#child death mention *

[threebea]

I have started to think of the Jedi being blamed for the Fall of the Republic like blaming firefighters for wildfires.

They have been fighting fires (corruption) for years, but the fire is getting bigger and hotter and spreading farther. They're doing their best but there aren't enough of them to go everywhere there are fires. The Senate points them to where really big fires are, but sometimes it turns out they just want their property saved and there weren't that many people in the building. The Jedi still save lives but they have to look at the bigger picture and hope volunteers will put out the little fires because they simply don't have the people for every little fire even though they wish they did. The Senate starts restricting their use of water. Then an arsonist, Palpatine, is made mayor and takes control of their budget.

Dooku and the CIS start lighting fires on purpose. Palpatine let's Dooku know where the most flammable places are.

And the firefighters (Jedi) keep fighting the fire. They can't not fight the fire. People will die if they don't fight the fire. Then the government is like: there are not enough firefighters to fight the fire, but here is a large population of people we will force to fight the fire with you. You shouldn't have qualms, apparently an individual that used to work for you is the one that paid for their training so really they're your responsibility. You'll be in charge of them on the field and get to watch them die, but we control their lives and have decided they're not people so we don't have to pay them. Good deal. We are good at fighting fires.

And the Jedi can't say no because they need to stop the fire and they can't do it alone at this point. Many of the Jedi are killed in their attempts to stop the gasoline fire Dooku lights and it shows how badly they need these new people.

Luckily, the people drafted to fight with them, the clones are also good at fighting fires! It's dangerous many clones will die, but despite having no choice they stand beside the Jedi bravely. The Jedi do everything in their power to protect them. They fight alongside them and try to minimize loss.

There are a few Jedi that get overwhelmed by anger or trauma. They become arsonists themselves, but the number of those that do can be counted on one hand compared to the thousands of Jedi that continue to fight fires.

Sadly, the clones have explosives inside them that Palpatine, the mayor, has the trigger for. Just when it feels like the fire is under control and the people lighting the fires have been stopped, Palpatine sets them off.

Most of the clones are never the same. They think the Jedi had to have set off the bombs inside them, even though they would have never thought them capable of it before. Most never learn the truth. They hate the Jedi for being traitors.

Most of the firefighters die. And their families too. Their children and uncles and aunts and grandparents, and cousins even if they weren't capable of fighting fires they all get burned to death.

The mayor declares it was the firefighters lighting fires and outlaws being a firefighter.

Some of the Jedi survive. Some of them can't bring themselves to fight fires anymore. Some of them keep doing it because it's what they were trained to do. A lot of them are novices who didn't know all the best techniques, but they find their own methods to put out fires and teach others how to do it as well.

And the rebellion begins because when you see fire the logical thing to do is put it out, but all the firefighters are dead or in hiding and being a firefighter is illegal. There's no one to call so the town's people start doing it themselves, inspired by the Jedi.

This becomes extremely important when the mayor makes a device that can light entire cities on fire at the push of a button.

Anyway that's my metaphor and maybe explains my point of view when it comes to the Jedi.

[oifaaa]

So a lot of you were asking for more baby Damain au and when Dick was finally gonna start getting along with the baby so here you go

[phoenixyfriend]

Pro-Palestine music as protest has been a thing for ages but nothing prepared me for "Hind's Hall" by Macklemore, which has both some great lyrics, some great commentary on protests at Columbia, and for which ALL PROCEEDS GO TO UNRWA.

You don't gotta like his music, but damn. Gotta admit Macklemore has been putting his money where his mouth is for months on this issue.

You can donate directly to UNRWA on their website.

It's not yet on streaming platforms but I heard a snippet in Democracy Now, and he posted part of it to Twitter/X.

I will disclaim that I disagree with the "not voting for Biden" thing, due to the fact that I personally believe that the American political system forces a Lesser Evil approach. I understand the intent, but I do disagree on a personal and political level.

[kudossi]

only god can write this script

“I’m, uh,” Lionblaze mutters, his tail sweeping behind him, “sorry for your loss.”

You would be, wouldn’t you, Dovewing doesn’t say, because she’s ex-ThunderClan, because she’s ex-prophesied, because his sister died for hers and because he’d wanted to kill her son, because she’s the leader’s mate, because her feelings about the cat who practically kidnapped her from her family to raise as a substitute for another are complicated and thorny at best. “Thank you,” she says at last, like she’s expected to. The diplomacy Tawnypelt has spent so long teaching her tastes rotten on her tongue.

Lionblaze wipes his mouth with one paw. Dovewing’s sister is ThunderClan’s deputy now, not him. She wonders how he feels about it. She wonders whether he thinks Hollyleaf should be there instead. She wonders if, just as she had been, Ivypool is just another substitute for a black cat with too-sharp eyes, too much potential. All wasted, of course, because StarClan was nothing if not good at wasting.

She wishes she knew why the she-cats suffered most. She wishes she didn’t know that they did.

She wishes Rowankit had been born a tom, sometimes, in her darkest moments. If he had, he wouldn’t be dead. “Simple as that,” she’d said to Ivypool last Gathering.

“Simple as that,” Ivypool had echoed, hollow. Bristlefrost had died for — what, exactly? So that more toms could live? So that the she-cat didn’t get the happy ending?

“There are never any happy endings for us,” Hollyleaf had murmured to her the morning of her death. The implication had been clear. Dovewing had stared at the only cat who ever understood her with wide, dry eyes until Hollyleaf had set her chin on Dovewing’s head, and then she’d been helpless not to lean in, a sob rattling her chest as she did.

“I approve,” Sorreltail had grinned at her as Briarlight had hissed defiance at the idea of being evacuated.

“Do I need it?” Dovewing had wondered.

“No,” Sorreltail had answered, simple as anything. “If it’s Briarlight, wonderful. But if there lies something for you outside of these borders — take it. Take it and never look back.”

It was the last time she had spoken to Sorreltail until she was cleaning her blood off of Lilykit and Seedkit as another panic swept over the camp. And even then, she was only speaking to a corpse, reassuring a cat who wasn’t there anymore that her kits would be okay.

(And Seedpaw had drowned to keep a stick — the closest memory of her mother she had — in ThunderClan’s possession. Dovewing had wept that night, inconsolable. Another daughter lost to the memory of her mother, a mother who had died because she had been expected to be a mother before a warrior, a mother despite the worst of wounds. A beaver’s dam bursts and is built again, over and over, until Dovewing’s coat drips with invisible blood.)

“Nursery work isn’t simple,” Ferncloud had smiled once, taking her through each task. Her demeanor was gentle, but the undercurrent was hard. Bumblepaw hadn’t taken this lesson. She knew that Lionblaze hadn’t, either.

“Why us?” Dovepaw had asked, looking up at her.

Ferncloud’s gaze, fixed on a point deep in the den, snapped to hers as if pulled there. “Because it’s only us,” she had said after a moment.

Less than a year later, Dovewing would step through Ferncloud’s blood to block a Dark Forest shade, all murk and mire and claws made of filth, from taking a bite out of her corpse.

“Don’t have another litter,” Lionblaze says now, callous in his way. “It never ends well for us.”

She knows — oh, does she ever know — that. No one star-touched could get away with a second litter, not if the stars had touched you young, even if they took the blessings they’d given away. Lionblaze’s first litter had led unremarkable lives — Hollytuft, despite her namesake, was quiet and unobtrusive; Fernsong had stepped a little farther than his bounds with Ivypool (and had paid for it, perhaps, with their daughter drowning in a lake made of rot); and Sorrelstripe’s history seemed to begin and end with her own litter (another dam, rising high; Dovewing looks away, now, because the alternative hollows her chest with rhythmic scraping of dulled teeth — pain comforted by pain). But the second? Two of them kittypets, the third an active rebel who had lost her mate to her own leader’s claws? A gentle fate, all told. They were all still alive, but what did that matter to him? Did the shame of having two living kittypet children outweigh the idea that both were alive, that both were happy, that he could visit them if he cared to?

“He shouldn’t have allowed it,” Jayfeather had said, his blind eyes staring into Dovewing’s soul.

“I shouldn’t have allowed it,” Lionblaze had said, anger toying at the end of every word.

But Dovewing had wanted, and now her tiny, perfect son is dead. “I won’t,” she says, hoarse. After all, she hadn’t ever been allowed to want. What had she expected? That StarClan would grant mercy to one who had only ever done their bidding?

“Guess some of us have to learn our lessons,” Lionblaze mutters. He scratches at an ear and averts his gaze from the direction of ShadowClan’s medicine den when someone stirs within.

Dovewing wonders if she can muster up the energy to be truly angry. She wants to be so badly, like one might want to escape sharpened claws dipped into soft flesh, but it’s hard to muster in this cruel, gray world without her son, with only callous gods to stare down at her. “Guess so,” she says, and wonders which god wrote this script she’s living. Her losses burn hot in her throat, the injustices as cold as ice, but Lionblaze could never fathom a story more unhappy than his own. “I guess so.”

[phantomrose96]

I'm actually deeply obsessed with the tiny little anecdote Hayward tells about the god Henge and it makes me insane again every time I remember it.

You know the best god I ever met - they called him Henge. He haunted a village up north. He didn’t ask much of you. He liked keepsakes. Things that were no longer useful. Maybe you had a ring you didn’t want to wear any more because it hurt too much. Or you had a key that you weren’t going to use for a very long time, but you wanted to be able to find it again when you did. Or maybe your kid would be born with their eyes and throat shut tight and you didn’t know how to move on. You’d wrap your keepsake in green cotton, and you’d bury under a pile of pebbles in a place only you knew. And you’d make the prayer-marks so that Henge would know just what was being offered. And then one day, years later, when you were ready to pick up whatever you’d left behind but perhaps you didn’t even know it yet yourself, you’d turn and look outside your window, and the ring would be hanging from a tree-branch outside. The key would be resting on your sill. There’d be a newborn child, wrapped in green cotton, resting upon your doorstep. I never understood what Henge wanted with that stuff, but I understood the appeal of going through it. How nice it was to feel that someone had stopped to pick up the things you needed to drop.

The image about the stillborn child just stops me cold like. A child you loved and wanted and is born dead and you can't just part with, can't just accept it, can't find the way to put the work into the funeral and have them gone, forever, to nothing.

That you could put the child down and Henge will just... pick them up. Not save them. Not change what happened. Just give you time to step away. To not need to say "goodbye" to the child yet. To not have to deal, just yet. Just that one day, in the future, when you're ready, whenever that may be, the child would be back on your step for you to bury...

Hayward plays down the ring in his example of just hurting too much but, he plays down the kid too. Is that ring of your dead spouse? A dead family member? What kind of key do you need out of your possession until you're ready - or, Hayward, is this honestly just a strategy to keep something where you yourself can't lose it...? Can it be that simple?

I'm insane about Henge. I'm insane about putting a thing down temporarily, and having a god which will hold it while you can't.

[the-meme-monarch]

hey. what if i got really normal about (my designs for) the fallen kids. i promise.

my prev drawings of them here :]

also scrapped doodles involving flowey bc I forgot flowey probably didn’t exist for a while until at least most of them were dead, what with alphys’ dt experiments. i just wanted kris and flowey to meet :( they grew up together in another universe

[genderqueerdykes]

queer communities: please take a moment to read this ask sent by a nonbinary parent discussing their 11 year old transmasc child's experience if you don't believe that transandrophobia is real or that you don't think man hating hurts queer people.

i recently received an ask from a nonbinary parent whose 11 year old transmasc son is dealing with suicidal thoughts and regret because of these behaviors being so common in queer spaces now. he can't escape it, even his friends are awful to him about it and he has to apologize for being transmasc often. he is being robbed of his childhood because people are already forcing him to adopt the "man" role and take heat for it even though he is literally 11 years old.

please take the time to read his story. this is real. it hits hard. this is not just petty fighting online. it gets carried into the real world. those people don't stop believing those things just because they logged off. they're real people. all of these things affect real people because the people behind the posts are real and what they say stems from how they behave.

would you rather see dead trans boys instead of living trans men?

you know the rush you get when you fuck with someone? its temporary, and it creates a howling void. the way you treat that other person? Can stick with them for life. you getting your kicks out of abusing and bullying children has real world consequences. how would you feel if a trans boy actually ended their life because of what you said to them online? you'd say you'd feel proud, but you wouldn't. you won't feel good if it actually happens.

do boys not exist or do they get a special pass and are only killed once they're men? saying things like "kill all men" and pressuring trans men and boys to stop being trans or become more feminine or leave trans spaces altogether is hurting people in the real world. it's not just a funny haha thing you say online, it's happening. and the worst part is that it's the norm. not all transmascs have the ability to have any power over you at all. some transmasculine people are boys, not men. some are children you are not justified in mocking young transmasculine people because they're boys. they're not even men yet. trans boys aren't getting the chance to even become men, let alone be persecuted for it.

please stop. it's making children consider suicide. and don't you dare say "good". like how could a child dying because they were tortured mentally by adults and kids older than them dying ever be a good thing? they're vulnerable. trans boys are vulnerable. you're picking on vulnerable children. you're picking on adults who have already gone through this a million times before. enough. please stop bullying transmasc children. stop doing it to transmasc adults, too, stop doing it to all transmascs. but please stop making kids feel this way. that "petty teenage discourse" is a thing that carries over into the real world and hurts kids. teenagers are kids. preteens are kids. this is hurting the younger generation. why do we see this as okay?

this in and of itself is an example of transandrophobia. please stop. let trans boys grow up to be happy trans men who live long lives. they deserve it. protect trans kids includes transmasc kids and kids who are trans boys. we're shutting down these conversations. you can't keep doing this to other trans people and act like it's funny and cool and whatever.

like seriously, stop. dead children aren't funny.

we're done.

thank you.

[theoppositeofprofound]

Not sure if I have any other opinions on this Epic musical, however as a lowkey fan of Andromache it’s fascinating to see how its changed Astyanax.

Classicists correct me, but the whole point of him is that he’s not a newborn, and therefore straddles the boundary between socially accepted infanticide and taboo murder. He’s old enough to recognize his dad and get spooked by his helmet early in the Iliad. He’s a baby with not one but two names, one of which refers to him as a king or ruler. He lives through his father’s death and his uncles’ power struggles, and though his mother worries for his future she doesn’t worry for his life. This is a kid who has made it through the deadly first few months of life, likely the first year. He’s not a a cooing infant but a bouncing, healthy, vivacious toddler expected to make it to adulthood. Contrast this with how he’s portrayed in Epic and associated derivations as… basically in that potato stage where babies just coo and scream.

This is not saying that either is better or worse, but it is fascinating how the shift reveals a sea change in cultural sympathies. Astyanax in the Iliad is a tragedy because he’s a child who otherwise would have lived and grown strong, he’s the heir to Troy’s favorite prince, he represents Troy itself (and for all these reasons he is killed). Astyanax in the modern musical is a tragedy because he’s innocent. Amazing how losing an entire cultural context of infant mortality changes things.

[lazy-toad]

WHAT is going on in the Compound

[royalarchivist]

QSMP: Therapy question: Any words for Mariana misclicking his child to death?

Foolish: OH! Wow, ok. I um... uh, yeah.

Mariana: Hey, hey! Why are you remembering that sht? Huh?! [In Spanish] What a sht question.

Foolish: Hey, hey– Listen, I don't know about you guys, but the day- the day um, a poor child got misclicked, I- I kinda thought it was a little funny! I dunno. Anyone else?

Mariana: [In Spanish] It's been a long time.

Ironmouse: Foolish thinks dead children are funny!

Foolish: No? Ok. Nope, that– shouldn't have spoke.

Quackity: I mean, it does. Well, it kinda is sometimes.

[supersuperdupersecretnerd]

Happy Holidays, take these quick silly doodles I've made today.

The third one is light heartedly mean, so I'm picking it underneath a readmore for in case this post ends up in the series' main tags.

[aita-blorbos]

AITA for telling the truth?

They (20s F, 20s M, preteen NB, 40s F) hate him (27NB he/they, only he used here for clarity). They don't want to see him. They'll forget him.

"I" (???) know, because he knows. He doesn't want to face it, but he knows it's true.

He's awful. Disgusting. Unlovable. Manipulative. Forgettable. He knows this. He knows this.

They "love" him because he made them. Because he manipulated them. Said all the right things to force them to care about him.

They'll leave him. They want to leave him. They should leave him. He doesn't deserve them. He let the preteen die, once. Once, he even thought about turning his dagger on them. He's disgusting. They'd be better off without him.

He doesn't even remember where he's from. Why should any of them remember him?

I told him. I showed him, in their own words, how much they despise him. He didn't want to hear it, but he knew it was true, even if he tried to deny it. He's disgusting. They hate him. He'll never have a home. Ever. Especially not with them.

It's not being an asshole to tell him the truth. To tell him what he already knows. But he woke up when I was getting through to him. He stopped listening.

So... to verify. I'm not the asshole. I can't be. I only made him face the truth.

[paingoes]

Rubies - Trial III

the prosecution makes its argument

(Content: living weapon whumpee, past trauma, referenced child abuse, referenced caning, past emotional abuse, war, guilt, parental death mention, child death mention, emotional whump, crying, angst, comfort)

In the Emperor’s quarters, the dead far outnumbered the living. Delta knelt upon the bearskin run and ran his fingers through its thick white fur. He wanted to reach for the mouth of it, to feel the teeth, but he dared not move without permission. The fresh cane marks along his calves made sure of that.

“Here, boy.”

The Emperor had taken to calling him boy, which he found strange and overfamiliar. To his handlers, he had always been One-Oh-Seven. More and more, it has simply been Delta. There was no need for numeration when there were no others.

He rose up off of the carpet, taking silent steps until he stood in front of the weary form of the old man. 

The doctor was nowhere to be seen. For this, he was grateful.

A hand heavy with time and with rings pressed against his forehead. Did he look sick? He didn’t mean to. The Emperor would find no fever there, at any rate. Delta ran cold.

“Are the stars all in alignment tonight, poppet?” He withdrew his hand. “Will today be a good day?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

There was no gap in between their words. There was no hesitation. He would be punished for lying just as quickly as for failing, so he was careful not to lie. Of course today would be a good day. 

Delta was excellent.

But the Emperor still searched him. It was not illness he had sensed. 

“Is everything alright?”

The concern in his voice only made the sting worse. Delta looked down in shame.

It was sullenness. That was all. He was cold all over, soaked with shame. It was bad, he knew. He was supposed to take all punishment without complaint, but Delta so seldom needed correction. It hurt all the more when it did come. He couldn’t get the chill of it to leave him. He’d been torn into. 

Unfit, the doctor had said. Unworthy of the privilege. Disgraceful.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Delta responded, the shame of it deepening. He hadn’t meant to sulk about it. He was only proving their point.

There was nothing wrong with his ability to perform, which is all the Emperor had really been asking. A little emotional hurt had never impacted his powers before — thank god for that. Today would be no exception.

With that, the Emperor rose up. Delta followed a half-step behind him. He was getting on in age. It was never hard to keep up.

They walked all the way past the war room, out onto the deck of the ship. The air was thin in the upper atmosphere, but it was getting more bearable upon the descent. There were a collection of advisors and generals gathered about by the railing. Delta kept his head bowed respectfully, careful not to look them dead on. With the Emperor there, he knew they wouldn’t dare touch him. But it was a deeply ingrained habit and one he saw no reason to break.

There was a pressure at his shoulder. It was meant to be reassuring, but it only scared him worse. He could see the target below. Its perimeter was painted in a pale orange color.

They wanted showy this time.

Space was made around him as they clicked the collar off of his neck. He closed his eyes. The light was painful. All the hearts beating so close were distracting. 

Disgraceful. He felt the sting of fear in his chest and prickling at his eyes. It was going to hurt. He was getting frigid in a way he hadn’t before. He didn’t want to be hurt.

He zeroed in on the target anyway, visualizing its delimitation among the pale. He wished they’d given him something to hold onto. All he had now were his own hands and his nails cutting indents into the palms. Showy. The world snapped as the target was turned to dust.

The collar clicked back on. Blood was already pooling in his throat and in his sinuses. The migraine aura descended. He swayed, but not fall. The Emperor’s hand steadied him there. It moved calming circles into his back. He heard the applause, but to him it sounded miles away.

“Incredible.” The Emperor had whispered into his ear. “You were wonderful.”

And like that, he was glowing. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t supposed to feel a thing, but the warmth of the praise made itself at home in him. It was the only time he let himself feel anything close to pride — and he could have lived in its light. It was almost worth it. He felt sick enough to die and it was almost worth it.

~~~~~~

Silas placed the blank sheet of paper down onto the desk and slid it towards him. His expression was grim.

“I want you to write down every target you can remember hitting. Names and dates. It doesn’t have to be exact.”

The room was small and dark, not much bigger than a broom closet. Maryam sat beside him at the table. He had a legal right to keep her there — and thought he had not asked her to, she volunteered to accompany him. 

Delta rocked his leg a little as he felt at the rough graphite of the pencil.

He took the order for what it was. He had a good sense for it. There were some things he struggled to remember, but in general, his memory was better than most. He had been allowed no distractions. He’d had no choice but to focus in.

He started with the earlier days of his imperial career — the battleship he’d crushed on the water, the first show of strength before the purchase was made. And then there was all that came after. He was never told until the day of what he would be after, but he remembered them all the same.

Marisol

Pyrha

Holliday

Basalt

Clover

Killian

Versus

He wrote mechanically, appending the dates as best as he could. He’d already made up this list in his mind several times. He’d have offered it to Levon if things had gone differently, but as it stood, he’d never been given the chance.

Regina

Ursa

Deidra

Anatol

Timber

Jocobe

Weissan

He soon ran out of space on the page. He write in a smaller script around the margins.

“That’s enough,” Maryam said, eyeing the prosecutor nervously. Delta kept writing.

“You can stop now,” Silas agreed, reaching to take the paper back.

“I’m not done,” Delta snapped. 

He recoiled just as soon as he’d said it. He didn’t know where he’d gotten the nerve to speak like that, to talk back at all, and especially not to them. He dropped the pencil and drew back into the chair, fully expecting to get smacked in the mouth, bare minimum. 

The hit didn’t come. Silas took the paper and examined it without much reaction. It was a long list — and that was only with the Emperor. He hadn’t even gotten to Paris yet.

“Can I ask you something? For my own curiosity?” Silas said.

Delta looked up at him.

“About how far away from the target are you when activated?”

“…A mile, sir.” Delta tapped at the chair.

He nodded. “What’s the closest you’ve ever been to someone you’ve killed?”

He heard Maryam scoff beside him, but he thought it was a fair question, if an abrupt one. He had to think about it for a second. As the answer came to him, he felt the shock of ocean water, stealing just as much breath from him as it had the first time.

He held his hands up to demonstrate, having no other way to quantify the distance. Right up against his body. He’d garroted him, wrapped the chains around his neck and held him there. The water had done the rest. He hadn’t even used his powers.

“Daniel Martino,” he answered quietly, “The same night I got picked up.”

It was his most recent kill  — and if Levon’s word was anything to believe in, it would be the last. 

He hadn’t told anyone about it until now.

“Your handler?” Silas asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Silas and Maryam exchanged a look he could not read.

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t fault you for that.” Silas folded the paper into his pocket.

The clemency caught him off guard. Delta looked down, embarrassed all the same.

~

The shades were drawn in the conference room. It was a stormy day outside — Delta could imagine how the static might’ve felt on his skin had he been out there. For now, all he could do was imagine it.

“Delta,” the prosecutor drew his attention back, “I asked you a question.”

Silas was sharper with him when there was a crowd. He was familiar with this tactic. It didn’t register to him as a surprise, only as a kind of dull pain.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Delta said weakly, but sincerely. “…Could you repeat it, please?”

He usually would not have been bold enough to make requests, but then he usually wouldn’t have zoned out in the first place.

“Were the accounts of lateral violence within the Institute true?” He asked, then clarified: “Were the students there encouraged to hurt one another?” 

“Yes, sir.” Delta closed his eyes. He did not need to guess the next question.

“Did you ever use your powers to injure the other students?”

Not because he wanted to. He didn’t know if he was allowed to answer with that. It had been a yes-or-no question — and his handlers had gotten mad whenever he tried to explain himself around it. He didn’t know if the same rules would apply here.

“Yes, sir.”

He caught the concerned looks of the others at the conference table. The council members had shown him no scorn so far, in spite of everything. He dreaded losing it. But in his mind, it was an inevitability. He couldn’t make himself look back.

“Did you ever kill any of them?”

It wasn’t the same as injuring. The administration had loved to use him as a threat long before he was in the imperial service. He’d always be the first they brought out they sent to scare the others into submission. After the first few times — cracked ribs, broken arms, and painful shocks — any actual violence wasn’t needed. The threat alone was enough.

That wasn’t the same as killing. While the punishment had been painful, the kills were quick. Those were for safety alone. Nobody ever died as a punishment. They died because they were about to kill everyone else.

It’d been a yes-or-no question. The answer was yes, obviously.

“Yes, sir.” 

He kept his eyes down. Kitty shifted a bit to his left. He didn’t want to see the way her face changed when she found out.

Silas ended his line of questioning. The lights dimmed further as the video began to play.

PYRHA 08

SOL 07

The caption showed against the grainy white backdrop. He could see the town in his mind before it was shown on the screen. It was before the disaster. Jade was pushed up into the edges of the home. All their streets were still cobblestone. From above, as he had seen it, the town looked to be built into a crescent moon shape. The blue tops of buildings stood out against the pale sand.

“…There was this burning, endless light…”

The voiceover played over still frames of the cloud. The images clipped together in animation. He saw the tip of the airship approaching the edge of the sky.

Whoever had produced the documentary had no knowledge of the cause. How could they? It was a superweapon, they were sure, but how could they have known what? 

All they could do was to quantify it. The ground temperature had reached the same peak as the sun. The duration lasted ten to fifteen seconds — 12.945 seconds, Delta corrected in his mind. There’d been no warning. 2,031 people had died. About five hundred families.

The focus was the math — and more than that, the footage. Few of his attacks had ever been so well documented. But almost as an aside, they had spoken to some of the eye witnesses.

A girl with chestnut brown hair smiled sadly into the camera as she held up the picture. The image quality changed again as a video from inside her house began to play. He could not tell if she was the infant or the child holding onto it inside the cedar living room. The camera shifted angles to capture their mother grinning on the couch, clapping along to the silent song. 

There was some primordial ache in him that would not sleep. It’d always burned too hot. After the first few times, he’d learned not to touch it.

He felt it burning now, pressed up against his skin with no escape.

“And my friends always made fun of me for being such a townie, because I had to ride the bus two hours just to get to school,” the girl chirped softly, “And I remember that morning, my mom telling me not to stay too long after classes. She wanted me to come straight home that day because-“

Her voice broke. 

“Because we were going to go out as a family.”

The clip cut away to the moment the sky tore open.

Delta stood up before he knew what he was doing. He stumbled blindly away from the table, pushing out into the hall.

He’d taken her parents from her. Ripped her away from them, the same way he’d been ripped away from his own. The loss cut through him sharper than he could ever remember. 

He was crying. He couldn’t stop it. The sorrow and fear enveloped him in equal measures. He’d walked out. He hadn’t been dismissed, he’d never walked out like that in all his life. But he couldn’t stand to hear anymore. He didn’t want them to see him cry.

He wanted his mom. It was silly. He didn’t even know what she looked like. She clearly hadn’t wanted him.

“Delta?” Levon called after him. He stopped dead. He was recall trained — he wouldn’t dare move farther. But he couldn’t bring himself to turn around. He didn’t think he could.

He sank to the floor instead. He tried to hide his tears, but his body shook from the effort. He was still good about being quiet when he was hurt. He was trying very hard to be good about it.

A soft sob escaped him anyway. Levon bent down onto the floor beside him.

“That was too far. I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.” Levon placed one hand lightly onto his shoulderblade. His thumb worked over the knots that had formed there, so bound up and painful.

“I’m sorry,” Delta said. It was always the first thing to come out of his mouth these days, no matter how much they tried to correct it. 

He remembered how young he was at the time. He remembered how proud he’d been.

“I didn’t know,” Delta said through tears, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I know, baby,” Levon’s voice got quiet. It didn’t echo. No one else could have heard. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

Then, even quieter, the admission: “It’s not your fault.”

Delta sobbed into his sleeve, leaning over so that his face almost touched the ground. He wished he could stop it. It was taking everything out of him.

He felt a gentle tug at his sleeve. It was an invitation. He accepted it before he could stop himself, too desperate for any semblance of comfort. Levon pulled him into the hug. His cries grew muffled as he hid his face in the fabric of the shirt.

“I’m so sorry, baby.” Levon said, the pain audible in his voice. He carded his hands through the boy’s hair, doing all he could to soothe him.

“I didn’t mean to,” came the soft whine in response.

~~~

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety @floral-comet-whump @littlebookworm69

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@bacillusinfection @dietofwormsofficial @ichortwine @whump-queen @lumpywhump

@jumpywhumpywriter

[phoenixyfriend]

Where did the "Obi-Wan's parents tried to drown him in a river" headcanon even come from?

Like. What canon we do have (admittedly Legends), about his childhood is that he was pretty happy, and had a brother, and then he joined the Jedi. Nothing about the river headcanon!

[mmyashas]

liking qroier is so so painful because its like

it can't get worse (qspreen betrayal)

it can't get worse (bobby death)

it can't get worse (qcellbit goes missing)

it can't get worse (abueloier death..sort of)

it can't get worse (eggs missing)

it can't get worse (purgatory)

it can't get worse (pepito)

[qsmpmiraheze]