#but a secret third option called testing my followers' patience

[violent138]

Stephanie: "Did you get it?"

Tim, scoffing: "Of course I did. *unwraps the vase from bubble wrap* It's the exact same, one of the three original vases made."

Stephanie: "Wait. The old one had a nick, right there on the shoulder. *uses a Batarang to recreate it* There."

Tim, setting it down carefully and smiling: "Perfect. I think we just got away with it."

Jason, reading on the couch: "He'll know."

Stephanie: "How? You'd have to--"

Alfred: "Is there anything you guys want for dinner?"

Tim and Stephanie, immediately: "No."

Alfred, frowning slightly: "Very well." He walked over, both Tim and Stephanie trying to play it cool as the butler adjusted the vase on the table.

Jason looked up from his book.

Alfred: "I'll remind you again, Master Timothy that skateboards are not permitted inside the house."

Jason cackled at the expression that Tim and Stephanie made.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Bruce: "How did you know? Technically speaking, it's the same vase."

Alfred: "I have a contact at the auction house where you bought the second one years ago."

Bruce, clearing his throat: "Yeah, Jason accidentally kicked a ball into it."

Alfred, raising an eyebrow: "He threw a Batarang at it because you wanted to make him more comfortable."

Bruce:

Alfred: "I do wish you'd all stop adding that nick back."

[pocketramblr]

The followup to the Thought™

"Ugh." You say, waving to the screen. "Look at that, now that's who should have been the main character-"

"Oh?" I say, a small glowing figure appearing in front of you. "I can show you that if you want, wish granted." I wave my magic wand, and you blink to find yourself watching a different universe's show.

It's about a blond boy, with a minor superpower that's difficult to work with. He only has one friend, with major anxiety. Both of them want to be heroes, which is about the coolest and nicest thing anyone can be in this world.

But the blond boy is only in middle school. He doesn't get the best grades, he's a bit of a class clown, a bit of a delinquent. He's not exactly cool or over powered, but his earnest, bright nature endears him to the watchers and readers of the story. He's nice, and not worried about competition. He'll put cheering up his best friend over studying- and he'll put just enjoying video games together over training his power on his own.

He doesn't, by the way, train on his own. He makes meager progress in the class provided, and works hard when he's thinking about it, but he honestly doesn't even know where to start with his power.

He takes the entrance exam, and by some manner of luck, manages to permeate through blasts and rubble while shoving other students out of the way. He's used to watching out for his best friend, at least, and that carries over in his natural, if clumsy, attempts to help others here.

With more luck, he is accepted into the school on those points. So is his best friend, though they're in different classes. He still doesn't have many friends, but they meet a new girl in his bf's class: she's gorgeous and powerful- the most raw energy in any of their quirks, and no anxiety or complications holding her back.

She's a bit of a ditz, though, a bit much for others to hang around all the time, so even though she should be a shoe in fit the most popular, she slides easily into their group instead.

The fandom likes her a lot, and you feel impatient. This isn't the story you wanted to see, not really.

"Don't worry," I say. "Time flies when you're actually a school story instead of a daily battle with villains story."

And it does- they compete in the first sports festival. The main character, to little surprise, doesn't do well. But he manages to keep himself and the others smiling and laughing through it, and that brings the attention of the mentor.

The mentor that you like, of course, the mentor you believe was right.

The mentor trains the main character. It's hard, but he can actually break down what exactly he needs to improve on, and now that he has support, the main character takes it seriously. Like all children do, he rises to the expectations on him when he's given the material to do so.

Not made to find the material. The kid would have never dreamed of just assuming and asking such a high ranking hero to focus on him. Rather like another boy, but we'll get to him later.

It's another year. The girl tried her best at the beauty pageant. The best friend tried his best at the liscence exam. The main character has still been training at his internship.

"His second year." You say, thinking. "Now this is when All Might shows up in the timeline, ten months before February in what would be Mirio's second year."

I raise an eyebrow, but wave my magic wand.

All Might does appear. The mysterious top hero, always in the background- ads, all over the mentor's office. They used to work together, but no one in this universe knows anything more than that.

The mentor and the principal happily tell the main character that the number one hero wants to meet with him directly! The boy is nervous, of course, excited, of course, and a tad confused.

But meet they do.

And offer his quirk, he does.

The episode and chapter end on that, of course, and you feel a surge of excitement. Finally!

You look around and realize others in this fandom do not see it that way. Many critique the twist as coming out of nowhere, with no build up that it was even possible, breaking the established rules for no reason. Many others are proud of how much the main character has to work at the difficult power, and do not want him to have a second before he masters this one. Some feel it's a trap- a secret test of character, or a villain in disguise who will ruin him. Some wonder if it's more metaphorical- he's offering the power of support and more guidance, maybe a connection, but not his literal superpower.

You do not know how to feel about it, but you know this will be for the better. He will be perfect for it.

At the beginning of the next update, the boy turns down the quirk. Grateful, more than he could say, but he's worked so hard for his own power and he's not even up to snuff with it yet. He's unsure he's the best option. The girl, after all, is used to weilding such power, maybe he should try her, maybe he should keep looking.

The top hero nods, and asks if he can visit again later, if he can find no other. The boy is a good hero after all, and maybe he needs to believe in himself as much as he is telling his friend to. It will be hard to train a second quirk, yes, but he can manage. It will make him stronger and pay off, after all.

The boy agrees, tentatively. No one can really say no to the number one hero, after all.

"Ok." You say, nodding. "There's an opening. It can build more, since that's how the story is here, way more slowburn."

I shrug. That's what happens when you start the story three years early, but whatever.

The story goes on. The main character does better in the sports festival, but not by any measure good. His friend finds a mentor, a character popular. Much warmer than the blond's mentor. The girl gets a really good mentor, a top tenner.

And then they start to get really good. They're used to training now, and getting it all bit individually and together. The mentor is motivated as of by fury, pushing more and more. And the main character grows to reach it.

Another year. They're seniors, now. Just one year left before they're pros, but they're already about at that level. They're called the Big Three.

The third year is different. Chaos every few weeks. A class of first years attacked.

"Oh, because All Might is still looking for a successor among the students- checking over the freshmen but they won't be able to compare."

I hum in a way that could be interpreted as agreement.

The sports festival. Finally, real victory. They do so well, even with one anxious at crowds. And one that is seemingly allergic to staying clothed. They do well.

The chaos continues, always at the sides. The others in this universe who follow the story talk about that and the offer the top hero made. Is he getting weaker? Did that power leak somehow and now someone wants it?

The tension grows, especially for you. If the hero doesn't give the main character the power before the summer....

The main character doesn't get the power before the summer. The hero falls on tv while the blond and his friends watch in horror.

After the summer, the main character decides to meet the freshmen. You wonder who will replace a certain someone's seat, or if this is playing the original quirkless hero storyline.

When the main character challenges the class of freshmen and you see that sparking green, you seethe.

"I said I wanted Mirio to have OfA! Why is he-"

"Actually," when I speak, you cannot. "You asked for him to be the main character. He still is. A beloved one, even."

"You know what I meant!"

"Perhaps. But then you asked for another change, and so I allowed All Might to meet with him a few days before he would have in the old timeline. He had a chance, he turned it down. Why are you mad at him having his own ambitions and autonomy?"

"He was supposed to take it! He's the worthier option, and you know it."

"What makes him worthy?"

"He works hard!"

"So does Izuku."

"He worked hard before he was offered everything by All Might!"

"Yes," I will admit. "Though, that's only because he met Sir before he met All Might. Were you so focused on how slow it was going that you didn't actually watch what he was doing?"

You will not admit to anything, still angry.

"He'll get another chance." I remind you.

You huff, but the story continues on.

The main character takes a liking to the boy you despise. So does the fandom, dubbing him the cutest little kohai. He's awkward and eager and sunny, like a fusion of the main trio.

He's also impulsive, and on their first patrol together they run into who will obviously be the big bad of the arc- and his abused daughter.

The fandom is split on if the story is going to go with a "In this arc, the blond must pass his experience on patience to a boy who it all about speed and too naive" or if it's "In this arc, it's the mouth of babes- the boy will inspire the main character to do good more impulsively."

You sit and wait for it to be "the boy will finally fork over the power he's now spent over a year working to hold and use to the real main character."

The raid happens. We finally see how the main character met his best friend. It's very sweet. The girl is a lead character and gets focus on her fight too, though the two freshmen working with her don't really. There's another funky freshman boy who turns out to be more like the best friend than we thought.

Finally, we get to the main fight.

And the main character is shot, quirk erased. For good, if the villain who's really not actually that good an example of a scientist is to be believed.

"Oh. What if the former top hero offers his power again, after this arc? It's about loss but always moving on?" The fandom asks. They aren't sure if the buildup to this is better than before, but it's certainly am interesting turn, and not as controversial as the last time.

The best friend saves the day by awakening right at the perfect moment to drag the teacher in. The quirk is kinda super deus ex machina for this arc though.

At the hospital, the mentor dies. The former number one hero is there.

The fandom wonders whether to hope or fear how long he'll wait to replace the mentor and the quirk.

You wait, knowing it's soon.

Then the freshman offers his quirk, and the fandom flips again.

"We should have known!" They cry. "He had super speed and strength the whole time, maybe the sparks are from his own quirk, but it's the same power! Oh, this hurts much more than just if it had been the retired hero!"

Once again, the fandom divides. Many can't bear to see the kohai they love shoved aside after this one moment. Will be be able to use his original power? Then they won't mind the strength for the blond. Some say to wait for his power to come back. A few pipe up about the possibility of him doing it quirkless. He has trained physically too, after all these years.

"No thanks," he says again. He does smile though- just like Sir told him to- and tells his kohai that he’ll do great things with the power, just like All Might did. Tells him that he already has.

You're past the point of fury now.

"Why?" You demand.

"Keep watching." My tone is cold. "Keep watching, the next five months where he does nothing but babysit a girl in hopes she'll magically make himt not quirkless again. He doesn't even ask if he can be a quirkless hero. He doesn't even go to school to keep training. You demanded the other boy figure it out himself. This boy doesn't. He just hopes the same thing that did this to him can undo it."

You don't know what to say about that.

"Neither took it seriously in middle school. That's the nature of middle schoolers. Neither of them tried to go solo quirkless, when no support was provided. But they're both good kids. Hard workers. Heroic. They love each other, honestly, they're friends. It's sweet. And it's sad that it took me doing this for you to see it."

I shake my head.

"Sir Nighteye never saw how Mirio was much more like Izuku than All Might. That was his mistake, because he didn't know the meaning of worthy. Not that it was his choice to make even if he had. There's no magic to this. OfA isn't Excalibur or Mjölnir. All sorts of people have had it. And All Might wasn't doing much to train before he found Nana ether, as much as he got into trouble. OfA is more about connections they have to each other. It's about people's relationships. As it happens, that just doesn't include Mirio and wouldn't be at its most meaningful if it did."

"You just are too much a Deku stan and hate Mirio-"

"Accuse me of hating Mirio again, and I will leave you here." I threaten, pointing my wand at you. "Now. Did you learn your lesson?"

You grumble, but you do nod.

"Good." I say, before waving my wand one last time. You're back where you were before, not a trace of me or magic.

The lesson, though, sticks.

[electronicgrowth]

Can't Get Enough Part 6

Hello. Yes, I am alive and still writing this. I have an autoimmune disease that flared and knocked me on my butt, on top of preparing to move. So, I’m crazy busy! But don’t you worry my little dumplings. I haven’t forgotten about Lee and Billie. And I just realized I left that last chapter on the biggest cliff hanger ever. I’m so mean! 

But anyway..... this is a small filler chapter that I had been dragging to write. Literally wanting to add this stuff was what prevented me from posting. I have probably the next five chapters written. Also if you ever need a good Sheriff Bodecker fix, I highly recommend this playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7FDbgUjCGtBPsDNiTf8OdF?si=bfce63e832764c34

Summary: The two most stubborn people in Knockemstiff, Ohio have eyes for only each other. Lee Bodecker is determined to become the town’s next sheriff. He knows that image is everything. Billie Dechswaan doesn’t care about her image at all. All she wants is to leave Knockemstiff and never come back. But Lee has other plans for her. Both are far too stubborn to give up their own plans. What happens when they can’t get enough of each other? 

Word Count: 1.1k

After five years, Lee was done waiting. His patience for Billie to return home on her own was wearing thin. Even thinner since Arvin Russell had shot Lee and escaped him. He’d withstood far too many humiliations. 

John had been a throne in his side since Billie left. Always giving Lee dirty looks. John did not vote for Deputy Bodecker to become Sheriff Bodecker and convinced most of his farming friends to follow his lead. 

Joy was a completely different story. She still let Lee in the house when he came over. After the first two years Joy would make off-handed comments about Billie. It led him to believe that maybe Joy knew more than she was letting on. But he didn’t want to press it. He needed to have Joy firmly on his side when Billie came home. Lee’s fondness for Joy did nothing to deter his revenge plans upon her husband. 

He decided to pay some men to tamper with the brakes of John’s car. Two local guys from a couple of towns overs, he had caught soliciting prostitutes— both were married. Lee promised to keep their secret if they did this one thing for him. He told them it was the car of some other dirtbag criminal to cover his tracks. The action would kill two birds with one stone. Lee would have his revenge on John for making Billie leave like she did and Billie would have to come home for the funeral. 

Billie got a job as a librarian. She had and kept her baby. She named her Elizabeth Joy Bodecker. Against her better judgement she listed Lee on the birth certificate. She tried to move on, but always thought of Lee. She hated her job and how much it kept her from her daughter. She just wanted to be home with her amazing, lovely baby. She started dating a new guy, Larry. She didn’t like him that much, but it soon became clear that Larry intended to keep her. He hit her for the smallest infractions and beat her for bigger ones. 

Billie savored her moments with her daughter when it was just the two of them. Her favorite thing to do on Sundays was cook with Beth. Beth would sit on the counter as Billie did all the real work. The radio would be going. Billie would sing sad love songs to her baby, sometimes they would even dance to the music. Billie would swing Beth around the kitchen, all while Beth giggled uncontrollably. These were Billie’s favorite moments. Beth would ask about her daddy. Billie would say the same thing each time. “Daddy was the love of Mommy’s life. He was a great man. But sometimes life leads us in different directions.” It wasn’t the best thing to say, but what else could be said? 

Billie almost ran home five times in the course of those five years. The first time was shortly after Beth was born. She was colicky and wouldn’t latch. Billie needed her mama, or her sister, or her Lee. She called the Ross County Police Department and asked to speak with Lee one evening. The receptionist put her through. 

“Bodecker,” he’d answered gruffly. His voice. She had to cover the receiver with a dish towel so he couldn’t hear her sobs. 

“Hello?” He growled. Just when she almost spoke he hung up. 

The second time was on Beth’s first birthday. She regretted how different her daughter’s first birthday was from all the ways she imagined it should be. She missed Lee.

The third and fourth time she almost went home were after fights with Larry. She thought if she couldn’t get out she’d lose it. But she wasn’t as trapped as she felt. Not really. Surely if she called Lee he’d hightail it up to New York and bring her home. A part of her didn’t want to test that theory. What if he didn’t want her anymore? 

The fifth and final time Billie almost went home was when Lee got shot. Sylvia’s husband Tim was a deputy. Sylvia told Billie what had happened. The news had been an icy shock to her veins. It took everything in her not to pack her bags that night. It took all her willpower not to drive through the night to get to Lee and take care of him. She carefully directed Sylvia on Lee’s favorite foods and told her younger sister to make sure he was being fed. Billie knew Sylvie was rolling her eyes, they didn’t need to be together for her to know that. Sylvie did it anyway. She also relayed how grateful Lee had been. But that he seemed a bit suspicious, Sylvie had no way of knowing what his favorite foods were without Billie telling her. 

The sixth time Billie felt drawn to go home she listened to her gut. On that night, Larry had beaten her again, this time in public. They’d been out on a date. Billie had left Beth with the elderly neighbor lady across the hall. She intended to break-up with Larry that night. But as she began to broach the subject, he flipped their table at the restaurant and threw her on the ground. He proceeded to kick her repeatedly until the manager was able to restrain him. The police were called and she went down to their station to give her statement.

She’d stumbled home from the police station, bruised and tired. Thankfully the bruises were kept to places she could hide, and thankfully he’d done it in public that time so he was caught. Larry was being held in jail. What he did was undeniable. They would probably hold him for a week or two and let the charges drop. As she entered her apartment, the phone rang. She didn’t want to pick up, she wanted to get Beth from her neighbor and go to sleep. She picked up anyway.

“Hello?” 

“B-Billie,” Clara said, “It’s daddy. He’s d-dead.” 

Shock. Dread. Despair. How do you describe the feeling of losing your father forever? Especially with so many words unsaid. No apologies uttered. A situation completely unresolved. Was it guilt? Was it anger? No. It was only sorrow. 

“How?” 

“Car wreck. Come home.” And then the line went dead. Billie was out of options. She knew what she had to do. It was just going to be very unpleasant.

Joy was a wreck, but Sylvia, being the good and dutiful daughter that she was, helped her mother through planning a funeral. The last thing on her mind was communicating with Billie. The funeral was held one week after the accident. Billie managed to break her lease, sell her furniture and pack her bags in just four days. She was running again. But this time she was running home. 

@greeneyedblondie44 @bxnnywriting @kitty4860

[the-melting-world]

The Empress | Side B: “The Fear”

Art by @markmefistov

~ In which a humble gardener opens Strength’s Door…

The Trio Appearances: Kipling | Khleo | Ozy

Arcana LI appearances: Asra | Nadia | Muriel 

Track Origins: “The Fear” by Ben Howard

Not sure if this is the right track? The full album can be found here: The Empress

cw: none

~ 2k words

After Kipling, Ozy, Nadia, and Asra return from the underwater library, Ozy leaves Kipling with the gauntlets, reminding her that he still has to show her how to permanently unlock her third eye.

“Trust me, Kip,” Ozy said with a reassuring smile, “once your third eye is open, you’ll have a much better time navigating the portals.”

With that Ozy let Nadia escort him back inside the Palace. Earlier in the library, he and Kip had agreed to save their lesson in grey magic for the next day. Kipling appreciated Ozy’s patience with her. She could tell he wanted her to be as comfortable as possible before they started unpacking everything from the past.

She was grateful to him for that.

***

(Nadia’s POV)

Nadia walked with Ozy back to his chambers. When they arrived, she waited by the door while he removed his gauntlets and set them aside on the dresser. Nadia wasn’t sure why she hadn’t yet left the grey mage to his business. Her agenda was packed with meetings with foreign dignitaries and not to mention she had a desk full of letters that needed responding to.

And yet, there were other things clouding Nadia’s mind. Like intricate spiraling details across a pearly, artificial surface that stretched so far in every direction. 

“That machine in your library,” Nadia said, starting quietly at first. “The one underwater. Is that where it’s meant to be kept?”

After Ozy took off his gauntlets, he rolled his wrists a few times and walked back towards the Countess.

“The Nautilus? Yes, that’s its primary function – traveling through water. Makes it easier for deep sea exploration.”

This piqued Nadia’s interest even further. “A vessel that never needs to surface?”

Ozy was standing before the Countess now, his expression friendly and eager to keep engaging with her on the topic.

“It does! But not often.”

Nadia hummed. “I see. Like a whale. Or a turtle.”

A soft glimmer flashed behind Ozy’s eyes, as if he were thinking of the same comparisons.

“Yes. Exactly.”

Nadia, who was content to invite Ozy to walk with her, said, “That’s fascinating, Oz. What an incredible find.”

Ozy fell into an easy stride beside the Countess, his hands tucked comfortably in the pockets of his crisp pants. “Hm. Thank you, but I didn’t stumble upon that vessel. You did.”

“What do you mean you…” Nadia slowed to a stop. Ozy mirrored her and turned so that he was facing her, his lip quirking in what she read as a hopeful challenge. That’s when Nadia quickly assembled the pieces of his implications.

“Oz… do you mean to suggest that you built such a thing?”

Ozy looked off to the side rather sheepishly as he shrugged his shoulders.

“Abaco helped.”

Once again, the grey mage had left the Countess at a loss for words. 

As if to put her at ease, Ozy added, “I built a lot of things over the years, Countess. Fixed a lot of things.” His hazel eyes drifted skyward. “Broke a lot of things too now that I think about it.” His hand wandered up to absently scratch at his five o’clock shadow. “Mostly because I ran out of stuff to fix. Not really any other option in that case but to break some things. Otherwise I wouldn’t have…” Ozy’s speech turned into uninterrupted mutterings.

Nadia realized he would have never stopped if she hadn’t said, “Oz, please.” 

That was enough to call back his attention.

“As long as you’re here,” Nadia reached for both of Ozy’s hands, “I want you to call me Nadia.”

Ozy looked down at where she held lightly onto his long fingers, and then back up again. 

“Oh. Like Asra and Kipling do?”

Nadia gave a deliberate nod. “Yes.”

Ozy blinked, the confusion written plainly across his face. “But they’ve known you longer.”

The Countess shook her head. “I know it might seem strange, but that does not matter to me.”

The grey mage was silent for only a moment before he grunted in gentle understanding. He pressed his rather nimble fingers more firmly against Nadia’s.

“You’re ambidextrous,” Ozy noted. “Like me.”

Nadia couldn’t help her face from heating slightly at his observation.

“You’re correct about that.... How did you know?”

Ozy continued to test and trace his fingers around the Countess’. 

“These hands have solved a lot of puzzles. To the point where it’s impossible for them to ignore the details in fact. So… Nadia,” he locked eyes with her, his gilded lip curling into a soft smile, “what’s the story with your hands?”

Nadia grinned, trying to gauge the line where Ozy’s friendliness blurred into flirtation. 

“I’m not sure if there’s a way I can express this without sound like I’m bragging, but my hands do know their way around a workshop.”

Once again, Ozy’s eyes lit up. “A workshop, really? Will you show me?”

Nadia gently guided her hands out of Ozy’s and up around his bicep, linking her arm through his.

“I can take you there, but I won’t be able to join you again until late this afternoon. I have a city to help govern as you might have gathered.”

“Right.” Ozy said with a respectful nod. “You don’t have to worry about me, Nadia. I can always find ways to keep myself busy until you return.”

“Oh, Oz.” 

Nadia thought back to that vessel, immense and pristine, resting at the bottom of a deep pool. 

“I have no doubt about that.”

***

Kipling noticed that Abaco didn’t follow Ozy and Nadia when they left the garden. The bird was content to stay behind and play with Taro and Faust. There was something Kipling found soothing in watching the three familiars interact. So she sat there right in the grass next to a hedge of snowball viburnums. 

Asra, who knew Kip’s behaviors very well by now, was happy to take a seat and curl up right beside her.

“Asra, there’s something I have to tell you.”

The magician breathed a sigh of relief, hoping that it wouldn’t show. He wrapped his arm around Kip’s shoulder and placed his other hand in her lap. “I’m listening.”

In the past, Kip had looked elsewhere, anywhere but directly at Asra, only occasionally flicking her gaze up to meet his. That wasn’t the case this time. Her syrupy brown eyes were fixed on him as she spoke. She seemed determined to give him her full attention.

“When you came by Muriel’s cottage, did he tell you about the reading he gave me?”

Asra swallowed. “Yes. But only a little. He said you drew the Empress.”

“Reversed,” Kip clarified. “I’ll be honest. I’ve been neglecting to tell you the whole truth about Ozy and Khleo… well, Khleo specifically.”

“You don’t talk about them much,” Asra noted. He also didn’t miss how Kip’s eyes would glaze over whenever Ozy mentioned the umbra’s name.

Kip sighed. “I’m ready to talk about them now. Asra, I knew Khleo for a long time before meeting Ozy. They kept my secrets, they were the one I confided in whenever I needed it. When Ozy came around and I didn’t want to have anything to do with him, it was Khleo who taught me about kindness and acceptance. I don’t think I can explain how close we were…”

“You loved them. You still love them.”

Kipling could tell by Asra’s tone that he must have known all this time.

Kip took a moment to work out the tremors in her upper body. Asra squeezed her hand in reassurance.

“We never confessed it aloud, but the day that Khleo was taken by the Door, I was so sure that they were going to say it first.” Kip caught a sob. “There just wasn’t enough time.”

Asra pulled Kip until her face rested against his collarbone. He removed his red scarf and wrapped it around her shoulders. By now the three familiars had gathered onto both of their laps. Taro was determined to soothe Kipling with her head nuzzles and soft chirps.

While Asra rubbed her spine, Kip managed to choke out, “When I portaled to Strength’s gate, I saw Khleo and those feelings were still there, Asra. I don’t know what to do. I know I’m supposed to go see the Empress, but I want… all I can think about is…”

“There was something else Muriel told me,” Asra said. “On the morning you left, the ground all around his cottage was covered in daisies. They could have only come from you. He said there were so many of them, magically conjured to stay in bloom for much longer than normal.”

“Daisies,” Kip sniffed. “They were in Strength’s realm too.”

“Well, they’re all around us right now.”

Kip opened her eyes and sat up. Asra was right. The magical daisies had appeared in the garden. There were thousands of them, packed so tightly it was almost impossible to see the grass.

It wasn’t unnatural for Kip’s green magic to behave in this way. Most of how she managed it was based on her emotions. But she had never seen anything like this.

“Kip,” Asra said, “what if you used the daisies to find your way back to Strength’s realm?”

She tore her eyes away from the flowers and looked at the magician with a mixture of uncertainty and surprise. “You think I should go to Strength’s realm? Without Ozy?”

Asra nodded, his lavender eyes serious. “I’ll go with you.”

“But what if–”

“It was you who said that you can’t bring yourself to meet the Empress right now. What if drawing that card means that you have to face your feelings about Khleo before moving forward?”

Kip’s drew a heavy breath. There were so many what ifs. What if Khleo didn’t remember her? What if Strength tried to bite her head off again? What if…

“Kip.” Asra placed his hands on either side of her face and steered her into a kiss. “I’ll be there with you. We fought the Devil, remember. We can pay Strength a visit. We’ll come to the front door this time instead of dropping out of nowhere. If she doesn’t want to let us in, then she won’t.”

When Asra put it like that, the stakes didn’t seem so high. 

Brrrrr.

Kip looked down to see Taro holding up her new pair of gauntlets. Faust bobbed her head in encouragement and Abaco fluffed his feathers once before using his beak to flick a switch on the gauntlet so that it hummed to life.

Once Kipling had donned them and stood up, she took a deep breath and did her best to rely on what she knew. To her amazement, the gauntlets made it so much easier to detect the control pad that opened the Doors.

Kipling activated the invisible motherboard and gasped when she saw more daisies growing spontaneously in the air. They shot off a few feet to Kip and Asra’s left, circled once and then again in a double ring – the outline of a Door.

“That must be the way to Strength’s gate,” Asra whispered. 

Kip’s gauntlets gave a sharp whine as she felt them tug her towards the highlighted portal. Asra followed behind Kip as she drifted in that direction. Abaco flew ahead, tweeting madly and whizzing to the path of the daisies. 

Kipling reached out until she connected with the lever handle to the Door. She found it easily, as if a magnetic force linked her gauntlet to the portal. 

Then Kip pushed until the lever rotated. The Door squeaked as it opened. That magnetic tug was back, but this time it wanted to get away from Kip. She tentatively released the lever and watched as the door snapped open. Wider, wider, wider – 

“You have to lock it, Kip!”

Kip gasped at the memory of a younger Ozy hollering at her while a storm grew over their heads. This sparked a second memory of a Door that grew too great for any of them to handle. She couldn’t let that happen again. 

Kip glanced over at Asra and remembered. She would never let another Door take off with someone she cared about.

Her gauntlet glowed brighter. Kip listened to the hum…

The gardener caught the lever before it could get away from her and spin completely out of control. She sensed a new type of pull and followed it, anchoring the lever into a small depression that wasn’t visible to the naked eye.

Glittery light sparked all along Kipling’s knuckles. Abaco was absolutely delirious with excitement. The daisies dissolved, but there was water on the other side of the Door, churning smoothly, without turbulence.

Through the tunnel of seawater and shimmering light, Kip felt the call of clear summer skies and rolling hills blanketed in wildflowers.

[chrysalispen]

upon pale dawns, prologue: “ardent for some desperate glory” (PREVIEW)

A brief peek at what I’ve been drafting for my next longfic, set during ARR. 

More under the cut.

========

Castrum Abania, 9th Sun, Second Astral Moon, Year 5 of the Seventh Umbral Era

 The room was cold and the silence sterile, broken only by the sounds of a dry ticking from the digital wall chronometer and the soft and regular sighs of a sleeping man.

The quiet itself was no surprise. Research and development floors were always kept clear of unnecessary chatter in favor of the sound and rhythm of industry, small gears turning amidst the well-oiled machine of imperial conquest. Standard procedure, that- particularly when the work that took place away from prying eyes was exacting and often hazardous. But the relative dark and the ambient cycling of the console's processor had for several bells now been interspersed only with the low rumble of the central air unit and the rhythmic rattle of footsteps without the corridors, and Nero tol Scaeva had at this point been awake for most of the past thirty hours.

Thus when the chiming began, it went unheeded at first. 

He had finally fallen asleep waiting for one of his processes to run and lay half-sprawled over the metal surface of the table: limbs immobile and lashes fluttering against cheekbones as he drowsed at the empty work station he’d appropriated upon his arrival in the lower levels. The small timer long ago affixed to his personal aetherometer had been set in this instance to ring without cessation, to ensure he would waken. 

After a few minutes had lapsed the sound began to send him off-course from his dreaming state by ilms, a rudderless ship caught in deep currents. His transition from sleeping to wakefulness felt incredibly reluctant: heavy and sluggish. 

Nero blinked slowly, once, then twice, attempting to reorient himself.

The noise was aggravating an incipient headache. He righted his posture and smacked the damned thing until the room was silent once again before reaching for the cold mug he had left on a borrowed coaster. Sipping at its contents with a distasteful grimace - whoever had brewed the coffee, they had added too much water and the result was something weak and listless and far too bitter - he turned his attention towards the old Allagan testing module and its compiling readout. It appeared to be reaching the end of its cycle. 

So he thought, until the activity scrolling across the screen flickered in place, pulsing like a heartbeat. Nero swore under his breath when a brief error message superimposed itself over the readout in black-bordered white- one he’d seen with far too many of these devices recently. 

[Unable to read file. The current application will be terminated.]

His annoyed sigh escaped in a hiss between his teeth.

Brow wrinkled in thought, he stared at the screen and its bland error message for a few beats. Although Ultima’s original hardware was in surprisingly reasonable working order, several of the tomestones they had found in the same space had not proven to be nearly as resistant to the vagaries of time. Thus far only a handful had relinquished their secrets without issue. Not unexpected, given their age and the conditions in which they’d been found, but unfortunate all the same. 

The tribunus laticlavius of the XIVth Imperial Legion was given to rather more direct methods of approach by nature. His patience, as a man of thirty-four winters with a good fifteen of them spent in the service of the imperial army, was very much a learned skill: one developed through years of trial and error and the innate understanding of those traits his chosen craft required.

Magitek was not ineffable. It was parts and pieces that fit together neatly like a puzzle in the absence of human error, mathematics and sequencing and carefully collected data. To guide and to create with these tools required a methodical mind and observant eye and a certain degree of acceptance that on occasion, one simply could not rush the desired results. 

This was one such occasion. The end result, of course, would be worth the tedium- or so one could fondly hope. 

He leaned forward and compressed the small button until the module had powered down and all that was left was the rumble of the air unit. 

A gentle tug freed the small tomestone from its moorings and he held it aloft to study the detailing, periwinkle-blue eyes squinting and straining against the red-tinged light from the fluorescents. The small grooves caught the ambient lighting from the walls with each idle spin between his fingers; they seemed to mock him with each little shimmer, ancient secrets so painfully close to discovery that they lay mere ilms from his grasp. 

Secrets which promised a long and tedious process if he wished to claim them.

...Well. He’d do it, of course he would. 

This was but the least method at his disposal. He'd have to look into a few other options, something that might extract the data into some readable format that he could put to use. While the old datalogs were fascinating, he wasn't spending his time reading them for a history lesson. No, what he sought was a bulwark of preliminary information, a bare framework upon which he planned to build. Ideally, he'd end up with a dossier of sorts which he could use to catalogue the Weapon’s original abilities, and enough code to piece together a system that was more or less analogous to that of Allag. One powered by ceruleum, rather than aether. 

What the solution perforce lacked in elegance, it should compensate with efficiency. Tangible results.

A functional Weapon.

If he could just- 

A much lower-pitched sound than his desk alarum - this one a harsh, flat buzz - cut through the quiet of the lab. His first inclination was to ignore it in favor of his study, but a second followed quickly on its heels, and a third. 

That, unfortunately, was a sound he could not ignore. With a barely suppressed yawn he toggled the small red switch next to the wall’s built-in communications device.

“Scaeva. Engineering," he said, keeping his tone clipped and curt- the voice of a man who would brook no trivial disturbances. "State your business.”

The response he received was a very audible swallow followed with a hoarsely uttered, “Lord tol Scaeva?” 

“Speaking."

"My lord?"

He managed, only just, to suppress his impatience. "Speaking. As in 'with whom do I have the pleasure.' Name and rank." 

“Oh. Terribly sorry, my lord. I, erm, Quintus pyr Blasio. Lord, uh. Tribunus. Sir.”

Seven hells. Not a name Nero recalled, though he rarely had reason to trouble himself over memorizing the personnel that manned every garrison between Ala Mhigo and the Velodyna fringes. Some poor bastard who had likely been the first man flagged down for runner duty by his direct report, no doubt. 

Some poor bastard who was also either too dazzled or too shit-scared of speaking to the legion's top brass to string three words together. Just what he needed.  

“...Go on,” he prompted when the man said nothing further. 

“Lord Sc-”

“I daresay we’ve both established our identities at this juncture," impatience and lingering drowsiness rendered his response a sardonic drawl, for all its erstwhile civility. "The message, if you please.”

“Message, my lord?”

“Yes. The message. That is why you’ve called to interrupt my current litany of scheduled tasks, or so I would assume?”

“Ah... y-yes. Yes, my lord.” The speaker at the other end of the connection paused, and on its heels came the sound of a clearing throat. “Ah, Lord van Baelsar asked that I, er, that is, he requests your presence to discuss-”

“He wants me to attend a meeting,” Nero cut in. “When and where?”

“Half four, my lord. Ah- in Sector VI. The administrative complex south of the new hangar.”

Half four- it was five minutes past now. With the identification checks and elevators that gave him about ten minutes' leeway. A bit tight, but doable.

For a moment the only sound he heard was nervous, ragged breathing and the flat drumming of his right hand’s fingertips upon the metal surface while he mentally rearranged the next hour he’d dedicated to other tasks. It was an annoyance but the summons still amounted to an order, and hardly one he could countermand, secret project or not. “Understood," he said. "Inform the legatus that I will be along presently."

"I will, Lord tol Scaeva. I-"

"In future, do make some bare attempt at brevity when delivering messages, tessarius- for your own sake.”

Another gulp. “Of course, my lord. I’ll pass alo--”

Before the man could waste more time stammering out another response, the tribunus laticlavius flipped the switch and cut the connection. The line went dead with a static click.

[oh-theatre]

I Have to Tell You Something

A/n: HEHE I SUCK AT WRITING BUT I LOVE LOGICALITY AND THOUGHT I WOULD WRITE THIS ON A WHIM ANYWAY ENJOY THIS TRASH

Warnings: medical talk, no happy ending, angst but it has some comfort! Ask to tag

“How do you always look so beautiful in the morning?” Logan mumbles through his kiss as he places a gentle one on Patton’s cheek. He flops back onto his pillow sighing, Patton lays stiff.

“Logan we have t-“ he begins quickly getting stopped by Logan

“I can’t even look at you” He turns his back to his partner laughing as he makes a joke of his antics. Patton gives him a weak smile unsure of how much longer he can hold onto. “But I have to so I can do...this” Logan whispers the last part as he cups Patton’s face giving him a kiss, the breath leaving Patton’s body “Now come, I’m going to make you the most delicious food you have ever had the pleasure of tasting” he quickly leaves the warmth of their bad, his hair a mess as he places his glasses on his gruffly face. Patton admires him for a moment, the faded navy blue shirt rested on his waist scrunched with the grayest sweatpants all bunched up.

“Hold on” Patton sat up, bringing the blanket with him “Just give me a second ok?” He requested, his efforts were futile as he watches Logan’s mind already wandering. His boyfriend crawled onto the bed once again taking Patton’s lips on his own.

“Breakfast” he smiled, a smug excitement as he bounced off the bed and into the loft.

“Breakfast” Patton repeated, rubbing his face vigorously he took his own glasses and hesitantly followed Logan. He sat at the kitchen counter whilst Logan had already begun cooking.

“Coffee sunshine?” He offered Patton a cup, Patton gave him a lazy nod hoping the brewed drink would help him get through this. He was glad for the Saturday morning. Remus slept until noon, Virgil had already left for his morning shift. Now in the hazy living/kitchen area, with the sun finding its way through the curtains, was the perfect moment.

“So listen-“

“I smell food!” A third voice cried. Logan whipped around a giant smile plastered on his face. Remus strolled in giving Patton a kiss on the forehead. They had always shared this bond, a sibling one. Which of course extended to Roman, Remus’s actual brother. He took in the scene before humming as he leaned onto the counter. “Peaches, what’s better than Logan cooking?” He inquired from Patton

“Logan cooking breakfast” Patton responded meekly. A clap and bounce was his verification that that was indeed the answer remus was looking for. Patton forced a tighter smile, his patience and ability wearing thing. Of course he couldn’t fault his roommate, but when was he supposed to do it. Remus and Logan no doubt would be working on their project today, Patton had clients and tonight was Virgil and Romans engagement party. Speaking of clients, he watched his phone vibrate the metal counter. Logan and Remus paid no mind as they continued discussing the true meaning of breakfast. “Patton Foley of Foley Fashion speaking, how can I help?” He answered.

“Oh good, i thought I had written the number down wrong” he heard a familiar voice speak through the other end.

“Mister Voce” he recognized “How may I help you?”

“Oh please just call me Janus. I was just wondering if we still had our meeting today? About the outfit for the gala?”

Patton yawned rubbing underneath his glasses.

“Yes, twelve pm at Monsier Meals” he nodded, instinctively holding the phone away from his ear as an elated shriek was heard.

“Merveilleuse!” Janus replied “Thank you” and soon the phone was quiet.

“Breakfast is served!” He heard Logan announce. He walked back towards them watching as Remus took no survivors, allowing a hefty amount of food to grace his plate.

“I will be in my room watching the season finale of the bachelorette if you need me” he says before rushing away. Finally, this was Patton’s chance. The loft fell quiet as Logan and Patton sat across from one another eating their meal.

“You had something you wanted to talk to me about?” Logan reminded, for the first time this morning Patton’s heart stuttered.

“yeah um...look Lo i-“

Surely this was a joke, as if the universe was so hellbent on making Patton’s life difficult

“I’m not marrying him!” Virgil slammed the door. Logan and Patton shared a look, their eyes and nods a full conversation. After pacing with anger Virgil sat down with a drop next to Logan “what was I thinking, saying yes..to him” patton chuckled going to clean his dishes. Logan set his utensils down facing his friend.

“What now?” Logan asks expecting something minor, it was typical with the pair, they were perfect for eachother. Of course they were, but ever since they had met when Patton moved in and introduced the twins to the group, Virgil and Roman were set, game, match. Patton listened humming ever so gently, but the sudden sobs almost caused him to drop a plate.

“I-I can’t marry him!” Virgil gasps “He’s so fucking perfect and annoying and I love him!” He wasn’t typically like this in all fairness, but he was a sucker for romance...especially his own. “He came to my work today, he bought me flowers! He invited me to lunch!” Virgil shook furiously, Logan nodded not grasping what the problem was.

“What a horrible horrible man” Logan’s response fell flat. Virgil stood and began walking to his room, Logan knew he was meant to follow, he placed his dishes by the sink quickly. Before he could go he felt Patton tug his shirt pulling him gently. “Tonight I promise”

“Tonight” Patton begged. Logan gave him a careful kiss on the forehead, before smiling. “I love you starlight” Patton watches as his boyfriend ran after a rambling Virgil.

The place became clean once more, as if untouched. Patton debated going into his room but after walking by and hearing the raging fit Virgil was making he decided to work in the living room, after he showered.

It had been about fourth five minutes of design and putting together a portfolio for the meeting before Patton’s concentration was broken by the sound of his phone.

“Patton Foley-“

“Hello this is Doctor Mauras office, is this Patton Foley?” His heart dropped, he was unsure as to why he knew this was coming. He was hoping it would have gone differently, Logan by his side at least. He leaned back sighing as he massaged the nook of his nose.

“This is he”

“Mister Foley, you came in for check up the other day and doctor Maura wanted to run some extra tests is that right?” He knows the woman on the phone was doing her job but he wanted nothing more to rush this. Just tell me he could hear himself scream.

“Mhm”

“Right well I have the results here...” her tone wavered and Patton took note “from our tests we were able to conclude you have a grade one glioblastoma growing in your brain, it’s not as aggressive but it’s quickly getting to be a problem we have some treatment...” he heard her voice continue talking but nothing was processing the words just existed as his mind went blank. The nausea...the constant fatigue and weakness...his inability to comprehend things... What was he going to do? What was he going to tell Logan? “... even with all of that it’s an incurable condition”

He wanted to faint right there, pass out.

But his fear seized him. Would he ever wake up?

“Ok finally done with that..” Logan breezed into the room watching Patton instantly shut his phone. “Are you hiding a secret lover from me?” He teased expecting at least a giggle of amusement. But the way Patton’s face morphed...the small shake before his eyes were swept with a glossy look. Logan rushed to his side allowing him to collapse into sobs as he held him. “Patton...” but he couldn’t find the words, so gentle strokes and kisses of comfort was what he provided.

Glioblastoma..

Treatment options...

Hard to process...

Preparations should be made..

Can improve condition but...

A choked sob broke though

...it’s incurable

[reynesofcastamere]

Surface Breach(2/3)[β]

(A/N: Good grief but it has been a while since my last contribution to the ship. Sad to say I’ve been caught up with several irl things, including moving and settling in to the new place. Rest assured, I do have several drafts in the works for other projects and I am hoping to set up a regular writing/submission schedule. Now that that’s out of the way...Warnings for: possessive behaviour, emotional manipulation, (negotiated) bondage, blindfolding, edging, cockwarming, blood, masochism and mentions of polyamory, coitus interruptus, and non-consensual play.  Unbeta’d and NSFW.)

Ahsoka knows the second she sets foot on her ship that time is up. She could still flee, drag this game out a bit longer and drive up the level of his frustration...But what would be the point, really? It’s been months since they parted ways, and while she hasn’t avoided his calls, she’s also made a point of not meeting with him in person. A reprimand for his behaviour, and a reminder of the challenge she’d issued.  She recalls the first, trembling breath of relief she’d taken after the medical scans were complete. He has no further hold over her than this. Nothing burrowed and secreted away beneath her skin to...Do any number of things, really. Most of which she’d rather not consider right now.

Maul is of course perfectly at ease in the pilot’s seat, already turned to face her. “Lady Tano. I trust that your last assignment was successful.” He’s being neutral, bordering on pleasant, even. But the tension is there, kept in check by the slimmest thread of restraint. “And I trust that you’re not here for small talk.” Ahsoka makes certain to keep a few feet of distance between them, arms crossed. The corner of his mouth twitches, the speed of it leaving her unsure of whether he meant to smirk or grimace. “You have business on Nar Shadaa, and I have certain...interests that need tending there.” “So you decided to catch a ride. Without asking.”  “You would have refused even if I had offered compensation. This is the most expedient method of travel.” Maul’s eyes narrow, attempting to pierce through and determine her intent. “Unless you plan to run in order to spite me.” “I’m not running anywhere.” Ahsoka retorts. “But I’m also not going to spend three whole days in hyperspace...entertaining you.” “Naturally. However, when we are not occupied with tasks and other essentials, you will make good on your promise, my Lady. Now please, sit.”  She takes up residence in the navigator’s seat, given that he’s obviously not willing to move. “I told you to stop calling me that.”

“What does it matter, if you are not truly mine? Just a monster’s delusion. Unless...”

“Don’t. Start. You can use either of my names. Just not...that.” “As you wish.”

Nothing else is said for some time. Even after the ship takes off, the course is set in, and space has blurred into blue lines, there are other responsibilities that need to be taken care of. Ahsoka has to stop herself from dragging out the time. She’s not looking forward to this. The discussion she needs to have with him, not what might happen afterward.

“Look, if this is going to continue, there need to be some ground rules.”

 “Explain.”

“First off: Unless I’m badly injured or in immediate danger, you’re not allowed to just...carry me back to your lair, no matter what your reasons are.” He’s more than capable of coming up with a multitude of excuses to do so. Which is why she’s cutting him off at the knees, figuratively speaking.  “Second: This arrangement doesn’t interfere with work. Ever. Third: I decide when anything starts. You’re not allowed to grab or molest me in any way before that.” 

Maul appears mildly amused, but the small tics that betray his impatience are growing. “This seems rather excessive for a casual arrangement.”

 Ahsoka pins him in place with a look and a hint of a Force hold. “I’m not finished. Fourth: Any marks left behind have to be concealable.” She’d walk away from this ‘business trip’ with more visible punctures in her than being dropped into a giant cacti forest on Yavin 13 otherwise.  “Fifth: No matter how far along we are, if I say ‘kyber’, we stop what we’re doing. No questions, no persuasion, nothing. If you don’t have a safeword, then pick one and tell me.”

“Is ‘stop’ somehow inadequate?” The question is soft as she releases her unseen grasp on him. Even seated, something in him reminds her of a hunter in the moment before a kill; tense with anticipation and bloodthirst.   “No.” She wets her lower lip. There’s no going back from this confession, hard as it had been for her to admit it to herself. Much less him.  “When I use ‘stop’, it usually means ‘go harder’.”

Maul’s grip is practically throttling the armrest at this point. He is trying, from the shudder in his breath, to follow the rules she’s set out so far. That’s a good sign. His eyes, though? There’s a flicker in them that she used to see from the people she’d helped or rescued during the war. The ones who fully believed that the Jedi were capable of miracles and could do no wrong. A kind of...awe. Achingly soft, and in his case, almost buried beneath avarice and raw desire. She fights the urge to squirm, and it’s not entirely from discomfort. “Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Good, ‘scimitar’ should suffice. I have some conditions of my own.” Every word is a caress, heavy and deliberate. “You are, of course, free to object.” He produces the blindfold she’d given him from within his shirt. She remembers exactly how he’d taken her apart; bound by choice and utterly enthralled. “So long as you wear this, you will obey.” Maul purrs, heat suffusing her body as he winds and pulls the fabric taut between his fingers. “I’m not going to call you ‘Master’.” Ahsoka is certain he’d like almost nothing more. She gets far too much pleasure out of denying him, however. So he’ll have to earn it first.

“Yet.” Maul responds, overconfident ass that he is. “I have no desire for you to dull your tongue. But you will submit to my commands.” He leans in, nearly closing the gap between them, but not quite. “Such as if I tell you to get down on your knees and show me how you pleasure yourself.” He’s only saying it to provide an example, yet her thighs rub together all the same at the thought. Sightless, her cunt exposed and dripping while he watches, giving obscene praise and instructions on how to bring herself to orgasm.

“Should you want to take control, all you need do is remove it. Or ask that it be taken off.” Of course he’s not done yet. Has to finish having his say first, and bring her arousal to a fever-pitch with the only options currently allowed. “Any amount of marks you receive from other paramours, I will match in number, and I will take first priority.” There is a jealous glint, a madness in his eyes that should terrify her. “Regardless of your position and how close your mutual release is.”  Ahsoka sucks in a sharp breath. “You really expect me to just...make someone leave while they’re-”  “Yes.” Maul snarls, hushed and vicious in a way that brooks no refusal. Much as she might like to, if she does not compromise, give some inch of ground...He will lash out. Ultimately, he’s not asking for much. So far. “And should you draw a weapon on me again-” His left hand circles her jaw without actually making contact, though the intent is clear. “-be prepared to use it.” Her gaze falls to his throat, his markings almost concealing the burn scar she’d given him. But not quite. That he’d chosen to keep it at all is- “Do we have an agreement, Ahsoka Tano?”

 A small eternity seems to pass between her indrawn breath and the resulting answer. “Yes.” Ahsoka looks at him again without fear. Straight into the eyes of the monster, the murderer, the tyrant she has and will be taking into her bed for the forseeable future. “Go ahead.” The first kiss is nothing short of a conquest, taken with broken vocalizations and sharp bites. She lets him pull her in, straddling his lap in the pilot’s seat while they break for air, and offering no resistance when he ties the blindfold securely in place. “Undress. Completely.” Softer now, his lips ghosting along her jawline. It takes a bit of effort, but before long she is bared to him, nipples pebbled from arousal, the air, and the cold presence of the Dark Side. The body beneath her, the bare hands that trace and mould her form are nearly white-hot by comparison. “Perfect...Turn around, and place your hands behind my neck.” Ahsoka obeys, shuddering in pleasure as he purrs. The cuffs he attaches to her wrists are made of some kind of leather, and she instinctively tests the give of the metal chain between them. Sturdy, but nothing she can’t break out of.

The position leaves her undeniably exposed and at his mercy. She expects none, yet he grants it anyway. With each stroke, squeeze, and tug of his fingers down her body, he steadily tunes her nerves to exquisite sensitivity. He never quite touches her core, preferring to caress and grip her inner thighs and the curve of her breasts even as she pants and shifts restlessly. She can feel him against her, hard and unyielding, the cloth barrier separating them gradually being saturated with her essence. And still he makes no effort to hurry things along. “I thought you wanted to -haaaaahhhh- punish me for making you wait this long.”  “You made a game of testing my patience. It is only fitting that I return the favour. I will keep you here, on the precipice between agony and bliss...Until, in your desperation, you beg me to ‘stop’.” Maul pinches her throbbing bud and she whines an incoherent stream of vowels. “Although...Hm. Your impulsive side is endearing.”

“What are you rambling on ab-AnnnnnH!” He bites down on her shoulder while slightly twisting the bundle of nerves held captive between his digits. She’s bleeding and the pain between her legs is pure torture, but she still wants-

‘I will grant your release early. If you ask to be fucked.” “You can’t be serious.” “Three simple words are all that stand in your way.”

“Why not just order me to say it?”

“Why should I, when you so clearly want to? Despite your self-denial.”  There’s no longer anything gentle about his touch, how his nails dig in and rake across her inner thighs while her shoulders and upper back gain a rapidly-growing collection of teeth-marks. His shaft is still there, still covered and rigid, rubbing against her hot and sodden core. Ahsoka is on the verge of sobbing. Or breaking her restraints to just seize what he’s dangling in front of her. But if all it takes is a couple of words...”Please, fuck me.” She whispers, rough from repressing her whimpers.

“Again.” His lips on her throat, feeling the command rumbling against her vocal cords.

She grits her teeth and snarls. “Fuck. Me. Please. You smug, overbearing bastard.” Maul’s fingers curve over and tug her recently-abused pearl, and she is lost, sent tumbling and screaming into the abyss.

Her body is still quivering in the aftermath when he presses in. A slow invasion, one that encounters no resistance until he is fully secured within her walls. At first, she thinks he just wants her to ride him. Yet before she can start... “I will give you a choice.” Maul’s voice is low enough to feel in her bones. “If you can keep relatively still for fifteen minutes, you will be taken against the control panel. And if you are very good, Ahsoka-” Her name on his lips is electric and scandalous, her body arching as if pulled by unseen strings. “-I will get down on my knees and devour you first.” She should never have given him permission to use it in the first place. His other...’endearments’ are easy to brush off. Somehow, hearing those three syllables in this moment is more intimate than having him inside her, feeling the incremental shifts between their bodies with each breath. 

Ahsoka raises herself up, almost to the point of letting his shaft slip out, then drops back down. She can feel him hiss, how his hips jolt up on instinct once before he stops himself. “Mmmm. Think your other option is bad enough to stop me from putting this to better use?” She’s teasing now, circling and rolling her hips in a way that takes him deep, but not all the way in again. Having Maul relatively immobile is a new experience. Even when he’s not being rough, he’s hardly still. It probably won’t last, but so long as his patience holds out...Using him like a sex toy is doing a lot to rev her up right now. He seizes her head-tail and pulls, bending Ahsoka’s neck back at an uncomfortable angle, free hand grasping one of her thighs to force a stop to her movements. “Keep this up and I assure you, ja’ti mirtis{my death}, you will not enjoy sitting when I am done with you.” Maul rasps, his mouth so close to her left montral that she can feel his lips brushing against it with every word. Her core trembles, breath coming in short, sharp pants. “I wonder which would bring you more pleasure? Being bent over the edge of your cot to be mounted and used...Or disciplined until that option becomes a mercy?”  Something like insanity seizes her. It’s the only explanation for what she says next. “Both.” Ahsoka breathes. “I want-Take these off, please.” The light is harsh for the few seconds it takes her eyes to adjust, wrists slightly chafed from the cuffs as she carefully turns to face him. “I need both.” Her hands gently circle his face. “Can you do that? Get me ready with your mouth, and take me nice and slow right here?” He seems transfixed, almost unable to believe the words falling from her lips. “Think of how wet I’ll be, when you’ve finished your ‘discipline’ and I’m just aching to be ruined.” Ahsoka can taste the hunger when he captures her mouth, how similar it is to her own. Her nails claw at his shoulderblades, seeking purchase, to bury herself in him, anything. “Yes, Ahsoka.” Maul whispers, between their lips meeting in repeated, feverish collisions. “You have only to ask.” (A/N: Some of you may have noticed a slight change in the numbers up top. So yes, there will be one more chapter to this particular story. 8D Cheers, everyone!)

[the-ash0]

surviving paradise chapter 7

Time

I stare at the sky as I sit, plucking at grass in the Capsule Corp front garden. It is small compared to the back one, so staying here provides me a measure of privacy. Though the Nameks fear me, they need their fresh air too, I suppose. So I have left the back gardens free for them, lest I run into any by mistake. I am trying hard enough as it is not to start trouble.

Today marks the first full week of my stay here on earth, but already my patience is running thin. I have not left Capsule Corp grounds since that first day at the bar. On one hand, I hardly feel like subjecting myself to another degrading episode due to my… inexperience with this world and its customs. On the other, everything I could ever want or need is provided for me right here; right here at my fingertips.

Which is exactly as it should be, of course. I am a prince, after all. And the greatest warrior in the galaxy, now that Frieza and Kakarot have managed to kill each other off. Which is fine; clever, in a way. To get rid of both in this manner. Yep, life is absolutely fucking perfect.

So why do I feel so... tired?  

It must be the routine of this place. The days on this planet are too short to suit me. Though I suppose the schedule I followed in my previous life —a cycle of travel in cryo-sleep for months up to years, a purge mission or two lasting a few days, then back in cryo-sleep for a debriefing and an optional few days to restart the process— doesn't really qualify as a rhythm.

Still, the monotone repetition wears on my nerves. I know I should try and adjust; rise and retire with the sun. Yet I spend more time staring at my bedroom ceiling than dreaming, and the morning light does little to rouse me into action. I feel strange: weak without any damage taken. Exhausted without wanting sleep. Numb...

I reach out for another hand of grass to pull up, but find the semicircle around me cropped to the point that I need to dig up roots. I contemplate moving to another spot to restart the process, though picking myself up seems like so much work for nothing.

Why bother at all? I could pluck the whole field bare or move around and make ugly bare circles in the perfectly cut grass. What would that achieve? Well, maybe someone would take offence. I could use someone to scream at, or have scream at me, or talk to... Anything.

A sound from behind brings me back to my senses. I take it back; I really do not wish any form of interaction, and definitely not with the locals.

The grey-haired professor, apparently the man of the house, appears from the door and makes his way towards me with purpose. I groan. The old dolt had stayed clear of me mostly until now, and I had thought him the smartest of the pack for that. Perhaps I was wrong.

He walks into my periphery and clears his throat, pets the weird black creature perched on his shoulder, then stares down at me as if expecting something.

As soon as I realize what he wants, I deign not to give it. Instead, I focus my attention on the clouds overhead. There’s only a few of them, of course. Even the weather on Earth is perfect. Perfect, constant, monotone and boring. Sadly, my studious inattention is not enough to deter old four-eyes from intruding.

The grey human sighs, fidgeting in his pocket for something before sitting down. A decent distance away, but facing the same direction with an unfounded air of camaraderie. The crunch-creak of metal on a lighting stone finally breaks my resolve. “If you dare light that stinking filth in my breathing air I’ll rip your throat out.”

The man blinks at me and puts his lighter away with an apologetic smile, studying the white twig in his other hand as if unsure what to do with it. “Panchy asked me to fetch you,” he offers as appeasement. “Lunch is served.”

Blasted woman and her blasted food.

“Well, she could have just said so herself, could she not?” I grind out, “besides, do you always run to do your woman’s bidding?”

I turn from his blinking four-eyed stare and recline with a sigh. Pathetic as this planet’s gravity is, I am not up to fighting it. “Besides, I am not hungry.”

“And there it is too,” his old voice turns sure, as if I just proved some point. Opting to leave the unlit cigarette in mouth, he frowns down at me. “In answer to your question, Panchy hardly ever asks for anything. So when she does, I do run, even when I do not understand.”

I take a deep breath. “Your wife is a degenerate airhead whose only purpose would be to exemplify the useless stupidity of this planet and its main species!”

To my surprise the man laughs —laughs!— at my comments.

“She does seem like an airhead doesn’t she? Here on Earth, especially in my generation, too much intelligence in a woman was frowned upon; just as my little girl likes to play the damsel in distress, she likes to play airhead.” The man lowers his voice, and I perk up as I finally hear a threatening undertone: “But I would think that a man such as yourself knows not to take all at face value?”

I, the Prince of all Saiyans, snarl and turn on him. “I do not care for you, your planet, or any of your ridiculous mating customs. In fact, I think I’ll blow this whole planet up, right now! And there’s not a damn thing you or anyone here can do about it.”

The old man stares at me intently, before nodding and adjusting his glasses. “Is that what is bothering you?”

“NO!” Yes? Maybe? I deflate, what little energy I had gone again too soon. This man is supposed to be the richest in the world... Can’t he at least get the military to fight me? Maybe if I just blow him and his precious Capsule Corp to pieces, someone worthy will show. Probably. Possibly.

Kakarot’s idiot friends might provide me some challenge, but the old coot just gives me a goofy grin. Unworried. Whatever. Military or stupid Z-gang, no one on this planet is worth my trouble. I can hardly make myself care if they win or lose. I lay back down, place an arm over my eyes, and repeat: “I’m not hungry.”

The old man sucks in his breath, like I had said I was dying or something, then gets up and leaves.

Finally, some peace.

Or as close as I am able to get to it.

I find myself wondering if death would have brought true peace. I was dead before, right? But all I can remember from that time is my fervent, all encompassing wish that someone— preferably Kakarot— kill that filthy Lizard.

I had not wanted to leave and had clung to that battle with all I had. The memories are garbled after death, but I think I still spoke to my fellow Saiyan. Maybe I might have had peace after that. That would have been nice.

Sadly, peace appears to be the one thing not available in this place. I recognise the crunch-step of feet on gravel, and have to stifle a groan. No torture that Hell could have dreamt up would have been as annoying and maddening as this constant string of visitors. It is the blue-haired young woman this time; the old coot’s spawn. Her voice sounds suspiciously friendly and chipper.

“Vegeta? Vegeta dear, will you come and have a look at what I’m fixing?”

I don't care. “Did your father send you?”

She answers a little too fast: “No!”

I can't help but bark a mirthless laugh. Well, I can teach her a thing or two about lying. “Sorry, I am busy.”

Her unamused drawl suggests she is not that stupid, though. “I think you’ve mowed our lawn enough for a while, don't you?”

I move the arm still covering my eyes slightly so I can squint up at her. She stands over me, hands on hips, all wide open eyes and bare shoulders. Her hair is up in a bun, strands fall past her face as she bends over me. She wears a  thin-strapped top over only marginally more practical pants. Yellow working gloves on her fists, an eyeshield dangling from one like an accessory. If not for the dark smudge by her nose, she’d resemble one of those girls on the square movie frame her mother likes to watch.

I can't decide if I’m more offended that she would approach me with so much bare skin to burn off, or that she can’t even be bothered to clean herself up before addressing royalty. Instead of letting my irritation show, I smirk and roll to my side, away from her. “I don't do manual labor. I’m relaxing. And as I can't manage to care about your silly projects, just run along.”

If I was hoping to bait her, I am disappointed. She stretches her arms over head as she straightens, and hums to herself, putting a gloved hand to her cheek. “That is a shame. I had thought to outdo my father’s machine. You know, the one that made Goku’s transition to Super Saiyan possible. But without a Saiyan to test it, I can hardly prove to father I’ve won our bet. Perhaps I should let Yamcha use it instead. Or Krillin. He’s pretty strong. Perhaps he could be super-human. Who knows…?” She trails off and smiles at me triumphantly.

At some point during her speech, I have sat up to scowl at her, but she sees right through my anger to the awakened hunger beneath.“I don't suppose you could just relax inside the spaceship for a while? I kind of need to test the gravity settings before I call this one safe for use, but poor little me will get squashed by anything beyond the 3 ½ setting…”

“Fah! Weak as you are, you’ll probably die at twice Earth's gravity.” Not to mention what would happen at, say, ten times Earth's gravity. But for me, that would be like coming home. Was this Kakarot’s secret to achieving such power?

Kakarot... As I straighten and cross my legs, I cannot help but think of our first battle. Now, that was a fight. I honestly can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. Well, at least up to the point where his bloody friends intervened and cut off my tail. They just have no sense of propriety. But before his friends intervened...I grin at my boots. I was winning, right? Our fight is not yet finished; perhaps a rematch is in order.

Yes, a rematch. The third-class may be dead, but here on this magic little mud-ball called Earth that does not seem to be a problem. And before Namek, before his special training, he was weak compared to me, so… if I use the same methods he did, should I not be able to surpass him? After all, I am the one meant to be a Super Saiyan. Everyone always said so. I effortlessly stand, my attention on my fist as I ball it slowly and remember what I am. Who I am..

“No, no.” The woman’s voice pulls me back to the present, turning as she shakes her head. “The science is in on this. I should be able to take up to 6 gees easily, but I won't be able to stand after 3, 3 ½  tops. That’s useless for my tests though. Father’s machine went up to 100 times Earth’s gee. Mine, once tested, should be able to generate 200 gees! Oh dear,” she walks off pensively, “do you think that might be too much?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I have to run after her to catch up. “You couldn’t build something to hurt me if you tried.”

[eleiszon-blog]

Extradimensional Chess (3/3)

The following is an analysis of the various players and moves made throughout Part 18, the final episode of The Return. It is the third entry in a trilogy, the prior entries covering Lodge-relevant events from Parts 1, 2 and 17. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- We open on Mr. C seated in the Waiting Room. His eyes have partially reverted to their earliest cloudy state. He is in flames. I believe this fire is the ultimate, primordial state of a doppelganger and, indeed, all negative energy. A long-troubled David Lynch script, Ronnie Rocket, has had many of its ideas recycled into The Return. One of these ideas makes no explicit appearance but I believe it exists within Twin Peaks. “The entire stage is filled with a wall of fire 200 feet high.  Within the fire are thousands of souls screaming out silently . . . only the roaring of the fire.” - The first line of the script of Ronnie Rocket. I believe this fire of voicelessly wailing souls is what Mr. C shall join. Windom is there too. Chet Desmond, I believe, is also there. And I believe that fire is the metaphysical core of JUDY, the purest formation of negative energy. 

Mr. C is gone. We see MIKE salvage his gold core and, with a spark of e-lec-tri-city, join it to a bit of Dale’s hair to forge a new Dougie tulpa. This was at Dale’s request to satisfy Janey. Nice guy.

We cut to Jackrabbit’s Palace. Dark, empty. Dale was escorting Laura. She vanished. He is alone now - but not for long.

The Waiting Room. MIKE and The Arm. “Is it the story of the little girl who lived down the lane?” -- Audrey said something similar to this earlier. This post isn’t about Audrey but I think that line has to do with her. Another entry, that. 

Dale moves into a hall and beckons a gateway open. He has grown powerful in the Waiting Room. And with the scheming doppelgangers and BOB gone, he finally can go out.

Here in Glastonbury Grove, he meets up with a relieved Diane. This is the ‘curtain call’ at which he promised to meet her. I also believe this moment echoes across time: The appearance of the curtains at this moment is what Hawk witnessed back in Part 2. “Someone is here.”, MIKE said. It was Hawk.

“Almost exactly 430 miles.” -- 430 miles out is where Dale will cross. The Fireman told him this in a dream back in Part 1.

Diane is uncertain and urges pause to consider their options. Everything could change. Dale knows this. He is resolute. They kiss. They continue onward.

At a hotel, Diane witnesses a duplicate of herself. At this point, I must diverge briefly into The Secret History of Twin Peaks and more particularly the life and Work of Jack Parsons. Per the text, I believe Jack Parsons was destroyed by the fires of JUDY via the Black Lodge. He is in the howling wall with Windom, Mr. C. and others. Now, Jack Parsons once initiated a ritual he believed would summon an ‘elemental’. Immediately afterward, he met a red-haired woman whom he regarded to be this entity. For Twin Peaks’ purposes, I believe Diane to be such an entity, her hair deliberately reminiscent of the Waiting Room’s red drapery. I do not believe that this was always the case but that she became ‘touched’ by otherworldly influences throughout her ordeal shelled up as Naido. I believe that while Diane herself remains human Diane -- is it future or is it past -- this duplicate is a ’yet-to-come’ entity, wholly of the Other Place. As Jack Parsons did, we may call her the Scarlet Woman.

Cooper invites Diane to join him in the motel. The door is marked 7. As I’ve noted previously in an entry about Jeffries’ path through FWWM and The Return, 7 symbolizes seeking, searching for truth...In that entry about Jeffries, I offer that the numbers associated with Jeffries increase as his ‘rank’ in Twin Peaks’ world increases. He is ever more enlightened and knowing. This same applies here: What Dale does in this room will elevate him to a higher space than where he was before.

Dale and Diane lay together. He lies largely still while she seems to be desperate to obscure his face. Some believe this to be residual trauma about Mr. C violating her. I think it is simply the ever-encroaching memory shift. Diane is beginning to forget the ‘unofficial version’ and so what was a consensual matter with a man she loves is slipping into a strange and much darker territory as those memories fall apart.

The distress plain on her face is her realization of this slipping remembrance, her desperation to try to remember despite it, her shaky determination to continue despite the mounting fear of this ‘stranger’ taking her and the fear itself. Yes, this is a bad scene for Diane. Why does it occur? As noted previously, she has been marked by the energies of Another Place.  What is the end result of intercourse, generally speaking? Sperm shot into a womb which births new life. Diane’s ‘marking’ by those energies occurred during her stay in the Generator, a negative-creative space which (at least at first) bordered the positive-creative space of the Eternal Ocean. Metaphorically and also metaphysically, Diane is a womb comprised of pure creative energies. Add DNA (courtesy of Dale) to that and you get one hell of a conception.  “When will the new universes be born?” “Soon...” - That’s the ending dialogue of Ronnie Rocket. I find that idea fits exactly well here. 

Dale awakes in a different bed. He is alone. He finds a letter addressed to ‘Richard’ from ‘Linda’. She does not recognize him anymore. He should not look for her. Indeed, Diane’s memory faltered fully in the end and she has no recognition of this man anymore nor even who she was -- she’s “Linda” now. Or is she? Truthfully, I believe as Diane’s memories of the ‘unofficial version’ gave out, she lost the names she knew for herself and Dale, merely writing whichever ones came to her mind instead. Hm? Yes, my interpretation of this sequence is kinda seriously dark, thanks for noticing. I didn’t go looking for it to be though!

Dale exits his room. The hotel at large has changed as well. It bears some slight similarity to the hotel area of The Dutchman’s but I checked. They are not alike. 

Dale goes for a drive. He passes a diner which invites ‘Eat at JUDY’S!’ Many view this as a sign that this is a pocket dimension devised by JUDY to trap Dale. I do not follow. However, it may well be a sign that this space is innately nearer to JUDY. (Remember, the Fireman-JUDY conflict is one of balance VS. lack thereof.)

In the diner, Cooper deals with some antagonistic fellows in a decidedly un-Zen manner. Much has been made of this. I consider it only a personality-shift of some degrees. I once equated this change to processes of alchemy, the final stage of which is a balancing of opposites. He is more aggressive as Mr. C yet he operates slowly and repetitively as Droolcoop. The balanced result is a no-nonsense character of highly deliberated method. He’s still a good guy but he has much less patience fucking around with the bad guys. THIS Dale would’ve slapped Albert in the face for his uppity attitude back in season one.

After taking care of business, he obtains the address of an absentee waitress and goes on his way. Also he fried a gun which is pretty cool.

He heads toward Odessa. Texas. Yes, apparently, his new motel was also wildly relocated because he’s not too far from Texas now. Outside the waitress’ house, a familiar pole. I’ve detailed the meaning of ‘6′ before as relating to base, Earthly affairs. Carnal, animal. Black Lodge. The other numbers - with the 6 included - also match coordinates to the former site of the Trinity test from Part 8.

Now we meet Carrie Page. She doesn’t know a Laura or a Leland but “Your mother’s name is Sarah” gives her pause. Dale wants to take her to her mother’s house and, hey, she needs a ride out of town anyway.

Many note a golden ball of some sort in Carrie’s lawn. Dale’s latest pin is a golden circle as well. Perhaps a clue, perhaps not. As I’ve said before, I believe Cooper is becoming “the magician” of MIKE’s poem but perhaps in time he’ll also become one of the Dreamers living up in the Theatre.

A man dead on the couch. Headshot. A mantel with an animal statuette. “Woe to the ones who behold the pale horse.”

“I tried to keep a clean house...” This line plus her frazzled state, the ‘pale horse’ symbolism, the dead man... It reeks of a domestic abuse scene. The dead man was her husband. He was another BOB too, I’d wager. Carrie copes with bullets instead of cocaine.

The ‘Palmer’ house. And here, I’d like to note the number on the house. 708. Let’s travel back to Part 1. For a moment.

The sound of this device is the sound of Laura vanishing from the woods. Once upon a time, a particular breed of these machines was built to operate at 78 revolutions per minute. They were even called 78s. 708...0 is often a mathematical placeholder. Drop it. 78. Put it back in. 708. The Fireman’s line planted this connection: If you hear that sound, “find Laura” (per not-Leland’s instruction), go to 7-8(708). He even had a contingency plan if Laura were to be snatched - which she was.

Alice Tremond lives at 708. Sarah Palmer who? She bought the place from a Chalfont. We know Tremond to be a name borrowed from humans, as per the actual Mrs. Tremond living in that trailer Donna visited in season one. ‘Chalfont’ though is purely referential to that grandma-grandson Lodge couple. JUDY sent them to stall up whatever the Fireman had Dale set to do here.

“What year is this?” - Dale’s own memory of the ‘unofficial version’ may be slipping a bit here, or he may just be getting...Fuzzy. To reference Ronnie Rocket again, if I may, the key conflict of that script is reaching the villain at the center of a great city. The closer one got, the more difficult it became and the more ‘bad electricity’ would disorient and deter them. I consider this exactly the nature of what is troubling Dale in this scene. His ‘current’ is picking up static. Interference because yes, he is closer to JUDY.

Carrie gazes up at the Chalfont house. An echo from within: ‘Laura?’, Sarah Palmer calls upstairs to her absent daughter, from a world which no longer is but is still taking its sweet time to fade entirely. Carrie screams.

The lights go out. Inside the house but also, it seems, in the very world. It resembles, to me, the state of The Dutchman’s in The Return. And indeed, it is exactly that. From the Chalfont presence, the temporal anomaly (’Laura?’, straight out of the pilot), the darkened visual...It all connects. Indeed, we see the Dutchman flee from the store as Dale goes to meet Jeffries. If the Dutchman has taken hold of Sarah, the old Palmer house would fit for a new domain. After all, Sarah was overseer there as the Dutchman oversaw the store.The monsters set up shop here now and they clutched the fading strings of the ‘previous’ world to flood the old horrors back into Carrie’s head. But...Is it a bad ending? Well. Not really. I believe that Dale successfully peeled back another layer of this world’s cosmology. He is one ‘universe’ closer to a true face-to-face with JUDY. I think I used an onion metaphor earlier? Still counts. One more layer done. In accomplishing that, he won a battle --- but JUDY and her servants made their own moves and kept the war ongoing. 

We end on a slowed repeat of the Blonde Girl whispering to Dale. I believe the whisper is different again. An unfortunately scrapped line from the store meeting in FWWM has the Little Man proclaim “Any everything will proceed cyclically”. That is what she whispers now because, yes, there must be more cycles -- but, eventually and with perseverance, he will locate JUDY. Every cycle will bring him closer -- Jeffries’ “This is where you’ll find JUDY” is accompanied by an 8, suggesting that Dale requires one more cycle (his hotel room was marked by a 7, being the place where he would transition to that level) to achieve the Blue Rose’s aim of locating JUDY -- and thus every cycle will meet fiercer and more desperate resistance and offense...But he has made progress and can continue to do so. And so, it is a “victorious” ending in a small, optimistic-for-the-future way. Yet he must continue to fight, to struggle, to endure until he finds JUDY at the center of all. Until then, as the Fireman tells him...

[96thdayofrage]

How Pure is Your Hate?

Fellow workers and citizens, how pure is your hatred? It’s easy to hate on openly authoritarian, loathsome, right-wing political personalities and institutions like Ronald Reagan, George W. Bush, Donald Trump, the Koch brothers, Paul Ryan, the Republican Party, the Heritage Foundation, the American Enterprise Institute, Breitbart News, and FOX News. There’s no serious mystery over what those malicious people and entities are about: the ever upward distribution of wealth and power.

The bigger tests are supposedly liberal and progressive personalities and institutions like Barack Obama, the Clintons, Nancy Pelosi, the Democratic Party, George Soros, the Brookings Institution, the Center for American Progress, the “Public” Broadcasting System (“P���BS), the Washington Post, MSNBC, and the New York Times.

These people and organizations are no less committed than the nation’s more transparently right-wing counterparts to the nation’s unelected deep state dictatorships of money, empire, and white-supremacy, but their allegiance and service to the nation’s reigning oppression structures and ideologies is cloaked by outwardly multicultural, liberal, and even progressive concern for the poor and nonwhite.

“What’s the Something Much Better?”

I was reminded of this distinction for the five thousandth time last Thursday while watching Council of Foreign Relations (CFR) member and “P”BS NewsHour host Judy Woodruff interview the longtime Senior Obama Advisor and intimate Obama family mentor and confidant Valerie Jarrett.

Read the following passage from the interview last week and then tell me, please, to quote  Alexander Cockburn, “is your hate pure?”

Judy Woodruff, CFR and “P”BS:  Just last night, the United States Senate took another step toward repeal of Obamacare, the Affordable Care Act. There was a budget vote, which is going to lead to other steps, which will lead to repeal. Just yesterday, the president-elect called Obamacare a complete and total disaster.

Valerie Jarrett, White House: I think it’s very easy to say repeal and replace, but we have been encouraging the Republicans, since the president first started embarking on this effort, to put in place a plan for affordable care to come up with their best ideas. And they have had, what, 50, 60 votes to repeal, and not a single replacement plan. So…

Woodruff: Well, they say that’s what they’re going to do. They’re going to get rid of what’s there now and replace it with something much better.

Jarrett: Well, what’s the something much better? That’s my question. That’s the question the president has been asking for eight years right now. So, if there is a something better, let’s hear it. What’s the secret?

Obama, 2003: “What I’d Like to See”

After this exchange, Woodruff moved off the health care topic, with no follow up. That was a statement in itself.  Surely any reasonably informed “public” media journalist would be aware that national Canadian-style single-payer health insurance – Improved Medicare for All – has long been backed by most Americans.  Such a journalist would know that single-payer would provide comprehensive coverage to all the nation’s many millions of uninsured and under-insured while retaining free choice in doctor selection and being the most cost-effective way to go thanks to the elimination of private for-profit insurance corporations’ parasitic control over the system.

A knowledgeable “public” journalist might even know that then state senator Barack Obama endorsed single payer on these very grounds as late as the summer of 2003, when he said the following to the Illinois AFL-CIO:

“I happen to be a proponent of a single payer universal health care program I see no reason why the United States of America, the wealthiest country in the history of the world, spending 14 percent of its Gross National Product on health care cannot provide basic health insurance to everybody. And that’s what Jim is talking about when he says everybody in, nobody out. A single payer health care plan, a universal health care plan. And that’s what I’d like to see.”

Obama would quickly drop those sentiments in the interest of getting campaign backing from the nation’s giant insurance and drug companies and their Wall Street investors on his path to the U.S. Senate and the presidency.

Right after he entered the White House Obama set up a health care reform task force chock full of big insurance company representatives.  Not one of the more than 80 U.S. House of Representative members who had endorsed single payer – not even the veteran Black Congressman John Conyers, author of a House single payer bill – was invited to participate.

A Sicko Game

The outcome was the so-called Affordable Care Act (later dubbed “Obamacare”), a complicated and corporatist bill based on a Republican plan drawn up by the right-wing Heritage Foundation.  Since it left the price- and premium-gouging and profit-taking power of the big insurance and drug syndicates intact, the ACA condemned a vast swath of the nation to continuing inadequate and unaffordable coverage – this while the right-wing noise machine has absurdly railed against “socialized health care.”

Along the way, the new neoliberal president played a sicko (yes, Michael Moore) game to sell his Heritage Foundation bill, promising citizens that his plan would include a public option while having already traded that policy away to get for-profit hospitals to back the ACA. As Miles Moguiescu reported on Huffington Post and as the New York Times confirmed,  “Obama made a backroom deal…with the for-profit hospital lobby that he would make sure there would be no national public option in the final health reform legislation…Even while President Obama was saying that he thought a public option was a good idea and encouraging supporters to believe his healthcare plan would include one,” Moguiescu noted, “he had promised for-profit hospital lobbyists that there would be no public option in the final bill.”

We can be certain that the veteran agent of neoliberal mendacity Valerie Jarrett advised Obama to take this deeply duplicitous path.

The Memory Hole

It’s quite remarkable how completely the dominant “mainstream” media-politics culture manages to throw majority-supported social-democratic policy proposals down George Orwell’s memory hole.

Listening to the Woodruff-Jarrett conversation, you’d think Bernie Sanders had never spoken to giant and enthusiastic crowds on behalf of single payer last year.

You’d think Conyers had never drafted single-payer legislation backed by a considerable number of U.S. Congressman.

You’d think that Canada and most of the industrialized world had never successfully implemented a widely popular nation-wide systems of universal governmental health insurance.

You’d think single-payer didn’t have millions of citizen backers – including many thousands of doctors and National Nurses United – from coast to coast.

You wouldn’t imagine that even Donald Trump has mused that single-payer might be the best way to fund health insurance for all.

“So, if there is a something better, let’s hear it. What’s the secret?”

Unreal.

It reminds me of Hillary Clinton’s response as head of newly elected U.S. President Bill Clinton’s health care task force when Dr. David Himmelstien, the head of Physicians for a National Health Program, told her about the incredible possibilities of a comprehensive, single payer “Canadian style” health plan, supported by more than two-thirds of the U.S. public and certified by the Congressional Budget Office as “the most cost-effective plan on offer.”

“David,” Hillary (Michael Moore’s heart throb) commented with fading patience before sending him away in 1993, “tell me something interesting.”

That’s right: tell me something interesting.

Along with the big insurance companies the Clintons deceptively railed against, the co-presidents Bill and Hill decided from the start to exclude the popular health care alternative – single payer – from the national health care “discussion.”  What she advanced instead of the system that bored her was a hopelessly complex and secretly developed program called “managed competition.” Interesting. Obama would have more success with his Heritage Foundation-developed update in 2009 and 2010.

And they wonder why Trump won.