#between these disaster humans

[angeart]

hhau mimic arc rambles part III bonus: the eclipse

(~2,8 k words) // other parts & au masterpost here

Every couple of years, there’s a total eclipse in this world. The moon is big, obscuring the sun in a horrible totality, entrapping it for what feels like too long. This is a big event, but not because people are eager to spectate the sky and bask in its weirdness. No, it has much worse connotations.

Because the eclipsed moon affects many of the hybrids. Especially the animal ones.

Hunters look forward to the eclipse because it promises a lot of loud, distressed, instinct-driven hybrids scattering about without many defences. They prepare traps specifically for this occasion and organise big hunting parties, eager for the upcoming bloodbath and bounty.

The eclipse happens mid-winter while Scar and Grian are on the server.

And it’s awful.

[cws violence, murder (no known characters), panic, mind-altering states and a loss of self control, haywire instincts, non-consensual manhandling, horrory vibes]

They don’t really know what is happening at first. Hermitcraft is a safe server which has many things coded differently, and because eclipses hurt many hybrids, they never happen there. So Scar and Grian have never experienced anything like this, and the yank it has on Grian’s state in particular is startingly sharp and terrifyingly confusing.

Scar himself is alright, because—and the two of them don’t know this at the time—vexes are immune to the eclipse. 

Actually, that’s not quite accurate. The eclipse helps heighten their magic.

They thrive.

Grian does anything but thrive.

His instincts go absolutely batshit haywire. He starts getting disoriented and incredibly uneasy, anxiety holding him in a choke hold, and all rationality and caution leave him, replaced by pure fear. 

He starts making inadvertent chirping sounds, panicked, and no matter what Scar says or does, Grian can’t seem to stop.

It’s so dark outside. And Grian’s chirping isn’t the only one that sounds through the forest.

In a world where they thought avians might be all nearly hunted to extinction, there are now suddenly, in this darkness, piercing faraway chirps. Just as panicked and lost-sounding as Grian’s own.

But those are not the only sounds the looming forest has to offer.

There’s also hollering and cheers. Whistles and barks. Twigs snapping under careless boots. Hunter parties following every single hybrid noise right to its source only to slice it shut. Shrill, chilling screams before some hybrid inevitably plunges into absolute, horrifying silence.

Scar’s desperately trying to get Grian to shush. He pleads him to stop, to be quiet. Tries to calm him down.

But it’s all futile. Grian has no control over himself. He can’t make it stop; it’s a wholly new kind of fear, overpowering and unfamiliar, yanking at his instincts. (It feels, a little bit, like a huge moon crashing down while the ground underneath him shakes and disintegrates.) (It feels like locking eyes with someone and not being sure if he’ll ever get to see them again.) (It feels like apocalypse. Like the end.) (His mind screams at him and he can’t help but scream along with it.)

Scar wonders if he should put a hand over Grian’s mouth. He doesn’t know what to do, but the hunters are out there, in large numbers, tireless and eager, and Grian’s voice is now the beacon luring them over, pinging with their exact location.

Grian is slowly backing away, hunched, feathers puffed. His wings are semi-curled around him, no longer tucked under the cloak, even though they’re out in the open. 

He doesn’t seem like he’d do well with being touched.

But Scar needs him to be quiet. For Grian’s sake too.

Before Scar can do anything, though, Grian’s earwings flit wildly and he whips his head to the side, honing in on some noise.

It’s a distressed chirp, one that sounds closer than any of the other ones. 

It’s an avian in distress calling for help.

Grian thought there aren’t any avians but him, and now there is one, still alive, so very close, desperate for aid, and— Grian’s mind blanks. There’s only one single thing to do here. He isn’t thinking. His heart beats wildly in overdrive. His body moves.

Blindly, Grian bolts in the direction of the sound. 

And it’s up to Scar to scramble and run after him. 

It’s more than that. More than just following Grian. Because there is so much at stake, and he needs to stop him and quiet him and— And he might have to exert force, and—

Oh. He is basically hunting Grian down here.

He is the hunter following in the steps of a terrified avian.

And Grian, in his dazed and fragmented perception of the world, feels just like prey. There is so much happening for him right now: it’s dark and all he can see is Scar’s piercing vex eyes when he glances over his shoulder; he’s lost in panicky instincts, trying to reach another avian in distress, hurtling blindly towards potential danger; and he does feel hunted.

On top of that, he can’t stop the stream of bird noises. He can’t pull his wings under his cloak either. He’s stumbling and tripping and scaping himself all over, but he feels like he needs to keep running.

He no longer knows if he’s even heading the right way. The chirping he was following fell dead silent. His head is just screaming at him. Hot white panic and a cacophony of unstoppable, overpowering instincts.

Scar has to stop him before he gets himself killed.

As awful as it is, Scar doesn’t care about that other potential avian (it could be a trap) nearly as much as he cares about Grian. His priorities here are clear, desperation thick and loud in his lungs, pressing at his ribs. There’s no time for bargaining or for steeling himself. 

He needs to act.

Scar grabs Grian and tackles him to the ground.

He’s pinning him down, sort of straddling him, hands on Grian’s mouth, hopelessly trying to muffle the noises. He feels absolutely vile, but he doesn’t know what else to do. His breaths come in little sharp huffs of blue magic, shiny through the darkness as he expels a ton of emotional energy just to keep himself from panicking and crying.

He finds that it’s not as easy to hold Grian down when he doesn’t want to be pinned down. But also it is. It is easy, far too easy—harrowingly so. Grian’s so light. (It frightens Scar to even touch the thought of how simple this would be for the hunters too.) 

He’s terrified of hurting Grian accidentally. He’s very capable of it; Grian’s made of brittle hollow bones after all, and Scar’s grip is a bit too strong, but he doesn’t have a choice here. Grian won’t stop thrashing, fighting to be freed. (But Scar knows that letting go would almost surely result in Grian’s death.)

And where Grian’s attention is kind of selective, not processing things at all, Scar’s attention is sharp—sharpened by panic—keenly attuned to their surroundings. He hears all the various noises come and go. Not necessarily chirps; other hybrids, too. Them falling silent. The hunters yelling. And the screams. God. The awful screams.

They’re all too far away for now, thankfully, but if Grian won’t stop, they’re bound to come this way. After all, if Scar can hear them, surely they can hear Grian too—?

Scar feels nauseous and horribly helpless. The hunters cheer and laugh as the hybrid noises go dead silent, one by one— only the hounds left barking and howling in their wake.

Scar knows that, even though it’s awful, they can’t help any of those hybrids. But he’s going to do everything in his power so that at least the two of them can survive this.

Despite all his (pointless) efforts, the hunters catch up to them anyway.

As they approach, Scar is struggling to quiet Grian down, and Grian isn’t thinking straight enough to properly fight. It’s the worst possible situation. 

There’s no point in quieting Grian down anymore when the hunters are right here though, and so Scar moves on the defensive, ready to give it all to keep Grian alive. The fight is ugly, drenched in frightening desperation; Scar is numb to the pain even when something tears. Grian’s chirps get worse. Warmth drips down Scar’s face.

But then a different sort of howling breaks through Scar’s mounting panic, and—

A group of wild vexes rushes in. Not to save Scar and Grian in particular; it’s just a lucky timing.

Because as it turns out, just the way hunters set off to hunt down hybrids during the eclipse, the vexes—who are more powerful at this time, magic thrumming strongly in their veins—set off to hunt down the hunters. So nicely accumulated for them. So loud. So easy to find. 

The vexes and the humans clash, and in the swell of the chaos, Scar manages to drag Grian away. 

He wants to keep going, increase the distance between them and everyone else as much as possible, but all too soon the forest opens up into fields, and no way he’s pulling a dazed Grian out there where they can’t hide. So instead he swerves, anchoring them against a rock formation—an array of boulders and a jagged cliff wall. 

He presses Grian into a small dent there, covering him with his own body (imprisoning him there, in a way). Hiding Grian’s wings, muffling his chirps, whispering frantic things that are meant to be soothing. The sky is still dark, and Grian’s still chirping, although it’s quieter now; it’s clear he’s exhausting himself, but he’s still making noises. Still unable to stop, despite the terror and the fatigue.

They get found again.

But it’s not the human hunters that find them this time. It’s the vex group, sneaking up on them, all their sharp edges drenched in blood, glowing with magic.

Scar turns his back to Grian, still pressing against him, tucking him against the rocks, hiding him as much as possible. He’s ready to lash out. He’s ready to fight with these vexes, even if he’s outnumbered. (He’s got no species loyalty here, after all.) 

In a curious tone, one of the vexes says: “That avian is going to get you killed.”

The words register to Grian through the haze. He’s still absolutely lost amidst this all, barely understanding the world around him, struggling to process anything. But there’s something about the words avian and get you killed, and the thought of Scar, that makes it through the fog.

It only serves to make him more distressed. He breathes in sharp, shallow breaths, and his chirping grows louder again, high pitched. But it’s not just the chirps this time. Some of the sounds he makes are choked, merging into something more like himself—the sound of helpless sobs.

Scar is shielding Grian with his back, but that means he’s turning his back on Grian’s cries and all of his misery. He cannot comfort him. He has no words that would make Grian not afraid right now.

The vex suggest leaving Grian or—worse—using him as a bait.

Scar’s staring them down, growling lowly, one eye squinted as blood runs down his face. “How about you leave.”

The vex don’t budge. They think they’re after a good thing here, after all. Surely, Scar also wants these hunters dead?

What they’re suggesting isn’t to sacrifice Grian as a bait—they don’t actually want to outright hurt or endanger him, even if it maybe doesn’t translate well through their stance and words. They’re not malicious in that way. What they’re suggesting is simply pragmatic in their minds. (I mean, they wouldn’t grieve if the avian happened to die there, but it wasn’t their goal to let it happen.) 

“We’re hunting the humans,” they note, as if that should’ve been enough to sway Scar. “We could use the avian—”

“No.”

One of the vex, white hair braided and smile sharp, peeks past Scar, trying to glimpse the feathers. The violet shade reflected in the glow of their magic tells him everything he needs to know, sating his curiosity, and he whistles, impressed. Amazed that an avian like this has lasted so long.

Scar lunges at him for getting too close.

He gets laughed at in return. What’s he gonna do, all alone? Not even channelling his magic to heal his own wound. It’s just funny to them. Cute. “What’re you going to do?” they tease, a bit too cheerily for the situation at hand. It rings threatening. “You’re outnumbered, pal.”

Scar doesn’t back down. “I’d take at least one of you down with me.” It’s a big statement. Covering up all of his nauseating fear and unending tension. Because he’ll do it. He’ll fight if he has to, and it will be ugly, and he might fail—he might die—but he’ll for sure give it everything he has.

And he can tell there’s camaraderie between this group of vexes. That they don’t really want any of them seriously hurt. 

They, as vexes, know the best how dangerous a feral, cornered vex with something to protect can be.

There’s a sliver of respect this earns Scar, unbeknownst to him. The will to stand up to them even when he’s outnumbered like this. To not give in to the pressure and instead fight for his values. For what he cares for.

The white haired vex—seemingly a leader of the group of sorts—reiterates, tone a bit lower, that the avian is going to get Scar killed. That he’d be better off without him. (Essentially voicing the deep rooted fear Grian already has.)

He also extends an invitation, almost in the same breath, impressed by Scar standing up to them. But it’s only Scar who is invited, and it’s blatant—the condition laid down is drop the avian or let’s use him as a bait and hunt together. 

With sharp ire and a swell of protectiveness, Scar counters that he’d be better off without them, actually.

There’s a snort and a mocking, “Aight, let’s see how long you can last.”

The relief Scar feels when they relent and leave is immense, leaving him weak in his knees.

He thinks they’re foolish, risking themselves like that. In his mind, they’re the definition of the violent vex, that dark reputation that seems to now stick to Scar and follow him too by the virtue of being the same kind of hybrid. He doesn’t want anything to do with that. 

And of course, he’d never leave Grian.

Grian is his last connection to home. He loves him, even if it never feels like it’s enough.

Excruciatingly slowly, sun eventually peeks back out. But even then, it takes Grian a very long time to untangle himself from these dazed, nonsensical instincts. It’s such a heavy, sticky veil and he’s left disoriented and confused for the longest time. Through his exhaustion, he feels weak and dizzy and out of it.

Scar is also exhausted, but they’re nowhere near safe yet. Still pressed against the rocks. Every nerve ending is flared up, Scar’s senses alert to the point of flinching at the subtlest sound, hypervigilant. But as Grian slumps and quiets down, Scar’s firm grip on him follows. 

Slowly, so slowly, Scar’s hold on Grian becomes comforting instead of restricting and terrifying.

He can tell that it left bruises.

Scar hates everything about it, but— They’re alive.

The sun is back, Grian is quiet, and they’re alive.

But they still need to find safety. And Grian’s so frazzled, still processing what even happened. The blurred memories of chirps and howls and screams swirl through his mind. He feels lightheaded, and like his skull is stuffed full, unable to think clearly. He doesn’t quite understand any of it, and his body feels locked in place. 

Grian wants to stay sitting here until everything starts making sense, but they don’t have that kind of time. They can’t stay. They need to move. They need to properly hide. 

Scar feels awful, but he needs to push through. He needs to force Grian to move.

The snow is splattered with blood. The forest is dead silent, scattered bodies left behind all across it. The area is riddled with traps, some activated and others still hidden, waiting to be triggered. 

The sun is shining.

The silence is eerie.

The scent of blood is thick and fresh and nothing feels safe.

--

Later, when Grian’s more coherent, he says, “They were right.” In an incredibly quiet, fragile, unsteady voice—but laced with determination—he tells Scar: “You should’ve taken their deal.”

Scar immediately tries to dismiss it. Preferably to not engage with this conversation at all. “Not interested.”

Grian registers the shut down of the discussion, but that doesn’t make it any less loud inside of his mind (and heart). He simply goes quiet and withdraws. Lips pursed, lightly frowning, staring somewhere away.

They don’t talk about it again.

Late at night, when Grian can’t sleep because he’s too high strung, he thinks of how it’d feel like, to be used by those vexes as a bait.

He dreams about it.

He dreams of faraway chirps and laughter and hounds finding him.

He has so many nightmares after this.

-------

BONUS screenshot for shits n giggles:

[findafight]

Eddie's never met a Jedi. Of course he hasn't. But he's seen a Jedi, way back during the clone wars, when a battalion had helped after seppies had targeted civilian supply lines.

Eddie's pretty sure they were Kel Dor, what with the breathing apparatus. They'd worn tan and woody robes, long and elegant and flowing as they'd weaved between people, helping them stand or tending to wounds.

What had stood out to Eddie, watching this being that was supposedly a fierce warrior of light, was that they...were normal. They laughed and shrugged and cooed at babies, just like anyone else.

That was until the Jedi had raised their hands and lifted a two-tonne shipping crate into the air without so much as touching it. It frightened Eddie, then. Barely twenty and in the middle of a war his planet didn't want a part of. Beings that could lift and toss objects too heavy to move without machinery like they were playthings are not to be unwary of.

Of course. Eddie had spent a lot of the redistribution of rations effort around clones. They'd seemed...fine? While he is no stranger to speaking his mind he had thought well enough ahead that he probably shouldnt ask if they'd wanted to be there. Figured that might get him kicked off the project and he needed the money.

He listened instead. How they called each other things like Spoon and Duck and Trinity and Loopback as though they were names. Maybe they were. Eddie didn't know and didn't want to ask at the time.

But the Clones had been friendly, if formal. They spoke of their general with fondness and respect and a tinge of awe that felt appropriate to seeing what a Jedi was capable of frequently.

Eddie had liked them.

And then Empire Day came, and the Jedi were declared traitors and the galaxy as he knew it fell apart.

It never made much sense, from what Eddie had seen, for the Clones to kill the Jedi. But nobody asked Eddie, so Eddie didn't say. He did get sucked into the Rebellion though, and heard rumours about mind control and sith and a dozen other things.

So no. Eddie had never met a Jedi. But he'd seen one.

Chrissy had spoken about the rumoured Jedi (or-- not-jedi? She said they often refused the title) that stayed in the small Rebel enclave they've been helping. There were two, apparently. She'd met them, even, during a debrief where she'd been discussing how to better use their resources to help her contacts on the Freedom Trail. They'd barrelled in and spoken in such a way that Chrissy would have swore they were of the same mind, had they not been on opposite ends of the room.

"they were polite." Chrissy said, headtail twitching. "For people who interrupted an important meeting." Eddie'd laughed. "One, the Balosar man, he was very insistent that we delay our plans. The other, I think she was human? It's hard to tell, said the force was calling to them and very insistent about it during meditation."

"seriously? And the generals did it?"

"oh no. They argued for another twenty minutes before the not-Jedi threw up their arms and said, in unison Eddie!, 'The shipment will be lost if you go ahead with it. Better late than never, pricks.' and walked out."

So. On an abstract level, Eddie knew that whenever he entered the hangar bay to run maintenance or completely rebuild a ship, there was a chance for him to meet a former? Jedi.

He'd gotten well acquainted with a group of teenagers there, ones who were friends with the younger brother of the heir apparent to the region they were in and liked the make-believe games he ran in his off hours. But he never really thought about the Jedi that supposedly haunted the base until a woman shouted for Dustin, a rodian who was part of his little sheepies and had literal stars in his eyes when Eddie spoke, to come over. Dustin, the betrayer, jumped up and dashed off without even a word of goodbye.

"okay, so the head mechanic needs this-" she gestures to a small smuggling freighter that had seen far better days "hunk of junk out of the way so they can start work on a couple of x-wings. Steve and I figured we could help her out and get you to work on control of larger objects."

Eddie meandered casually over. Just to watch. Just to...see.

Dustin bounced on his feet. "Really? Woah! Where are we putting it?"

She pointed up, to the open vertical entry doors that created the roof of the hanger. "Steve's up there, he'll make sure if your control slips we don't crush the ship or anyone on the floor once you get it high, and he'll get it out and place it where it's supposed to go. I'll be here with you so you don't hurt yourself."

"I'm not gonna hurt myself."

She patted his head "yeah. Cuz I'm right here making sure."

"uhg. Almost wish I never learned you guys used to be Jedi."

"and who would train you then? No one. You and El would be sad little tooka kits all on your lonesome." She raised her voice to yell at the roof, "you ready Stevie?" and it should not have been loud enough to carry, the tone of an after thought, as though she already knew the answer and the question was just for the spectators, but the figure silhouetted waved.

Then, Dustin took a steadying breath, raised his arms, and closed his eyes. Slowly, the ship in front of him groaned and rose up. A crowd had formed, watching a magic thought extinct.

The woman's eyes darted between Dustin and the freighter, one hand loosely outstretched. It occurred to Eddie that neither wore the tunics and robes of Jedi. Dustin ran around in the mismatched pants and shirts of the Rebels' donations, while the woman wore deep greens. There were no dramatic sleeves that swished when they moved, just slightly loose fabric fastened by a belt and holster. He wonders if she ever wore them.

Dustin struggled for a moment, the ship quivering ten feet up, and the woman tensed slightly before he loosened. Eyes open, she deftly moved her arms up with the ship following, an ease in her movements that Dustin lacked. When she dropped her arms as well, the freighter stayed moving upwards, the other not-Jedi, Steve, likely taking over.

"good work for your first go." She said, draping an arm casually over Dustin's shoulders.

"I barely got it off the ground! Don't patronize me, Robin."

Eddie stepped in "considering I wouldn't even be able to move it sideways an inch, I'd say you did pretty well, Dustin."

The kid spun, just as the light comes shining back through as Steve maneuvered the ship out of the hangar. "Eddie! You saw?"

He scoffed "uh. Yes? Why didn't you tell me this is what you did when Im not around"

The woman-Robin, Eddie supposed, tensed. "It's not particularly safe to boast about it. Especially when it's not clear if you're alone."

Ah. Yeah. That did make sense. "Then why practice in a hangar with two dozen people around?"

She shrugged, and looked up. Eddie followed her sightlines and "wait is he gonna-" just as the figure that must be Steve launched himself off the edge of the open roof and towards them. He landed, he's leather jacket flapping behind him, and stood straight, grinning.

Robin laughed. "You'll give someone a heart attack one of these days, Steve."

"eh. No one's died so far."

Dustin smiled too "I'm getting pretty good at my controlled falls too! Oh, Steve, this is Eddie!"

And then Steve turned his gaze on Eddie, and his brain may have melted.

Steve looked like a spacer, windswept from the fall and leather jacket snug around his shoulders, two different holsters visible, his pants deliciously tight. He ran a hand through his hair, his antennapalps bobbing, and stuck it out for a shake.

"so, you're the great Eddie Munson Dustin hasn't shut up about? Good to meet you."

"mmhmm!" He forced his hand out to jerkily shake Steve's. Jeez. It was as though he'd never seen anyone beautiful before. His best friend was a Twilek dancer (and spy) for star's sake. He needed to get it together. Jedi didn't date, Eddie was pretty sure. Something about the force or power or devotion or something. He wasn't sure. He wasn't a Jedi. He wasn't a not-Jedi either.

Steve only smiled and turned back to Dustin. "So. Next time you need to let the Force flow. You're still trying to shove it, which never works. You direct it, like changing the course of a river."

"but not," Robin added seamlessly, and oh, wow, that was weird than you Chrissy "like a dam. Trying to block it won't give you strength. You're more..."

"using a log to ensure the water finds a different path."

"to go where you want it to go, do what you want it to do, without preventing it's natural flow."

"you guys are so annoying." Dustin huffed. "You know that? You can claim it's your Concordance of Fealty all you want but I know your freaky thing is not normal for it." He groaned. "But sometimes I feel when you guys, like, shape it. Change it. What the kark is that about? If I'm not supposed to dam it, how do I change it and use it like you do?"

Both grinned "We're older. Master the basics, we must, before attempting the advanced, young one." The voice Steve used was croaky, an impression.

Dustin pulled a face. "Don't quote Grandmaster Yoda at me!"

Robin and Steve laughed, leaning on each other. Suddenly, Eddie felt as though he was intruding. Though they hadn't told him to leave, they were sharing about...about a relative, Eddie guessed. Someone near to them and their almost-dead culture.

"I can quote him all I want, I drank enough of his atrocious tea to deserve it!"

"he's dead. You're going to sit here and insult your dead great-grandmaster, the last Grandmaster of the Order?"

Steve got Dustin in a headlock "while we mourn their loss, and acknowledge the pain of their untimely and unjust passing, we celebrate their memory. Yoda, the old frog, is one with the Force, and while I can wish for his guidance, I can also make fun of his vile cookies I had to eat at lineage dinners all I want."

"pretty sure they were barely considered edible for near-humans" Robin adds. She caught Eddie's eye, and winked. "Who's up for actually edible tea? Dustin can practice his fine control and pour for us.

Both Dustin and Steve groaned. "The kid is gonna spill all over us for fun, Bobbin."

Concept post Dustin discovers they're jedi

[myhyperfixationisiforgot]

there’s too much “dick and bruce rebuilding their father-son relationship through the power of complicated loving relationships” in the batman fandom.

dick grayson doesn’t want a dad, he never wanted a dad, he still doesn’t want a dad. dick wants that super weird twenty something who fed him nothing but undercooked mac and cheese and really thought the smartest thing to do with a traumatized 4th grader was let him fight people on the streets in the middle of the night.

the tension with jason needs a lot less how dare you get the dad I always wanted and a little more so help me god, if you touch me with those responsible parent hands after all this time i will bite them off

[karizipan]

ermm scanned some stuff... some of the orv in my sketchbook + tidbits of my silly merfolk yjh au

[yokowan]

an artist has only drawn remilia scarlet correctly if i would address her as "mistress" immediately upon seeing her even if i had no idea who she was

[snurtle]

I've been replaying Dragon Age: Inquisition and.. woof. I thought I was over the egg. Spoilers! I am not! I just fermented my egg-loving self like a fine wine and now it's back with nuanced undertones.

Also, may I just say. As a gay man, the Inquisition lineup is

listen. Varric, Solas, Blackwall, Bull, Cole, Dorian, Cullen, Krem... that's a full club. We've got twinks, we've got bears, we've got hunks and otters and dudes wearing gold cock rings as necklaces but sure buddy, you're definitely exclusively into women and not compensating for anything-

I need to know what the Thedan equivalent of flagging is outside of Tevinter. For. Reasons.

On a different note, for specifically Tevinter reasons, I'm going through with a Dorian focused romance this time and I think my heart exploded when he said amatus for the first time. He's so babygirl to me <3

[dolokhoded]

simon peter is the funniest apostle to work with because in theory he's the most loyal, most by-the-book of the apostles so you'd expect him to be the most logical and collected one but 80% of his concerns (pre crucifixion then everything went downhill and they all died) are that he has a crush on every person he encounters

[bnnuyboikase]

modern au!kas is not having a good time.

[bluebudgie]

Alright gw2 peeps, here's one for all of you with a lot of alts:

All your characters of the same class (e.g. all your rangers) are stuck together in an escape room.

Which of your "class groups" is off the worst and who gets the job done with no problem?

[mirthcrowned]

not enough people talk about how change is what haunts the narrative in hakuouki

[nat-of-personifs]

Human Torch AU: General Power Logistics

I don’t plan on creating anything resembling a further plot in this AU, so I’ll post what I have and let all of you run wild. Everything here is just a suggestion.

Going through each of the powers in a single post would take way too much time, so have this instead for now. I’ll be elaborating on the individuals shortly.

First of all, the strength of a statespirit’s power is dependent on their ranking on this list:

The top three just HAPPEN to be Texas, California, and Oklahoma, which I think is a sign that Nature’s fucking with us. While California ranks highest on this list, pretty much every other site I checked had Texas as top. It’s your discretion.

Strength overall is measured by stamina, not intensity; individual powers will vary in their metrics, but while Vermont, for example, could as the strongest snowstorm user create a blizzard outmatching anyone else’s, he would only be able to sustain it for a few minutes since he’s so low on the overall scoreboard. Sphere of influence also falls under the individual powers.

Users can go beyond their stamina, but it’ll lead to temporary loss of consciousness and more disasters the next year or so in their state. The edge of safe casting is called the baseline.

Most abilities have some collaborative capacity, or temporary mind-meld, that allows the users to pool their power. They require someone leading and guiding, either the one drawing the others in or the strongest (scoreboard or power, depending on the circumstances) of the group. A notable exception to this is fire.

Statespirits must be granted permission to cast outside themselves by whoever they’re casting in, though this can be waived if metaphors take precedence. Peacetime external casting automatically ensures a mind meld between the two parties, and the host can stop the cast at any time. Internal castings (a statespirit casting within their boundaries) gone awry, most common with fire users, will always remain within state borders.

Each major power generally has fifteen or so practitioners, except for hurricanes and earthquakes; only around five users for them each. On the other hand, the entirety of the West has fire capabilities because of the association, which is also what keeps California as the strongest of the bunch.

Some states have special abilities; these don’t fall under the ranking system. Florida has sinkholes, California and Wisconsin have fire tornadoes, Hawai’i has magma. Alaska’s ability to hide fire castings under snow counts as a special ability and a subpower of fire, as it emulates ‘zombie fires’—fires that burn underground through all of frozen winter and resurface in the spring.

To cast, users draw upon memories of the disasters that have already occurred, and their power is augmented if the disaster they’re trying to cast is actively taking place in their state. In that case, they can transfer some (negligible amounts—statespirit conceptual power alone won’t replicate the scope of Nature’s disasters, all abilities that can truly reproduce the scale rely on outside sources of power or power pooling) of the energy from that disaster into their casting. This only works when casting inside their state, at least fifteen miles away from the edge of the disaster; users can’t take control of disasters they didn’t cast themselves.

The memory factor and stamina requirements stops users from casting constantly.

Powers lock when the user is panicked, though this can also be waived if metaphor/the narrative takes precedence.

Major cities and those with a strong enough association to a particular disaster also have abilities.

Questions in comments or reblogs?

[iniziare]

Re-tag drop: Yelan

[feluka]

i truly believe every one of those people should be forced to watched footage of the victims trying to flee the station while screaming in pain with their whole bodies on fire because of the negligence of a system that fails us everyday and claims countless lives because of its incompetence. and then i want to see if they would still leave these tags.

[loathsomespider]

(twin peaks voice)

that eurodance you like is going to come back into style.

[vaugarde]

kinda want to attempt a psuedo rt rewrite like @/084392 or milos from home but idk how or when i could do that

[cipheramnesia]

I guess the thing about Godzilla is that it represents a massive national trauma which eviscerated nature and the human soul, but the USA versions fall somewhere on the spectrum between "vaguely about 9/11 or recent natural disaster" and "giant monster smashy smash." I think that stems from trying to conceptualize Godzilla as representing a particular and isolated instance of disaster and translate that into something of a similar nature in the USA.

But the real deep down soul death and national trauma in the USA isn't anything recent, you can't point out something uniquely bad like an atomic bomb. Really the kaiju for the USA needs to be symbolic of how this whole place is an infinite recursive system of devouring its population, starting from colonization and going right up through to the present day. The crucial difference is that if a kaiju was to represent the deep, unhealed, and still bleeding scar at the heart of the nation, it has to by definition be some ancient dead thing which rises on the anguish of everyone consumed in the name of this country and burns it into the ground. There's not an easy way to make a USAmerican kaiju because the only way to do so accurately means the kaiju has to be the protagonist, and ultimately has to show how much the people in the USA are unified when the hyperwealthy and our government are destroyed.

Who is gonna make that?