” Robotnik explained, almost as if reading from an invisible script. “Gabriella, as usual, is furious because Juan forgot their anniversary… again.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Honestly, this man has the memory of a goldfish.”

Stone, reclining with his head resting on his arm, chuckled lightly. “Ah, poor Juan. He just can’t win, can he?”

“Win? He doesn’t deserve to!” Robotnik scoffed, clearly invested in his critique of the characters. “Juan is a fool. The man doesn’t understand that Gabriella needs constant affirmation—affection, attention, and emotional support.” He shook his head, his usual smug expression in place. “If I were in his shoes, I would have done things differently.”

Stone raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And how would you have handled this situation, Doctor Robotnik?” he asked with a sly grin. “Tell me, what’s your plan for winning over Gabriella?”

Robotnik straightened up, his posture becoming rigid with the seriousness of his hypothetical scenario. “First, I would never forget something as important as an anniversary. In fact, I would have planned a surprise—an elaborate one. A display of intellect and creativity so grand that no woman could ever possibly forget it!” His voice had an almost theatrical quality, as if he were directing his own personal telenovela.

Stone snickered, shaking his head. “That sounds… a little extra, don’t you think?”

“Extra?” Robotnik scoffed, adjusting his glasses with a flourish. “The only thing extra about it would be how much better it would be than anything Juan could come up with. Look, if Gabriella were mine, she would never feel neglected. I'd make her see that I was the only one who truly understood her… the only one who could provide the emotional stability she clearly craves.”

Just as Robotnik finished his dramatic speech, the screen flashed to another scene where Gabriella, tearfully clutching a rose, stood in front of Juan—who, of course, looked utterly clueless as usual.

“I’m sorry, Gabriella. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Juan said in a tone that was anything but sincere. His face was a perfect mixture of guilt and irritation.

“Oh, please,” Robotnik muttered, clearly exasperated. “This man couldn’t apologize his way out of a paper bag. I would at least know how to look like I cared.”

Stone chuckled, finding Robotnik's passionate commentary more entertaining than the actual show itself. "You really have it all figured out, don’t you? A grand gesture, emotional stability, constant attention… it’s like you’re a telenovela hero."

“Of course I am,” Robotnik replied, eyes never leaving the screen as Gabriella dramatically flung her arms in the air, demanding that Juan leave her life forever. "I have a superior intellect, after all. It’s only natural that I would make a far more captivating figure than these mediocre characters."

Stone snorted, amused. “So, in this scenario, you’d be the one who swoops in, offers Gabriella a better life, and then—what? She falls into your arms?”

“Precisely,” Robotnik said, looking at Stone as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “She would realize her mistake in choosing someone so emotionally incompetent as Juan and immediately seek out someone who actually understands her needs. Then we would build an empire together. One of love and brilliance.”

Stone burst out laughing. "Wow. That’s a lot for one relationship. I think you might be overcomplicating things, though. Maybe she just wants Juan to remember one anniversary, and that’s it."

Robotnik gave him a deadpan stare. “I refuse to believe that the key to emotional fulfillment is remembering dates. There’s far more to a relationship than that.” He glanced back at the screen, where Gabriella was now accusing Juan of murdering her heart, which Robotnik found a tad excessive.

"I don't know," Stone mused, leaning back against the couch. "Maybe it's not about the big gestures. Maybe it's just the little things. The quiet moments. The stability."

Robotnik’s lip curled as he glanced sideways at Stone. “Stability? How boring.” He looked back at the screen just as Gabriella stormed off in dramatic fashion, tears streaming down her face. “Honestly, if she truly wanted stability, she’d choose me in a heartbeat.”

Stone smirked. "If you say so, doc."

As the next dramatic scene unfolded—Juan chasing after Gabriella in the rain—Robotnik sighed in frustration. "These people are hopeless," he muttered. "But I suppose they provide some entertainment, even if it's all utterly flawed."

Stone just grinned, sinking further into the couch as he prepared for the next round of chaos on screen. "It’s like watching a disaster you can’t look away from."

Robotnik gave him a sideways glance. "That’s what makes it so engaging."

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

Chains of Destiny - Eva (Ch.1)

Summary: X-men including Logan, are being sent to retrieve a young mutant woman from a experiment facility. However, not everything goes as planned.

Content Warning: mean Logan, like he's actually a jerk here. Hurt, pain, angst (hell a lot of it), mentions of torture, experiments, violence, mentiones of suicide/wanting to die,

Author's note: So I actually planned on this series for a while. Not gonna lie Deadpool and Wolverine gave me a bit of a push to finally publish this series. Keep in mind that this does not take place during Deadpool 3 timeline. This series will have lots of angst so brace yourselves and I really hope you will all love it the same way I love writing it ❤️

Word count: 8 326

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of technology from the giant monitor hanging on the wall. Around the long, metallic table sat the core members of the X-Men—Scott Summers, Ororo Munroe, Jean Grey, Hank McCoy, and Logan, who sat at the far end, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed as he stared at the screen.

Charles Xavier sat at the head of the table, his hands folded in front of him. The image on the screen showed a grainy surveillance feed from the inside of the lab they were about to raid. It was dark, but even through the low-quality footage, they could see her—Eva. Curled up in a glass cell, arms wrapped around her knees, staring blankly ahead. Her small frame seemed fragile, but the readings from Cerebro painted a different picture entirely.

“She’s been in there for years,” Charles began, his voice calm and measured. “A captive, used as an experiment by a faction of scientists attempting to create new, enhanced mutants.”

Jean’s brow furrowed, her eyes full of concern. “They’ve been adding mutations to her, manipulating her DNA. That’s… unethical doesn’t even begin to describe it. How has she survived this long?”

“Barely,” Charles answered softly. “She’s had to endure unimaginable pain. Not just from the mutations, but from the emotional and psychological torment. One of her powers allows her to absorb the pain and injuries of others, healing them at her own expense. But it’s more than that. It’s not just physical. She absorbs their emotional damage too. She’s a living conduit for others’ suffering.”

Ororo closed her eyes for a moment, her voice thick with empathy. “No one should have to endure that. We have to help her.”

Scott nodded. “She’s a mutant, and she’s in danger. That makes it our responsibility to get her out of there.” 

Logan leaned forward in his chair, his face twisting into a scowl. “Hold on a second.” His voice was rough, laced with irritation. “You’ve read her file, Chuck. You know what she’s capable of. That kind of power? You really think it’s a good idea to bring her here? She’s a damn walking nuke. You touch her, and she’s in your head, messing with your emotions, maybe worse. That’s if she doesn’t blast you halfway across the room with her force repulsion or whatever the hell it is.”

Jean glanced at Logan, her brow creasing with concern. “She’s been through hell, Logan. She didn’t ask for any of this.”

“I get that,” Logan shot back, his voice sharp, “but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s dangerous. You saw what happened in the last raid when we tried to bring in that mutant with the volatile powers. He almost brought the whole damn building down.”

“Eva isn’t a threat by choice,” Charles interjected, his tone steady, though there was a quiet firmness to it. “She’s been conditioned, pushed to her limits. The trauma she’s endured has caused her to lose control. But she is not beyond saving.”

Logan leaned back in his chair, a growl rumbling low in his throat. “That’s the thing, though, ain’t it? Control. She’s got none. We storm that lab, and she could go off on us just like that,” he snapped his fingers, “and you know it. You’re askin’ us to walk into a situation where we don’t know if we’ll be able to handle her if she flips out.”

“Her powers make her volatile, yes,” Hank spoke up, his deep, thoughtful voice cutting through the tension. “But we’ve faced dangerous powers before. If we don’t act, she will continue to suffer. And from the looks of this lab, it’s only a matter of time before they push her to the breaking point. We have to try.”

“Try?” Logan scoffed. “What if trying gets us killed? Or worse—what if she turns into something none of us can handle?” 

Scott, who had been quiet until now, leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Logan. “We know the risks. But that doesn’t change our mission. We don’t abandon our own, especially not someone who’s been tortured like this.”

“Yeah, well, maybe this time we should think about it,” Logan muttered, his eyes narrowing. “She’s not one of us. Not yet. We don’t even know who she is.” 

“Logan.” Jean’s voice was soft but firm, a note of understanding in it. “You know better than anyone what it’s like to be taken and turned into something against your will.” 

Her words hung in the air like a weight, and for a moment, Logan’s scowl deepened. His hands clenched into fists, his claws threatening to extend. He hated being reminded of what had been done to him—of the experiments, the torture, the mind games that had turned him into a weapon. He’d spent years fighting to control the rage, to stop himself from becoming the monster they tried to make him. 

But this girl… she was different. She wasn’t like him. She wasn’t hardened by battle, wasn’t tempered by a lifetime of violence. She was a raw nerve, and in Logan’s mind, that made her more dangerous than any enemy they’d faced.

“She’s not ready for this world,” Logan said, his voice lower now, but no less intense. “She’s not ready for what happens if she loses it. And we sure as hell ain’t ready for her.” 

Charles met Logan’s gaze evenly, unflinching. “I understand your hesitation, Logan. Truly. But this girl needs us. She’s been used and discarded, treated as nothing more than an experiment. If we don’t intervene, she’ll die in that lab. And if we leave her there, she may very well become the very thing you fear—a weapon. But if we bring her here, if we can reach her, she has a chance at something more. A chance to be more than what they’ve tried to make her.”

Logan grunted, looking away. He could feel the weight of the room’s eyes on him, but it didn’t change the knot of unease twisting in his gut. He didn’t trust this situation. Something about it felt wrong, and his instincts were screaming at him to walk away.

But the problem was, he couldn’t. No matter how much he wanted to turn his back, he couldn’t ignore the part of him that remembered what it was like to be the one trapped, the one without control.

Finally, after a long pause, Logan let out a rough sigh. “Fine. We go in, we get her out. But don’t expect me to play nice if she goes feral.”

Charles nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Logan. We’ll do everything we can to make sure it doesn’t come to that.”

Logan stood up from his chair, cracking his neck as he moved toward the door. “Yeah, well, let’s just hope I don’t end up regrettin’ this.”

As Logan stalked out of the room, Ororo exchanged a glance with Scott, who sighed softly. “He’ll come around,” Scott said, though there was an edge of uncertainty in his voice.

“He always does,” Jean murmured, watching the door where Logan had disappeared. “Eventually.”

Charles sat back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the image of Eva on the screen once again. Her small, frail figure was a stark contrast to the power that resided within her.

“She will need time,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else. “But I believe in her potential. She is more than what they’ve tried to make her.”

And with that, the plan was set. They were going to get Eva out of that lab. Whether or not she could ever be truly free from what had been done to her, though, was another question entirely.

*** 

They needed to act quickly. No one was here for now, but they didn’t when they would be back.

The sharp scent of antiseptic and cold metal filled the underground lab, the walls lined with sterile, reflective surfaces that amplified the clinical horror of the place. Logan led the way. His claws twitched within his knuckles, ready to spring at any moment. Behind him, Storm, Jean and Cyclops moved in silence, their eyes scanning the corridor for any threats. They had heard rumors of this lab—where scientists experimented on mutants—but nothing had prepared them for the twisted reality.

Then Logan's senses sharpened.

"She's close," he growled, his voice barely a whisper, yet thick with urgency.

The lab was dimly lit, sterile, and cold. The sharp scent of chemicals hung in the air, mixed with something darker—something that stank of pain and fear. The X-Men moved quietly, their boots silent against the sleek metal floors. 

“Chuck better be damn sure about this one,” he muttered under his breath, his fists clenched tight. “I ain’t buyin’ this ‘save the girl’ crap.”

Jean turned her head slightly, giving Logan a sharp look. “You know she didn’t choose this, Logan. She’s a victim.”

“Yeah? You tellin’ me she’s not dangerous?” Logan’s voice was a low growl, tinged with irritation. “Because I’ve seen plenty of ‘victims’ go off and take half a town with ‘em.”

“She’s a kid,” Storm cut in, her voice firm but calm. “She’s been tortured. She needs help.”

Logan rolled his eyes, his claws itching to come out. This whole mission felt wrong to him. Saving people? Fine. But saving a mutant who could, at any second, go berserk and tear them all apart? Not so fine.

“You’re all thinkin’ with your hearts,” he muttered, his tone harsh. “And that’s a good way to get us all killed. Just sayin’.”

Cyclops shot him a look, his jaw tightening. “We’re here to help her, Logan. If you can’t handle that, maybe you should’ve stayed at the mansion.”

Logan sneered, his lip curling. “Maybe I shoulda.”

But he didn’t. Despite every instinct telling him to turn around and walk away, he came along. Part of him didn’t know why. Maybe it was the way Charles had looked at him, that quiet conviction in his voice when he said, “She needs us, Logan.”

Logan had heard those words before. He’d been the one who needed saving once. And yeah, he’d been dangerous too. But it didn’t mean he had to like this mission—or trust this girl.

They rounded a corner and found a room that reeked of fear. Through a cracked glass wall, Logan saw her—huddled in the corner, shackled to a metal chair. Her appearance was fragile, like a broken bird too wounded to fly. Tangled hair fell over her face, and her body seemed emaciated, but the air around her pulsed with something dangerous. 

Logan’s stomach tightened as he looked at her. She was small, fragile-looking, her eyes hollow, like she hadn’t seen anything good in a long time. But that wasn’t what set him on edge. No, it was the raw power he could feel rolling off her in waves, even though the thick glass. She was a bomb. One wrong move, and she’d go off.

“Let’s get her out of there,” Cyclops said, moving toward the controls.

Logan bristled, stepping forward. “Wait. What’s the plan here, huh? We just let her loose, hope she’s all sunshine and rainbows?”

 “Logan,” Jean said, her voice steady, “we can calm her down. She’s scared. She’s not going to hurt us.”

“Yeah? Tell that to the last guy who thought he had a handle on a mutant with no control.” Logan’s voice was hard, his eyes narrowed. “That guy ended up in pieces.”

Cyclops sighed, clearly losing patience. “Logan, we didn’t come here to debate this. We came here to get her out. Stand aside.”

Logan didn’t move, his eyes locked on the girl. Something in his gut twisted, but he shoved it aside. “Fine,” he muttered. “But when this goes sideways, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

The glass door slid open with a low hiss, and for a moment, nothing happened. Eva didn’t move, didn’t even look up. She was still, like an animal caught in a trap, waiting for something worse to happen.

Jean stepped forward, her voice gentle. “Eva? We’re here to help you. It’s okay. You’re safe now.”

Logan snorted under his breath. Safe. Yeah, right.

Storm moved forward. "We’re here to help," she said gently, trying to project calm through her voice. Her hand moved to the console, disengaging the restraints that held the girl. The moment the locks clicked open, the girl lifted her head.

At first, Eva didn’t respond. But then her eyes flicked up, and Logan saw it—the fear, the confusion. And beneath it, a barely contained surge of raw, unchecked power..

Before anyone could say a word, Eva’s body tensed, and Logan’s instincts screamed at him. Something snapped inside her, a ripple of energy that exploded outward.

“Shit!” Logan barely had time to react before the force hit him, slamming into his chest like a freight train and sending him flying back into the wall with a grunt. The others were thrown back as well, but Jean managed to hold up a telekinetic shield just in time to soften the blow.

Logan hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. His head spun as he pushed himself up, his vision blurry for a moment. “Goddamn it,” he snarled.

Cyclops struggled to his feet, his visor sparking. “Jean, calm her down, now!”

“I’m trying!” Jean said, her voice strained as she reached out mentally, but Eva’s panic was overwhelming. The raw emotions she absorbed from the team—fear, frustration, Logan’s anger—were feeding her powers, making them spiral out of control.

Logan gritted his teeth, claws snapping out instinctively. His healing factor allowed him to push through the pain, but it didn’t stop the girl’s attack. The forcefield around her shimmered, pulsating with her terror. She backed into a corner, eyes wide with an animalistic rage, and her breathing was ragged, panicked.

Logan got back on his feet, his body aching from the impact, but he was pissed now. “This is what I’m talkin’ about!” he growled, stalking forward, his claws gleaming. “You can’t control her!” 

Eva’s eyes darted wildly, her chest heaving as waves of energy pulsed off her, distorting the air around her. Her hands trembled, her face twisted in terror. She was completely out of control, her powers lashing out blindly.

"Stay back!" she screamed. "I don’t—don’t come near me!"

Logan pushed himself up, panting. "We’re not here to hurt ya, kid," he said, voice gruff but calmer than before, trying to anchor her in the chaos of her mind. But her eyes had already glazed over—she was lost to the overwhelming storm inside her.

“Eva!” Jean called, her voice soothing but desperate. “Please, you need to stop!” 

But it was no use. Eva couldn’t hear her over the roar of her own panic. 

Logan moved in, fast and low, dodging another pulse of energy that nearly sent him sprawling. His patience was shot, his temper flaring hot. He’d warned them. He’d told them this was a bad idea. And now this girl was about to bring the whole lab down on top of them. 

“Enough of this!” Logan snarled, charging at her with his claws raised. 

Eva’s eyes snapped to him, her panic morphing into raw fear, and without thinking, she thrust her hands out. A blast of energy hit Logan square in the chest, sending him flying back again, slamming into a steel pillar with a bone-rattling crash.

“Dammit!” Logan spat, coughing as he got back to his feet, his ribs screaming in protest. His vision blurred for a second, rage bubbling inside him. “I told you!” he shouted at Cyclops, who was trying to keep his balance. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

Eva staggered back, her body trembling violently. She looked at Logan with wide, terrified eyes, realizing what she’d done. She hadn’t meant to. She didn’t want to hurt him. But the damage was done.

Logan’s gaze locked on hers, filled with fury and mistrust. “You’re gonna kill us all, kid,” he growled, his voice rough, dripping with venom.

“Logan, stop!” Jean shouted, stepping between them. “You’re making it worse!”

“Worse? You think it can get worse than this?” Logan barked, his eyes blazing with anger. “She’s a loose cannon, and you’re all actin’ like she’s some poor helpless kid. She’s not! She’s a damn weapon!” 

Eva’s breath hitched, her vision blurring as tears welled up in her eyes. She wasn’t a weapon. She wasn’t a monster. But that’s all they saw, wasn’t it? That’s all she’d ever be to anyone. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to—” 

“Yeah?” Logan’s voice was sharp, cutting into her like a knife. “Well, you did.” 

Before Eva could respond, Storm stepped forward, her voice calm but commanding. “Logan, enough.” 

Logan’s scowl deepened, but he backed off, his claws retracting with a sharp snikt. He shot an angry glare at Eva, his eyes filled with mistrust. “If you can’t control yourself, you don’t belong out here.” 

Eva’s heart clenched, her body trembling as she took a step back. The pain in Logan’s words cut deeper than any wound. She didn’t want to be this way. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. But all she ever seemed to do was cause more pain.

A tidal wave of agony and fear threatened to consume her. Haunting recollections of torment, of relentless experimentation, surged through the maze of her mind. The harsh utterances of the man had become a ceaseless refrain since her arrival here. She was reduced to nothing more than an implement of warfare, forged for the benefit of others. Her emotions, her own inner turmoil, were inconsequential. She was bereft of care or compassion. 

Tears welled up in her eyes, a dam of pent-up emotion threatening to break. The potency of his words was such that it cleaved her to the quick, opening fresh wounds and exposing deeply buried insecurities in her already scarred heart. He needed to grasp the truth, he needed to comprehend the reality of her existence: she was no monster.  

Her presence here was not a matter of choice, but rather of necessity.

Without warning, she lunged at him. Her hand made contact with his arm, and suddenly, a flood of raw emotions poured into him. Fear. Pain. Desperation. The weight of all the suffering she had endured hit Logan like a punch to the gut. His mind reeled as her powers synced with his, letting him feel what she felt.  

The room distorted around him—her memories blurring into his thoughts. Logan saw flashes: needles piercing her skin, the cold, merciless faces of scientists, the endless nights spent in isolation. Every ounce of agony and torture she’d endured slammed into him, nearly buckling his knees. 

"Get out of my head!" Logan snarled, shaking her off. But it was too late—her power had taken hold, binding their emotions together like a knot. 

"Logan!" Cyclops shouted, firing a quick burst from his optic blast. The force knocked her back, but only momentarily. The girl screamed again, and this time her forcefield flared with blinding intensity, hurling them all across the room. 

Storm shot into the air, lightning crackling around her as she tried to contain the energy swirling around the girl. "We have to neutralize her, Logan—she can’t control it!" 

"I know!" he barked, struggling to regain his balance as another pulse of energy sent a chair crashing into the wall. His claws slid back into place. He could see it in the girl’s eyes—she wasn’t attacking them out of malice. It was terror. Pure, unbridled terror. But it didn’t matter. Right now, she was a threat. 

Logan moved toward her again, determined this time. "Listen, kid," he growled, "I know what they did to you. But we’re not them. You’ve gotta stop—" 

She didn’t. Her hand shot up, and suddenly Logan was on the floor, his ribs burning as her force slammed him again. But this time, before she could do more damage, a blinding streak of light shot through the air. Cyclops’ blast hit her square in the chest, knocking her unconscious. Her body crumpled, and the forcefield flickered out. 

The room fell silent. 

Logan dragged himself to his feet, clutching his side. "Dammit," he muttered under his breath, shaking the lingering disorientation from his head. 

Storm knelt beside the unconscious girl, her expression a mix of sympathy and concern. "She's just a kid, Logan," she whispered.

"Doesn't change what she can do," he replied, his voice low and dangerous.

Cyclops approached cautiously, his visor still glowing faintly. "We need to get her back to the mansion. Charles might be able to help her... stabilize."

Logan glanced at the girl’s fragile form, her face calm in sleep but haunted by the shadows of what she had been through. Something in him twisted. She was broken, just like him—but there was something more dangerous about her. Something darker.  

"Maybe," Logan grunted. But his eyes lingered on her longer than he intended. He couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how much they tried to help her, she was a ticking time bomb. And no one—not Charles, not the X-Men, not even himself—would be able to stop her if she went off again. 

Cyclops looked at Logan, as though sensing his unease. "You think we’re making a mistake?"

Logan snorted. "I don’t trust her." His gaze remained hard, unyielding. "And I don’t think she trusts us either." 

They gathered the girl carefully, carrying her out of the lab. But as they left the cold steel behind, Logan couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion in his gut. Something about her still clawed at his instincts. 

And Logan always trusted his instincts.

***

The X-Men team arrived back at the school in the early hours of the morning. The sky was still dark, the stars barely visible against the approaching dawn. The mansion loomed ahead, its windows softly illuminated by the interior lights.

Eva, awake already and restrained by the power-dampening cuffs, was guided through the front entrance. Her eyes were downcast, her steps slow and hesitant. She hasn’t talked much on their way back and no one was really in a talkative mood either. The only interaction Eva had was with Logan’s constant stare. 

The team moved with purpose but with an underlying tension. Logan walked alongside her, his jaw set and his eyes wary. 

As they reached the foyer, Charles Xavier awaited them in his wheelchair, his expression a mix of concern and resolve. He had been up all night, preparing for this moment. He wheeled forward to meet them, his gaze settling on Eva with a gentle, reassuring look.

“Welcome back,” Charles said softly, his voice warm. “I’m glad to see you’re all safe.” 

Logan, his eyes still fixed on Eva, grunted. “We got her here, but I’m telling you, this one’s a liability. Her powers are way out of control.” 

Charles nodded, his eyes never leaving Eva. “I understand your concerns, Logan. Eva, we’ll be taking you to the hospital wing for now. It’s important that we manage your powers and ensure everyone’s safety while we figure things out.”

Eva met Charles’s gaze briefly, her fear evident, but his kind eyes offered a small measure of comfort. She followed him and the team down the hall, her movements slow and cautious. 

As they approached the hospital wing, Charles turned to Logan, his expression thoughtful. “Logan, I know you’re worried. Her abilities are indeed formidable, and it’s natural to be concerned.” 

Logan’s brows furrowed, his frustration palpable. “Formidable? The girl almost killed me. She’s a risk, Charles. We don’t know what she’s capable of if she loses control again.” 

Charles placed a calming hand on Logan’s arm. “I understand. But she’s also a person who’s been through unimaginable suffering. We need to balance our caution with compassion. She’s scared and alone, and that’s why we need to approach this with care.” 

Logan shrugged off Charles’s hand, his gaze still dark. “Careful or not, we’re walking a tightrope here. One slip and we could all be in trouble.” 

Charles’s tone was firm yet soothing. “Yes, we are walking a tightrope. But remember, we have the means to help her, and we must give her a chance to prove that she can find control. We’ve faced dangers before, and we’ve come through. We will handle this situation with the same resolve.” 

Logan sighed heavily, his eyes narrowing. “Just keep her in check. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.” 

“I will,” Charles said softly. “And we’ll do everything we can to ensure that doesn’t happen. But we also need to give Eva a chance to find her place here, just as we all had our own moments of struggle.” 

Logan’s gaze flickered to Eva, who was now being gently guided into the hospital wing by the staff. He didn’t say anything more, but the hardness in his eyes softened slightly.

Charles watched Eva as she was led to a bed, his concern evident. He turned back to Logan, a small, hopeful smile on his face. “Thank you for your vigilance, Logan. It’s what makes you a valuable member of this team. And it’s what will help us find the best path forward for Eva.” 

Logan nodded curtly, his expression still tense. “Yeah, well, let’s hope you’re right.” 

Charles watched him leave with a thoughtful look. He knew that Logan’s fears were not unfounded, but he also believed in the power of empathy and understanding. For now, his focus was on Eva, ensuring that she felt safe and supported as she began this new chapter in her life. 

As the door to the hospital wing closed behind him, Charles took a deep breath, preparing to meet the challenges ahead with the same determination and compassion he hoped to instill in everyone around him.

***

Logan stood at the threshold of the med bay, his silhouette casting a long shadow on the floor. The hum of machines monitoring Eva’s vitals filled the quiet, sterile air. She lay in one of the beds, hooked up to a dozen wires, her frail body looking even smaller against the white sheets. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, her face pale and sunken, with dark circles under her eyes. She looked fragile—broken, even—but Logan knew better than to trust appearances.

He clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles white, his nails biting into his palms. Anger simmered just beneath the surface, bubbling up through his veins like molten steel, but it wasn’t the familiar kind of anger. It wasn’t the kind that came from a fight or from someone he hated. It was… different, raw and twisted, like a splinter lodged deep in his gut that he couldn’t pull out. 

Logan took a step forward, his boots heavy against the cold floor. His eyes never left the girl, even though something inside him told him to turn away, to leave. But he couldn’t. He had to face it—face her. 

“Why the hell am I still here?” he muttered under his breath, though the words tasted bitter in his mouth. He didn’t know why, but something kept pulling him back. Maybe it was that look in her eyes when she’d blasted him across the lab, that raw fear and regret that hit him like a punch to the gut. She hadn’t meant to hurt him—not really. But that didn’t change what she could do. 

*She’s dangerous,* Logan thought, his teeth grinding together. *Too dangerous.* 

The med bay door slid open with a soft hiss behind him, and Jean stepped in quietly. She glanced at Logan, her expression unreadable, then back to Eva. 

“She’s stabilized.” Jean said softly, her voice careful, as if she knew how close Logan was to snapping. “Her body’s been through a lot, but she’ll recover. Physically, at least.”

“Physically, huh?” Logan’s voice was low, a harsh rasp that betrayed the turmoil inside him. “That’s what you’re worried about?”

Jean sighed, stepping closer to him, her gaze flicking between him and the girl. “I know you’re angry, Logan.”

“Angry?!” He barked out a bitter laugh. “Hell, Jean, I’m beyond that.” His eyes locked onto Eva, who lay still and silent, oblivious to the storm brewing inside him. “She almost tore me apart. If I didn’t have my healin’, I’d be lyin’ in pieces right now. And it ain’t just me. She’s got enough power in her to wipe out this whole school if she loses it again.” 

Jean’s voice softened, but there was a firmness underneath it. “She didn’t mean to hurt you, Logan. She was scared. She still is.”

“I don’t care what she meant to do,” Logan growled, taking a step closer to Eva’s bed, his fists clenched. “What matters is what she can do. She’s outta control, Jean. And you’re tellin’ me you’re okay with keepin’ her here? Around the kids? You really want to risk that?” 

Jean didn’t respond right away, her eyes lingering on Eva’s small, fragile form. “She’s still young, Logan. A young girl who’s been tortured, experimented on. She didn’t ask for any of this.” 

“And what happens when she can’t keep it together?” Logan shot back, his voice harsh, laced with anger. “What happens when she lashes out again? You think the kids are safe with her around?” 

Jean’s silence stretched between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Finally, she turned to face him fully, her voice gentle but firm. “Logan, I know you’re worried. We all are. But we can’t just give up on her.” 

Logan’s face twisted, his jaw tight, his eyes burning with an intensity that made even Jean flinch slightly. “Maybe we should,” he muttered, his voice low, dangerous. 

The words felt like poison on his tongue, but part of him believed them. He didn’t want to hate her—hell, he didn’t even know why he did—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that keeping her here was a mistake. A big one. It wasn’t just about what she’d done to him in that lab, or even what she was capable of. It was the feeling that clung to his skin like sweat whenever he looked at her—the feeling that she was a walking disaster waiting to happen. 

“Look, I get it, Jean,” he said, his voice a little quieter now, though still rough. “She’s a victim. But you can’t tell me that doesn’t make her more dangerous, not less. All that power, all that hurt… It’s a bad mix. She’s too damn powerful, and she’s got no control over it.” 

Jean opened her mouth to respond, but Logan cut her off. “You don’t get it,” he snapped, his eyes narrowing. “I can feel it. She’s unstable. You saw what she did without even tryin’. That’s the problem, Jean. She ain’t tryin’, and she still almost killed me. You really think it’ll be any different next time?” 

Jean’s eyes softened, but Logan could see the conflict in them. “She’s not beyond help. Charles thinks—” 

“Charles is a damn optimist,” Logan spat, shaking his head. “And maybe he’s wrong this time.” 

The room fell silent after that, the tension between them thick enough to cut with a knife. Jean didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either. She just stood there, her hands folded in front of her, looking at Logan like she was waiting for something—waiting for him to let go of the anger that twisted his face into something hard and unrecognizable. 

But he couldn’t. 

Logan’s eyes drifted back to Eva, lying there so still, so helpless. His gut twisted again, that strange mix of guilt and fury gnawing at him. He hated her. He hated the situation. And he hated himself for feeling this way. But every time he tried to shake it, tried to tell himself she was just another lost kid who needed help, all he could see was the blast of power that had sent him flying, the fear and confusion in her eyes as she lost control. 

*Too dangerous,* he thought again, clenching his fists. 

His mind raced. He couldn’t figure out why his anger was so fierce, why his hatred for this girl seemed so personal. Maybe it was because he’d been there—maybe not the same way, but close enough. Maybe it was because her powers were so raw, so unchecked, like his claws before he learned how to control them. Or maybe it was because he saw a reflection of himself in her—what he could have been, what he was still afraid he could become. 

Whatever the reason, it didn’t change how he felt. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust that she wouldn’t hurt someone again, someone who wasn’t as tough to bounce back as he was. 

“She’s too powerful,” he muttered, more to himself than to Jean. “She doesn’t belong here.” 

Jean took a step closer, her hand resting gently on his arm. “She’s scared, Logan. Just like you were once.” 

He jerked his arm away, glaring at her. “Don’t. Don’t make this about me. This is about her. She’s dangerous, and you know it.” 

Jean didn’t flinch, though her voice softened. “And so were you, Logan. But we didn’t give up on you. And I won’t give up on her.” 

Logan let out a rough sigh, turning away from her, his eyes fixed on the door now. He couldn’t stand being in that room any longer. Not with her lying there, not with all the anger boiling up inside him. His heart felt too heavy, weighed down by everything he didn’t want to feel. 

“I’m tellin’ you, Jean,” he muttered as he moved toward the door, his voice hard again, “you’re makin’ a mistake. And when it all goes wrong, don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

With that, he stormed out of the med bay, the door hissing shut behind him. But the knot of anger and guilt stayed with him, gnawing at his insides, refusing to let him go.

 ***

Eva's eyelids fluttered open to the soft hum of medical machinery and the muted light of early morning filtering through the blinds. The room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor and the occasional shuffle of footsteps outside. She blinked groggily, her mind struggling to piece together the events of the previous day.

The room was sterile and clinical, a stark contrast to the cold, harsh lab she’d known. Her wrists felt heavy, the power-dampening cuffs still securely fastened. As she shifted slightly, the soft rustle of the hospital bed linens reminded her of her vulnerable state. She winced, feeling the dull ache of yesterday’s emotional and physical turmoil.

She glanced around, trying to take in her surroundings. The walls were painted a soothing blue, and a small window offered a view of the gardens outside. It was a serene setting, but Eva felt anything but calm. The memories of her violent outburst and the fear in Logan's eyes replayed in her mind like a relentless loop.

Her breath quickened, and the panic spread. She tugged at the restraints, jerking her arms violently as she tried to free herself, but it was useless. The cuffs held firm, and with each tug, the fear inside her grew. Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered what had almost happened—what she’d nearly done. 

"I could’ve killed them. I almost killed them." 

Her stomach twisted, and bile rose in her throat. She didn’t want to hurt anyone. She never wanted to hurt anyone, but it didn’t matter anymore. She was too dangerous, too unstable, and the more they tried to help her, the more they were at risk. Everyone was in danger because of her. 

Her thoughts spiraled, faster and faster, and for a brief moment, she considered ripping her own wrists raw against the restraints, breaking free just to get as far away as possible. She couldn’t stay here. She didn’t belong here. She shouldn’t even be alive. 

Her body shook as the realization hit her. She didn’t want to live like this anymore. Every breath felt like a burden, every second a threat to those around her. 

"Why didn’t they just let me die?" 

Before she could spiral further, the door to the hospital wing hissed open, and heavy footsteps echoed through the sterile room. She stiffened, her eyes darting toward the figure who entered. 

It was him. Logan. 

He crossed the room with that familiar roughness, his boots heavy on the tile floor. His face was hard, expression unreadable, but the tension in his jaw and the simmering anger in his eyes told her all she needed to know. He didn’t want her here. He didn’t trust her. And she couldn’t blame him. 

Logan stopped at the foot of her bed, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared down at her. "You awake, then?" His voice was gruff, biting, as if the mere sight of her irritated him. 

Eva didn’t respond at first, her eyes still wide with fear. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs, the weight of the handcuffs pressing into her skin. Her throat tightened, but she managed to whisper, “Why… why am I still here?” 

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his lip curling slightly. "Good question. I’ve been askin’ myself the same thing." 

The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She bit her lip, tears threatening to spill over, but she swallowed them down. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” 

Logan’s eyes flashed, and he took a step closer. “That’s the problem, kid. You didn’t mean to, but you did. Almost tore me apart, nearly killed everyone in that damn lab. Hell, if you’d gone all the way, this whole place could’ve been rubble by now.” His voice was low, dangerous, each word dripping with the frustration he was barely holding back.  

Eva’s chest tightened, guilt flooding her system. “I don’t know how to control it,” she whispered, her voice cracking. "I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I don’t know how to stop it." 

Logan’s gaze didn’t soften. If anything, his eyes grew colder, harder. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You can’t control it. So why the hell should we trust you? Why should we risk the kids, the people in this school, just because you’re scared?” 

Tears finally spilled over, and Eva shook her head, feeling the weight of his words crush her. “I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be alive!” Her voice was desperate, her entire body trembling. “You’re right, okay? I’m a danger to everyone, and I know it. You should’ve let me die.” 

Logan’s face twitched, just for a second, and something flashed in his eyes—something almost like regret. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that same hard, cold mask. “Maybe,” he muttered. “Maybe we should’ve.” 

His words hit her like a slap, and Eva turned her head away, unable to look at him anymore. Her chest heaved with sobs, the weight of everything pressing down on her until she couldn’t breathe. 

Just then, the door to the med bay slid open again, and Charles Xavier entered, his wheelchair moving silently across the floor. The tension in the room shifted, and Logan stepped back slightly, though his posture remained rigid.

Charles’s voice was soft, calming, as he approached the bed. “Eva,” he said gently, his eyes kind as he looked at her. “You’re safe now.” 

“Safe?” Eva’s voice was bitter, a shaky laugh escaping her lips. “How can you say that? I almost killed him.” She nodded toward Logan. “I could’ve killed all of you. I’m not safe. Not for you, not for anyone.” 

Charles’s expression remained calm, but there was a deep sadness in his eyes. “We understand that you’ve been through unimaginable pain. But you’re not beyond help, Eva. We can work with you, teach you how to control your powers. You don’t have to go through this alone.” 

But Eva shook her head violently, panic rising in her throat. “You don’t understand. They’re going to come for me. The people who did this to me, they’ll come back. And if I’m here, they’ll destroy everything in their way. You’ll all be in danger because of me. I—” Her voice broke, and she lowered her head, trembling. “Please… please just kill me. End it. I don’t want to live like this. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore.” 

Logan’s jaw clenched at her words, his anger bubbling up again. He wanted to snap at her, to tell her how selfish it was to think death was the answer, how ridiculous she sounded. But instead, he stood there, watching her break down, and for the first time, he felt a flicker of something else. Pity, maybe. Regret. He hated it, but it was there. Deep down.

For a moment, he saw himself in her—the same lost, broken thing, unsure of his place in the world. And it twisted something inside him.

Charles leaned forward, his tone soft but firm. “We don’t give up on anyone, Eva. You have a home here, if you choose to stay. We will help you, as long as you let us.” 

Eva shook her head again, tears streaming down her face. “I’m too dangerous. You’re making a mistake.” 

Logan exhaled sharply, stepping forward. “Maybe we are,” he growled, his voice cutting through the air. “But that’s not your call to make. You wanna give up? Fine. But Charles is right—we don’t give up on people here. So you’re stuck with us, whether you like it or not.”

His words hung in the air, and Eva stared at him through tear-filled eyes. She didn’t know whether to be scared or relieved, but all she felt was the crushing weight of guilt and fear. She wanted to believe they could help her, but deep down, she wasn’t sure anyone could.

And that terrified her most of all. 

Eva’s tears soaked into the hospital pillow, and for a moment, the room was thick with silence. She couldn’t shake the terror clawing at her chest. Charles’s kind words barely registered through the haze of guilt and fear. Every instinct screamed to get away, to run before she hurt someone again. But the restraints around her wrists, humming with the suppression of her powers, kept her pinned to the bed, a prisoner to her own body.

Logan stood by the door, arms crossed, his expression dark. He had always been a difficult person to read, but right now, his anger was crystal clear. He didn’t want her here. He’d made that painfully obvious. Part of her agreed with him. She was too dangerous. Even if Charles promised help, what could they really do? 

She had almost killed them. All of them. Logan, especially, and he wasn’t going to forget that anytime soon.

Logan broke the silence first, his voice sharp and cutting. "You think just 'cause we say we’ll help, that’s some kinda ticket outta responsibility? That you can just sit back and let us fix you? You’ve gotta want it. And I don’t think you do, kid."

Eva flinched at his words, her face contorting in pain. His anger wasn’t just justified—it was expected—but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. She turned her head away, unable to look at him.

"I don’t want anything," she whispered. "I just want to disappear."

Logan’s eyes narrowed, his frustration clearly boiling over. He took a step closer to the bed, his voice rising. "You think you’re the only one who’s been through hell? You think you’re special ’cause they did some experiments on you? Join the damn club." He jabbed his thumb at his own chest, his scowl deepening. "I’ve been there. I’ve done all that, and guess what? I didn’t get a choice. So don’t you stand there askin’ us to give up on you just ‘cause you’re scared."

His words were like a punch to the gut, and Eva’s tears flowed harder. She squeezed her eyes shut. She had been through hell, yes, but she didn’t have his strength. She couldn’t fight it the way he had. Her powers were out of control, and she was too weak, too broken to even try.

“I can’t control it,” she choked, her voice breaking. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I don’t know how to stop it. You don’t understand. They built me to be a weapon. I’m a ticking time bomb, and sooner or later, I’ll explode again.”

Logan clenched his fists, his knuckles white as the words hit him. He hated how familiar it all sounded, hated how much of his own past he could hear in her voice. But he couldn’t let that soften him, not when the stakes were this high. Not when she could destroy everything they’d built here, everything they protected.

 “I get it, alright?” Logan growled. “You’re scared, and yeah, maybe you’ve been turned into a weapon, but that doesn’t mean you get to give up. You’re here now, and if you’re gonna stay, you better start fightin’ for somethin’ other than your damn self-pity.”

Eva trembled, her wrists pulling at the restraints as if she could somehow claw her way out of this nightmare. “I don’t want to be here! I don’t want to be anywhere. I should’ve died in that lab. It would’ve been better for everyone.”

Logan’s face tightened, a growl building in his throat. His anger, which had been simmering on the surface, was threatening to break loose. But before he could unleash another biting remark, Charles raised a hand, his voice calm but firm.

"Logan," Charles said gently, his gaze shifting from the girl to the man, “perhaps we should ease up.” 

Logan shot Charles a sharp look, but there was something in the Professor’s eyes that made him pause, though the tension in his body remained. He backed off a step, arms still crossed, but the scowl stayed firmly in place. His anger wasn’t gone—it was just barely contained. 

Charles turned his attention back to Eva, his voice soft and steady, the same calm she’d heard from him before. But this time, it pierced through her haze of fear just a little. 

"Eva," he began, "I understand why you’re afraid. I can’t pretend to know the extent of your pain, but I do know this: you are not alone. You are not the first person to feel like their powers are too much to bear, and you won’t be the last. This place, this school, is for people just like you." 

Eva shook her head, tears still streaming down her face. “You don’t get it. It’s not just me. The people who did this—they’ll come back for me. They’ll come for all of you. You’ll be in danger because of me.”

Charles’s expression didn’t waver. “We’ve faced threats before, Eva. But we believe in protecting those who cannot protect themselves. No one here will abandon you, no matter how great the risk.” 

“Maybe you should,” she muttered, her voice barely audible. “Maybe it’d be better if you did.” 

Logan scoffed from the corner, his patience thinning. "Maybe she’s got a point. You’re gambling a lot on someone who’s not even sure she wants to be saved, Charles. She could bring this whole place down." 

Eva flinched again at his words, her heart aching with the weight of them. He was right. What was the point of trying to help her if she didn’t even know if she could be helped?

But Charles, as always, remained resolute. 

“I know the risks,” Charles said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. “But I also know that we must give her a chance. Eva, if you stay here, we will do everything in our power to help you gain control. You can have a life, a real life, outside of the torment they put you through.” 

Eva swallowed hard, her chest tight. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to, but the fear was too overwhelming. What if she couldn’t control it? What if Logan was right, and she was just too dangerous to be here? 

She shook her head, the tears never stopping. “I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if it’s even possible.” 

Charles leaned closer, his eyes filled with the kind of kindness she hadn’t seen in a long time. “We will help you find out. But first, you must give yourself that chance.” 

Eva’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at the Professor, searching his face for any sign of doubt, but there was none. He was offering her a lifeline, but could she trust herself to take it? 

Her eyes drifted to Logan, still standing with his arms crossed, his face hard. He looked at her like she was a threat, like she didn’t belong here. And maybe she didn’t. Maybe he was right.

But part of her wanted to fight. Just a small part, buried beneath all the pain and fear, but it was there, flickering weakly.

“I don’t… I don’t know how,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I don’t even know where to start.” 

Charles smiled gently. “You start by staying. By trusting us.” 

Logan scoffed again but said nothing, though his eyes bore into her, still filled with distrust. But for a fleeting second, something flickered in his gaze. Maybe it was pity, or maybe just the faintest trace of understanding. Either way, it didn’t last long, quickly replaced by the cold mask of doubt. 

Eva closed her eyes, the weight of the decision pressing down on her. She didn’t know if she could trust them—or herself. But for the first time in a long time, she had a choice. She could choose to run. Or she could choose to stay and try. 

It was the scariest choice she’d ever faced.

[callimara]

Breath of the Wild!Jelsa AU (Analysis & Parallels)

Yes yes I know I’m at it again but dear reader, I ask that you once again HEAR ME OUT and LET ME COOK.

At some point in the middle of the day today as I am cleaning the house, the idea came to me like a vision and the more I thought about it, the more the lines started CONNECTING and MAKING SENSE.

In part I am writing this as I have a deep love for both The Legend of Zelda franchise (and Breath of the Wild IN PARTICULAR as my first Zelda game) AND Rise of the Guardians (I do not feel particularly strongly about Frozen aside from Elsa as a character, but I DO feel EXTREMELY strongly for Jelsa, which is NECESSARY for this AU and comparison to work!!!) and another part an attempt to get my very good, very intelligent, extremely GIFTED friend and favorite fic writer @therentyoupay into ANOTHER ship I am deeply passionate about: ZeLink.

So perhaps this analysis post can be best summed up as "Explaining ZeLink through the lens of Jelsa" or vise versa.

In fact, ZeLink is another ship I am already planning a video on, but for now, this particular AU calls to me and demands to be elaborated on and perhaps illustrated at some point 👀

Who is Who?

For this post, I will be focusing on the Three Bearers of the Triforce:

Ganon/Ganondorf (Triforce of Power),

Zelda (Triforce of Wisdom), and

Link (Triforce of Courage),

who are always being reborn and fated meet, and the central characters of every LOZ story (but we'll get to the Champions in the next post)

As the prevailing bearer of the Triforce of Power, Ganon or Ganondorf (his human form) is the archnemesis of Link and Zelda.

With titles such as The Prince of Darkness and The Demon King, it's only right that this role is given to Pitch Black.

Power

Unlike Link or Zelda whom, among their many incarnations, may not be in possession of their respective Triforces, Ganon is always the bearer of the Triforce of Power due to his sheer desire for ruling the world with an iron fist. This is the same desire expressed by Pitch Black in both the movies and books, as his ambition is to cover the world in darkness and fear: completely under his control. Their powers are similar in nature, it corrupts and leaves a stain (malice) on the wider environment. They share a love of conquest and destruction and delight in seeing those around them suffer.

Scheming

Though both Ganon and Pitch are undoubtedly capable of taking what they want with sheer brute force, both characters possess a penchant for scheming and tactical strategy. They conquer not only on the battlefield, but in the court of politics, where necessary. Though we don't see this demonstrated in BOTW, we do see his political savvy and the extend of his scheming in Tears of the Kingdom when he still possessed his human form. They are incredibly dangerous tacticians that is often one step ahead of the heroes, thus able to out-maneuver them and gain the upper hand.

Hubris

As is often their undoing, their confidence in being ahead causes them to lose their composure. Power corrupts, and this weakness of mind causes them to make fatal, self-destructive mistakes that create an opening for the Hero to seize.

A Hero Destined to Rise Against Him

In both of Ganon/Ganondorf and Pitch's cases, they are destined to be ultimately defeated by a Chosen Hero who wields a Weapon that can seal their Darkness.

Which segways us perfectly to our next character, our Chosen Hero!

Unsurprisingly, Jack Frost fits Link's role as the Hero of the Wild in the story perfectly.

Chosen for A Big Destiny

Although unlike Link, Jack was not personally aware of the "why" for his existence and recruitment into the Guardians until much much later, he was indeed, nevertheless chosen. The reasons for his choosing, in broad strokes, are similar to Link's circumstances. Both of them demonstrated high levels of relevant proficiency and prowess in their respective roles (Guardian/Royal Knight) which led to them being chosen for their respective titles. Link as the Princess' Appointed Knight and Legendary Hero Who Wields The Sword That Seals the Darkness, and Jack as the Immortal Spirit of Winter and later, Guardian of Fun Destined to Save the Guardians and Defeat Pitch Black.

Rebirth

A striking resemblance between Jack and BOTW Link is perhaps their theme of "the end becomes the beginning" in which both experience Death After a Great Sacrifice and are Reborn Anew. Both of these fairy boys died protecting someone they cared about, regardless of cost or consequence, and upon being brought to life from the brink of death, they are forever changed as people.

For Jack, this comes in the form of new powers, new domains, and the new experience in being a Spirit. For Link, it's a bit more literal, as he seemingly adopts a much more open, lively, carefree personality in the absence of his former duties, burdens, and responsibilities that (in canon) brings him to resemble Jack Frost better than his former persona as a royal knight.

Loss of Memory

Another striking resemblance between Jack and Link is the circumstances of their rebirth, which came at the cost of their memories and their former identities. Not knowing who they were or what their purpose was, they wandered the land aimlessly in search of meaning, until destiny eventually guides them to their Reason for Existing.

In fact, both of their rebirths also involve being lifted from pools of water

But even though both Jack and Link recover some semblance of their memories and identities Before, it is unclear just how much left remained lost.

Past Lives

Let’s be real here, Pre-Calamity Link is NOTHING like Pre-Spirit Jack. While Pre-Calamity Link is serious, focused, stoic and Silent, Jack has pretty much always been the same person before and after his Rebirth. But, Jack was also a simple peasant boy who Definitely Had No Ambition To Become A Knight. But in this AU, let’s say he did. Let’s say he was determined to follow in his father’s footsteps to become a royal knight. Let’s say he finds the Legendary Weapon That Seals The Darkness, and that seals his fate.

Certainly, he’ll never be as serious and stoic or Silent as Pre-Calamity Link was, no matter how much pressure he’s in. But perhaps, it makes him just a bit more Intense and Guarded.

Lone Wolf But Stronger in a Pack

Obviously we know that Jack Frost flew solo for pretty much his entire life as a spirit, and he gained quite a renown for himself in doing so, and it it s indisputable that while he was Strong On His Own, he was Much Stronger With The Guardians. Despite never working in a team before, teamwork came naturally to Jack, and it only served to amplify his strengths while covering his weaknesses.

Now, what about Link? For the majority of BOTW, Link travels alone, and while he is completely Lethal and Unstoppable as is, similarly to Jack, he only really grows stronger through reconnecting with the Ghosts of his deceased friends, who each lend him their Power and Support in a more literal sense. Once you resolve each quest in the Four Regions of Hyrule, your friends will make the final battle against Calamity Ganon much easier than if you were to head straight there by yourself.

And of course, Link would not have been able to defeat Calamity Ganon at all if it hadn’t been for Princess Zelda, and the reverse is also true. They must work together to Seal Calamity Ganon for the next 10,000 years.

Devoted

Both Link and Jack are deeply dedicated to those they have formed attachments to. If you played BOTW and/or TOTK, you know just how deeply devoted and dutiful Link was to Zelda, willing to let the entire Kingdom of Hyrule fall to keep her safe, choosing to stay with her and help her escape the kingdom (abandoning his Duty, abandoning his Destiny) and just as willing to lay his life down to spare hers.

Jack is similarly dedicated as we see from his interactions and protectiveness of Baby Tooth and Jamie Bennett, and how he charged straight into the eye of the storm of Pitch’s sand vortex to save Sandy. Those who give love to him, he gives love readily back.

Wild

This one is quite self-explanatory, but I will explain anyway!

As the titular Hero of the Wild, Link is every bit a woodsman and outdoor survivalist as his name implies. He is an unstoppable force of nature that can and will survive anything nature throw at him (be it lightning strikes, monsters, or Laser-Blasting-Malice-Possessed Guardians [no, not THOSE Guardians]). Link thrives in the wilderness, just him and the elements, and perhaps the occasional pot lid and soup ladle (if he’s really strapped for weapons, a mop will also do). Really, it speaks to his resourcefulness and resilience, his independence and self-sufficiency. Though perhaps, at the cost of certain things like manners, propriety, and respect for public and/or private property (of course he had to break all those clay pots, what if there was something inside? Of course he had to jump into the garden pond and grab fish with his bare hands, how else is he going to get protein for his seafood meunière? of course—). Much like Jack Frost.

If there was one word to describe the Winter Spirit, it was certainly, and similarly, ‘Wild.’ After all, he is undoubtedly the most unpredictable spirit to become a guardian, and even before then, he had made a name for himself for being quite formidable and intimidatingly ferocious when he wants to be. He does as he pleases with no fear or shame of what others may think. And similarly, this often lands both Blond Fairy Boys a fierce scolding from many people, not that it deters their behaviour in any way shape or form.

They will learn absolutely nothing from these scoldings and will 100% do it again. But stealthier, craftier, perhaps.

Unless, of course, the scolding comes from a Particular Wise and Beautiful Princess. Only then they will consider. And it is only this Wise and Beautiful Princess who is capable of tempering their wildness just enough to be a functioning member of the community.

Fearless

As the Triforce of Courage, it is perhaps a given that its bearer will readily face down any challenge or adversary without hesitation. No matter how big, no matter how impossible, no matter what. Jack and Link are always ready for a fight, for action; their heart pumps for the thrill of adventure and the unknown, new experiences, meeting new people. The two are travelers who prefer to take the scenic—read: deeply unconventional and unsafe—route, taking as many detours as possible. And if they land in trouble, then it’s all the more Fun.

Jack and Link are Fearless in every way one could be. For Link, it is simply in his immortal, undying nature. For Jack, as Fear’s archenemy, he cannot afford to harbor it within him, and that is precisely how he navigated his way through immortality: with Fun and Light and Hope. Diving headfirst from a giant waterfall? Bring it on! Taking on an entire hoard of ferocious monsters alone with nothing but a pot lid and soup ladle? Challenge accepted. Jumping on the backs of Animals You Definitely Shouldn’t Use as Mounts and riding them anyway? Give them five minutes.

Notoriously Good-Looking

To keep it short and sweet, both Link and Jack have been described in their respective media (by various characters) to be notably handsome, and they themselves are aware of this fact and Very Confident About It. They are very comfortable in their own skin (perhaps too comfortable) though their handsomeness does not always shine through, in great part due to their Erratic Behaviour and Strange Fashion Choices (“look, it made perfect sense at the time.”).

Jack-of-all-Trades

Both Jack and Link are undoubtedly masters at their signature weapons (Jack with his Shepherd’s Crook and Link with the Master Sword and Hylian Shield), though Link has a more diverse skill set than Jack as per the ROTG movie. Link excels with any kind of weapon (or even household objects) he can get his hands on: short swords and clubs, two-handed weapons (including but not limited to: great swords, axes, and bats), spears, wands, and arguably his strongest weapon, the bow and arrow, with which he is able to shoot up to five arrows at once in a spread and enter Bullet Time when he is in the air. And he can also do all this on horseback, of course. It makes him an incredibly versatile fighter and well-equipped for survival in the wild.

While Jack is limited to his Shepherd’s Crook in the movie, he does not exclusively wield it as such. In the action scenes of the movie, we see Jack wield his staff to cast magic like a wand, attack with the slicing motion of a sword, the stabbing of a spear, and even the swing of a bat. In the books, 5 years after the movie’s release, William Joyce has also written Jack to be able to shapeshift his staff into a bow and arrow, giving him a more Hunter-like appearance

He is also apparently fluent in squirrel and chipmunk speak. I did not know this.

Something I did in “more than you know” (my collab fic with therentyoupay) was push this ability a bit further to allow Jack to shapeshift his staff into a variety of weapons, not just a bow and arrow, such as an ice sword or axe. We can apply the same idea here, to better reconcile the skillsets of Jack and Link.

But a shared key trait that already exists is that without any weapons (barehanded) Jack and Link cannot fight (unlike their Princesses, who are stronger with their magic as opposed to any physical weapon).

Snowboarding/Shield-Surfing

Fun is an essential component of Jack’s character. It is his CORE, what makes him WHO HE IS. However, it is also an important part of Link’s character, particularly post-Calamity. Aside from frolicking in—read: terrrorizing—the wilderness, campfire-cooking, and completing Korok puzzles, a favorite pastime of Link’s is an activity called shield-surfing, which is exactly what it sounds like: using his shield to sled down hills of grass, deserts, and snowy mountains. And he’s quite good at it too! Canonically, he holds several records in shield-surfing from the snowy peaks of Hebra to the vast Gerudo Desert, and even incorporates it into his fighting.

And who else would be particularly terrific at snowboarding other than Jack Frost himself? It was actually stated in the DVD Featurette for Rise of the Guardians that Jack’s entire concept was inspired by skateboarders, and that they wanted him to glide in the wind with the skill of an Olympic snowboarder (hey anyone wanna make an AU with Olympic Snowboarder Jack?), which we do see him doing with his staff at several points in the movie!

Clearly, this is a perfect parallel. A mirror even. If you will.

Smart Mouth

One of my (and I’m sure many others) favorite things about Jack is his quick-with and sharp tongue. He’s always ready with a sassy remark or a snide comment and I think that’s one of the things that make him so Fun! Now, for a comparison with Link, you’re probably thinking this should be a major difference as Link is well known to be The Silent Protagonist Ever, but as many players of BOTW and TOTK have noticed and accurately pointed out, Link is given dialogue options for the players to choose from when interacting with NPCs, which in itself implies that that is Link speaking and responding to NPCs questions.

I am of the opinion that these are Link’s own words rather than the “player’s” responses being spoken through Link, and the reason I think this is because these options show off some degree of personality rather than remaining neutral to allow players to project onto them, and often times more or less reiterate the same message, just in different words (hinting that IC, Link will ONLY agree or disagree to those things).

some of my favorite examples of Link’s dialogue options:

Making seal puns while renting sand seals:

The one below is exemplary because the only two options are either to flirt shamelessly or ruin her day.

This is also not including the fact Eiji Aonuma (the creator of The Legend of Zelda) himself has said that all Links are “bastards” in their own unique ways and indeed, the persistent inclusion of his jerky and sassy dialogue options across all LOZ games is further evidence of this.

So of course, who better to keep this sassy lost child in check than The Wisest Person in the Land?

Zelda Hyrule, the Triforce of Wisdom is the perfect role for someone like Elsa Arendelle.

There are many parallels between this iteration of Zelda (as opposed to other Zelda’s of the different games) and Elsa.

Wisdom

As the bearer of the Triforce of Wisdom, all incarnations of Zelda are blessed with superior intelligence and wisdom, traits that are also prevalent in Elsa. The Triforce of Wisdom doesn't JUST impart divine wisdom upon its holder, it also grants the holder untold mystical abilities (see: Elsa's ice powers and ability to create sentient life), and the ability to heal others (see: Elsa thawing Anna and the Fjord). The Triforce of Wisdom leads its holder to make the right decisions, making them wiser than any mortal. Elsa is much the same, though hers is a result of her own temperament and upbringing.

As the Triforce of Wisdom, Zelda is a constant presence of guidance and support for Link in many of her game iterations (including this one), and she has always stood side by side with him to defeat Ganon.

Duty-Bound

Both Elsa and Zelda have momentous weights on their shoulders as the Crown Princesses of their respective kingdoms, and this is a responsibility that both Princess-turned-Queens take very seriously. Though this position brings them no joy—if not, in fact the complete opposite—they are deeply devoted to their cause, their kingdom, their families, and as a result, they continue to strive to excel in it and meet seemingly impossible expectations. They force themselves to fit the mold of this role, even at the cost of who they are as a person and their personal wants or desires.

Hiding their true selves

This is a very large proponent of both Elsa and Zelda's struggle in their respective stories:

Elsa has had to hide her ice powers for the majority of her life. But her ice powers are something that is inextricably a large part of who she is, something she cannot change or be rid of, and yet it is something she was made to never express or show or hone. Instead, she has had to suppress and neglect them to pass as "normal." She had been raised to associate her powers with fear, with danger, with solation. She was made to see them as useless, something to be ashamed of, and something to never be given a second glance.

Zelda is a scholar and a researcher, she is a curious person with a passion for studying the world around her. She wants to learn, to study, to educate, but instead this goal is considered "frivolous" and "unimportant" by her father. It is stamped as a distraction, and blamed as the reason Zelda has yet to awaken her Sealing powers, despite the fact her passion and determination for research was fueled by her shortcomings as The Princess with the Blood of the Goddess. It was her way of contributing to the coalition's preparations against The Calamity, even without her powers.

Additionally both Elsa and Zelda have a mask for who they believe they should be: a regal, elegant, level-headed royal who is mature and Above Silly Games when in reality, they are vivacious young women who would have loved to engage in said Silly Games, and have more love to give than what they were allowed.

Grand Destinies

Another similarity that is shared between Elsa and Zelda are the grand destinies that awaited them, and were expected to fulfill. There are slight divergences in both, but the broad strokes remain the same:

Both royals possess a unique and unstoppable power that drives the narratives of both stories forward

They are both fated to be the Key in preventing a Great Calamity (Zelda was destined to seal away Calamity Ganon, a force of hatred and malice that arose every 10,000 years with her Sealing Powers, and Elsa was destined to become the Bridge between the Spirits and the Humans in the Enchanted Forest as the Fifth Spirit, which allowed her to prevent Arendelle's destruction)

Both their powers are mysterious and unknowable, and its growth and behavior eludes the both of them

Their respective powers brought them great distress (for completely opposite reasons, mind, but we'll get to that) and is a constant source of struggle in their stories.

Loss

Both queens lost their parents at a young age. The absence of their parents caused a deep trauma that affected their ability to regulate or control their powers in some way. Zelda losing her mother so young meant she never got the chance to learn to use her powers. This lack of guidance would later indirectly result in her losing her father due to her not being able to awaken her powers in time.

For Elsa, it is much the same. The lack of guidance in her life only further widened the ridge not only between herself and her sister, but also the wider community. It prevented her from being able to form connections as well as she could have.

Adored

Despite her Shortcomings, Failures, and Insecurities, both Zelda and Elsa are always surrounded by love and people who adore them. These people see them for them, who they are as people as opposed to their powers, their position, and their destinies. These people see how hard she works and appreciate her dedication, and they are always ready to offer comfort and reassurance to assuage their Negative Thoughts. They may not always remember or be aware of this, but they are always the apple of many’s eyes.

Shared Personality Traits

A quick list of similar key personality traits between Zelda and Elsa that make Elsa a great stand-in for Zelda because there is Just So Much

Withdrawn, hesitant, unsure of herself (AT FIRST)

TERRIFIED of the destiny that awaited them (Fulfilling a prophecy, ruling a kingdom and potentially destroying it)

Isolated and made to keep to herself

Studious, intelligent, diligent

Resourceful and determined

So full of fear, yet fearless nonetheless

Awe-inspiring leaders

Well-mannered and conducts herself well (except where Certain Blond Men are involved)

Slow to warm up to people, especially when it comes to Certain Blond Men That Follow Them Around Everywhere

Has a hard time talking about or expressing their feelings until it's All Just Too Much and Entirely Too Late

But deep down are very warm and kind

Patient and understanding, usually. But Certain Blond Men tend to test their limits. (at least, at first)

Differences

Of course, there are also differences that may potentially be Game Breaking, so let's discuss a few of them and how they could be accommodated

The Fear of their Power

Where Elsa feared her power due to its strength and her inability to pacify or control it, Zelda's fear comes from the fact she may not even have the powers she was supposed to have, compounded by the fact that the Kingdom's survival entirely hinges on Zelda mastering her powers and using it.

Where Elsa fears using her powers, Zelda fears not being able to use hers in time. Though the fear itself is a common thread, the cause is very much opposite and paramount to the driving force between their respective stories.

Failure

A big component of Zelda's story that Elsa lacks in hers. When Elsa fails or makes a mistake, she is able to undo all the damage she caused with minimal consequences to herself and the wider environment (resurrects Anna, thaws the fjord, discovers the secrets of her family's past, reconnects the spirits to humans, saves Arendelle from a tidal wave).

When Zelda fails, the consequences are permanent and lasting. Failing to awaken her powers in time—despite spending hours for multiple days on end praying before the Goddess statues for guidance in nothing but ceremonial robes, and occasionally in freezing cold waters until she collapsed—she was unable to stop the destruction of her kingdom, the deaths of her friends and family (who went to battle for her, on her behalf), and even (for a time) the person she loved, who refused to leave her side until the bitter end. Zelda would never see her friends and father again, her champion had lost a majority of his memories (save for the ones he had of her) and may never be the person she once knew, and the Kingdom of Hyrule as it was will never return. The damage has been done, and she can only pick up the pieces of What Remained and start anew.

This fear and burden of failure is a pervasive theme in Zelda's story. She is perceived as a failure by her own father, and even the wider kingdom court due to her inability to awaken and wield the power that had been passed down from generation to generation. This is an aspect lacking in Elsa's story, who was the first in her name to wield ANY sort of magical ability.

Resentment

Due to her inability to awaken her powers, Zelda developed a resentment towards Link, who had already found and been chosen by the Master Sword and stepped into his Destiny as The Hero Who Wields The Sword That Seals The Darkness. She saw his accomplishments, his skill and readiness as a slight against her own shortcomings, and the presence of the legendary sword on his back served as a constant reminder of her failures. She projected her insecurities onto him, believing that he too thought she was a failure, that he looked down on her or was disappointed in Who She Was despite her supposedly being the Princess With The Blood Of The Goddess even though he adored her from the start, since the first time they met, and it only furthered their divide. At least, In The Beginning.

unfortunately, we live in a reality where Jack and Elsa have never met in any official media, and so, we cannot say if Elsa and Jack would absolutely react in a similar way to each other under the same circumstances, but this gives us plenty of room to work with!

Reconciliation

As this is a BOTW AU for Jelsa first and foremost, we will be applying aspects of Zelda's story into Elsa's to blend her better in the world, and if you've read my collaborative Jelsa project with Kris (more than you know) you may see that some of these aspects have already been implemented and work very well to create a compelling story.

Elsa, instead of struggling with Too Much Power she Fears and Cannot Control, is unable to summon them from inside of her, despite the Kingdom's safety entirely hinging on her mastery of it. This fills her with great distress and self-loathing, causing her to doubt herself and her own self-worth in relation to her powers (or lack thereof) in a similar way to her original portrayal, just for differing reasons, and she finds herself projecting these feelings onto Jack due to the pressure and stress of it all.

However, they do reconcile. She learns the error of her ways, apologizes for her mistake, and they start over with a clean slate. Finally, they begin to develop a bond, growing closer than they thought they would.

And of course, it wouldn't be BOTW without devastation and great loss, and so Elsa (like Zelda did IC), was unable to save her kingdom from The Great Calamity, losing everyone she cared about in the process. Including her beloved sister Anna.

And on the verge of losing Jack too, her desire to protect him—her Love—finally awakens the dormant power inside of her. To save his life, she places him in the Shrine of Resurrection while she goes to face the calamity alone… and would go on to contain it for the next 100 years.

However, she continues to hold on to hope that The Chosen Hero, her Appointed Knight, will Rise again one day, and finish what they started.