#cerebral assassin | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fantastic-nonsense · 1 year ago

Note

im soso curious, i need to know... why is tim a child of apollo? bless u for not going with fanon<3

[referencing how I decided who the Batfam's godly parents were in my PJO AU WIP]

People like to sort him into Athena because DC has spent the last few years emphasizing how smart he is and how he's better at the more “cerebral” and detective aspects of the job. But Tim’s most prominent pre-reboot traits are not actually his detective or tech skills: they’re his reckless, impulsive bravery, his ability to analyze and think very quickly on his feet in dangerous situations, and his "power of friendship" idealism.

He's a people person; it's one of his greatest strengths. Tim is like...physically incapable of going somewhere and not making at least one friend while he's there. Hell, when he ran off to travel the world on his "fuck you, I'll find Bruce on my own" trip he still managed to pick up his own little crew of assassin friends along the way. Making connections and talking to people and relying on others for help is how he successfully navigates being a hero, as he himself notes on multiple occasions:

"Did you think I was going to run all around the city, desperately trying to save everyone all by myself? I'm not Batman. I have friends." -Red Robin #12

Tim loves his family and friends, and losing so many people he's close to within such a small timespan sends him off the deep end in multiple ways (trying to clone Kon, fighting Dick to get the Lazarus water, isolating himself from everyone, fighting with Dick and running off to find proof that Bruce was alive on his own, etc).

At his core, Tim is an idealist who becomes a hero for no other reason than a) a broken man needs help and a broken family needs mending and b) if Dick won't go back to being Robin he might as well do it, because someone has to be Robin. He sees what will happen if Bruce stays on the path he's on and says "no. I'm not going to let that happen." He's a hero because someone has to help, and he's able and available to do so. He doesn't work on cold hard logic and facts. He works off of gut instinct and then uses his big brain to go find facts and logical conclusions that support those instincts.

Tim was never going to be an Athena child.

So I started thinking. At first, I wanted him to be a Hermes child; it seemed right to frame his parentage around being the child of the messenger of the gods given how he became Robin. But that's not really him, either. Apollo, within the scope of both classical mythology and the PJO-verse's depiction of him and his children, fits him better.

While modern culture tends to zero in a lot on Apollo's status as the god of music, poetry, and the arts (for good reason), Apollo in classical Greek mythology was first and foremost known as the god who (for lack of a better term) helps his people. He's the god of the sun, of light, of medicine and healing, of prophecy, of truth.

Tim comes into Bruce's life at a time when Bruce is at his absolute lowest point. Jason is dead. He's estranged from Dick. He's failing in his mission to save Gotham. He's highkey passively suicidal. And Tim takes it upon himself to fix that. And he does it by being a solid, bright, stable presence in Bruce's life and an extremely blunt, truthful messenger of the future he sees: Batman needs a Robin, and if Bruce doesn't have one he's going to die.

And I didn't abandon his intelligence in the calculations: Apollo is also the god of rational thinking, order, and knowledge, contrasting and working in harmony with Dionysus (the god of irrationality, chaos, and passion). He was also known to be the god whose job it was to interpret the will of Zeus to humankind, which I thought was appropriate for a boy who spends quite a lot of his time being the living communication translator between Bruce and everyone around him.

So. Apollo child.

............also I thought it was funny to make the god of youth the father of the boy DC refuses to allow to age.

#I also have a thread of connection running between Apollo being the god of plagues and Tim getting the Clench in Contagion #but that was kind of an aside to the whole thing #tim drake #tim drake meta #dc comics #bruce wayne #batman #my writing #batfam pjo au

231 notes · View notes

sun-snatcher · 2 months ago

Note

Idk how else to say it but you made me a lover of Haytham with that x reader fic you made. I'm just curious if you are able to write simple fluff on the guy, preferably comfort fluff? But that's only if you're comfortable doing it of course! Love how you write ❤️

( all credits to @bankaizen from this phenomenal gifset ! )

✠ | DARLING, DEAREST ; HAYTHAM KENWAY

summ. You fall asleep in Haytham’s office. He’s vexed. or: Haytham refuses to admit he’s been… charmed. pairing. haytham kenway / ex-assassin!f!reader w.count. 3k. tags. tooth-rotting fluff , slow burn, Haytham-centric POV , cat-&-mouse established relationship , Haytham is SMITTEN & fighting his demons a/n. Thank you requesting dear anon, & I hope this was to your satisfaction! I tried my best </3

WINTER SEASON HAS set in, and so they’ve lost the light quicker these days.

“How fares your progress?” Haytham muses, by the… fifth? Sixth? hour of his and yours’ meticulous decryption.

The Brotherhood’s cipher both you and Shay had (very painstakingly) misappropriated has proven tediously difficult to crack— even for an ex-Assassin such as yourself. Your partner in crime had already conveniently vanished sometime ago under the pretense of ‘stretchin’ my legs’ or so the Irishman claimed.

“I think my eyes are going to fall right out of my head,” you answer, candid. “This has been as dreadfully dull as watching Gist try to woo a woman.”

A wild scatter of encoded papers— more specifically, documents, annals, and missives of the Assassin’s— surround your temporary workspace: Haytham’s astonishingly comfortable chaise lounge, and a rounded tea table you haphazardly dragged noisily to your side from the opposite end of his office as a makeshift secretaire.

It’s crude and admittedly messy (“It’s an organised mess, Master Kenway,” you’d argued when he first fussed on the clutter on his hardwood floors) but, well, it’s proven sufficient.

“These are practically hieroglyphs,” you continue, sounding defeated. Symbols are soon to begin swimming in the air from your delirium at this point. The dim light of the moon filtering through the sleet-frosted windows and the waning, flickering fireplace didn’t help with the sleepiness either. “Either that or I’ve completely gone mad.”

The Grandmaster cocks his head. “I seem to recall you confidently stating you’d be able to decipher this, considering you’re an Ex-Assassin.”

“And I seem to recall you confidently saying you’d help,” you counter, lazily waving your lorgnette.

He vaguely gestures at his own chaotic desk. “I am. I have.”

“You’ve been staring at that page for the last twenty minutes, Master Kenway,” you say, astutely, which made his jaw tick. “How many times have you reread the same line, I wonder—?”

“It’s certainly more help than Shay can say he’s offered,” he deflects, reclining defiantly back into his seat. Haytham had been staring at the page, but it’d been for the past thirty. “And it was ten minutes,” he lies.

“Even so,” you stretch your arms above your head, languorously feline-like, and pop your knuckles and back with a relieved hum, “eventually, is what I specified. I never promised speed in untangling this absolute mess.”

“No,” Haytham agrees, distractedly. “I suppose you didn’t.”

You look—

Different, he notes.

Insolence is intrinsic to all who live in a world as fierce and deceiving as you and he do, and so the Grandmaster has always allowed a little leeway for your challenging of his authority, especially whenever cerebral. (He figures, too, that your temerity and back-talk must be how you ever lost favour with the Brotherhood in the first place.) But now—

Fatigue has made you less of the spitfire tigress he constantly butts heads with, now tempering you into a more tamed, domestic cat that’s pillowed and lounging against an armrest. You’ve disrobed the unnecessary layers of your usual Templar mufti in favor of moving freely, too:

Sleeves unbuttoned at the wrists, hair loosened from its usual tidy updo. You’d even gone as far as abandoning your shoes and folding your legs underneath yourself to keep warm, cushioned into the chaise as you studied and pieced together your translations.

Open informality. Proverbial unarmoring.

Not different, Haytham realises. You look at home.

Soft. Subdued. Serene. It’s a rarity to see you with your guard down.

(There’s something to be said about you allowing him this at all.)

…It’s rather charming honourable to witness.

Haytham’s arguably in a similar state himself; weary and worn out— half from taxing his mind, and half from putting up with your usual snarky remarks— tricorn long since set aside and cloaked coat hung by the door, spine sinking into the backrest of his seat.

Had anyone else been in the office, they might’ve considered the scene domestic— borderline intimate. Colleagues shedding their armour in the dead of night, focused and working closely; two souls lost in their own shared world as they orbit back-and-forth each other’s tables— each other’s spaces— to dismantle the shroud of information before them together.

“Christ.” You fail to stifle an unbecoming yawn, long and drawn out as you hide your face behind a piece of wrinkled parchment. “Oof.”

In another time he would’ve ignored it, but he’s looking for an excuse not to return to the mind-numbing journal belonging to some Assassin scribe before him, and so:

“How ladylike,” he compliments dryly.

“Oh, forgive me, Grand Master Kenway of the Templar Rite,” you scowl, though your spiteful tone is too bleary for its intended effect, “for being unbecoming and feeling rather run down after staring at ink and paper for the last…”

“Five hours,” Haytham says, flatly, from where the gilded table-clock sits ticking incessantly at the corner of his desk. He doesn’t dare tarry in his mind on how quickly and how easily he had finished your sentence, other than a quiet and abrupt realisation: When did we become this in tandem to one another?

But he shelves the thought away. It isn't the right occasion yet to rationalise or introspect. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want to. (Or, even more accurately, he’s simply afraid to.)

Haytham couldn’t blame you for losing track of time, anyway; not only had you been tasked with the decryption, but you’d also been the one sanctioned and responsible for leading the theft of the material from the Brotherhood’s hands that early morning.

“...Five hours!” you cry, and exaggerate by dramatically slumping further into rest. “I almost fell off a roof, too, thanks to Shay. You ought to give dear-old-me a break.”

“I did give ‘dear-old-you’ a break,” he deadpans. “And you rather vehemently declined my offer because you were insistent on ‘gaining headway of the bastards lest we lose their trail’,” he quotes, pointedly.

A beat.

Then you’re laughing. It’s gentle; the first Haytham’s ever heard of you sound that way.

It shouldn’t have stuck out to him— but it did.

“Did I say that? I sincerely don’t remember,” you say, gaze affixed on the crackling fireplace. “I suppose I was right when I said I’ve completely lost my mind. Or perhaps you’re just a liar, Master Kenway.”

Then, more quietly, as you begin to doze off:

“Mh, no,” you retract. “…you never lie to your own, now that I think about it.”

“I don’t make a habit of it,” he agrees, half-heartedly. “And watch yourself. That sounded dangerously like a compliment. I might just hold you to that.”

…No witty quip.

No ‘you flatter yourself!’ nor ‘you must be hearing things!’— Just silence.

He tilts his head from his seat to catch a proper look at you.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep here,” the Grandmaster declares, suddenly. “I will not hesitate to drag you out of my office myself.”

You inhale. Sharp. Blinking rapidly. Haytham has stood up to round the desk and lean against it, broad arms crossing his chest as he narrows his unimpressed gaze down at you. Had your eyes closed?

“I wasn’t. M’eyes were just resting,” you sniff, turn your nose up, and shift your resting position once more to fight the grogginess out your body, “you big British—”

Haytham cocks his head warningly. Go on.

“—brute.”

He snorts. “Charming. And what does that make you, lying over my lounge like a discarded coat?”

“Why, your very own brilliant genius, Master Kenway,” you say, sagely, to which Haytham had rolled his eyes and resisted from replying with, I don’t want you to be my very own anything. (Because, well. Hadn’t he just said he doesn’t make a habit of lying?)

“Right. Where were we? We’ve gathered they still use a mixture of rotating keys and mask letters,” you revise drowsily, reaching for your most promising endeavour yet: a suspicious letter about some vessel coming in from the Johor Sultanate. “And they usually send these through separate couriers, so I’ve been trying to do the guesswork on which might match,” you explain. “But that also means there’s a good chance the letter hasn’t even been sent— if we’re lucky, and we can intercept it— or worse, already been received, read, and destroyed.”

“Have any of these been checked for Sympathetic Stain yet?” Haytham asks, flipping through some of your transcribed material. The stain only reacts to direct heat; gaps in the leaves of pamphlets and reports could easily reveal hidden messages between the lines.

“Shay was supposed to work on that,” you sigh, rubbing your eyes. “I’ll get to it. I hardly think he’ll understand the cursive anyway.”

“I’ll tell him you said that,” Haytham threatens mildly, before sliding a lit candle close to his side to assume Shay’s abandoned duty. “A shame. It was rather nice knowing you.”

“Watch yourself, Master Kenway,” you parrot, amused. “That sounded dangerously like a compliment.”

“I— tolerate you,” amends Haytham, meanly. But there’s that low, doting laugh of yours that he can’t help but find himself lingering over again. It fills up the hush of the room. Echoes in his mind.

“Well, Shay’s self-aware, anyway; so he won’t kill me for saying that,” you dismiss. “I, ah, don’t know the word for it…”

Hm? You hear the Grandmaster hum. And even with your eyes trained to your papers, you can imagine the lift of his brows as clearly as you can hear the invitation in his voice to continue your story.

“When we were younger, Shay always complained that the alphabet would switch places whenever he reads,” you recall. “He could read perfectly fine, ofcourse. Just… took a little more time than usual. But, well, you know how kids are. They gave him a hard time over it.”

“I’m assuming you were one of those kids, given your character.”

“On the contrary,” you scoff, feigning offense. “I defended him. It was mostly—” Liam, you catch yourself. The grief of losing him is still far too near, even after all this time. He’d also been a childhood friend. There’s no such thing as knowing Shay Cormac without knowing Liam O’brien. “—other kids,” you soften.

Haytham glances at you.

Your elbow is propped against the armrest, fidgeting with the edge of a document; there, but not really. Your eyes are half-mast and shadowed by the firelight, distant in some memory he isn’t privy to. “You should retire for the night,” he says, finally. “You’re no use to me half-dead like a damsel in distress, after all.”

“One last paragraph,” you insist, shaking your head stubbornly. And he knows you’re truly tired now, because you hadn’t even bothered to bite back at his attempt to provoke you. “Then I’m done for the night.”

He says your proper name. Your heart stumbles over itself. “Go now,” he asserts, “before I make it an order.”

“No.”

“Mind yourself,” Haytham snaps, to no avail. You know him too well— well enough to read when he was genuinely upset by your penchant for insubordination and overstepping.

“You’ll have to drag me out here yourself like you threatened before,” you volley, flicking through your dog-eared pages busily, “or write me a formal decree, as Templar Grand Master.”

“I’m not going to do anything,” he says, frostily. But he eats his words when you finally set your quill pen down your table, and hand him the suspicious letter from earlier. “What’s this?”

“A terribly insipid report about some Dutch shipment coming in from the East Indies. I reckon there’s something else hidden at the space where the signature borders,” you nod to the candle as he moves to activate the stain. “It might be a key or atleast give meaning to one of our dozen useless decryptions. Read it out.”

(He glares at you over the blatant demand, to which you’d courteously added a humble “Please and thank you, Master Kenway” immediately after.)

-- To the Esteemed Officers of the British-American Trade Commission… Haytham skims the text. It reads out like the humdrum routine of a ship’s manifest, listing numbered figures and commercial cargo: Chinese textiles and silk, Singaporean porcelainware marked for auction, Indian spices meant for export, and other trades and assorted goods from neighboring countries. There’s nothing out of the ordinary at all; remarkably unremarkable.

“Ah. Here we go,” Haytham says, when the true script had finally revealed itself. “To you, my Brother,” he begins to read out:

“ ‘I’ve planted three of our finest to guard it— you shall know them when you see them— and have already arranged with our informant the finer details of this operation. Worry not and ensure only the hand-off shall take place smoothly. The Fortuyn will arrive in time for you, and will be there waiting to depart with you aboard once all is said and done with the deal.’ ”

“Signed by… no one. Ofcourse. How painfully theatrical,” Haytham adds, and skips over the last line of the message deliberately: ‘Nothing is True; Everything is Permitted.’

The Grandmaster turns to rifle through his desk of useless Assassin-ledgers before pulling out the sketch Shay managed to swipe along during the mission. “I assume the ‘it’ mentioned is yet another artifact. A piece of Eden the Assassin’s intend to get their hands on,” he muses aloud. “Troubling. The Fortuyn would’ve already docked by now. I can send for Gist to see what he can gather from the Harbour Master.”

He turns to address you. “In the meantime, I don’t suppose any of your decryptions have mentioned a hand-off date or location? Perhaps a possible name for said informan…”

The Grandmaster trails off.

You’ve— fallen asleep.

Soundly.

Lullabied by the crackle of the small office hearth, the calming tick of the desk clock, and the lilting croon of Haytham Kenway’s smooth-stone voice.

“Ofcourse,” he declares, bluntly. But a small part of him had instinctively mellowed his voice to not rouse you. He decides not to ruminate on why. “I thought I told you not to dare sleeping in my office?” he mutters.

No answer, still. Pure exhaustion has finally caught up to you, rendering you boneless with relaxation in your disarrayed bird-nest of papers and handwritten scrawls. What an insufferable woman you are, he wants to chastise, despite the alarming warmth demanding to bloom somewhere in his ribcage at the damning sight and unspoken implication:

You felt safe around Haytham.

You trust him. Wholeheartedly. Enough to drop your defenses, it seems. How foolish. How—

—at home you look, Haytham concludes the second time that night, listening to your slow and evened out, susurrus breaths. (Soft, subdued, serene.)

You’ve curled into yourself like an oversized cat, seemingly warding the chill of the Winter that’s seeped into the bones of the office by tucking close as humanly possible. Loose papers threaten to slip through your slackened grip, and the lorgnette you’d been using has already tumbled its way silently to the carpet floor.

“I ought to oust you for this utter display of unprofessionalism,” he grumbles uselessly, and strides towards you with half the mind of jolting you awake. (He doesn’t, ofcourse. That would’ve been ridiculous.)

For once, you don’t look like you have a sharp retort for him; your lashes are fluttered down to your cheeks in a dreamless sleep, and your peaceful face is swathed in a chiaroscuro of shadow and the dwindling firelight. You look, as much as he refuses to allow himself it, as stunningly graceful as a baroque painting.

Haytham blinks away and exhales. Ignores the thrum of… something, in his chest.

Distraction from it comes with slowly cleaning up the mess of your making: He puts himself to action and moves in complete silence, light-handed as he delicately removes the papers between your fingers, gathering up the remains of your hard work into stacks, where he sets them all under a paperweight on his desk. Then the candlelights and oil lamps are put out one by one, lorgnette kept away, and the tea table returned soundlessly back to its designated spot.

In the aftermath of his time-consuming tidying, Haytham spares a minute more by your side, lingering.

You’ll sleep yourself stiff, here, he debates to wake you. You’ll wake with a crick in your neck tomorrow that’ll end up with you complaining to me the entire day about. Maybe you’ll make sleeping here a terrible habit; or claim I’ve overworked your dear-old-self into exhaustio—

A lock of your hair is tickling the apple of your cheek.

He could brush it off. He could. You’re already deep in your sleep, and you haven’t stirred an inch.

Haytham’s hand twitches.

“Gone soft, Master Kenway?”

He straightens up so quickly he might’ve gotten whiplash.

“…Nice of you to finally join us, Cormac,” Haytham censures, clearing his throat as his face sets back to something unreadable. He doesn’t deign to ask how long he must’ve been standing there. “Your ‘darling, dearest’ here has succumbed. Make yourself useful and collect her, why don’t you?”

“My dearest, aye?” Shay raises his brows. He hasn’t yet been able to drop that knowing tone in his voice. “I wouldn’t wake her if I were you, though,” he cautions, before Haytham can fill in the pause by berating him, “it’s more trouble than it’s worth. Hell hath no fury like a woman woken up from her slumber, y’know? An’ your dearest is no ordinary woman, either.”

“Your dearest,” the Grandmaster corrects, sternly.

Shay glances at you. More specifically—

At Haytham’s cloak that’s curiously been draped over you.

“Aye, Master Kenway,” he smirks, innocently. “S’what I said, no?”

49 notes · View notes

madhatterbri · 10 months ago

Text

New Addition | W.O.

Summary: Hi can you do a Will Ospreay x Reader. Where the reader is married to Will Ospreay and reader goes to Forbidden door with their son to watch his match against Swerve. But even Will lost the reader tells Will that they are expecting Baby #2?

Requested by: @sunrise28sblog

Taglist: @plentyoffandoms @hotgirlgraps

Pure Fiction

"Dada.... Lost?" A tiny boy asked in confusion. His fingers scratched through his sandy blonde hair. His other hand rubbed his sleepy eyes. Their son, Henry, stayed up late to watch his dad lose.

Y/N couldn't believe it herself. Her husband lost to Swerve Strickland for the AEW World Championship. Will Ospreay cried in the corner of the ring. His friend, Kyle Fletcher, was doing his best to comfort him. "Yeah, baby, he did,"

Henry raised his hands to signal to his mother he wanted to be held. Once she lifted him up, the boy buried his head in her shoulder. Soft sobs rocked his tiny body. The boy hated to see his daddy lose.

Y/N walked towards Will's locker room. People backstage apologized to her for Will losing. She thanked them. Henry slowly started to calm down. Soft hiccups were the only way Y/N knew he was awake. By the time they made it to the locker room, he was snoring softly.

Y/N placed him in his stroller. She handed him his favorite stuffed animal and covered him with a blanket. Henry squirmed to find a comfortable position. Once he found one, he was fast asleep.

Will opened the door to the locker room quietly. He learned never to wake up his sleeping son. The Cerebral Assassin smiled at his wife and kissed her. He dropped to his knee to check his son. "He doing okay, darling?"

"A little upset, but he will live. You know he doesn't like to see when you, you know," she answered. Will smiled sadly and stood up.

"I wanted to have two belts. It would have looked really good on me, you know? Made the family look like an unstoppable force," he sighed and placed the belt down on the table.

"Well, it isn't all so bad. You are just going to have two of something a little more exciting," she spoke nervously. Will turned her head to look at her. A small gift box was in her hands.

The wrestler grabbed the white box and untied the green ribbon. Y/N swore her breathing stopped the moment he opened the box. One of his famous handsome smiles appeared on his face. It was as if the loss no longer mattered to him.

The now expecting father of his second child pulled out the sonogram picture. He couldn't believe it when he saw Y/N's name on the top corner of the picture. This was real. All the times they talked about having another for little Henry to play with.

"No way, love," he smiled. "You mean this little man is gonna be ..... Does he know?"

"I wouldn't ever tell him before you. The whole world would have known then," she answered with a smile.

Will wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in for a kiss. "Two kids is better than two belts. Thank you for this,"

#fanfiction #aew fanfic #aew fanfiction #will ospreay fanfic #will ospreay fanfiction #will ospreay x reader #will ospreay x f/reader #will ospreay x y/n #will ospreay x female reader

76 notes · View notes

invisiblequeen · 28 days ago

Text

For @femboytrait's BC: may I introduce...Aylo Typhe? (and her pet bird Olya?)

Age: Young Adult

Pronouns: She/Her

Orientation: Pansexual

Hometown: Somewhere in Batuu

Current Town: Unknown

Occupation: Officially? Freelance Computer Support Specialist

Aspiration: Hope vs Order

Traits: Perfectionist, Charming, Proper

Likes: Fitness, White, Blue, Deception, Physical Intimacy, Batuu Music, METAL MUSIC, Cerebral Sims, Idealist SIMs, Programming, Robotics

Dislikes: Black, Green, Malicious Interactions, Arguments, Electronica Music, Focus Music, Argumentative Sims, Emotional Decision-makers, Rock Climbing, Photography, Mixology

Batuu's decades-long war between the first order and the resistance has reached critical heights of violence, with the former's military doubling and the latter's casualties mounting. The best hope for ending the war early lies not in combat, but in infiltration. Intel. Espionage.

Enter Aylo Typhe, the Rebels' secret weapon. For 7 years, she worked undercover as a promising officer, then Captain, of the ISB. Her intel has been VITAL to the cause, saving countless rebels as well as civilians. Her unofficial galactic position as assassin, however, is where moral rationale goes to die.

She never forgives herself when she has to take a life, even less so when she tries to balance the odds by killing some low-level empire zealot. It is a secret only the top-brass at the Resistance knows, and their understanding has only hurt more.

Now, at the tail-end of the war, she has faked her death on both sides by blowing up the Death Star and escaping at the last second with a deauthorized pod. Landing in Oasis Springs, far from the reach of any straggling siths and a pet crow on her side, she resolves to live a full life, on behalf of all those who couldn't. Part of that full life includes love.

WHAT DO WE THINK?

#delaneysdate #sims 4 #the sims 4 #sims4 #simblr #n0bodysims #ts4 #bc hopefuls

16 notes · View notes

ambreignsfan4life · 11 months ago

Text

Favourite WWE Male Elimination Round 5

#Jey Uso #wwe #the usos #the bloodline #main event jey uso #triple h #king of kings #Cerebral assassin #the game #Yeet

4 notes · View notes

sauron18 · 2 years ago

Text

Weeping Angels Are Conceptual Entities

In their first appearance (Series 3’s Blink), the Weeping Angels are a race of monsters who can only move and live when no other creature is looking at them. As soon as they are perceived, they become quantum locked and turn into stone statues. They feed by shifting their victims back in time and absorbing the potential energy of the life they would’ve lived in their original era.

Yet even in that story they’re called “creatures of the abstract.” This description would make more sense in their next appearance (S5’s Time of Angels and Flesh and Stone), where we see a long-dormant angel crash-land a human ship above a labyrinth that held a multitude of other dormant angels.

In this story the angels display the ability to act on the world around them in non-physical ways. The first angel causes the ship it’s in to crash without leaving its prison cell. Then it inspects the area around the ship by using a projection of its image in a camera recording to manifest outside the crash site. While it does this, it is also able to deadlock the temporary shelter where its image manifests.

Then, after killing two soldiers from a military force that arrived on the planet to re-capture it, the angel strips their cerebral cortex and uses their consciousness to communicate via radio with the Doctor, his companions, and the other soldiers. All the while the radiation from the crashed ship slowly revives the dormant angels in the labyrinth, and they all proceed to hunt the humans as they try (and fail) to harness the energy from a time rift in the hopes of becoming a formidable force in the universe again.

Besides seeing an expansion of their abilities in this episode, we also get some interesting lore from a book written about the angels. The book explains how the projection of an angel is an extension of it, “That which holds the image of an angel becomes itself an angel.” It speculates on their abstract origin, “What if we had ideas that could think for themselves? What if, one day, our dreams no longer needed us?” And it even explains how they can infect and possess a living being who looks into their eyes, “The eyes are not the windows of the soul, they are the doors. Beware what may enter them.” And as the other angels in the story begin to regenerate from shapeless humanoid statues to their angelic forms, the Doctor states “Their image is their power.”

All of this means that the angels in this story have become, essentially, conceptual entities. They are perceived physically as stone statues, but they operate primarily as non-corporeal beings.

“As conceptual entities only seem to affect the minds of their victims, it’s often said that the entities are ‘made out of pure thought’, but this is clearly inaccurate as thought itself isn’t a substance. Although many people are determined to think of the entities as telepathic presences, or neurological parasites, or in some cases even ‘spirits’, in fact it’s much more accurate to think of them as nothing more than hostile ideas. They exist by bypassing matter altogether, and instead giving themselves structure inside the meanings of things.” — The Book of the War

At this point, the angels are no longer simply monsters who move when they aren’t seen. They are living ideas who exist on the periphery of perception. They affect the world primarily through non-physical means. As conceptual entities, the angels infect the physical world, reshaping its meaning to suit their needs and to give them power and form.

This post is already long enough, so instead of going into more detail about other stories. I’d like to conclude by mentioning how in their most recent TV stories, in Flux, we see a group of angels working as operatives for Division. They are killers-for-hire for this ancient temporal power that exists outside of normal time and space, a notion that goes back to their original description in Blink as “the lonely assassins.” In other words, they are conceptual entities who are living weapons at the service of a Time Lord interference group that has abandoned the physical universe.

This may all be coincidence, but regardless, I love thinking about how the angels have gone from being a creative monster of the week to becoming another televised incarnation of ideas from the Faction Paradox and Doctor Who literary universes.

#Doctor Who #Weeping Angels #Faction Paradox #Conceptual Entities #Book of the War #Mictlan #Flux #Division

338 notes · View notes

could-they-be-a-pro-wrestler · 4 months ago

Text

How successful would Yor Forger aka Thorn Princess…

Propaganda for the mic skills:

Okay, yor the housewife/mom would be absolutely terrible on the mic. BUT! Thorn Princess? I can see it. She can portray a ruthless assassin who takes people down with surigical precision and mind games. Like a…cerebral assassin? Hehehe

Propaganda for the wrestling skills:

(Insert fight scene involving yor from spy x family)

Would you like to submit a character? Click this link if you do!

8 notes · View notes

dilanmoodboards · 1 year ago

Text

Wrestlers as children of greek gods (2/?)

D-Generation X

Shawn Michaels, The Heartbreak Kid, as son of Aphrodite, goddess of love, beauty and lust. (She’s also associated with war)

Triple H son of Athena, goddess of wisdom, warfare and handicraft.

Chyna daughter of Ares, god of War and Courage.

X-Pac/Syxx/The 1,2,3 Kid as son of Hermes, messenger god and protector of travelers, thieves, merchants and orators.

Billy Gunn, The Bad Ass, son of Apollo, god of the sun, music, poetry, truth and prophecy.

Jesse James, The Road Dogg, son of Dionysus, god of wine, festivity, insanity, fertility and theatre.

I seriously could have made them all children of Hermes just because of the chaos DX caused, but I tried to make them all children of different gods. Also I can see Triple H and Chyna changing parents, but I chose Athena and Triple H because he is the cerebral assassin.

#moodboard #aesthetic #hbk #shawn michaels #wwe #wwf #triple h #hunter hearst helmsley #chyna #billy gunn #the badass #jesse james #road dogg #syxx #x-pac #sean waltman #the 1 2 3 kid #d generation x #dx

34 notes · View notes

mr-camhed · 8 months ago

Text

Some other Transformer characters i made/envisioned that i might archive/finish here:

Doominator, Junkion mercenary, Decepticon, transforms into The Ford Mustang in Death race, a cold, cruel and nihilistic survivalist that only believes in The tendency of evil and The goal of survival thanks to his tough upbringing.

Cometron, Autobot intelligence courier, Velocitronian, transforms into a GT1 street car, has an unhealthy obsession with being faster that she would risk her own life for it, idolizes Blurr.

Tailgater, Decepticon sniper and ground squad leader, transforms into an Audi A8, War crimes enthusiast who almost habitually murders civilians and medics so much he fragged a few of his own command officers mistaking them as civilians which causes chance of promotion down The toilet and frustration he can only quench by murdering more innocents and sometimes souring the relationship with Decepticon allying species. Leads a team of genericon called "Karashni Squad" with a fellow Decepticon named Bulwark who transforms into a compact station wagon.

Landread, Decepticon "pretender"(think IDW Ultra magnus, transformable robot in armor that makes him bigger transformable) and battlefield commander, outer armor turns into Main Battle Tank, inner robot turns into a station wagon. Spark brother to Bulwark, reckless and short tempered, believes in actions over words, hates substanceless egoist like Autobots and staff officers with a passion, functioning alcoholic.

Munitionwash/Ammunitionwash: Decepticon Conehead seeker assassin, transforms into vector thrust VTOL strike Fighter, dive bombing enthusiast, thinks dashing fast enough that further witnesses can't identify you with enough firepower to kill anyone close enough to bear witnessed suffices as assassination. Almost always smokes a cy-gar, which can be also used as a weapon.

Skywalk: Autobot female seeker(probably one of a kind), police patrol, transforms into a light multirole fighter in police livery, very ammo conservative, only shoots when she's absolutely sure about it is garuanteed to hit.

Algorithmaster: Decepticon Data analyst and communications expert, transforms into a long chassis Mercedes Vario TV van with a telescopic antenna mast. A Decepticon who keeps a low profile to hide its own perversity and sadism, Algorithmaster is a good substitute for Soundwave if you can't get ahold of him for intelligence or surveillance missions when he's not secretly causing chaos by disrupting The dataflow of wherever he is for fun or doing sentient life trafficking for money. Has The major Weakness of being top heavy in both modes but especially in van mode and toppling over almost garuanteed to break The antenna and heavily diminishing his effectiveness.

Whitenoise: Autobot aerial forces and later Cybertron Security bureau agent, transforms into an Antonov An-71 AWACS Aircraft. Determined on justice to The level of singlemindedness and even overconfidence, Whitenoise would often put herself into danger to pursue her enemies. She Was Algorithmaster's coworker in Iacon's telecommunications centres where she accidentally discovered his illegal activities which caused her to be kidnapped and almost brainwashed by Algorithmaster before she was rescued by Orion pax, Strongarm and wheelarch where she bodyslammed herself and a chair into Algorithmaster's back and broke his antenna to stop him from frying The officers' cerebral module with his data bomb attack that kept her in a trance like state. After she found out that Algorithmaster had escaped after The Kaon riots and Decepticon uprising and is still at large after The war, she began to embark on a quest to bring The criminal back to justice.

Duke O'Death(Pirate name/press nickname)/Speedstick(original name)/Stealthclad(preferred name to be called): Former Decepticon, currently leader of Space Pirate organization Deathkneller, wanted by both The Galactic senate and Blackbox Consortium for Attacks against their fleet, Empurata Victim and triple changer, transforms into an armored muscle car and a stealth attack helicopter. Semi schizophrenic, criminal with principle and a code, either completely disassociating and silence or extremely friendly and talkative depending on situation and almost no inbetween.

Transporticus Maximus/Giganticus Maximus/DeathKneller(real name unknown), ancient Titan whose origin is still mystery, transforms into a 20 mile long 10 mile maximum width interstellar warship with a black hole powered star destroying weapon that will completely exhaust its entire power supply to fire. It was found drifting in space by Duke O'Death after his former flagship Just Defense, a hijacked Galactic Senate heavy cruiser was crippled in a Battle against Galactic Senate task forces, with almost everything still in working order but nobody on board and The spark field in it destroyed. Its identity as a Titan is hidden from most of The people with parts grafted from other vessels, The destroyed sparkfield cloaked by a medibay for Mechanical lifeforms, and The chamber for its almost always inactive, temptingly presumable as dead cerebral module hidden behind a secrect entrance in Duke O'Death's personal quarters.

Projectile: former Decepticon fire support, bodyguard of Duke O'Death, transforms into a heavy artillery, has a massive hole in his head and cerebral module implanted into his chest. Determined and simple minded, Projectile does not think much beyond his own duty, and luck would have it, he almost always gets a reliable commander.

Pulldown: Former Decepticon road transport team, bodyguard of Duke O'Death, transforms into a wheeled heavy duty tractor, partner and mobility aid to Projectile. Similarity Determined and simple-minded, but also smart and confident, she would almost always finish her job with flying colors.

Heavytoll: Decepticon logistics support, transforms into a two wheeled heavy tractor, has no legs in robot mode and has to use his hands to walk and work, and doesn't believe in perfection.

Hardcore: Decepticon morale officer, Victim of an especially and deliberately botched Empurata-shadowplay combo, transforms into and R129 Mercedes SL 73 AMG sports car. Formerly a musician and DJ For underground radio in Tarn who was framed by a disgruntled neighbor which causes him to have his hands melted into nubs and mind completely destroyed; although he would later become a performer for Megatron during his gladiatorial fights after Hook rebuilt his hands as much as he can and gave him his mouth back. Capable of instigating neutrals and even weak minded Autobots into fighting for Decepticon with his music.

Trashmaster, Functionist universe Model worker, transforms into a garbage truck, being a lower caste worker who almost always have to clean up after The frequent pogrom of The disposable class, Trashmaster was forced to work hard to try and survive. However, hia hard work only ended up in tighter schedule and more demanding quotas that takes further toll on his physical and mental health which caused him to becomes addicted to at first drinking, before an escalation towards Circuit buffers, Circuit boosters and Circuit Speeders to cope with The pressure of cleaning up more and more bodies and maintaining a public Appearance, until his mental programming finally snapped and began ingesting Energon off corpses of The disposed and at first later extended to murder and cannibalization of still living Transformers which were overlooked by functionaries to keep the facade running.

Combiner teams:

Succorbots(pronunciation: Secure-bots<by Autobots and beings leaning towards goodness>/Sucker-bots<by Decepticons and beings leaning towards evil and uncaring>), Autobot search and rescue team similar to Protectobots, combines into Lifeline.

Members:

Speedbump, Leader and surgeon, transforms into an armored command and rescue truck, almost totally blind due to damage of brain module by a gunshot would inflicted by a Decepticon named Tailgater, Pacifist, never carries weapon, can't see beyond arm's length, still actively does search and rescue on battlefield. Torso of Lifeline.

Sundance, Medic, transforms into a UH-60 rescue helicopter, almost got killed by her spark brother before the war and was rescued by Speedbump and became his protege, also studies Psychology in hopes of trying to cure her brother. Left Arm of Lifeline.

Skylift, Transporter and Anesthesist, transforms into a heavy lift tiltrotor, was a Decepticon until the Faction became less about improving The life of The lower caste, The most aggressive of The group, gets a little excited when regular anesthetics fail to knock their lights out sometimes. Right arm of Lifeline and usually pairs with Recoil.

Signal, detector, minesweeper and hazard disposal, transforms into a wheeled ground penetrating radar/mine detector, formerly a treasure hunter who was enthralled by The experience finding life after a major earthquake killed his old partner, left leg of Lifeline, can ne paired with Recoil in vehicle mod.

Biclaw, debris cleaner and hazard disposal expert, transforms into a twin boom excavator with both caterpillar track and retractable legs, former construction, great at digging but still still slightly clumsy at medical, Right leg of Lifeline.

Recoil, Armsbot(arms micron but larger), security, transforms into a automatic incapacitator launcher, appointed by Autobot high command to make sure the team doesn't get killed, pairs with Skylift and can be used as a weapon for Lifeline(although Speedbump would not use it unless the other member insists).

Decapiticon, Decepticon Genocider group, used by Decepticon high command at most dangerous place in order to destroy enemies and hopefully these mentally unstable mechanical monstrosities would die in it too. Combines into Autocide.

Members:

Obsolence/Obselence, leader, triple changer, Empurata Victim, extremely Eugenic supporter, worshipper of powerful beings such as Quintesson; Unicron and Hytherion, wishes to be a Phase sixer or Warrior Elite, turns into an armored Fire truck with a heavy flamethrower and an Ekranoplan with heavy missiles, and The torso of Autocide.

Annihilate, ax/saw crazy helicopter gunship, wears a mask and favorite weapon is his armscon Powersaw. Would Kill anyone that's not his Decapiticon buddies if he pleases, Right arm of Autocide.

Thud, Sociopathic antisocial, turns into a heavy tank, The smartest of The bunch and only isn't The torso because he was beaten into submission by Obsolence, still wants to challenge leadership ever now and then, Right leg of Autocide.

Knackercracker, a lover of fighting unfair, turns into a wheeled MLRS that can sprout wings, Right arm of Autocide. Most normal member of The group, although The standard isn't really high.

Nonclockwise, seeker, transforms into a strike Aircraft, mind filled with contrary thoughts so much that it can only think straight when commiting war crimes. Left leg of Autocide.

Powersaw, Armscon, turns into a large circular saw. An unfortunate steel worker who witnessed his coworkers and friends murdered before being kidnapped and enslaved by The killers when The war broke out, Powersaw has no choice but comply and hope to be out of The misery as soon as possible. Handheld weapon of Annihilate and Autocide.

Clearifycons, Decepticon infiltrators that turns into sanitary related equipments. Combines into Stinkatron.

Members:

Dumpster, Leader, interrogator and intel gatherer, turns into a Dumpster truck and mobile trash crusher, an absolute slob coated in a concoction of blood, energon, tissue fluid and other substances that are absolutely repugnus to enemies, loves to destroy things that are considered beautiful. is The torso, left arm and namesake of Stinkatron.

Sewer, infiltrator and saboteur, turns into a "mobile waste fluid disposal unit", The most miserable being probably ever seen because of The body he was constructed cold in, and uses the negativity to absolutely raise hell to The enemies. Lower left leg of Stinkatron.

Sweepvan, infiltrator and assassin, turns into a streets sweeper truck, has mysophobia, and tries to keep enthusiasm for The job. Left hip and right leg of Stinkatron.

Grassflyer, infiltrator and surveillance, turns into an industrial mower. Often mentally detached from The work of cleaning, Grassflyer would uses circuit buffer(opposite effect to circuit booster) agent to break up The monotony which causes him to pick up other things. Lower left arm of Stinkatron.

Stratum, strategist and scout, turns into a sanitations department patrol station wagon, The smartest of The group who was kidnapped by his Sanitation department colleagues into The Decepticon cause, Stratum is trying to find balance of searching for means of escape and survival. Head and upper right arm of Stinkatron.

#Transformers #transformers design #Transformers Character #original character design #fictional character #original character

10 notes · View notes