#city index excel

[kmrealtygroup]

Is Chicago, Illinois Cheap or Expensive? Here’s the Answer.

If you’re mulling over a move to this bustling metropolis and scanning the “real estate for sale in Chicago, Illinois”, you’re likely curious: Is Chicago cheap or expensive?

Housing Costs in Chicago

When it comes to the housing market, the prices are as diverse as the city itself. A general consensus shows moderate costs compared to coastal cities.

Chicago’s Real Estate Market

From luxury condos downtown to single-family houses in the suburbs, Chicago has a range of accommodation styles. Naturally, the cost varies depending on the type and location.

Luxury Living in Chicago

If you opt for the high-end spectrum of “new properties for sale in the Chicagoland area and surrounding suburbs,” prices can reach into the millions.

Middle-of-the-pack Living

For more modest budgets, homes outside the hub can be attractively priced, providing excellent value in terms of space and amenities.

Cost of Living Index

Considering other living costs, Chicago’s index stands at 106.9, slightly above the U.S. average of 100. While some areas could be expensive, others are surprisingly affordable.

Food and Leisure Prices

Dining out in Chicago can be both a bargain and a splurge. Street food is wallet-friendly, whereas fine dining experiences can be quite steep.

Transportation Costs in Chicago

Getting around Chicago with public transit systems is reasonable. Meanwhile, parking and gas prices can significantly increase the commuting costs for car owners.

Verdict: Cheap or Expensive?

As seen, it completely depends on your lifestyle and where you choose to live and dine. By researching and budgeting, it’s possible to find cost-effective solutions.

Find Your Preferred Lifestyle

The housing options align with a wide range of budgets, whether you’re browsing budget-friendly homes or looking for extravagant properties for sale in the Chicagoland area and surrounding suburbs.

In Summary

Ultimately, living in Chicago can be cheap, expensive, or somewhere in between, factoring in your individual budget, lifestyle, and specific choices — particularly in housing.

KM Realty Group LLC — your trusted source for all your real estate needs in Chicago, Illinois!

[andy-15-07]

Elastic Embrace

PAIRING: Reed Richards x reader

WORD COUNT: 2205 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

requestHi I have a request! In honor of the Fantastic Four movie coming out soon, could you do a Reed Richards story? Maybe where the reader has powers too but struggles to control them so Reed helps them? Lots of fluff and cute moments, maybe a bit of smut too if you want!

You slip into the Baxter Building lab well before sunrise, heart pounding as you stare at the humming containment pod. Today’s the day Reed Richards finally tries to help you master your power,your ability to phase through solid matter. You’ve spent the last month learning to dial it down to a harmless shimmer, but every time you try something bigger, you end up halfway through a wall or sinking into the floorboards.

Reed, tall and lean even in his rumpled lab coat, appears behind you as you fidget with the control panel. “Morning, Y/N,” he says softly, blue eyes warm. “Ready for our first session?”

You jump, nearly pressing the wrong button. “Yeah,sorry. I’m just… nervous.”

“Don’t be,” he murmurs, offering his hand. “Nervous is good. Means you care.”

You take his hand and let him guide you to the small training chamber: a clear-walled sphere with an array of sensors. The city skyline glitters outside. “So,” Reed begins, folding long arms, “today we’ll start simple. I want you to phase your fingertip through that steel cube.” He points to a heavy block on a pedestal.

You breathe deep. “Okay.” You step forward, watching your hand tremble. “Here goes.”

“Take your time,” Reed instructs. “Imagine your molecules slipping between the cube’s.”

You close your eyes and feel the familiar tingle. Slowly, your index finger grows translucent… then disappears entirely. A startled gasp escapes you as your hand glides through the cube. You yank it back out, normal again, blinking in triumph.

Reed’s grin is infectious. “Excellent!” He claps once,soft, almost shy,and his eyes sparkle. “See? That was perfect.”

Your cheeks heat. “That was just a fingertip,” you protest. “Not the whole arm.”

“Progress is progress.” He crosses to your side. “Now, try your whole hand.”

You inhale and, guided by his steady presence, glide your hand through, elbow next. Your confidence building, you coax your shoulder forward,and suddenly you’re halfway through the steel. A jolt of panic flickers, but you hear Reed’s calm voice in your ear.

“Control your breathing. Steady,now pull back.”

You obey, phasing out in one fluid motion. Your heart pounds, but you smile,big and genuine. Reed steps forward, envelops you in a hug from behind, and you feel him press a light kiss to your shoulder.

“Great job,” he whispers. “Really great.”

Later, you’re sprawled on the couch in your shared loft,one of Reed’s quieter safehouses,wrapped in his enormous sweater. Across from you, Reed is perched on the armrest, reading through biometric data on a tablet. He glances up.

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” you admit, rubbing your temples. “But… good-tired.”

He nods. “Tomorrow we’ll try walking partway through the wall. But tonight, you rest.”

You grin sleepily. “Promise me one thing?”

“Anything.”

“Breakfast in bed?”

Reed raises an eyebrow, but a smile tugs his lips. “Of course.”

Sunlight peeks through the curtains the next morning as you wake to the smell of coffee and sizzling bacon. In the kitchenette, Reed flips pancakes,his arms stretchy enough to handle both spatula and mug at the same time. He turns, grinning. “Morning, Y/N.”

“Wow,” you murmur, sitting up. “You’re domestic.”

He shrugs, pancake in hand. “If I can’t master breakfast, how can I teach you to phase properly?”

You laugh as he brings a plate to you. “Thank you.”

He sits beside you on the floor, leaning back against the island. “So,how’d you sleep?”

“Like a log.” You pop a pancake into your mouth. “This is amazing.”

“Glad you like it.” Reed leans closer, voice soft. “I like this,us,just hanging out.”

Your heart flutters. “Me too.”

He brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “There’s something… cute about your hair in the morning light.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks. “Stop.”

He chuckles. “Never.”

That afternoon, you’re back in the lab, ready to tackle phasing through a wall. Reed programmed a holographic grid on the far surface, so you can see exactly how far you’ve gone. You place your palm flat against the cold concrete.

“Just your hand first,” Reed reminds you, voice calm.

You nod, breathe, and push forward. The grid lines flicker as your hand slips through. You slide your forearm, smile widening… then hesitate at the elbow.

“Steady,” Reed says quietly. “Find your edge.”

You take a slow breath, push your shoulder in,and suddenly you’re in the wall, cement scraping at your back. Your knees hit the barrier too soon, and you stumble, trapped. Panic surges.

“Y/N!” Reed’s voice is urgent. He steps forward, stretching through the solid block until his body reaches you. He grasps your wrist in his hand,his stretchy wrist, but firm all the same,and pulls you free.

You collapse into his embrace, heart racing. Reed holds you tight. “Easy,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You tremble, tears pricking. “I’m sorry. I did it wrong.”

He strokes your hair. “No, you did great. You just need more practice.”

You sniffle. “I don’t want to keep embarrassing myself.”

Reed tilts your chin up, his eyes gentle. “Y/N, look at me.” You do, and his smile is patient. “Everyone struggles at first. You’re learning a new way of being. I’m proud of you.”

Your tears spill over. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this.”

He brushes a tear away and kisses your forehead. “Yes, you are. And I’ll be here until you can slip through that wall with ease.”

That evening, exhausted, you settle onto the lab’s observation balcony. Reed joins you, handing over two steaming mugs of cocoa. The city lights shimmer below.

“To persistence,” he toasts.

“To… you,” you answer, and laugh when he raises an eyebrow.

He grins. “I like the sound of that better.”

You sit in comfortable silence, sipping cocoa. Reed wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. You rest your head on his shoulder. “Thank you for everything,” you whisper.

He kisses the top of your head. “Always.”

Over the next weeks, your sessions alternate between breakthroughs and setbacks. Every time you feel discouraged, Reed’s there with a patient word, a goofy joke, or an impromptu backrub. You discover that his mind is as elastic as his body,able to stretch around yours, ready to support you in any way.

One night, as you’re heading home, you find Reed waiting at your door. In his hands: a small steel puzzle cube. “Thought it might help,” he says, offering it to you.

You grin. “Is this for…?”

“For phasing practice,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck. “But also…I thought we could…play with it. Together.”

You blink, heart fluttering. “Together?”

He steps closer, eyes warm. “Yeah. We could…take turns. You phase, I grab…or vice versa.”

Your breath hitches. “That sounds…fun.”

He grins, and you lean in. “Okay.”

Inside, he dims the lights and sets the cube on the coffee table. You sit on the couch; he kneels before you. “Ready?”

You close your eyes, center yourself, and press your hand to the cube. Inch by inch, you phase your fingers through. When your entire hand sinks in, you guide it back out, gasping in triumph.

Reed claps softly. “Beautiful.”

Your cheeks warm. “Your turn.”

He places his hand on the cube. In a moment, he phases his fingers through, then laughs. “Easy.”

You giggle. “Okay, smarty. Try the other side.”

He flips the cube around, touches a different face. “Hmm,slightly thicker metal. Let’s see,“

He phases completely into the cube, disappearing from sight. You gasp and reach forward…then he slips out behind you, pulling you into a kiss so soft your breath catches. His hands roam your back; you wrap your arms around his neck.

“Reed,” you murmur against his lips. “We shouldn’t…”

He hushes you with a finger. “Y/N, you’re safe.”

His kisses grow more insistent; his body stretches around yours until you’re both pressed comfortably into the couch. The warmth of his skin, the softness of his lips,it all hums through you. Your skin tingles with residual power, like the last echo of your phasing.

He lifts you onto his lap, carefully, so no awkward creaks of the couch disturb you. You free his lab coat and collar of his shirt, nipping at the warm skin of his chest. He shivers, closing his eyes.

Every stroke, every kiss, is filled with warmth and affection.

He catches your lips again, softer this time, as his hand slides beneath your skirt to rest warm and sure against your inner thigh. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and you part your lips against his, whispering, “Reed… please.”

He smiles into the kiss,an electric flash in those deep blue eyes,then lowers his mouth to your collarbone, trailing slow, teasing kisses up toward your neck. His fingertips press gentle arcs into your thigh, inching ever closer until you can’t help the soft gasp that slips free.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, voice thick with need. He lifts you slightly, guiding you to settle fully onto his lap so your heat is flush against him. His arousal presses insistently against you, and you let your hands roam over his chest,over the firm muscles that ripple beneath elastic flesh.

When he shifts, you feel the slick promise of him at your entrance. You tilt your hips, meeting him halfway. A low, breathy groan rumbles from Reed as he fills you completely, slow and tender. You thread your fingers through his hair, marveling at the contrast of softness and strength in every stretch of his body.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. “So incredible.”

You cup his jaw, your touch somehow grounding you amid the swirl of sensation. “Only with you,” you reply, voice trembling.

He smiles, then pulls you closer, rocking his hips gently at first,drawing out every delicious stretch, every flutter of warmth. You wrap your legs around his waist, pressing him deeper, and lean into him as he picks up the pace. Each roll of his hips sends sparks through you; you moan softly, delighted by how completely he knows you.

“Fuck, Y/N,” Reed says, voice rough. He slides one hand from beneath your thigh to cup your breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Heat flares through you, and you arch against him, biting your lip to stifle a cry.

He answers with a kiss so fervent it steals your breath, his other hand curling around your back, anchoring you to him. You grind down, squirming as your power hums,a gentle warmth, like embers beneath skin,mingling with the heat of his body.

“Do you feel that?” he rasps against your mouth. ���Every part of you…”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Every part of me loves you.”

At that, Reed’s pace shifts,deeper, more insistent,pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, nails grazing rubbery skin. Your vision flutters, and he hushes you with a kiss at the base of your throat, murmuring, “Let go, Y/N.”

With one final thrust, you shudder, your power flaring softly as your pleasure peaks. You collapse against his chest, trembling, and Reed holds you through every tremor, rocking slowly until the world steadies again.

He eases you down onto the couch cushions, shifting so he can lie beside you, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace. You nestle into his warmth, breath still ragged, as he kisses your temple.

“I love you,” he whispers, fingers tracing idle patterns across your back.

You lift your head to meet his gaze, smiling through the aftershocks of bliss. “I love you too, Reed Richards,Mr. Fantastic,master of all things,” you tease, and he laughs, his chest vibrating beneath you.

“Now,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours once more, “let’s see if we can’t master breakfast in bed next.”

You giggle, snuggling closer, and as you drift toward sleep in his arms, you know that with Reed by your side,stretching, supporting, loving,you could conquer any challenge: phasing through walls, mastering your power, or even carving out a lifetime of mornings just like this.

The next morning, you awaken in Reed’s arms, sunlight kissing your face. Your powers feel… calmer, somehow, as though his acceptance has soothed the rough edges. You nuzzle into his chest.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, stretching around you until you’re both upright, spooned together.

“Morning,” you reply, smiling up at him.

He kisses your forehead. “Coffee?”

You laugh. “Please.”

He slides out of bed,carefully, you realize, given his elasticity,and leaves you a note on the nightstand: “Breakfast at Joe’s on me. Meet me downstairs.” You grin, pull on some clothes, and slip out to meet him.

Downstairs in the Baxter lobby, Reed is waiting, hair tousled, smile radiant. He holds two cups of steaming coffee and a paper bag of muffins. “Thought we’d keep the biscuit trend going,” he jokes.

You take a muffin, sit beside him. “Thank you,for last night. For everything.”

He reaches for your hand. “You’re the bravest person I know.” He squeezes your fingers. “Now, let’s see how brave we can be today,in training and…everything else.”

You lean into him, heart full. With Reed by your side, you know you can do anything,even learn to control a power as strange and wonderful as yours. And maybe, just maybe, discover entirely new ones,together.

[reallyromealone]

Day sixteen 🎃 curroption

Pantalone x Barbara's brother male reader

Warnings: male reader, nsfw, smut, slight dubious consent, tough sex, blowjobs, facials, bottom male reader

Masterlist

(Name) hummed as he wandered the path, currently on a pilgrimage throughout the countries to give prayer to the gods and learn about the other lands beyond his own, dressed in winter clothes he was thankful he brought //imagine Barbara's outfit but fur lined and more masculine// as be looked through the endless winter before him.

Snezhnaya was not far off from what he was told but he found the cold almost delightful as the snow crunched beneath his shoes.

The young Deacon looked for a church or Cathedral of anything throughout the city when he noticed up high on a hill was a grand cathedral "thank goodness..."

"Excuse me?" A young girl dressed in fur lined clothes asked "who are you?" She asked curiously and (name) smiled warmly "I'm a Deacon of Mondstadt, I'm currently on a pilgrimage" he said with a kindness like no other, an emotional warmth radiating off him and giving a sense of safety.

"Really? That's so cool?" The girl said wide eyed and the two were unaware of Fatui guards taking notice of this and bringing the information of a Mondstadt Deacon in their city to Pantalone.

(Name) was in awe at the country and despite its unforgiving weather the people were kind to him, regarding him warmly as he made his way to the cathedral.

"Pardon me, are you the Deacon I heard of?" A deep elegant voice rang out, catching (name)s attention to the tall man with a false smile "hello! Yes, my (name) is (name)! A pleasure to meet you!" Pantalone noted be couldn't be older than 19, a bright and cheerful nature and radiating innocence and purity.

Pantalone wanted to own this adorable bunny.

"What brings you to our fair country little Deacon?" The spectacled man asked with false curiousity, trying to get information from the pretty boy who beamed and told him so honestly what he was doing "very noble of you, you must make those at home proud" Pantalone comments and (name) shook his head "I don't do this for the praise of others, I do it for the gods... They all deserve prayer and kindness..." He said genuinely and Pantalone was a greedy greedy man.

"Would you like to join me for dinner?"

Pantalone was selfish and greedy as he took in the others form as he watched (name) take off his coat to reveal how wonderful he was on the eyes.

"Thank you very much for inviting me! You have a beautiful home" (name) said genuinely and Pantalone imagined how wonderful he would look perched on his lap or spread in his bed dressed in barely anything or better yet nothing at all.

(Name) stared at him with his full attention, as if he were the the gods the Deacon prayed to.

"I must confess... I didn't ask you to join me to dinner for innocent reasons..." A false remorse making (name) look confused but let him continue "you see I was entranced by your beauty..."

He was entranced by his beauty, his innocence and would make an excellent lover to him.

"I must say... I find you quite handsome" (name) was flushed as he looked away, embarrassed at his confession only for the man to pull him closer "that's very sweet of you to say" Pantalone gently took his chin with his index and thumb "you're so beautiful..." He whispered before taking (name)s lips, pulling him into his lap fully and hands wasting no time touching "w-wait..." (Name) gasps, clinging and already debauched from a kiss "t-tgat was my first..."

"Kiss? Tell me... Have you ever bedded a man before?"

"I... I never..."

Pantalone grinned as he moved so (name) was under him and wasted no time recapturing his lips, determined to break his brain till he could only remember the feeling of his cock in him.

(Name) felt dizzy as be tried to keep up, covering himself when the other removed his shirt "don't cover yourself" Pantalone said pinning his arms above his head with one hand and continued his exploration, biting and sucking anywhere to get those sweet inexperienced moans from the others lips as his hand moved to rub the Deacons clothes cock, groping and playing with it before slipping under to fondle with the hardened cock, hot and leaking with pre-cum.

"Already close to cumming?" Pantalone teased "is my slutty little Deacon close?"

"I-I..."

"I-I" Pantalone mocked as he licked one of his nipples "come on bunny speak up"

"I don't... I-I don't know... Knot..."

"A knot? Where?"

"My stomach.."

"That means your slutty little cock is going to cum..." Pantalone said gripping his cock and jerking it off and watching the Deacon come undone "you ruined your pants..." Pantalone tisked as he stripped the beautiful man fully "such a wonderful body..." He breathed out as he took in the other.

mondstadt didn't deserve him.

"Wanna be a good boy?" Pantalone asked with a condicendingly sweet tone and (name) hazily nodded, unsure what he want but he wanted more...

"Then get on your knees infront of me"

(Name) moved so he was on his knees before the other, looking up at him so innocently "be a good boy and suck my cock nicely, get it ready"

(Name) wasn't fully sure what he was getting it ready for as the banker fished it from his expensive pants and gently smacked (name)s face with it "hop to little bunny" and watched (name) nervously take the cock in his hands, almost in awe at it's size as he pumped it a few times before tentatively putting it in his mouth.

"Good boy..." Pantalone said with a sigh as (name) sucked his cock like he was made to do so, he knew there was an eager slut underneath that Innocence...

(Name) didn't understand why he wanted to be such a good boy to the man whom he just met, never being touched like this before and found it additive.

(Name)s mouth was like a vacuum, the sweetheart giving it his all and Pantalone decided that he was going to put a ring on his pretty little finger, make him stay here forever.

Dress him in pretty clothes and break his pretty brain and form it into a dumb cum slut.

That sounded wonderful.

Pantalone gripped the back of his head as he slowly fucked his mouth with a low groan, feeling the others hands grip his thighs, loving the fact he was fully dressed compared to the Deacon being nude as it should be from now on.

(Name) looked so hazy and almost adoring as he bobbed his head, the taste and feeling addictive and the weight of it on his tongue was wonderful.

(Name) gasped as Pantalone forced his mouth off his cock, mouth open with a gasp as he came on his face, white ropes like a wedding veil and Pantalone felt himself harden again as (name) licked the cum almost hypontized as he did so "god you're such a little slut"

Pantalone could see (name) was almost in a headspace, the eager bunny just wanting to please his owner.

"Come here" Pantalone pat his lap and (name) crawled in it, their cocks touching "if you wish to continue I must tell you something" Pantalone said seriously and (name) nodded slowly "if you wish to have sex with me, you cannot leave my side again, I am a selfish greedy man and I refuse to let such a precious thing like you go"

"Was this not... You know... That?"

Even after sucking cock and getting jerked off the sweetheart still couldn't bring himself to say sex, god he was precious.

"Oh darling we barely begun~" Pantalone said groping his ass cheeks "would... I be able to visit my family...?" (Name) said holding back a moan "I could arrange it..." Pantalone said and (name) bit his lip "would we be... Lovers?"

"That's my intention" Pantalone took one of (name)s hands and kissed his knuckles, watching the Deacon swoon "please... Have uh... sex with me" he whispered the last bit as Pantalone grinned, watching as (name) sealed his fate forever.

(Name) yelped as Pantalone lifted him, cock hanging heavy as he walked through the halls of the grand mansion till they reached the master bedroom and the man placed (name) on the expensive sheets, mentally noting how perfect he was in the pattern.

Pantalone grinned as he grabbed an expensive bottle of oil, pouring it on his hands "this may be uncomfortable" Pantalone said leaning to kiss his thigh before spreading the others legs "oh my, aren't you flexible" Pantalone grinned before his oil covered fingers moved lower to prod at his entrance and gently pushed in, not wanting to hurt his bunny...well at least not like that.

(Name) whined at the foreign intrusion "shhh" Pantalone silenced the other as he began moving his finger and pumping in slowly, (name) head lulled as he let out soft moans and pants, mouth opening wide when the other added another finger and doing a combination of a skissor motion and a hithering motion, stretching and pleasuring his sweet lover.

His lover.

God Pantalone would spoil him to hell.

(Name)s hips spasmed a bit as Pantalone hit his prostate dead on "w-what...?"

"Seems I found your prostate, that's a spot inside you that's going to make you go insane" he smiled before adding a third finger and without warning began aggressively finger fucking the poor man and fingers beating against his prostate.

"Ohh~ I-I can't... To much~" (name) was shaking and crying as his toes curled and looked like a mess but god was he beautiful Pantalone noted silently, already fucked out and he hadn't even put his cock in yet.

God he loved how honest he was with his reactions.

(Name) was so close, he could feel the knot tighten again.

Then Pantalone retracted his fingers, grinning sadistically as (name) looked annoyed and confused "don't worry, the best part his coming"

Pantalone lubed his own cock before rubbing it at (name)s entrance before pushing his cock in "hn!" (Name) cried out as he clung to Pantalone "t-to much... Can't fit..." (Name) cried out and the black haired man kissed him "shhh it will fit don't worry" Pantalone soothed and (name) cried softly as the other bottomed out fully "you're doing so well, do you like my cock?"

"Big..."

Pantalone felt his ego rocket as he began slowly thrusting back and forth, caging (name) in his arms as the poor man clung to anything he could "ah ah!" (Name)s moans bounced with each thrust, the stretch and sensation of the head rubbing against his prostate to much as his eyes crossed a little, moans increasing in volume as Pantalone increased his movements and slowly began pistoning his hips, the sound of skin slapping and beautiful moans filling the room "I-I" (name) tried speaking but got cut off by his own moan as the two shared a sloppy kiss, teeth clashing as he fucked into (name), the Deacon cross eyed and swore he was going to become addicted to this newfound pleasure.

"I-its.. cumming!" (Name) let out a loud slutty moan as he came between them, cum staining both their chests but Pantalone kept going, chasing his own orgasm as (name) felt himself go crazy, overstimulated and body hot as the man pounded relentlessly, hands gripping his hips and no doubt leaving bruises.

"Mine..mine" he mumbled as he reached orgasm, poor (name) cumming again and passing out, completely fucked out.

"All mine..." Pantalone mumbled as he pulled out, watching cum leak from his pretty ass "and you're never leaving..."

[guess-my-next-obsession]

Halloween, 2004

pairing: no outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader (Elementary-verse)

rating: F (joel’s a flirt, but no actual smut, a good amount of early y2k nostalgia for my fellow ancient gen-z/millennials)

wc: 1k

series masterlist

October 31st, 2004

“Cutest little hobbit in the whole world.”

You couldn’t help gushing over your newborn daughter as she slept in her swing. You’d just finished carefully slipping on her first halloween costume, one that fit in with Joel’s chosen theme for the year—The Lord of the Rings. You’d decided to go as Arwen, the counterpart to Joel’s Aragorn, and had spent a pretty penny crafting the costumes from scratch. You’d always been a DIY kind of kid growing up, and even though it had been tempting to take the easier route and buy one of the cheap costumes from Party City given your newly hectic life as a mother, it felt a bit sacreligious to turn your back on your old ways.

Sarah had politely declined taking part in the family theme this year, choosing to dress up as one of the Cheetah Girls instead, but took enough pity on her pouting father to agree to dress up as Legolas for one singular picture. A picture that was never to be shown to any of her friends, as per her request.

“Oh my god,” she said, covering her mouth as she descended the staircase in her best elven getup, a white, synthetic lace front half-hazardously thrown over her freshly corn-rowed braids. “Dad’s gonna die over this.”

You laughed and nodded your agreement as you pulled out your new digital camera—one you’d splurged on for the upcoming holiday season—to snap a picture of your two girls. “Ten bucks says he cries a little.”

“Fifteen says he cries a lot,” Sarah countered as she tried her best to hide her face from the camera. “I thought we agreed on one picture.”

“One family picture,” you corrected with a smirk. “Are you sure you don’t wanna come trick-or-treating?”

She gave you a deadpan and pretended to gag, earning an eye roll from you. “God no. Besides, Jessie and I are working at the library’s haunted house. But save me some candy.”

“Luckily for you, Iris doesn’t have teeth yet, so it’s all yours,” you said. “But can’t promise she won’t put up a fight in a couple years.”

“Yeah, well I’ll have her trained by then,” she said, flickering some of her straight blonde hair over her shoulder.

Joel’s truck pulled into the driveway shortly after Iris woke up from her nap, you and Sarah cozied up with her on the sofa as you watched Hocus Pocus on Disney Channel—your pick, not Sarah’s. When Joel stepped through the front door, he was met with the sight of two elves and a tiny hobbit sprawled out on the sectional, a bowl of popcorn in his eldest daughter’s lap and a bag of candy in his wife’s. His grin was glorious.

“Have I died and gone to Middle Earth?” Joel said, shaking his head as he walked over to Sarah, kissing the top of her head before doing the same to you and then finally, his newest baby girl. “You’re gonna make my damn heart explode, baby girl. Look at these hairy little feet.”

He rubbed her socked feet between his thumb and index fingers, chuckling at the fuzz you’d glued on.

“And you,” Joel fixed his attention on his first born, his dimple showing with how hard he was grinning. “You make an excellent Legolas, baby girl.”

“I’m taking this thing off as soon as you guys take that stupid picture,” she said, souring her face. “This wig is itchy and cheetah print is calling my name.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Joel said, rolling his eyes as he scooped Iris out of your arms. “We get it. You’re a cool teenager now, too hip for family costumes.”

“You guys could’ve been Cheetah Girls, too,” she said. “I would’ve been on board, then.”

“I don’t think your dad could pull off cheetah print, babe,” you said, standing up and setting your bag of candy on the coffee table. You didn’t miss Joel’s eyes appreciatively scanning over your costume, a devious glint in his eyes. “Come on, papa. You have a costume to get into.”

Joel shot you a wink before handing Iris over to Sarah, mumbling a promise that the two of you would be right back. A promise that you doubted he’d keep given the look in his eyes.

You hardly made it to the privacy of your bedroom before Joel hand his hands on you, tugging you close to his body as he placed a few greedy kisses to your lips.

“You’re keepin’ that on tonight,” he said, nipping at your chin.

“Long as you keep yours on, too,” you purred, gently scratching at his scalp as you melted into him. “My king.”

Joel groaned, swatting your ass through your dress. “I’m gonna have you kneelin’ for me later, that’s for damn sure.”

You giggled, swatting at his chest as you pulled away to grab his costume from the closet, setting each piece on the bed—wig, included.

“I ain’t wearin’ that,” he chuckled, but all it took was one pout from you to change his mind. “Fuck me, fine. But the second that thing starts to itch, it’s comin’ off.”

Once he’d gotten his costume on and took a good look at himself in the bathroom mirror, he sighed.

“Yeah, you’re definitely gonna be on your knees tonight for makin’ me wear this fuckin’ wig,” he grumbled, though you were too amused to care. “How do I look? Royal?”

“You look good with longer hair,” you mused, playing with the wavy ends of his wig. “You should grow it out one day.”

He scoffed. “Maybe one day when I’m old and my devilishly handsome looks have gone to shit.”

“I don’t know,” you said, biting your lip as you gave him a once over. “I’m pretty sure you’re gonna be devilishly handsome to the day you die, Miller.”

“Good thing my wife’s a ten, then,” he said, leaning in to brush a kiss against your lips. “Wouldn’t want to outshine, ya.”

You tossed your head back and laughed, earning another kiss to the base of your throat. “God, I love you.”

“Love you a thousand times more, darlin’.”

[jungkoode]

CODE : EPITAPH | 02

"valis core"

"The blade finds his throat before he finds your weakness. His fingers find one of your triplet markers before you can process the threat. And somewhere along the city walk, you confirm all Consortium pricks are, indeed, pricks."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 5.5k

content: immediate violence as foreplay, combat assessment that becomes something else, forced proximity in public spaces, linguistic warfare via altsprek, namjoon's pov is cold calculation with cracks showing, biological profiling discussions, & the specific humiliation of being systematically excluded from your own mission briefing

|| veyrah sectors || consortium territories || the verge wastes ||

— author's note

SOOOOO welcome to my alien world monster, or as I like to call it: Code : Epitaph. Chapter 2, by the way. In case you didn’t notice. In case you stumbled in here by accident. In case you somehow read Chapter 1 and thought, “oh wow I bet this gets less intense now” — no it does not. It gets worse. I am so sorry. I’m also lying. I’m not sorry at all ( ◡‿◡✿ )

First of all—the POV shift. Did you catch that? We start in Namjoon's head. Cold. Clinical. Calculating escape routes and threat assessments like he's running some kind of biological Excel spreadsheet. I wanted you to feel what it's like inside the mind of someone who has systematically murdered their own emotional responses in favor of "optimization." The way he catalogs Y/N's every micro-movement, the way he processes her defiance as a puzzle to solve rather than a person to understand. It's chilling, right? It should be. Because here's the thing about Namjoon—he's not evil in the traditional sense. He's something worse. He's someone who has convinced himself that viewing people as data points is actually the moral high ground.

Now. This chapter… okay the first scene, sue me, it’s hot. I’m allowed one little war-crime-y sexual tension beatdown per chapter. It’s called balance. I really wanted to lean into actual antagonism and not that watered down “oh no we’re enemies but he’s soooo handsome” trope. No. These two look at each other and it’s like: ‘the moment I see an opening I will slit your fucking throat and smile doing it’ energy. And yes, it’s giving. I love writing fights where the tension is physical and psychological and primal and terrifyingly competent. Sue me (again).

And the fact that he wins? That he pins her against the wall with her own knife? That's not about his superiority—it's about the system that created him. He's been trained since childhood to be a weapon. She's had to teach herself in the margins, in the spaces between survival and rebellion. The power imbalance isn't just physical; it's institutional. It's generational trauma made manifest in the way he can so easily turn her own weapon against her.

Then we get the Boulevard scene, and this is where I'm really proud of the world-building weaving through character development. Y/N experiencing Valis Core's casual wealth for the first time, but through the lens of being stared at, being othered. And Namjoon just... not getting it. Not understanding why she's bothered by curiosity that he classifies as biological interest. The man really stood there and explained her own genetic heritage to her like he's giving a TED talk, completely missing the violent dehumanization inherent in that level of cataloging.

Which brings me to the offspring conversation. *nervous laughter* Yeah. I went there. Because here's what's so deeply fucked about Namjoon's worldview—he can discuss their hypothetical children with the same detached interest as analyzing crop yields, while she's standing there having a visceral trauma response to the idea of forced reproduction. The fact that he's genuinely confused by her reaction? That he has to clarify that the Consortium doesn't practice forced breeding? It tells you everything about how different their worlds are. He lives in a place where bodily autonomy is assumed (for certain things). She lives in a reality where every system is designed to use her body against her will.

This section was crucial because I needed them to finally… you know… talk. Actual talking. Not knife-to-the-throat foreplay, but proper verbal sparring. And since both Namjoon and the reader are from this world, I didn’t want to do the “hello and welcome to my alien TED talk on how Authority Levels work!!” info-dump garbage. Ew. No. We’re grown. We’re nuanced. We build the world through perspective and action, not exposition. So yes, there’s worldbuilding here — but you earn it through dialogue, through friction, through character perception. This is how we do it in this house.

Also. I’d like to formally say: Namjoon being Authority Level 7 is absolutely intentional. I’m so bored of main characters being max-level ultra-bosses with unlimited power and godlike status. That’s not compelling. That’s not tense. That’s a power fantasy. My stories are psychological realism in a bottle of sci-fi, and that means no leader-of-the-mafia/king-of-the-world/god-of-sex as the male lead. Jungkook in Kkangpae isn’t the boss, and here, Namjoon is not top of the food chain either. He has absolute control over Epitaph, yes — but not over everything. And I wanted to show how that creates interesting tension. Especially when someone mocks him for not being higher and he’s like “I am not bothered 😐” when clearly? Clearly he is. We love a composed man with ego microfractures. Yessss sir. Suffer sexily for us.

Also. His threatening non-threats?? Am I okay?? Why is it so hot when he says things like “perhaps you require further conditioning” without blinking?? WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT. Anyway. I’m opening my legs respectfully (metaphorically). Let’s move on.

The consent/rut cycle convo was something I’ve been meaning to include for a while—I actually got an ask weeks ago about how consent works during heats/ruts in this world, and I took it to heart. ABO tropes often lean into “no rational thought, must fuck,” but personally that never sat right with me. So I made my own rules. In Veyrah, enhanced biological states amplify want, they don’t invent it. Which means consent gets tricky—not impossible, not erased—just more complicated. You still have agency. You still have to choose. And I like that nuance. I like the tension of “I hate you, but right now I want you, and I hate that I want you.” Because I’m a hate-fucking apologist. Sorry not sorry.

But the masterstroke—if I can call my own writing that without sounding like a complete asshole—is the Altsprek scene. I’ve been WAITING to drop this linguistic little freak of nature into the story. Is it German? Kind of. Is it not? Absolutely. I don’t speak fluent German so I just butchered structure and phonetics until it sounded cool and scary and mildly fascist and now we have a made-up language that exists for science, for precision, and for exclusion (so if grammar is not consistent... well, suck it up; I'm a writer, not a linguist.) That’s the point. It’s the language of the Consortium. It’s how power speaks. And I loved showing how it’s used deliberately to shut the reader out. The way the higher-ups deliberately switch to a language she can't understand, discussing her like she's not even there. It's such a perfect microcosm of systemic oppression. They need her knowledge, her skills, her regional expertise—but they won't give her the dignity of understanding what she's being asked to do. She's simultaneously essential and expendable, necessary and excluded.

And Namjoon. My problematic son. He KNOWS what they're doing. He sees her frustration, understands the power play happening, and does... the bare minimum. Advocates for "basic operational parameters" like he's doing her a favor. Because in his world, that IS generous. He cannot conceive of a reality where she should have full access to information about a mission that could kill her. The paternalism is so deeply embedded in his worldview that he probably thinks he's being kind.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk about my own character choices. I'm very normal about this story. Clearly. (NOT).

— read on

read on ao3

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

Namjoon arrives at Sub-Level Seven at 0800 hours, punctual as he ever is.

You're awake. Standing. Waiting.

He catalogs this.

Most subjects require forty-eight hours minimum to adapt to containment rhythms.

Proximity sensors logged seven hours of movement—pacing patterns, tactical assessment sweeps, stress sequences.

But you're not cowering. Not pleading. Not broken.

You're measuring kill zones.

The stance is familiar. Weight distributed, hands loose but ready. You're calculating distance between his position and the exit. Mapping strike angles. Finding escape routes that don't exist.

He recognizes the assessment protocol because it mirrors his own.

Interesting.

The Algorithm chose efficiently.

"Good morning," he says, voice calibrated to establish dominance without triggering immediate violence. "I trust your accommodations proved adequate."

Your eyes narrow. Displeased, then.

"Adequate." You test the word like poison. "Is that your diplomatic way of asking if I slept well in my fucking cage?"

Crude emotional outlet. Designed to provoke reaction.

He, of course, doesn't provide one.

"Sleep quality affects operational performance. The monitoring period requires optimal efficiency from both participants."

Both participants. Partnership terminology. Deliberately deployed.

You tilt your head. Mimicking his own assessment gesture. Learning his patterns while displaying your own.

Clever.

"Optimal performance." Your mockery is accurate. "For what, exactly? Planning to lecture me to death?"

"Joint field operations commence immediately. Your infiltration capabilities require practical evaluation under controlled parameters."

He watches the information process. Surprise flickers across your features—quickly suppressed, but visible. You weren't expecting active deployment.

Good. Predictability breeds complacency.

"Field operations," you repeat. "Leaving this place."

"Temporarily. Under supervision."

Your posture shifts. Subtle. Professional.

Left foot angling slightly outward. Weight redistributing. Hands dropping to a more natural position that conceals preparation.

You're not just angry anymore. You're hunting. Most likely searching for an opportunity of escape.

How terribly mundane of you.

"What kind of operations?"

Your voice carries false curiosity. Buying time. Setting distance.

He should recognize the setup. Should anticipate—

The attack comes from nowhere.

No telegraph. No warning.

One moment you're standing three meters away, the next you're inside his guard with a blade materialized from absolute nothing.

Fast.

Faster than his file suggested.

The knife slices air where his throat was a split second before. He twists back, feeling steel part the air millimeters from his carotid. Close. Too close.

You don't pause. Don't recover. You flow into the next strike like water, blade spinning in your grip to reverse the angle, coming up toward his ribs in a motion that speaks of training far beyond rebel desperation.

Professional. Military grade.

Where did you learn this?

He blocks with his forearm, deflecting the strike but not stopping your momentum. You use the contact to pivot, already spinning into a leg sweep that would take him down if he hadn't—

Jumped. Minimal elevation. Just enough to let your leg pass underneath.

You're good. Better than good.

But not better than him.

You recover from the failed sweep by converting the spin into momentum for another knife strike. This one aimed at his kidney.

Lethal intent. No hesitation.

He catches your wrist mid-swing.

Your eyes widen. Not in surprise at being stopped—surprise at the speed of his counter.

Now he moves.

Still holding your knife hand, he uses your forward momentum against you. One step to the side, pulling you past your balance point.

You try to compensate with that twisting leg kick—beautiful technique, would have taken his knee out—

He blocks with his shin. Absorbs the impact. Redirects your energy.

Your other hand comes up, clawing for his eyes. He catches that wrist too.

For a moment you're locked together. Face to face. Close enough that he can see the gold flecks in your eyes. Close enough to smell the combat pheromones starting to flood the air between you.

Sharp. Electric. Dangerous.

Your pupils dilate. Not fear. Not fury.

Something else.

"Impressive," he says, voice steady despite the proximity, despite the scent spike. "But slow. The aurora cycles must be affecting your movements."

His expression doesn't change. Blank. Clinical.

But your eyes widen, and that tells him you caught the condescension.

"Fuck you," you snarl, trying to knee him in the groin.

He turns his hip, deflecting the strike. Uses the motion to redirect your momentum completely.

Forward.

Hard.

"Skaisse," the curse escapes him—rough, guttural—as he drives you into the wall with enough force to rattle your teeth.

The impact is immediate. Brutal.

Your chest slams against stone, breath driven from your lungs in a sharp exhale. Before you can recover, before you can even process the collision, steel presses against your throat.

The knife. Your knife. Now his.

Cold metal bites into heated skin.

His body brackets yours completely—legs on either side of your thighs, chest pressed to your back, one arm braced against the wall beside your head.

Trapped. Dominated.

His free hand hooks your jaw. Fingers spread along your cheek and neck, tilting your head back just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder.

His eyes scan your face. Your pupils. Still dilated. Breathing pattern—rapid, shallow. Pulse visible at your throat, hammering against skin.

Fascinating physiological responses.

His thumb shifts slightly along your jawline. Just a millimeter. Nothing significant.

Except you react.

A sharp intake of breath. Involuntary. Your pulse spikes visibly where his fingers rest near your ear.

Interesting.

His gaze drops to where his hand cradles your jaw. The pressure point behind your right ear—completely exposed, practically throbbing under his fingertips.

The way you flinched when he moved. The immediate tension that followed.

Recognition flickers in his mind.

A triplet marker.

One of three neurological weak points every trained operative learns to identify and protect.

You've left at least one completely unguarded.

"For such an excellent fighter," he murmurs, voice low and measured, "you seem remarkably careless with your defensive positioning."

Your breath catches.

Understanding flashes across your features.

He doesn't know your full configuration. But he knows enough.

Amateur.

You jerk your head away from his grip, trying to break the contact. But his fingers tighten immediately. Not painful. Just inescapable, as intended. Steel wrapped in flesh.

"Impressive technique," he continues, pressing the blade more firmly against your throat. "But exploitable vulnerabilities. Any competent operative would have noticed by now."

You struggle against his hold. Test the restraint. Search for weakness.

There isn't any.

"Lesson one," he says, bringing the blade up to rest more firmly against your throat. "I've been trained in combat since before you were even alive."

The knife doesn't waver. Neither does his grip.

"Let me go," you breathe, but there's no plea in it.

Just calculation. You're still looking for an angle.

"No."

His chest presses against your back. He can feel your heart hammering. Can smell the spike in your scent—that sharp, electric combination of adrenaline and—

Combat pheromones. Standard stress response.

"You fight well," he observes. "Better than your file indicated. Where did you receive training?"

You don't answer. Just breathe hard against the wall, muscles tense but not panicked.

Interesting. Most people would be breaking down by now.

"No response?" He adjusts his grip on your jaw. "Perhaps you need time to consider cooperation."

"Perhaps you need to get fucked."

The profanity vibrates against the blade. Defiant to the end.

He finds this… stimulating.

Your refusal to submit creates an optimization problem. A puzzle requiring solution.

How peculiar.

"Cooperation would be more efficient," he says. "Resistance only prolongs inevitable outcomes."

"Inevitable." You test the word. "Like you getting shanked in your sleep?"

"Unlikely. You'll be monitored continuously."

"Continuously?"

Something in your voice shifts. Not fear. Recognition, perhaps finally understanding the scope of your situation. The complete loss of privacy. The knowledge that every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of weakness will be documented.

"Welcome to the Epitaph Program," he says. "Sixty days of comprehensive observation. Cooperation ensures… comfort levels remain tolerable."

The threat hangs between you. Implicit but clear.

He releases your jaw but keeps the knife steady. Tests your reaction.

You don't move. Don't try to escape.

Smart.

"Are you prepared to proceed with mission briefing," he asks, "or do you require additional conditioning?"

Silence. Then:

"Mission briefing."

Good. Progress.

He steps back, lowering the blade but maintaining defensive positioning.

You turn around slowly, back against the wall, watching him with new wariness.

The air still carries that charge. That scent. Combat pheromones that haven't dissipated despite the conclusion of violence.

Curious.

Most stress responses fade quickly once threat neutralization occurs. But yours seems to be… intensifying.

As does his own.

Purely physiological. Adrenaline requires time to metabolize. Nothing more complex than biochemistry.

"Follow me," he says, returning your knife to his belt.

A confiscation that doubles as a reminder of capability differential.

You push off from the wall, rolling your shoulders. Testing for damage. Finding none.

Then you follow him toward the briefing room. Maintaining careful distance. Close enough for communication. Far enough to avoid sudden contact.

But the strange entry remains, humming low like the beasts on the Verge Wastes. That resonance pattern his sensors can't classify.

Further investigation required. Document the phenomenon. Understand tactical implications.

For the Algorithm's analysis, naturally.

Nothing personal.

The transport to the Central Efficiency Boulevard takes twelve minutes through the Citadel's internal transit system.

Sealed corridors, regulated atmosphere, no external views.

You sit across from him in the passenger compartment, cataloging everything. Emergency releases. Ventilation systems. Structural weak points.

Still planning escape routes even while compliance appears complete.

Predictable. But admirable in its consistency.

The transport halts smoothly, and the passenger door slides open to reveal Valis Core's beating commercial heart.

The sight hits you immediately.

Sound first—thousands of voices creating a low hum of regulated conversation; the rhythmic pulse of scanning stations and allocation terminals processing endless queues of citizens.

Then the scale.

The Central Efficiency Boulevard stretches ahead like a canyon of black stone and gleaming metal, rising in terraced levels that disappear into aurora-filtered light. Suspended walkways create layers of foot traffic moving in perfectly regulated streams.

He watches your reaction. Measures the way your eyes widen despite obvious attempts at control.

"Welcome to functional society," he says, stepping onto the Boulevard.

In here, citizens move in predictable patterns—efficient foot traffic, minimal congestion.

Absolute standard procedure.

What isn't standard is the way conversations pause when you pass.

Namjoon catalogs the disruption. Valis Core citizens glancing sideways. Merchants hesitating mid-transaction. Children stopping to stare before their parents pull them along.

Curiosity. Or threat assessment. Both, perhaps.

You notice too. Shoulders tensing incrementally. Defensive posture activating despite the absence of immediate danger.

"They're staring," you mutter, voice low but audible.

He processes your discomfort. Files it.

"They are observing," he corrects. "Curiosity regarding your presence here."

Your laugh carries no humor. "Curiosity. Right. Nice way of saying they're side-eyeing me like I'm contaminated."

Side-eyeing. Another colloquialism absent from his linguistic databases.

Your phrasing patterns continue demonstrating gaps in his understanding of rebel vernacular.

Problematic. Communication efficiency requires comprehensive language mapping.

He turns slightly, studying your expression. "Clarification required."

"What?"

"The term. Side-eyeing."

You stop walking. Actually stop. Citizens flow around you both like water around stones, maintaining distance from his authority radius.

"Are you serious right now?"

He waits. Blinks slowly. Explanation pending.

"Side-eye means…" You gesture vaguely. "Looking at someone with suspicion. Judgment. Like they're doing something wrong just by existing."

Interesting. Facial expression terminology with embedded social context. He files the definition for future reference.

"The great Commander doesn't know basic slang," you continue, something sharp creeping into your voice. "Does that bother you?"

Bother. Emotional terminology suggesting personal investment in knowledge gaps.

"I require comprehensive communication protocols," he says. "Unknown variables reduce operational efficiency."

"So yes, it bothers you."

"Incorrect. I am identifying areas requiring data acquisition."

"Which means it bothers you."

"It means I am optimizing communication parameters."

"Same thing."

"It is not the same thing."

You tilt your head, mimicking his own assessment gesture. "You're getting defensive about being bothered by not knowing something. So, essentially, you're bothered."

"I am not defensive nor bothered."

"You just corrected me twice in thirty seconds."

He processes this. Reviews the conversation log. Identifies the pattern.

"Precision in communication serves tactical purposes."

"Tactical purposes." Your voice carries mockery now. "Right. Because God forbid the great Commander admits something annoys him."

Annoys. Another emotional designation he doesn't—

"It doesn't annoy me."

The words emerge too quickly. Too sharp.

You smile.

"There it is."

"There is nothing."

"You're bothered that you don't know rebel slang. You're bothered that I know something you don't."

"Your linguistic knowledge represents data I require for operational efficiency. Nothing more."

"Which bothers you."

Circular logic. Deliberately deployed to elicit emotional response.

He will not provide one.

"Irrelevant," he states. "Continue walking."

But you don't move. Just stand there with that sharp smile, cataloging his reaction patterns.

Learning his weaknesses.

A merchant nearby—Valis Core, purple hair indicating metallurgy specialist—drops a tool when Namjoon's gaze passes over their stall. The clatter echoes.

Your attention follows his. "See? Side-eye."

He observes the merchant more carefully. Elevated heartrate visible in neck pulse. Hands trembling slightly. Eyes avoiding direct contact.

"They are not expressing suspicion," he says. "They are demonstrating deference to authority. Standard protocol when Authority Level 7 personnel are present."

"Level 7?" Your voice shifts. Interest replacing mockery. "I thought you'd be higher."

The observation lands precisely where it was aimed.

Level 7 isn't low. It represents significant achievement within Consortium hierarchy.

"Level 7 is quite high," he states, voice flattening.

"Quite low for someone with your reputation."

Your tone carries calculated dismissal. Designed to provoke.

"I am Level 7 with supreme authority over the Epitaph System," he corrects, something sharp threading through his tone. "My clearance supersedes standard hierarchical limitations regarding species survival protocols."

"If you say so."

The casual dismissal triggers something deeper. Irritation crystallizing into something colder.

"Level 10 Council members cannot override my decisions regarding Transference procedures," he continues, voice dropping. "The Epitaph Program operates under my exclusive jurisdiction."

"Sure. Very impressive."

Your mockery remains unchanged. As if his specialized authority means nothing. As if the power structure he's carved out through years of strategic positioning is irrelevant.

Which, clearly, means you simply don't understand the implications of what you're dismissing.

So he will educate you.

"My authority regarding the Algorithm is absolute," he states. "Council oversight is limited to resource allocation. Operational control belongs to me."

"Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"

Now he processes the tactical objective differently.

You're testing his authority. Measuring the extent of his control.

Smart. You need to understand the parameters of your situation.

"I am clarifying the scope of authority you will be operating under for the next sixty days."

Your posture shifts. Subtle recognition of threat.

"Perhaps proximity will improve your attitude regarding appropriate deference protocols."

The words emerge as a statement of fact rather than threat.

But your reaction suggests you understand the implication.

Sixty days of his direct oversight. His rules. His authority.

Your choices: cooperation or consequences.

You stay silent after that. Walk behind him as he moves through the Boulevard, and he is most certain you are still attempting to find ways to turn this to your advantage.

Foolish, but admirable.

The primary Distribution Hub processes a constant stream of individuals receiving their assigned goods—scanning biometric chips, dispensing ration cubes, efficiency tools, and personal items based on productivity metrics.

Children move in supervised groups between educational facilities. Authority Level 4 supervisors guide them past the Productivity Reward Stations where higher-performing citizens access luxury items—actual flavored foods, personal decoration allowances, recreational materials.

The Equipment Dispensaries have workers receiving tool updates and uniform modifications. Allocation Supervisors stand behind scanning stations, their enhanced eyes analyzing each citizen's productivity metrics before dispensing goods.

It does not escape him, how your trained eye identifies the underground commerce.

Information traders lingering near public terminals. Favor brokers—mid-level officials discreetly arranging better allocations in exchange for services. Memory merchants operating from building alcoves, offering illegal identity modifications.

"Authority fear isn't the same as curiosity," you observe after several minutes of movement through the crowds.

He glances back at you. Notes you are circling back to the conversation about the so-called 'side-eyes' you were receiving.

Valid point. He recalculates.

The stares aren't uniform. Younger citizens show genuine fascination. Older ones display wariness. Children exhibit undisguised interest before parental intervention.

"Multiple response patterns," he replies after a few seconds. "But the primary driver is genetic variance recognition."

"Meaning?"

"Citadel populations are predominantly Valis Core. Interspecies contact remains limited despite policy allowances."

A pause. Processing.

"You're saying they're staring because I'm different."

"Because you represent genetic diversity they rarely encounter in this sector."

Your stride shortens. Subtle defensive behavior.

"Valis Core citizens aren't accustomed to observing mixed heritage individuals," he says. "Your parameters differ from sector norms."

You stop again. Completely.

Citizens adjust their paths, creating a small clearance zone.

"What do you mean by 'mixed heritage'?"

He blinks, a tad startled at your direct questioning. Odd questioning.

Is it not obvious?

"Your genetic markers indicate partial Valis Core ancestry. Approximately fifty percent. The remaining heritage appears Hollow Crest based on dermal characteristics and bone density indicators."

Your face changes. Guarded becomes hostile.

"How would you know that?"

"Standard biological assessment protocols. Skin reflectivity patterns, facial structure analysis, movement efficiency calculations. The hybrid characteristics are evident to trained observation."

"Trained observation." Your voice flattens dangerously. "You mean profiling."

"I mean accurate genetic classification."

A child—perhaps eight years old—breaks away from their parent to approach. Valis Core features but with curiosity overriding social conditioning.

"Are you from the outer sectors?" they ask you directly.

Before you can respond, the parent appears. Face flushed, clearly horrified by the breach of protocol.

"Commander, forgive the interruption—"

Namjoon raises a hand. Minimal gesture. Maximum authority.

"No breach of protocol occurred."

The parent relaxes incrementally. The child continues staring at you with open fascination.

"Your skin changes colors," the child observes. "Are those markings functional?"

You glance down at your forearms where subtle chromatophore patterns shift under stress. Barely visible, but the child's observation skills are acute.

"They're adaptive," you say carefully.

"Environmental adaptation," Namjoon clarifies for the child's benefit. "Beneficial genetic trait from Hollow Crest heritage."

The parent's eyes widen. Not disapproval—interest.

"How fascinating. Hybrid genetics are quite rare in the Core. The adaptive capabilities must be remarkable."

"We have appointments to maintain," Namjoon interrupts.

Social interaction efficiency has limits.

The parent nods, collecting their child. But the expression remains intrigued rather than dismissive.

After they leave, you stare at him.

"They weren't horrified."

"As I said."

The stares seem to make more sense to you now. Not suspicion. Genuine curiosity about biological variance they rarely encounter.

"But if they knew I was rebel—"

"They would respond differently," he acknowledges. "Rebellion represents ideological contamination. Genetic diversity represents biological advancement."

He observes how you process this distinction. The way hybrid status grants curiosity while political status would generate hostility.

"Convenient that they don't know."

"Indeed."

"And what exactly does my 'genetic classification' matter to anyone?"

The question contains multiple layers.

Surface inquiry about social relevance. Deeper concern about discrimination protocols. Underlying anger about genetic monitoring systems.

He addresses the practical component.

"Valis Core social structures don't discriminate against interspecies heritage. Hybrid genetics are considered beneficial for population stability."

"Beneficial how?"

"Genetic diversity reduces mutation accumulation. Cross-species reproduction produces offspring with enhanced adaptive capabilities. Improved disease resistance. Broader environmental tolerance ranges."

Your expression shifts. Surprise replacing hostility.

"You're saying mixing species is good."

"Scientifically optimal, yes. The Consortium actively encourages genetic diversification through managed reproduction programs."

"Then why don't more Valis Core people marry outside their species?"

Valid observation. He considers the behavioral patterns.

"Cultural preference for familiar social frameworks. Valis Core social structures emphasize systematic approaches to relationship formation. Most find comfort in predictable partner compatibility."

"Rigid thinking."

"Efficient compatibility assessment."

You snort. "Same thing."

It isn't.

But the distinction appears irrelevant to your worldview.

"The fact remains unchanged. Hybridness is viewed as positive amongst Valis. Our offspring would represent particularly advantageous genetic combinations. Enhanced cognitive function from Valis Core heritage combined with environmental resilience from Hollow Crest adaptation. The theoretical capabilities would be—"

"Our what?"

Your voice cuts through his analysis. Sharp. Dangerous.

He processes your tone. Elevated stress markers. Aggressive posture shift.

"Our hypothetical offspring," he clarifies. "Based on genetic compatibility analysis."

"Our offspring." You repeat the words like they taste poisonous. "You're talking about us. Having children. Together."

"I am explaining theoretical genetic optimization outcomes based on—"

"I would rather slit your throat and then throw myself off the Citadel than have your children."

The vehemence surprises him. Most citizens express enthusiasm about contributing to genetic optimization programs.

"Your personal preferences are irrelevant," he states. "The genetic benefits to society would be considerable regardless of individual opinion."

Something shifts in your posture. Coiling. Dangerous.

"Individual opinion."

"Optimal reproductive outcomes serve collective survival priorities."

Your hand drops toward where your knife was. Still reaching for confiscated weapons.

"Is that the plan?" Your voice drops to something lethal. "Sixty days of observation and then they strap me down and—"

"No."

The word is immediate.

He sees you freeze. Hand still positioned for a weapon draw that won't succeed.

He processes your reaction pattern. The immediate jump to coercion. The assumption of bodily violation.

What experiences shaped such expectations?

"Reproductive autonomy remains absolute under Consortium law," he clarifies. "No individual is required to participate in biological reproduction against their will."

You stare at him. "What?"

"The Consortium maintains advanced reproductive technologies. Genetic material can be combined through laboratory processes without requiring physical reproduction."

Your shoulders drop slightly. Combat readiness decreasing.

"Body autonomy remains inviolate," he continues. "Valis Core social development prioritizes consent in all intimate contexts."

Relief flickers across your features. Then hardens again.

"Except where the Epitaph Algorithm is concerned."

Accurate assessment.

The Algorithm does override individual choice regarding Transference participation.

"That serves species survival. Different parameters."

"How convenient." Your voice carries acid. "And what about the aurora bands? The heat cycles?"

He processes the shift. Unexpected tactical pivot.

"Clarification required."

"Don't play stupid with me, Commander. You know exactly what happens when the violet bands hit and biology takes over—where's the consent then?"

Aurora-induced heat cycles. Reproductive imperative overrides.

Hm.

A valid concern regarding Consortium control mechanisms.

"Heat cycles represent biological intensification, not autonomy elimination."

"Bullshit." You step closer, aggressive posture returning. "Rut cycles. Heat cycles. When biology kicks in and rational thought gets complicated."

"Biological intensification does not equate to consent elimination," he states. "Enhanced drive does not remove choice."

"Enhanced drive." Your laugh cuts sharp. "That what you call it when people fuck strangers because they can't think past the need?"

"I call it temporary prioritization of reproductive impulses while maintaining agency over partner selection and participation parameters."

You stare at him. "You're really going to stand there and tell me people consent during heat cycles?"

"I am stating that biological imperative amplifies existing desire without removing the capacity for decision-making. Individuals retain choice regarding participation, partners, and boundaries."

He processes his own experiences.

The elevated aggression. The singular focus on breeding compatibility. The way rational analysis shifted to accommodate reproductive priorities.

But never absent. Never eliminated.

"The neurochemical changes intensify specific responses," he continues. "They do not override cognitive function. Enhanced want does not constitute absence of will."

"Even when they're desperate enough to make choices they'd normally never consider?"

"Especially then. Desperation requires conscious acknowledgment of need and deliberate action to address it."

"You sound like you've given this considerable thought."

He has. Clinical analysis of his own rutting behaviors. Documentation of decision-making processes during biological peak periods.

"Personal experience provides relevant data."

"Personal experience." Something shifts in your expression. "Right. How many people have you fucked during rut cycles, Commander?"

The question contains tactical probing. Seeking vulnerability data through intimate details.

"Partner quantity is irrelevant to the consent framework discussion."

"But you have. Had partners during cycles."

"Yes."

"And you maintained perfect rational decision-making the entire time?"

"Rational frameworks adapt to biological priorities. Decision-making remains functional within modified parameters."

"Modified parameters." You test the phrase. "Meaning you wanted to fuck so badly you'd have taken anyone available."

"Negative. Biological enhancement cannot create attraction where none exists. It can only amplify existing compatibility markers."

You cross your arms again. "And if someone's compatibility markers are… inconvenient?"

"Then enhanced biological states create discomfort, not compulsion. The science is clear."

"How convenient that your science supports your moral boundaries."

"Accurate science reflects observable reality. Biological drives amplify potential. They do not manufacture it."

He sees you are about to respond when a priority communication activates through his neural interface.

Command-level authorization. Immediate briefing required.

"Change of plans," he says, altering course toward the administrative transit station. "Priority briefing requires immediate attention."

"What kind of priority?"

"The kind that determines our first joint operation parameters."

Your expression shifts. Recognition that the abstract concept of shared missions is about to become concrete reality.

As you move through the crowds toward the transport station, citizens continue their subtle observations. Curiosity about genetic diversity mixed with deference to his authority.

But you're no longer paying attention to their stares. Your focus has shifted to tactical assessment—processing the environment, cataloging resources, identifying potential advantages.

The transition from civilian observation to operational preparation.

Smart.

Because whatever briefing awaits will likely determine whether your first mission together becomes cooperation or warfare.

He suspects the latter.

The briefing chamber operates under Level 8 security protocols. Reinforced walls. Signal dampening. Personnel restricted to essential command staff only.

You enter behind him, positioning yourself near the exit.

Strategic placement.

He catalogs this behavior—always mapping escape routes, even in seemingly secure environments.

The intelligence officer approaches. Valis Core, specialized reconnaissance division. Stress markers visible in posture, elevated respiratory rate.

Bad news, then.

"Commander," the officer begins, then hesitates, glancing toward you.

"Proceed," Namjoon states. "She has clearance for this briefing."

Not entirely accurate. But operational parameters require your presence for proximity monitoring. Security concerns secondary to Algorithm requirements.

"Sir, Priority Target J-7 has vanished."

Namjoon processes this. Reviews available data. Priority Target designation suggests high-value asset.

Classification level: restricted.

"Clarification required. Vanished how?"

"Subject was being transported from containment to advanced research facility. Armored convoy, triple security protocols. When the transport arrived at destination, the containment unit was empty."

You shift behind him. Subtle positioning change. Intelligence gathering through observation.

"Sealed?" Namjoon inquires.

"Completely sealed, sir. Undamaged. Biometric locks intact. Life-sign monitoring showed no anomalies during transit. But when the unit opened…" The officer spreads empty hands. "Nothing."

Impossible. Transport containers operate under continuous surveillance. Molecular-level breach detection. Emergency beacon activation for any system compromise.

"Describe the containment specifications."

"Triple-hull construction. Quantum lock mechanisms. Atmospheric control independent of external systems. Subject would require specialized tools and external assistance to achieve breach."

The officer pauses. Glances toward you again.

Security concern. Your presence during classified briefing creates operational complications.

The chamber door slides open. Two figures enter—Authority insignia indicating higher command presence.

Namjoon straightens. Recognition protocols activate.

Director Kang Yura. Level 8 Authority. Research Division oversight. Sharp features, silver-streaked black hair, cybernetic enhancement visible along her left temple.

Behind her: Marshal Choi Daesung. Level 9 Authority. Strategic Operations Command. Massive frame, scarred hands, patched eye.

The intelligence officer steps back. Deference to superior authority.

"Commander Kim," Director Kang states. "Your presence is required for Priority Classification briefing."

Marshal Choi's gaze settles on you.

Assessment. Threat evaluation.

"The proximity asset," he observes, then switches immediately. "Interessanter Tzeitpunkt" (Interesting timing.)

Proximity asset.

Clinical designation that reduces you to operational utility.

You don't react visibly to the language shift. But Namjoon catches the subtle tension—you understand you're being discussed in a language deliberately excluding you.

"Sirs," Namjoon acknowledges. "Briefing in progress regarding Priority Target J-7 containment failure."

"Nikt Aindemmungswersagen," Director Kang corrects sharply. "Evolutionere Veiterentviklung iber ervartete Parameter hinaus." (Not containment failure. Evolutionary advancement beyond anticipated parameters.)

Altsprek it is, then.

"Prätzisirung erforderlik." (Clarification required.)

Marshal Choi steps forward. "Subjekt J-7 nahm vor seks Monaten an freivilligem Werbesserungsprogramm teil. Mournwell Basin Herkunft. Agrarvissenskaftler Betzeikhnung wor Modifikation." (Subject J-7 participated in voluntary enhancement program six months ago. Mournwell Basin origins. Agricultural scientist designation before modification.)

You shift. Mournwell Basin mentioned. But the rest remains incomprehensible.

"Werbesserungsspetzifikationen?" (Enhancement specifications?)

"Klassifitzirt Level 9," Marshal Choi states. "Aber relewante Details umfassen: tzellulare Anpassungsfehikkeiten, Umveltresistenz-Optimirung, werbesserte Iberlebensparameter." (Classified Level 9. But relevant details include: cellular adaptation capabilities, environmental resistance optimization, enhanced survival parameters.)

He glances at you deliberately. "Subjekt demonstrirt Fehikkeiten, di bestimte… Rebellenfraktionen interessiren kennten." (Subject demonstrates capabilities that may interest certain… rebel factions.)

Your posture tightens.

Understanding the tone if not the words.

Perceptive.

"Di Modifikationen varen erfolglaiker als prognostitzirt," Director Kang continues. "Subjekts Biologi begann sik auf Vaisen antzupassen, di nikt in urspringliken Werbesserungsprotokollen enthalten varen." (The modifications succeeded beyond projected parameters. Subject's biology began adapting in ways not included in original enhancement protocols.)

"Anpassung vi?" (Adapting how?)

"Strukturelle Werenederungen. Sensoriske Werbesserung. Stoffvekseleffitzienz-Werbesserungen." (Structural alterations. Sensory enhancement. Metabolic efficiency improvements.)

The intelligence officer clears his throat. "Sirs, di tzelluleren Scans des Subjekts aus der letzten Aindemmung tzaikten Anomalien. Gevebeproben enthillten molekulare Strukturen ausserhalb bekannter biologisker Rahmen." (Sirs, subject's cellular scans from final containment showed anomalies. Tissue samples revealed molecular structures outside known biological frameworks.)

"Ausserhalb vi?" (Outside how?)

"Kvantenebene Organisationsmuster. Tzellulare Netzverke kommunitziren durk Mekanismen, di bekannte Physik werletzen." (Quantum-level organizational patterns. Cellular networks communicating through mechanisms that violate known physics.)

Namjoon processes this.

Enhancement programs typically improve existing capabilities. They don't create impossible biological functions.

"Vas var das Werbesserungsziel?" (What was the enhancement objective?)

Marshal Choi exchanges a glance with Director Kang. "Adaptive Iberlebensoptimirung fir faindselige Umgebungen. Spetzifisk: Verge-Territorium-Navigationsfehikkeiten." (Adaptive survival optimization for hostile environments. Specifically: Verge territory navigation capabilities.)

"Varum?" (Why?)

"Klassifitzirt." (Classified.)

"Aktuelle Fehikkaiten des Subjekts?" (Subject's current capabilities?)

"Unbekannt. Abskliessende Bewertung doitete auf Potenzial fir Materi-Phasen-Manipulation hin. Molekulare Diktewerenederung. Meglikervaise Raum-Tzeit-Interaktionsmodifikationen." (Unknown. Final assessment indicated potential for matter-phase manipulation. Molecular density alteration. Possibly space-time interaction modifications.)

Director Kang activates a holographic display. Security footage appears—transport container interior.

The recording shows a figure. Humanoid. Standard proportions. Sitting calmly in the containment unit.

Then the figure begins… shifting.

Edges becoming less defined. Molecular coherence appearing to fluctuate.

The image distorts. Static interference.

When clarity returns, the container is empty.

"Skaisse," Namjoon breathes.

You catch that.

Curse words have a tendency to transcend language barriers.

"Tatseklik," Marshal Choi states. "ubjekt skainet in der Lage tzu sain, fundamentale molekulare Kohesion tzu werendern." (Indeed. Subject appears capable of altering fundamental molecular cohesion.)

"Vo ist er jetzt?" (Where is he now?)

"Unbekannt. Aber Aufklerung doitet auf Bevegung in Riktung Hollow Crest Territorien hin." (Unknown. But intelligence suggests movement toward Hollow Crest territories.)

Director Kang deactivates the holographic display, then turns to address you directly in Consensus.

"Your familiarity with regional territories may prove tactically relevant."

The sudden shift back to your language feels jarring.

Intentional exclusion followed by intentional inclusion.

"Relevant how?"

Marshal Choi studies you. "Enhanced assets seeking sanctuary typically utilize known safe passage routes."

"You think someone escaped."

"We know someone escaped. Question is whether certain factions provided assistance."

Your expression hardens. "And you want me to help track them down."

"We want you to provide regional intelligence," Director Kang corrects.

"Mission parameters," she continues to Namjoon. "Gemainsame Aufklerungsoperation. Si biten strategiske Aufsikt. Nehe-Asset bitet regionale Aufklerung." (Joint reconnaissance operation. You provide strategic oversight. Proximity asset provides regional intelligence.)

Back to Altsprek. Excluding you again.

"Tzeitplan?" (Timeline?)

"Sofortiger Ainsatz. Di Fehikkeiten von Subjekt J-7 maken ervaiterte Fraiheit unadvisable." (Immediate deployment. Subject J-7's capabilities make extended freedom inadvisable.)

"Bedrohungsainsketzung?" (Threat assessment?)

"Unbekannte Wariablen," Marshal Choi admits. "Werbesserungsprogramme skaffen unworsagbare Ergebnisse, venn Subjekte projitzirte Parameter iberskreiten." (Unknown variables. Enhancement programs create unpredictable outcomes when subjects exceed projected parameters.)

"Vas var sain urspringliker Name?" (What was his original name?)

You step forward suddenly. "What are you discussing?"

The question cuts through their Altsprek conversation.

Direct challenge to the exclusion.

Marshal Choi switches back to Consensus. "Operational parameters."

"I'm part of this operation. I should understand what I'm walking into."

Director Kang's cybernetic implant flickers. Processing. "You will receive necessary tactical information during deployment preparation."

"Necessary according to who?"

"According to authority classification."

Your jaw tightens. Understanding the power dynamic.

Information as control mechanism.

Namjoon observes this exchange. Your frustration at exclusion. Their deliberate information restriction.

"She requires basic operational parameters," he states carefully.

Marshal Choi nods. "Recovery mission. High-value target. Regional reconnaissance required."

Minimal information. Sufficient for cooperation without revealing classified details.

"And if the target doesn't want to be recovered?"

"Target cooperation is not required."

Cold, brutal statement. Standard Consortium approach.

"Follow me," Namjoon states, reading the room.

Time to extract you before additional complications develop.

You don't move immediately, however.

"When do I get full briefing details?"

"Si verden si nikt," Marshal Choi states quietly. (You won't.)

The Altsprek comment wasn't meant for you to understand.

But he knows you recognize the tone, the exclusion, the dismissal.

"What exactly am I walking into?" you ask again.

"Recovery operation," Namjoon repeats. "Subject escaped transport. Regional knowledge required for location assessment."

Minimal truth.

"Follow," he states more urgently.

This time you comply. But tension radiates from your posture.

As you exit the briefing chamber, Marshal Choi's voice follows in Altsprek.

"Kommandant. Wersagen ist nikt aktzeptabel. Werbesserte Assets kennen nikt unibervakt blaiben." (Commander. Failure is not acceptable. Enhanced assets cannot remain unsupervised.)

Understanding. Success required. Or consequences would extend beyond mission parameters.

Field deployment begins in one hour.

Time to discover what happens when your knowledge becomes essential to Consortium operations. While being systematically excluded from understanding why.

goal: 225 notes

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap  @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw @weasleyswizarding-wheezes @dltyum @dailynnt @sashakittyct @bjoriis @hemmosfear 

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[talenlee]

Game Pile: Ironsworn

First up, this is a free game, and you can go get it. For free. I can’t repeat this enough. This game asks zero dollars of you and you should grab it and check it out right now because don’t kid around here, you’re probably going to buy something on the steam sales you don’t need and aren’t going to get around to play. Ironsworn is, no matter what else I have to say about it, interesting.

Ironsworn is an easily accessible, well-laid out and approachable RPG which is suited for multiple ongoing sessions to construct a campaign with an ongoing narrative. In an indie TTRPG space that is overwhelmingly dominated by single session, highly specifically flavoured game systems about campaigns with niche experiences and sometimes ambiguously structured mechanics, Ironsworn sets itself apart. It is presented in a single pdf, it is made to be printable easily and conveniently, and while it does have some need for dice you might not already have kicking around the house, they’re d10s, so it’s not like you need particularly special dice or commercially centralised ones.

Everything else I think about it aside: Ironsworn is a good, free and convenient RPG for you to pick up and go for if you’re looking for professionally presented high-quality material. You can just go grab the pdf right now and check it out, for free.

Ironsworn guides you through how to follow its process, it has a degree of success and failure system, it even uses its dice choices to create a little bit of the ole theatre. It’s a dice system that mathematically shakes out to be generally uncertain, and that means there’s always a chance you can fail at something you’re good at and always a small chance you can succeed at a long shot. There are no overwhelming opportunities for success and excellence, because the dice are set up so if there’s no reason to roll, you shouldn’t roll, and if you should roll, there’s always a chance the dice kick you in the pants.

This is a very functional game, it has no meaningful problems on that front, and while I have beef with it in its presentation (why did you spend eight pages on table of contents that’s what the index is for), it is easily one of the best of its type I’ve ever seen. Because of its easy availability and quality execution, I don’t intend to do a lot to talk about Ironsworn as a system or give you its special hallmarks and signifiers or even dig deep into the mechanical structures of it.

Still, even with those caveats, it isn’t really what I’d consider a perfect Decemberween game, though, and that’s because I can’t imagine showing up at a family gathering with some paper and pencils and go: hey everyone, I’m gunna drag this group of us into another room and we’re going to go have an adventure telling a story together, because the story that Ironsworn seems to want to set up is not exactly… party vibes.

It’s hard to talk about what Ironsworn is for or whom, because with just the text, I don’t have access to the author. When I talk about what this game is for, what it offers, I have to base it on the text present, and the only source I have for inspiration or framing in the start of the book is referencing its mechanical forebears: Apocalypse World, City of Judas, Dungeon World, Fate, and Mythic. That is to say, the first Powered by the Apocalypse game, a dark fantasy hack for it, a fantasy dungeon crawler hack for it, a universal roleplaying system, and a popular solo RPG system. This is good sourcing, but it also speaks to a particular space of inspiration and mechanical relationships. Based on that, at its heart, Ironsworn feels like its defining mechanical provenance is ‘more Powered by the Apocalypse.’

I want to say it reminds me of 13th Warrior, or The Northman or Beowulf, but none of those really capture everything going on here, because those are short, abrupt narratives about highly deadly scenarios and also they’re very homogenised culture spaces. Maybe Samurai drama, recontextualised away from an Orientalist lens? I can’t point to a particular piece of fiction and say ‘that kind of thing.’ I can’t point to an existing game space and say ‘Ironsworn is like that.’ By no means is any of this that Ironsworn is bad. It’s actually really impressive that Ironsworn is so singular in its identity that it resists any useful or reasonable reference frame.

Ironsworn is its own identity, it has its own structure, and while that is by no means bad it does mean that there’s no immediate, convenient on-ramp to get a friend into it. It feels like it’s a game system that is in conversation against things, rather than with them. That is to say, it feels like it’s for constructing gritty, lossy, despair-tinged stories of warriors setting themselves up for potential tragedy or desperate success in pursuit of potentially conflicting dramatic needs.

It feels, and I say this without it being an insult, it feels like someone was repelled by Dungeons & Dragons, then appreciated the comparative gritty lethality of OSR games, but found some reason to not produce in that space, and instead took those ideas and concepts to work in the Powered by the Apocalypse space, resulting in something that is itself, very new. Which is to say, I don’t feel like I can present Ironsworn to someone going ‘hey, this game lets us tell and play stories like these common signifiers,’ but instead, ‘hey, do you know how those common signifiers are bad? What if they were instead-‘

It is a good game that I checked out because someone asked me to check out Ironsworn. It is by no means a game I would recommend checking out for its theme or the stories it lets you tell. It is a game that I recommend because hey, get a load of how well presented and unique this thing is. Excellently constructed, mechanically coherent, well delivered and just… missing a hook that I understand.

I really think at some point in the new year I need to dedicate some time to finding someone who can run or show me Powered by the Apocalypse being run because it really looks at this stage like a system that’s perfect for just absolutely impeding an otherwise really good creative writing exercise with the besties.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[discordiansamba]

anyways long story short, the other day I was running errands while my MP3 player kept on playing songs on shuffle from the Index/Railgun franchise while I was thinking about my aoex fics... and I ended up with a fusion AU as a result, lmao. it definitely takes more heavily from the science side of the franchise but the only thing you really need to understand about the franchise is the knowledge that

a.) it takes place in Academy City, an independent city state largely populated by students and houses hundreds of schools, with the primary goal of unlocking and developing esper abilities that rank from Level 0 (no ability) to Level 5 (the highest possible rank and the least common).

b.) it has a dark underside that makes Section 13 look like a harmless daycare. these fuckers especially like trying to unlock the theoretical Level Six or dual abilities.

c.) orphans taken in by Academy City are called Child Errors. those who have abilities without the need for Academy City's development program are called Gemstones.

okay! now I can actually talk about the AU, lmao.

the key points are:

rin and yukio are twins living in academy city, who unlike most of the other students, live there with their mother yuri in a church run by shiro. rin is a level 5 pyrokinetic and yukio is a level 0 with no ability of his own.

for years, rin was unable to fully control his own ability- he's possessed his flames since he was born and has been powerful from the starting gate. everyone in the family except for yukio have burns somewhere on their body from rin's early lack of control, but rin himself has the most- he keeps them covered, but his hands and arms are pockmarked with old burn scars.

these days he has excellent control of his flames!

...but he still has a reputation of being dangerous and out of control regardless, so most people are too afraid to actually talk to him- except for those who want the glory of beating a level 5 in a fight. he constantly finds himself getting into fights that isolate him further at school.

despite his bad reputation, yukio has still grown up in rin's shadow. people expect him to be equally as strong as his brother- but he doesn't have an ability at all. instead, he's devoted himself to his studies, an area in which his brother struggles.

upon entering high school, rin is determined to actually make some friends for a change. he and yukio enroll in true cross academy- both on a scholarship- yukio for his academics, and rin for being well. a level 5.

shiemi is also a level 5! her ability is plant manipulation. unbeknownst to her, her grandmother and mother have both served on academy city's board of directors- and for that exact reason, they've done their best to keep shiemi far away from the dark side of academy city.

shima is a level 4 pyrokinetic who wields black flames, and secretly works as an enforcer for the dark side of academy city. he actually ran away from home in middle school to enroll in academy city because he didn't want to follow the path his family had set out for him.

ryuuji and konekomaru are his childhood friends, who came after him in their last year of middle school to convince him to go home, but ended up staying. the temple they all grew up in is still impoverished- and with the scholarship they both obtained, they get free housing and meals.

ryuuji is a level 3 who can generate barriers! you fuckers can't all have pyrokinesis. konekomaru is probably a level 2, but I actually haven't decided on what his ability is yet. definitely something support, since he's more suited to that.

izumo is a level 3 who can manipulate electricity. she and her sister are child errors who were taken into academy city after tamamo did a murder suicide with their father. with no one to protect her, izumo got entangled in a shady experiment upon arrival and is doing her best to protect tsukumo from it.

(paku is also a level 0 who stubbornly befriends izumo)

amaimon and takara are here to carry the flag of level 5s who have something deeply wrong with them. earth manipulation and telekinesis respectively.

what rin and yukio don't know about their origins is that they're the result of an attempt to artificially create a level 5. rin was the experiments only real success, but it became clear that unless something drastically changed in his environment, he was going to destroy himself.

thus, one of the scientists proposed a plan- raise him as a normal child, and see if that helped with his control and stability. to that end, she took one of the failed experiments with her and created the setting that they were twins. both rin and yukio are clones of a gemstone who was given the codename Satan, though they've had tweaks so they're not necessarily identical.

yuri voice: i'm just raising them for the experiment. i'm not going to get attached.

(she's so, so wrong.)

pov: you are shiro. a woman has arrive at your church with twin children, looking for sanctuary. you don't turn her away, even if you can tell she's lying- because her eldest child looks almost identical to your own long dead twin brother at that age.

(and he even has his flames)

[theoutcastrogue]

My thoughts on the best strategies to preserve human knowledge and creation in perpetuity

1) don't put all your eggs in one basket

archives need to be paper and digital, public and private sector, centralised and decentralised, fully legal / by the book and rogue, in vaults and cabinets and servers and torrents

create as many redundancies as you can: make copies, and copies of the copies, and copies of the copies of the copies, ad nauseam; anyone anywhere who can make copies, should

spread the physical hubs (paper stacks or servers) geographically, in as many places as possible; you never know what kind of natural disaster or man-made horror will take out a whole building, city, region, or continent tomorrow

2) entropy is a bitch, think longterm

pick methods that are more likely to last

schedule regular copying: you gotta transfer the stuff to a new medium before the old one falls apart, so have some idea when it's expected to fall apart

3) keep converting to new formats

no format becomes obsolete instantly, there's always a transition period; use transition periods to furiously convert everything

4) indexing and searching is as important as the content itself

self-explanatory

5) eyes on the prize: the end goal is public access

if a random nobody, with no status and no money, can't access it easily, freely, and anonymously, the job is only half-done; you've built the back-end and neglected the front-end; get someone to complete it ASAP, because now it's just sitting pretty and isn't doing anything; or isn't doing enough, in any case

bonus: use. fucking. torrents.

It is truly bonkers that the bittorrent protocol is not being used for archiving. It's an ideal method for digital archiving and it should be standard procedure. If a university has stuff on a hard disk, it can put it on its server, and if it can put it on a server, it can torrent it and seed it 24/7. If the same archive is useful for another university on the other side of the planet, that one can download it and then stay in the swarm, also seeding it. If a library or city council anywhere on earth finds the archive of interest, it can do the same. The more the merrier, every download is a potential redundancy and every seeder is an actual redundancy.

If you got space to store it, you got space to share it. And of course, any private individual can at any time join the swarm. So we get excellent preservation (with multiple redundancies, spread far and wide geographically) AND public access, global and free, which is what preservation is FOR in the first place! It ain't for the heck of it, it ain't only for the eyes of the elite, it's for everyone, that's the purpose, that's the end goal. If that's not your end goal, you're doing it wrong.

[nissho-ku]

shidou doesn't think he's ever been this nervous before. the excitement that thrums through his veins has been set for a while as he planned this exact scenario for months. secretly purchasing plan tickets, reserving only the best fine dining and a hotel stay for them in one of the only other places rin had wanted to go after his spain trip with sae; paris france. they both knew the language, fluent in french to hold their own while they tour for two weeks. it was hard to keep it a secret, it was harder to get rin to take time off for the surprise trip as well without telling him what he had planned. thankfully he had, and the glee expressed from the other as he surprised him with those tickets made shidou happy enough, but that wasn't all that he had for him.

the flight there was nothing short of amusing. seeing his lover so excited for touch down and the whole ride there provided shidou more entertainment than the on-board provided movie the stewards put on for them. shidou made sure their flight got them there at night so they would have the remainder of their vacation to explore as much of the city and some as possible. their first night spent making lazy love in their room, shidou letting his lover express his gratitude before succumbing to sleep.

today however... today was different. shidou woke up that morning giving the birthday boy his first of many gifts, mouth on his pulse, all over his body. marking him with love and possession only the two of them have for one another. “happy birthday rin,” shidou murmurs with so much love he almost ruins his plans right there, but he can't. he worked too hard to set this all up to make it all moot. after having rin in the shower, they make it to breakfast. he let's rin take pictures of the two of them to upload to social media and send to his brother. they visit art galleries, a baking class shidou flopped at but rin excelled at making croissants, and a boat ride along the canals circling the city.

at every opportunity, shidou only stared and smiled at rin, taking in his expressions and relishing that he would want this forever, he will have this forever. he needs to only ask.

dinner reservations were set for when the sun would be near it's lowest before sinking below the skies and the lights from the eiffel tower were ablaze in all its glory. jules verne. they were lucky in getting a private table near the window, they could overlook the park and all the people going about their night while enjoying a fancy dinner and recounting the days events. shidou's back pocket was feeling a bit heavier than usual this night, his stomach too as it twists itself in knots. his nervousness wouldn't stop him though, wouldn't stop him from reaching out and holding rin's left hand, squeezing it gently. “rin,” shidou calls to him, getting his attention.

it's now or never, and the thought of never was something that terrified shidou more than this. rin was everything to him, and of course he wanted to make that known to his boyfriend after nearly fumbling it. shidou stands up, never letting go of rin's hand, prompting him to sit sideway in his seat. he knows the moment he drops to his knees, he just had to get everything out before completely losing his nerves.

“rin... birthdays weren't really something i cared much about to be honest. i didn't really care or celebrate my own, and i never cared much for the reason why others would celebrate why they were born, but ya came into my life and changed it all for me.” shidou grasped rin's hand a little tighter, “i'm happy that you were born on this day, or else i wouldn't've met someone who changed my whole life. i treasure ya a lot, and you deserve to have that expressed to ya every day.”

shidou reaches into his back pocket, a silver band sat between his index and thumb. he doesn't break eye contact, wanting to see the precise moment rin realizes this is really happening. after the fight, the admittance that he was scared of commitment, asking for time to prepare everything to be perfect for him. rin deserved nothing less than perfect, even if shidou himself isn't. the ring is a perfect fit on his hand, because of course shidou measured it six times just to be absolutely sure it would fit snug on his ring finger. “rin, will ya marry me?”

@maxstats / happy birthday rin

[longitudinalwaveme]

You're No Flash (Fictober 2024)

Day 11: “Well, that worked out great.”

“Bruce, I really can’t thank you enough for offering to keep an eye on Central City for me while Iris and I take our Gotham vacation,” Barry said as he ran around his house, throwing things into his suitcase. 

“You’re planning to patrol Gotham during your vacation. It’s only fair that I return the favor,” Bruce replied. 

“Still, I really appreciate you thinking of it. I know that you don’t like to leave Gotham.” Barry disappeared from the room, then reappeared with a huge stack of old comic books, which he placed in his suitcase. A few seconds later, Iris walked out of their shared bedroom, dragging her suitcase behind her.

“Barry, are you still packing? We have to be at the airport in ten minutes!” Barry dashed off, then returned with a jumble of shirts, jackets, pocket protectors, pants, and bow ties, which he dumped haphazardly into the suitcase before zipping it shut. 

“I’m done, I’m done!” he exclaimed. Iris laughed. 

“I’ll never understand how the Fastest Man Alive is always running late,” she said. Barry shrugged sheepishly. 

“Sorry, Iris. I just got distracted talking to Bruce. He was giving me the rundown on how to stop crime in Gotham City.” Iris frowned. 

“Have you given him the rundown on how to fight crime in Central City?” she asked. Bruce was about to say that he was fairly sure he could handle two-bit punks like the Trickster and Captain Boomerang when Barry spoke up. 

“Oh, that’s right! I knew I was forgetting something!” Barry darted off into his study, and then returned with a three-ring notebook. 

“Here it is, Bruce—the Flash’s guide to Central City’s Most Wanted. I compiled it myself,” he said proudly. 

“Thanks, Barry, but I really don’t think that I’ll—”

“Good-bye, Bruce, and good luck! Iris and I have got to run if we want to get to the airport in time,” Barry said. He grabbed his suitcase, scooped up Iris, and suddenly the two of them were gone. Bruce shook his head. He wasn’t sure he would ever entirely get accustomed to working alongside a man who could move faster than the speed of light. 

Bruce’s first instinct was to change into the Batsuit and start his patrol of Central City, but he decided that it would probably be best to read through Barry’s guide to Central City before he did, just in case. He had always had a great amount of respect for Barry’s organization, scientific mind, and dedication to justice, and he had no doubt that reading the notebook would be beneficial for Barry’s insights into the city where he lived, if for nothing else. With that in mind, he sat down in one of the Allens’ easy chairs and started flipping through the notebook. 

As Bruce had expected from a man of Barry’s logical, orderly mindset, the journal was excellently organized. The entries were sorted by both topic and alphabetical order, and Barry had even been thorough enough to include an index at the back of the notebook that would allow Bruce to easily find the information he needed on any major location in Central City, all of the important members of the city’s law enforcement, and all of the biggest criminals and criminal combines in the city.

But, as Bruce had also come to expect from Barry, the notebook was almost painfully earnest. He really believed that all the people who fought were equally dangerous and needed to be taken with equal caution, and he had written the journal accordingly. There was no other reason he could think of for Barry to have included four straight pages of detailed notes, complete with several diagrams and photographs, about a cheap hoodlum like Captain Boomerang.

Still, if Bruce had to choose between someone who was overly cautious in his record-keeping and someone who didn’t even bother to keep notes, he would take the former every single time.

After he finished reading through Barry’s notebook, Bruce got himself a cup of coffee, drank it, and then changed into the Batsuit and got ready for his first patrol in Central City. 

*************************************************************************

After five days and four nights of patrolling, during which Batman had stopped exactly one carjacking and had otherwise seen no crimes other than jaywalking and candy wrapper littering, Bruce was perched on the roof of a crumbling old tailor’s shop when a mirror across the street suddenly seemed to twist and warp. A few seconds later, a man in an orange-and-green costume stepped out of the mirror, iced tea in hand. Batman instantly recognized him from Barry’s notes, police records, and the files in his own Batcomputer. Samuel Joseph Scudder. The Mirror Master. 

Bruce glided down from the rooftop, cape billowing behind him, and landed in front of the criminal—who promptly dropped his drink in apparent shock. 

“Batman? I…I thought you were—that you were—” 

“A myth? A man as superstitious as you are should know that all myths have a grain of truth to them.”   

“Oh, gosh, you’re real. You’re real and you’re here and—please-don’t-eat-me!” The Batman costume had been designed to frighten criminals, but it had been a long time since he had seen a thug this spooked by it, let alone a supervillain. It was nothing to complain about, though. The more frightened Mirror Master was, the less of a threat he would be. 

Bruce heard the familiar whistling sound of a boomerang flying through the air just in time to dodge out of the way. He rolled to the right, landing on his feet just as the boomerang returned to the hand of its thrower—a small, lean man with a mass of brown hair and a look of low cunning on his face. Captain Boomerang. 

“G’day, mate!” he said. He gave a tip of his cap, and Bruce, taking advantage of his obvious overconfidence, retrieved a batarang from his utility belt and threw it at the two-bit crook.

Only for the Captain to actually manage to grab it out of the air before it hit him. Apparently, he wasn’t quite as incompetent as Bruce had initially assumed.

“Gotta say, mate, this boomerang’s a beaut. Perfectly balanced, feather-light—but hard as steel. Unless you made it yourself, you must’ve paid a pretty penny for this. Mind if I give it a whirl?” The batarang came careening back through the air, and, although Bruce was able to dodge out of the way again, the batarang hit the wall behind him with enough force that it actually embedded itself into the brick.

Doing something like that required perfect form, precision, and not a small amount of strength, and Bruce mentally chastised himself for his earlier hubris. Even if your enemy was a two-bit thug who dressed in a boomerang-print stewardess outfit and called themselves “Captain Boomerang”, it was the height of foolishness to assume they weren’t a threat. 

Mirror Master scampered over to the other criminal. 

“Digger, we’ve got to get out of here! Batman’s real, and he’s going to eat us!” Digger laughed. 

“You can walk through mirrors and tangle with the fastest man alive, and you’re afraid of a regular bloke in a bat costume?” 

“How do you know he’s a regular guy? Half the stories from Gotham say he can fly and has super strength and eats people,” the Mirror Master asked.

“Didn’t you see him throw his boomerang, mate? It didn’t move any faster than the ones I throw. If he had super-strength, it would’ve moved too fast for me to even think about catching it,” Captain Boomerang replied. 

Bruce was just about to take advantage of their conversation to disarm Captain Boomerang when a gust of wind suddenly knocked him to the ground. He looked up, and, floating about thirty feet above the ground, was a skinny man with wild black hair, holding a long golden rod. The Weather Wizard. 

“The forecast predicts stormy weather ahead for you, Batman!” he boasted. A few seconds later, a small blonde man—more a boy, really; he couldn’t be more than nineteen years old—in a huge black-and-orange cape and hideous striped clothes jogged up to the Weather Wizard. The Trickster. 

“That’s the Batman? I thought he’d be taller,” he said as he pulled out a yo-yo and began fiddling with it. From Barry’s files, Bruce knew that the Trickster’s gadgets weren’t as harmless as they appeared, but, for the moment at least, he didn’t seem intent on using this particular yo-yo as a weapon. 

In fact, none of the villains seemed particularly interested in fighting. Captain Boomerang had thrown a boomerang, and Weather Wizard had bowled him over, but neither one of them had followed up on their initial attacks. Why? 

“What’s the matter with you guys? Why aren’t you scared of him?” the Mirror Master demanded.

“Come on, Sam. We fight the Flash, who has super-speed. Batman is a normal guy with boomerangs, which basically just makes him Digger in a funny mask. And I’m not scared of Digger,” the Trickster said. Bruce pulled himself back to his feet and started calculating the best angle to use to knock the Weather Wizard’s wand out of his hand. 

“But I heard that—” Mirror Master protested. The Weather Wizard waved his hand dismissively as Bruce pulled out another batarang. 

“What? That he eats people? Even if that’s true, which I seriously doubt, he’s no match for a man who can bend the elements to his will.” Bruce released the batarang—only for it to be frozen in midair by a bright blue beam and fall to the ground. He snapped his head to his left to see a man in a parka, who was wearing a pair of blue goggles and holding a smoking purple gun. Captain Cold. Walking alongside the Captain was a giant of a man, at least six and a half feet tall and probably well over two hundred pounds, in a flameproof suit. Heat Wave. 

“What’s the Batman doin’ in Central City?” Captain Cold asked. He kept his gun trained on Bruce, but he didn’t pull the trigger. 

“Cleaning up the night,” Bruce replied. Captain Cold laughed. 

“You think you can fight all of us?” 

“I’ve faced worse odds before.” Bruce lunged forward and grabbed the Captain’s gun arm. Cold fought back, but he was clearly not a trained fighter, and it didn’t take long at all for Batman to gain control over the gun and disarm the Captain. A few seconds later, Heat Wave grabbed him from behind and pulled him off Captain Cold—-but in spite of his obvious strength, Heat Wave was clumsy and awkward, and Bruce was easily able to free himself from the man’s grip, turn around, and knock his legs out from under him. Bruce then turned his attention back to Captain Cold, and was about to punch him out when a strange melody began to play and he suddenly found himself unable to move a muscle. 

A pale, slender man with long red hair walked forward, playing a silver flute. The Pied Piper. Like the Trickster, he was shockingly young, and he was dressed in a very ragged green polka-dotted tunic. He was also accompanied by a tall, athletic-looking man in a green-and-yellow striped leotard, who was clutching a blue-and-red striped top and wearing an odd-looking mask and a self-serious expression. Roscoe Neyle Dillon, better known as the treacherous Top. 

“Good work, Piper,” Captain Cold said gruffly as he helped Heat Wave back to his feet. The Pied Piper lowered his pipe and gave a slight smile. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly. The Top walked a tight circle around Bruce, looking him up and down, and Bruce felt a strong sense of unease. Something about the way that the criminal was examining him made him feel as though he was being x-rayed. 

“So, this is Gotham City’s infamous vigilante. I must say, I’m a bit disappointed. Given your fearsome reputation, I was expecting something a bit more imposing than a man in a Halloween costume—especially after having fought the Fastest Man Alive. I’m afraid, in terms of menace, that you cannot top that,” he said coolly. 

“Do you guys think the Flash is okay?” Heat Wave asked suddenly. If Bruce had been able to turn his head, he would have stared at him in surprise. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that the criminal sounded concerned about the Flash. 

“Probably. Why?” Captain Cold replied as he picked up his cold gun. 

“Well, if he’s okay, why didn’t he come to stop us?” Heat Wave said. Up in the air, the Trickster frowned. 

“You’re right. He’s never sent in a replacement before.” 

“And we are worrying about this, why, exactly? The Flash not being here can only benefit us,” the Top asked. 

“I ain’t so sure of that. The Flash is faster, sure, but word on the street is that Batman is a whole lot tougher. The Flash don’t go around breakin’ bones, for one thing,” Captain Cold replied. 

“That’s what I’ve been saying this whole time! Batman’s dangerous, and we need to get out of here before we get eaten,” Mirror Master insisted. 

“Scudder, Batman doesn’t eat people.”

“Everyone keeps saying that, but none of you are saying how you know.” 

“ I know he doesn’t eat people ‘cause word from Gotham’s underworld is he doesn’t even kill. He might crack your skull, but he won’t snap your neck—and ain’t nobody ever seen him with a knife or a gun,” Captain Cold replied.

“Fair enough—but if word in Gotham is wrong, and we get eaten, I’m blaming you,” Mirror Master replied. He unholstered a weapon that Barry’s notes had called a “mirror gun”, which could apparently produce a wide variety of effects, from creating mirror duplicates to shooting laser beams, and pointed it at Bruce, but didn’t fire it. 

“Regardless of how brutal he is, he has no superpowers. We can fight the Flash; the Batman should pose no threat to us,” the Top insisted. 

“No powers doesn’t equal no threat. We’re livin’ proof of that,” Captain Cold replied. 

“Perhaps, but given the fact that we were able to totally immobilize him before he was able to incapacitate any of us does not give me reason to suppose that this Batman poses any significant threat to us.” 

“Hey, guys?” the Trickster said. 

“The Top’s got a point, Captain. Sure, his punches really pack a wallop—I learned that the hard way when I took that trip to Gotham last year—but as long as I stay out of his range, he can’t touch me. Not when I have the power of the weather itself on my side,” the Weather Wizard said. Bruce blinked, and realized that the hypnotic effect of the Pied Piper’s music must be wearing off.

“You mean the trip to Gotham that ended with the Batman sending you to prison?” Captain Cold asked.

“Uh, guys?” Trickster repeated. 

“Maybe he got the better of me the first time we fought…but this time, I know what to watch out for. He’ll never be able to defeat me again,” Weather Wizard insisted. 

“GUYS!” Trickster exclaimed. 

“What?” Captain Cold snapped—just as Bruce kicked the flute out of the Pied Piper’s hands. As dangerous as the other Rogues’ weapons might be, eliminating the weapon that could freeze him in place without even needing to be aimed took priority. The flute went flying into the air, and cracked in half upon hitting the ground. 

“That’s what,” Trickster said as Bruce grabbed the Pied Piper by the collar.

As Bruce stared down into the young man’s frightened face, he was very surprised to realize that he was looking into the face of someone he had met before—not on the streets, but at several high society parties. True, he was paler and gaunter than Bruce remembered him being, but after having attended dozens of soirees hosted by Rachel and Osgood Rathaway, there was no doubt in his mind that the criminal he was currently holding a foot or so off the ground was their son, Hartley. How had the scion of one of the wealthiest families in the country ended up with a gang of blue-collar criminals? 

Only years of training prevented Bruce from taking the full force of the impact as the Top suddenly spun into him at super-speed, but the shock of being rammed into by a man-sized spinning top still caused him to drop Hartley to the ground, and he only barely managed to stay standing. Barry’s notes had mentioned that the Top could spin himself at superhuman speed, but he hadn’t mentioned that when he collided with you, it would feel like getting hit by a freight train. If Bruce wasn’t lucky, he would probably end up with a broken rib from the sheer force of that blow. 

“The Flash would have avoided that attack easily,” the Top said haughtily as he tossed the top he had been holding at Bruce. Bruce managed to pull out a batarang and knock the top off its course, but then the Top spun into him again, grabbing him and slamming him into a wall. 

“And you, clearly, cannot stop us from coming out on top.” In response, Bruce drew his right leg up sharply and kneed the Top hard in the throat. The Top cried out in pain and loosened his hold, but before Bruce could land a second hit, the Top dropped him and spun out of range. A few seconds later, a boomerang hurtled at him, and, when Bruce dodged the boomerang, a yo-yo suddenly slammed into his head from above. 

“Gotcha!” Trickster exclaimed. Bruce shook his head to clear it from the impact of the blow—only for him to be knocked off his feet by another violent gust of wind. Bruce was knocked backwards—and right into a dozen Mirror Masters. Bruce jabbed his elbow into the face of the nearest one, and it shattered into glass. He spun around and slammed a fist into another Mirror Master, which also shattered. 

“The Flash could’ve smashed through all my duplicates and found the real me in seconds,” the Mirror Master said. He sounded almost disappointed, which seemed counterintuitive. Given how frightened he had been of Batman earlier, one would have expected him to simply be relieved that Bruce was having trouble finding him—but perhaps his teammates’ insistence that Batman did not, in fact, eat people had given him enough confidence to start…being disappointed that he and his criminal cohorts were winning? No, it still didn’t make sense. 

As he shattered another Mirror Master duplicate, Heat Wave shot a plume of fire through the air in Batman’s direction. Bratman managed to avoid it, but a nearby Mirror Master duplicate wasn’t so lucky, and promptly melted. 

“The Flash would’ve put out my fire before it ever reached that far,” Heat Wave said. 

“And he could’ve done it while avoiding lightning bolts from me,” Weather Wizard added. Two seconds later, a violent wind swept Bruce off of the ground, and, while he was able to roll enough when he fell to avoid any serious injury, it meant that he wasn’t able to avoid the beam from Captain Cold’s gun, which promptly froze him to the ground. 

“And that stops him cold. Come on, boys. Let’s get outta here,” Captain Cold said. 

“We’re leaving him alive?” the Top asked. 

“We leave him alive. He ain’t our enemy, and we don’t need the kind of heat that killin’ a cape would bring down on us.” 

“How is he not our enemy? He attacked us, did he not?” 

“It wasn’t personal. It was business, just like it is with the cops. We don’t kill the cops who arrest us, we don’t kill Kid Flash when he hassles us, and we ain’t gonna kill him either,” Captain Cold said firmly. 

“And it is for that very reason that the entire underworld derides us as jokes. They call us weak; say we don’t have the stomach to kill—and because of you, they’re right,” the Top snapped. Digger laughed obnoxiously. 

“Mate, I don’t know how to tell you this, but you wear green-and-yellow striped tights. They’d be laughing at you no matter what.” Captain Cold turned to glare at him, and, while the Captain was distracted, Bruce slipped a tracing device onto his costume. 

“Digger, shut up. You ain’t helping.” Captain Cold barked. Then he turned back to the Top.

“I don’t care what the underworld thinks about us. I don’t care what anyone thinks about us. What I care about is us stayin’ alive, stayin’ together, and, preferably, not gettin’ caught. We start killin’, and all three of those goals will be threatened.” 

“Only cowards let fear impede their path to greatness.” 

“And idiots who let their ambition blind ‘em to reality end up locked up for life or dead,” Captain Cold shot back. The Mirror Master started walking over to the two squabbling criminals. 

“What do you know of ambition? You’re an illiterate lowlife thug. You were born trailer trash, and you’ll die that way—but that doesn’t mean that you have to drag the rest of us down to your level.” 

“That’s rich, comin’ from a crazy, top-obsessed lunatic.” The two men were clearly on the verge of coming to blows, which made it all the more surprising when the Mirror Master stepped in between them. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Save your arguments for when we’re not in front of the superhero, please. It’s unprofessional, and it makes us look bad.”

“Who put you in charge?” Captain Cold and the Top said in unison. 

“Technically speaking, I’ve always been in charge, seeing as I formed the group and everything. I just don’t care enough to play king of the hill. But since you two have decided to have one of your stupid alpha male competitions, I’m going to have to step in to settle the argument. I don’t want to force the rest of the guys to stand around watching you two argue when we could be doing something productive—like making sure all of our gear is in order for next week’s heist,” Mirror Master replied. 

“And what, pray tell, have you decided?” the Top asked coldly. 

“In this case, I agree with Captain Cold. Batman isn’t the Flash. We don’t have any quarrel with him, so there’s no reason for us to kill him—-and, more importantly, killing would split the group. Pied Piper, Trickster, and Heat Wave don’t have it in them to kill anyone, and you know it. Besides, if we started killing people, being the Mirror Master would lose most of its fun,” the Mirror Master replied. 

“But our reputations—” 

“Will be just fine. We defeated the Batman. If anything will get us respect in the underworld, it’ll be that,” the Mirror Master replied. This seemed to mollify the Top, if only slightly.

“Yes, I suppose that is something,” he conceded. 

“See? There we go. Everybody’s happy. Now, let’s pick up Piper’s new costume from Gambi and get back to our hideout.” 

****************************************************************************

Bruce’s specialized bat-de-icers melted through the ice that had frozen him to the ground after about an hour. As soon as he was free, he followed the tracer he had placed on Captain Cold to a broken-down old warehouse on the docks of the river and hid himself nearby. After his disastrous first battle with the Rogues, it was abundantly clear to Bruce that he would be defeated if he charged into their hideout with all eight of them present. As such, a wiser course of action would be to wait until most of the Rogues had left the hideout, defeat the few who remained, and then lie in wait for the rest to return. 

Fortunately for him, the Weather Wizard—now in civilian clothes—left the warehouse only a few minutes after Batman arrived at the docks. He was wearing a black leather jacket, had his wild black hair styled into some semblance of order with a lot of hair gel, and had put on so much cologne that Bruce could smell it from forty yards away. 

He was met by the likely reason for the cologne—an attractive woman with long red hair—about halfway down the docks.

“Hey there, babe,” the Weather Wizard said. 

“Hello yourself, handsome,” the woman replied. The Weather Wizard showed her his weather wand, which she dutifully oohed and aahed over, boasted about how powerful he was, and completely failed to notice as she slipped her hand into his pocket and stole a credit card and at least a hundred dollars worth of bills out of his wallet. 

“How’d you like to see the city from the sky, honey?” Weather Wizard asked. 

“Oh, I’d love it!” the woman said. The Weather Wizard picked her up, waved his wand, and disappeared with her into the night sky. If there was any money left in his wallet by the time the night was over, Bruce would be very surprised. 

About thirty minutes after the Weather Wizard left on his date, Captain Cold, Captain Boomerang, Mirror Master, and Heat Wave also left the hideout in civilian clothes. From their conversation, it was easy to tell that they were headed for a seedy local bar—although since Captain Boomerang was clearly already inebriated, he wasn’t entirely sure why they were even bothering to make the trip. Bruce wasn’t complaining, though; the faster the warehouse emptied, the more quickly he would be able to make his move. 

Another hour later, the Top walked out of the warehouse in a tuxedo, complete with a yellow-and-green striped tie and a yellow-and-green striped top hat. Bruce wasn’t sure where he was going dressed up like that, but apparently he had hired a limousine for the occasion, because he climbed into one near the end of the docks, and it then drove away with him inside. 

All but two of the Rogues were gone, and the ones who remained were the two youngest. Bruce would never have a better opportunity to defeat the Rogues than right now. With that in mind, he picked the padlock on the warehouse’s back door and slipped inside the dilapidated building. 

As Bruce made his way through the hideout, he quickly discovered that, while his enemies would often  convert the old abandoned buildings they took over into sophisticated bases with complex security systems and elaborate theming, Barry’s villains hadn’t put similar effort into fixing up the old warehouse. There was a TV shoved into one corner, a card table with four chairs, a very worn easy chair, a portable fridge, and the biggest mess that Bruce had ever seen. Beer cans, cigarette butts, money, Mark Twain novels, dirty magazines, textbooks about quantum physics, books of matches, sheet music, boomerangs, socks, mirrors, and hand puppets were strewn all over the floor, a dartboard with the Flash’s face plastered over it was hanging on one of the walls, and someone had stuck a sticky note to the portable microwave that read “Mick is not allowed to use this anymore”. In fact, the only part of the warehouse’s largest room that didn’t look like the Weather Wizard had sent a tornado through it was its right corner, which contained a clean workbench with a picture of a pretty young blonde woman and neatly organized rack of tools hanging over it, a swivel chair, a perfectly organized bookshelf that contained titles like The Fascinating History of Tops, Gyroscopes, and The Theoretical Principles Behind the Construction of Satellites, and an even larger shelf that contained nothing but hundreds of precisely-labeled, scrupulously-organized tops. Evidently, the Top possessed the hideout mindset Bruce expected from supervillains, even if his teammates did not. 

Bruce considered performing a more thorough sweep of the room to see if he could uncover any of the Rogues’ plans, but decided against it. The place was such a mess that it would likely take hours before he managed to find anything useful. Instead, he started making his way through the warehouse’s four smaller rooms, starting with the one that branched off from the main room’s south wall. This turned out to be the bathroom, which had a grimy shower, a grimy sink, an even more grimy toilet, a very well-polished mirror, a few razors, and mountains of hair and skin products. A quick examination of the last revealed that, with the exception of two bars of soap and one shampoo bottle, the Top, Weather Wizard, and Mirror Master owned all of the beauty products, and that well over 75% of the lotions and shampoos and facial creams belonged solely to Mirror Master. As a member of high society, Bruce had to maintain a reputation as a well-coiffed man, but he didn’t own even a fraction of the hair and skin products Mirror Master apparently did. 

The next room, which branched off of the north wall, had two air mattresses, one which had fire-print pajamas in a pile at the foot of it and the other of which had a faded, worn blue bathrobe and polar bear slippers lying on it, and one actual bed. The actual bed was surrounded by mirrors from every angle. There was even a hand mirror lying on top of the bed. Other than that, the room contained one snow globe with a polar bear inside, a poster of a blazing inferno, a picture of a blonde woman who looked very similar to the one in the photo over the Top’s workbench, and a closet that had been haphazardly shoved into a corner. 

The third room, which branched off the west wall, contained one bed and one mattress on the floor. The mattress on the floor was surrounded by boomerangs, rotting food, unwashed clothes, and empty beer cans. A blue cap was lying on top of the mattress, and an Australian flag was hanging from the wall next to it. The bed, which was placed right next to the opposite wall, clearly in an attempt to keep as far away as possible from the hazardous waste dump that was the mattress and its surrounding area, was right under a rather large window that provided a perfect view of the river. A huge pile of novels—many of which were by Mark Twain—was stacked on the bed, and photo of two young men, one of whom was obviously the Weather Wizard himself and the other of whom, a bespectacled young man in a lab coat, resembled him enough to be his brother, was pinned to the wall next to the window. Strewn around the bed were more novels and several different pieces of paper with phone numbers on them. A set of drawers rested at the foot of the bed, and the clothes inside all clearly belonged to the Weather Wizard. 

The final room, which branched off the east wall of the warehouse’s main room, was currently occupied. Bruce had heard the voices of the two youngest Rogues coming from it the moment he had entered the warehouse, and, given what he had found in the other rooms, it seemed safe to assume it was being used as a bedroom by the two of them and the Top. Bruce pulled out one of his batarangs and kicked the door open, prompting a gasp from the Pied Piper, who was sitting cross-legged on a cot and holding a pipe, and a shriek from the Trickster, who was holding his yo-yo and lying inside what looked like a children’s bouncy castle. He knocked the Trickster’s yo-yo out of his hands with the batarang, then managed to wrestle the pipe out of the Pied Piper’s hands before he could raise it to his lips. Pied Piper’s eyes went wide with fear, but, after a few seconds of initial surprise, the Trickster actually grinned.

“Hi, there!” he exclaimed cheerfully. Batman looked over the two supervillains, and was overwhelmed all over again by how young they looked. Neither one could possibly be much over twenty, and the Pied Piper was painfully thin. How, he wondered, had they ended up in the company of thugs and lowlives?

“The two of you seem very young to be a part of a group like this,” he said. The Trickster laughed. 

“I get that a lot. From judges, mostly. I was sixteen when I made my grand debut,” he said cheerfully. Bruce did the math. According to Barry’s notes, the Trickster had first shown up three years ago. If he had been sixteen then, he was nineteen now. 

“Wait. You’re only nineteen? Then why does Captain Cold think you’re twenty-four?” the Pied Piper asked. 

“Because I told him I was twenty-one when I first teamed up with him,” the Trickster replied. 

“You don’t need to tell me how old you are. I already know. You’re nineteen as well,” Batman said. 

“How could you possibly—”

“Because Hartley Rathaway turned sixteen three years ago,” Bruce replied. The Pied Piper’s mouth fell open. 

“You…you know? How could you possibly know? Even the Flash doesn’t know, and he’s been fighting me for months now!” 

“I make it my business to know these kinds of things.” 

“Besides, ‘Henry Darrow’ is a terrible alias. I don’t know how the other guys keep falling for it,” the Trickster added. The Pied Piper stared at him in shock. 

“You know? How long have you known?” 

“Oh, I figured it out two days after we met, once I realized that the fact that you didn’t know how to dress yourself or how to use the microwave or what a laundry machine was meant that you had to have been rich. And since the Rathaways were the only rich people in the area whose son had recently gone on a very mysterious tour of Europe, it wasn’t hard to narrow down who you probably were,” the Trickster replied. Clearly, he was more intelligent than his choice of clothing and weaponry suggested. 

“And when were you planning on telling me that you knew who I really was?” the Pied Piper asked.

“Whenever it would be the funniest.” The Pied Piper sighed wearily, then turned toward Bruce. 

“All right, so you know my little secret. I am Hartley Rathaway—but what’s that to you?” 

“Your parents are two of the richest people in the country, and, while I’ve met plenty of wealthy criminals in my day, the ones who aren’t the heads of crime families tend to stick to white-collar crime. What are you doing running around with a gang of thugs?” The Pied Piper laughed quietly. 

“My parents and I had a …...difference of opinion. The kind of difference of opinion that caused them to throw me off of the estate with no money to ‘teach me a lesson’,” the Pied Piper replied. For half a second, Bruce was surprised to hear that the Rathaways had kicked their own son out of his home. Then he remembered what Rachel and Osgood Rathaway were like, and suddenly everything made sense. 

“Where did you get the mind-controlling musical instruments?” 

“I made them. Ever since my parents paid fifteen million dollars to “fix” me, I’ve been fascinated with sound. Playing it, recording it, listening to it—and manipulating it. My parents were happy enough to take advantage of my playing, since having a son who could play the piano and the flute as well as I was taught to do was a wonderful way for them to show off, but they always dismissed my interest in manipulating it as “tinkering”, and never paid it much mind. They had no idea that I had started developing sonic technology a year before they shipped me off to a college I didn’t want to attend, or that I had actually made some pretty good progress on it by the time they threw me out,” the Pied Piper replied. 

“And how did you end up in costumed crime?” 

“My parents had made it pretty clear that they weren’t going to let me give any of my fortune away legally, so, after a month or so of selling off my technology in a desperate attempt to keep myself off the streets, I decided that I might as well do it illegally. I cut up somebody’s old shower curtains and made a makeshift costume out of them, then used my musical hypnosis to mind-control some thugs who had decided to rob businesses owned by my parents and took charge of the operations. The Flash just happened to show up before I could distribute any of the money to charity, and I went to jail—but I didn’t stay there. My parents paid someone at city hall under the table to have me released before I could go to trial, since they didn’t want anyone to know that the Pied Piper was a Rathaway, and they hadn’t had time to pay the FBI to give me a new identity yet.. As soon as I was back on the street, I—” 

“He gave away all the money he’d made selling his fancy sonic tech to a bunch of widows and orphans and soup kitchens and almost starved to death! His parents never let him anywhere near the business side of their estate, so he has no money sense,” Trickster interjected. 

“More or less. And, now that I’ve told you why I’m running around in polka-dots, why don’t you tell me why Bruce Wayne is running around in a bat costume?” the Pied Piper said. Bruce tensed. How could he possibly know? 

“Good joke, Piper. Is Veronica Vreeland Batgirl, too?” Trickster asked. 

“No, I’m serious. I didn’t notice at first, but I’ve attended enough boring soirees and business meetings where Bruce Wayne was in attendance to be able to know his voice, even if it is being electronically modulated by a speaker. It’s a pretty good auditory trick, but not good enough to fool my nanomechanical ears,” the Pied Piper replied. 

“Wait…if Bruce Wayne is Batman, that means that Dick Grayson is Robin. I thought Robin’s acrobatics looked kind of familiar on TV,” Trickster said. Bruce grabbed the Trickster and slammed him against the wall.

“What do you know about Dick Grayson?” 

“He’s a carny kid—just like me, only younger. Our paths crossed a few times on the circuit before his folks were killed,” the Trickster replied. Bruce dropped the Trickster back onto the bouncy house. Now that he thought about it, he distinctly remembered Dick enthusing about how he’d always known a talented young high wire walker would make it big. It seemed that that high wire walker had decided to go from walking on a wire to walking on air—and robbing banks. 

“If you tell anyone—” 

“Tell anyone what? It’s not like anyone would believe us if we told them that Gotham’s richest idiot was secretly the world’s greatest ninja detective,” the Trickster said. 

“Especially when the only evidence I have for you being Bruce Wayne is the fact that your voice sounds exactly like his once my hyper-advanced nanomechanical ears filter out the effects of a voice modulator. Almost no one knows I’m Hartley Rathaway, so no one would have any reason to believe I’ve heard Bruce Wayne’s voice enough times to recognize it,” the Pied Piper added. Bruce relaxed fractionally when he realized that they were right. The odds of them convincing anyone else that he was Batman were slim to none—but that didn’t mean that they might not try to take advantage of their knowledge themselves. 

“Do anything to hurt Dick, or Alfred, or anyone else that I care about, and I will make you regret it,” he snapped. 

“I don’t know about James, but I for one am not about to travel all the way to Gotham, the horrible murder capital of the world, just to get the crap kicked out of me for attacking the loved ones of a hero I don’t even care about,”  the Pied Piper said. 

“Besides, going after a hero’s loved ones is cheating. Everyone knows that,” the Trickster added. Bruce was quite sure most of his enemies wouldn’t agree with that sentiment, and wondered what sort of charmed life Barry led to have so many costumed villains who held themselves to a self-imposed set of standards. 

“You know what? We’ve been talking for the past ten minutes, and we never even thought to ask what you’re here for,” the Pied Piper said. 

“I’m here to take you in—but, given how young you two are, I’d be willing to ask the courts to show you leniency if you surrender quietly,” Bruce replied. The Trickster grinned.

“Okay! We surrender!” he said. Bruce immediately went on edge. Usually, when supervillains took him up on that offer, it meant that they had something up their sleeves. Pied Piper was apparently just as surprised as Bruce, judging by the expression on his face. 

“What do you mean, we surrender?” 

“C’mon, Piper, it’ll be a great gag! Can you imagine the look on Flashy-pants’ face when he finds out that a random guy in a Batsuit was able to bring us in faster than he could? It’ll serve him right for going away and leaving us without anyone fun to fight,” the Trickster said.

“And we’ll look like idiots for being defeated by a guy with no powers,” the Pied Piper replied. 

“I wear stripes and blue slippers, and you dress like an evil elf. Everyone thinks we’re idiots anyway, so we might as well have fun with it,” the Trickster said. 

“I don’t care. I am not surrendering without a fight just because you think it’s funny,” the Pied Piper insisted. The Trickster hopped off of his bouncy castle bed and threw an arm around Piper. 

“Well, if that’s what you really want, Piper, that’s fine. I’ll go alone—but before the Batman drags you away, I want you to say good-bye to Mr. Ducky,” the Trickster said. He pulled out a rubber duck from somewhere on his costume and waved it in front of the Pied Piper’s face. 

“James, this is not—” The Trickster squeezed the rubber duck, some gas sprayed out, and the Pied Piper slumped into unconsciousness. 

“Well, that worked out great! Good job, Mr. Ducky!” he said to the rubber duck. Then he turned to Batman. 

“Sorry about him. He’s a nice kid, really, but he doesn’t know when to quit. I didn’t want him to end up with any broken ribs because he tried to fight off a ninja,” the Trickster said apologetically. Bruce, still half-expecting a trick, handcuffed the two criminals together with his Bat-cuffs, summoned the Batmobile he had had flown to Central City shortly before he had arrived there himself, and loaded the two of them into the back seat. 

“Nice car. Did you build it yourself, or did you pay someone to make it?” Bruce ignored him and started the engine. 

“Right. I forgot. You’re the strong, silent type. That’s another reason I like the Flash better than you. He has an actual sense of humor.” As the Batmobile started to drive down the road that would take him to the headquarters of the CCPD, Bruce started to wonder if his villains were harassing Barry about how they wanted to be fighting Batman instead. He couldn’t imagine most of them doing it, and as for the one who actually might—he wouldn't wish the Joker on anyone. 

“Hey, what does this button do?”

Although, Bruce reflected as a parachute shot out from the back of the Batmobile, at least the Joker was predictable. 

******************************************************************************

An hour and a half after dropping the Pied Piper and the Trickster off at the CCPD, Bruce returned to the Rogues’ abandoned warehouse hideout to find the Top sitting in his swivel chair, working on something. The Weather Wizard was leaning on the wall immediately next to the desk, the weather wand clutched in one hand. From the sound of their conversation, the two of them were comparing dates. 

“You have a good night?” 

“The very best. I do so love to make Lisa happy, and nothing makes her happier than roses, fancy dinners, and jewelry,” the Top replied. 

My date was great, too. Thanks for asking,” the Weather Wizard said. The Top looked up at him in apparent confusion. 

“I did not ask. And I do not care about your dates. Half of them are with desperate, lonely women who would date anyone who pays them a compliment, and the other half are with  women who are taking advantage of your belief that you are some sort of Casanova to get money out of you,” the Top said. The Weather Wizard scowled.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Last week, you spent four thousand dollars on a necklace for a woman you’d met thirty minutes before in a bar, just because she was flirting with you and you wanted to impress her. Do you really think you’ll ever see her again?” 

“I got her phone number.” 

“You got what you think is her phone number.” 

“You’re just jealous that I get more dates than you.” 

“I only need one date. Lisa is perfection. And even if I had no date at all, I would still not be jealous of a man too stupid to realize why he has three times as many dates when he has money than he does when he’s broke. Haven’t you ever noticed that women aren’t as interested in you during the weeks when you have to beg Captain Cold or Mirror Master or Heat Wave for cash?” 

“Why do you keep track of the number of dates I have in a week?”

“You boast about them so extensively it’s hard not to,” the Top replied.

“Since we’re on the subject, when are you going to tell Captain Cold that you’re dating his sister?” Weather Wizard asked. 

“Never, if I can help it. We rub each other the wrong way enough without his overprotective older brother instincts making everything worse.” 

“You do realize he’s gonna find out eventually, right?”

“Then I will cross that bridge when I get to it. For now, I do not have to put up with him scrutinizing every move I make, and I prefer it that way,” the Top replied. The Weather Wizard smirked. 

“I guess I can’t really blame you. She’s a babe, no two ways about it—especially for someone who’s related to Len,” he said. 

“She got all of the looks in the family. And all of the manners,” the Top said as he sent a top skittering across the desk. When it reached the end of the desk, it ignited into flames for a few seconds before extinguishing itself. 

“Excellent. My flare top is working exactly as intended.” 

“You’d better not let Mick see that, or you’ll never get it away from him,” Weather Wizard commented. 

As the two criminals continued their conversation, Bruce calculated the angle that he would need to throw his batarangs at in order to knock out the Top and knock the wand out of the Weather Wizard’s hands. He had to take out both of them at once, because if not, whichever one remained standing would overwhelm him with the power of their attacks. 

Then Heat Wave came through the front door, lugging an unconscious Captain Boomerang along with him, and Bruce was forced to alter his initial plan. 

“Digger passed out, so I volunteered to take him home early,” Heat Wave explained. The Top shook his head in apparent disgust.

“I don’t know why we bother to keep that lout around,” he muttered—just as Bruce launched into action. One batarang knocked the wand out of the Weather Wizard’s hand, one went flying towards the Top, and Bruce himself hurtled towards Heat Wave and landed his fist on Heat Wave’s jaw. The Weather Wizard squawked in alarm as Heat Wave stumbled backwards and dropped Captain Boomerang. Bruce quickly followed up the initial punch with a roundhouse kick to Heat Wave’s head. Heat Wave slumped to the ground, unconscious, and Bruce was about to turn to the now-disarmed Weather Wizard when the Top slammed into him at full speed and pinned him to the wall. 

“You missed,” the Top said coldly. Bruce struggled to free himself, but it seemed the Top had learned from their earlier fight, because he was now being held in such a way that prevented him from properly leveraging his body to attack. 

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. No one tops the top. Not you, not Captain Cold, not even—” 

Suddenly, a bright red blur zipped into the room and knocked the Top to the floor. 

“The Flash?” Barry asked. There was a big smile on his face. The Top snarled as he got back to his feet.

“So you’re back, are you?” 

“Yes, I’m back—just in time to help Batman take all of you back to prison,” Barry said as he grabbed the weather wand. 

“I’m faster than lightning. Are you?” Barry waved the wand, and a bolt of lightning crashed out of the sky. It didn’t actually hit the Top, but the force of the strike was enough to knock the man backwards into the shelf full of tops, where he hit his head on one of the shelves. About a dozen tops landed on his unconscious body.

The Weather Wizard looked at the two heroes  and raised his hands. 

“I surrender, okay? Just don’t let Batman hit me. That hurts,” he said pathetically. Barry laughed.

‘I think that’s the smartest decision you’ve ever made,” he said. There was a flash of color and a rush of wind, and suddenly, Barry and all four of the criminals were gone. Barry reappeared a few seconds later.

“Thanks for helping me track the Rogues down. I’ve been trying to figure out where they were all hiding out for months,” Barry said. Bruce nodded. 

“No, thank you. If you hadn’t shown up when you did, I don’t even want to think about what the Top would have done to me.” 

“No problem. You want me to run you back home to Gotham?” Bruce nodded. Barry swept him off his feet, there was a flash of light, and suddenly Bruce was back where he belonged. 

“I have no idea how you manage this place, Bruce. I was stopping so many muggers and murderers and carjackers that I barely had time to sleep—and that was before the Scarecrow showed up. I could never patrol Gotham full-time.” 

“And I’ll be leaving Central City to you from now on. I can’t even begin to understand the logic your Rogues operate under—and even if I could, your Rogues seem to take it very personally when another hero fills in for you.” 

[nandinishenoy]

Hiranandani Ventures into Pune Real Estate; Revenue Potential Set at Rs 7,000 Crore

Hiranandani Group has officially marked its entry into Pune’s real estate sector by securing its first-ever joint development agreement of 105 acres with the well-known Krisala Developers.

Located in North Hinjewadi, the project will be developed under the Integrated Township Policy, encompassing residential, commercial, and retail spaces, according to a joint statement released on February 20, 2025.

The total investment for the 105-acre land asset is valued at Rs 2,000 crore, with an estimated revenue potential of Rs 7,000 crore, as stated in the announcement.

The initial phase of development will span 30 acres, with a minimum target of delivering 3 million square feet of real estate space.

As part of this joint development, the investment for Phase I is projected at approximately Rs 500 crore, with an anticipated turnover of around Rs 2,100 crore.

The proposed development will feature apartments, villa plots, branded residences, and a range of recreational amenities designed to offer a holistic living experience for homebuyers, the statement noted.

This "strategic joint development" seeks to capitalize on Krisala Developers' strong local expertise while integrating Hiranandani Group’s "extensive brand experience."

"Both organizations are dedicated to seamlessly aligning their vision and expertise, covering every phase from land development and approvals to execution," they stated.

Niranjan Hiranandani, Chairman of Hiranandani Group, highlighted the rapid evolution of India’s real estate landscape, emphasizing that innovation and strategic collaborations are key to achieving exponential growth.

"Mega infrastructure projects are facilitating last-mile connectivity between Mumbai and Pune, further energizing the MMR and Pune real estate markets. This enhanced connectivity caters directly to the aspirations of migrating talent. Pune's real estate sector is thriving due to its booming IT hubs, excellent connectivity, and an influx of skilled professionals. The seamless link between these two major business cities has unlocked unprecedented real estate opportunities," Hiranandani added.

With a legacy spanning over 45 years, the Hiranandani Group is a prominent real estate conglomerate, having delivered nearly 48 million square feet of residential and commercial spaces. The Group has also diversified into emerging asset classes, including Data Centers, Industrial Parks, and Logistics Parks.

Aakash Agarwal, Managing Director of Krisala Developers, stated, "This development will cater to first-time homebuyers, second-home seekers, investors, and NRIs, ensuring inclusivity and comfort across all demographics. The project is distinguished by its strong commitment to sustainability and scientifically driven urban planning. Our partnerships with leading energy and resource institutes are aimed at maintaining an air quality index (AQI) of 40, ensuring a healthier living environment for residents."

Krisala Developers has been active in Pune’s real estate sector for over 13 years, completing more than 2.3 million square feet of residential and commercial construction.For more updates on this and similar developments, stay tuned to Hiranandani news.

[mixvillainousandtcoaal]

♦️THE CASINO KING♣️

After a few hours spent on the bus to get to the most rotten place in town, only to finally get a “not at all suspicious” ride to take you the long way to the luxurious El Jack-Pot Palace. You were a little irritated with the walk that led to the back of the establishment, since you obviously couldn’t enter the front doors, but you'd better control yourself. This could very well be your most important new employer you’ll ever have.

Door opening sounds

You finally walk into your potential employer's office, he's sitting in his chair, with that strange golden smile:

Giocare Pericolo Cazini.

One of the 3 big bosses of the Marín City mafia.

Mr. Cazini:  “You must be "La Bestia Purpura", am I correct?"

You nod at his question, not wanting to say anything unnecessary.

Mr. Cazini: "Please, have a seat."

He gestured for you to sit in the chair in front of his desk. As you did so, he continued.

Mr. Cazini: “I’m sure you already know who I am.”

La Bestia Purpura: "Yes, I do. You're quite the celebrity in the underbelly."

Mr. Cazini: "That's good."

Mr. Cazini: "How was your ride to my humble establishment? Were my cards kind to you?"

Humble where?

La Bestia Purpura: "It was fine. If I may ask, did I really need to go to a dark alley on the other side of town to hitch a ride here?"

Mr. Cazini laughed at your question, a low, measured sound.

Mr. Cazini: “Ah, my apologies for the roundabout method, Signorina Purpura. It comes with the territory, I'm afraid. Discretion is everything in our line of work.”

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you.

Mr. Cazini: "But I'm sure you understand the importance of secrecy in our profession, don't you?"

You just nodded again, understanding that it was a stupid question to ask a crime boss.

How stupid, I'm not even surprised.

La Bestia Purpura: "I'm sorry, but it's not every day that I meet my potential employer in person."

You look at the goons standing next to the front door.

La Bestia Purpura: “Actually, it's preferable that employers only send their henchmen to handle business."

La Bestia Purpura: "So I guess this won't be a regular 'job', right?"

Mr. Cazini laughed again, amused by your comment.

Mr. Cazini: "Ah, you've got a sharp tongue, I'll give you that. But you're absolutely correct, this won't be a regular 'job'. I have something a bit...unconventional in mind."

His gaze shifted to his henchmen, who stood by the door, and he gave them a single nod. They understood the unspoken command and quietly left the room, closing the door behind them.

Mr. Cazini:  "Tell me, Signorina Purpura, how fluent are you in European English?"

You are confused by this question, you don't understand what he means by that.

La Bestia Purpura: "I guess it's good, considering I've been there before."

Mr. Cazini nodded, a slow, measured gesture.

Mr. Cazini: “Excellent. Being able to speak European English fluently is quite beneficial, especially in our line of work.”

He leaned forward, his eyes shining with a hint of mischief.

Mr. Cazini: Because, let's just say, you'll be using it quite often in this...special job of mine."

La Bestia Purpura: "And what is the job?"

You see Mr. Cazini take a deck of cards from his desk drawer and start playing with it.

We're still in a meeting.

Mr. Cazini: "Oh cara mia. It's a simple but rigorous job, one that you may have to form false relationships with."

When he finally stops playing with the deck, he takes out a card and puts it on the table with his index finger on it.

The card was: The Joker.

Mr. Cazini:

"I want you to kill Mr. Mosley Gumery."

La Bestia Purpura: "Gumery?"

La Bestia Purpura: "Isn't he the CEO of Gumery Enterprises?"

Mr. Cazini chuckled again, his fingers still deftly manipulating the deck of cards.

Mr. Cazini: “Ah, you’re catching on quickly. Yes, that is correct.”

He casually went back to playing with his deck.

Mr. Cazini: “Mr. Gumery and I have a bit of a...complicated history. Let's just say he's been causing me a fair amount of trouble recently.”

Mr. Cazini takes one of The King Cards from his deck, holding it up casually.

La Bestia Purpura: "Hmm, from what I've heard, there are rumors that he has a gambling addiction."

La Bestia Purpura: "And knowing your own reputation, Mr. Cazini, is he a cheat?"

Suddenly he crumples it between his fingers, you can feel the anger building behind that strange smile he uses to mask it.

Mr.Cazini: “You’ve heard correctly, Signorina Purpura.”

Mr. Cazini: "Gumery is indeed addicted to gambling. And yes, he’s known to cheat at his games. A ratto bastardo."

La Bestia Purpura: "Ah, so I see. A 'ratto bastardo' indeed."

You smile, curious about this opportunity.

La Bestia Purpura: "So what's the catch? Why me?"

La Bestia Purpura: "You could very well use one of your thousands of henchmen to do the job?"

Mr. Cazini nods, his expression hardening.

Mr. Cazini: "Indeed, I could. But sometimes, a problem requires a more...delicate touch. And that's where you come in. You're skilled, discreet, and most importantly, you don't have the same connections to my family as my henchmen do."

He pauses for a moment, his gaze never leaving yours.

Mr. Cazini: "And let's just say you have a certain...predatory quality about you that makes you perfect for this job."

Ohh, it's getting interesting.

La Bestia Purpura: "Predatory?"

Mr. Cazini takes one of the spades from his deck, placing it next to the Joker on the table.

Mr. Cazini: "Do you know how to tell one killer from another?"

La Bestia Purpura: "DNA test? Common territories? There are many ways to tell the difference."

Cazini laughs again, clearly finding your answers amusing.

Mr. Cazini: "HAH! No, no, no, well, yes."

Mr. Cazini: "But I'm referring to the famous Modus Operandi."

La Bestia Purpura: "Modus Operandi?"

Mr. Cazini: "Yes, the M.O. It's the unique way each killer carries out their murders. It's almost like a signature."

Mr. Cazini: "And from what I've heard about you, you have a particularly unique M.O., don't you, Signorina Purpura?"

La Bestia Purpura: "And what would that be?"

Cazini: "You must have heard rumors, about mutilated bodies found in abandoned places or near forests, usually in places with lots of animals."

Mr. Cazini: "The experts suspected that it was a murderer trying to divert suspicion, but they discarded the idea because the bodies were in a terrible state....”

Mr. Cazini: “For the brutality inflicted upon them seemed to have been done by a bloodthirsty animal.”

Mr. Cazini: "Don't you think it's curious?"

Instead of being thoughtful about these rumors, you simply smile, a certain glint in your eyes with a cold and sinister light.

La Bestia Purpura: "Very curious, indeed."

You lean back in your chair, a small thrill running through you at Cazini’s words. It was always gratifying to be recognized for your work.

La Bestia Purpura: "And it seems you've done your research on me, Cassino."

Mr. Cazini: "I need to make sure I have a good hand, Signorina Purpura."

Mr. Cazini: "Only a fool wouldn't do that, don't you agree?"

You can't help but chuckle a little, amused by the reference.

La Bestia Purpura: "Indeed, Mr. Cazini. In our line of work, only fools play without looking at their cards."

You lean forward, your gaze fixed on him.

La Bestia Purpura: "And I trust I am a good card to have in your hand.”

Mr. Cazini: "That's what I expect, so will you accept the job?"

La Bestia Purpura: "That will depend on your wallet, how much do you want him to "suffer"?"

La Bestia Purpura: "Because the more resentment, the more expensive it will be."

Mr Cazini grins, amused by your bluntness

Mr. Cazini: "I'm willing to pay whatever price you demand, Signorina Purpura. But let's just say I'm not looking for a quick, easy death. I want it to be...memorable."

He drums his fingers on the table, his expression darkening.

Mr. Cazini: "Make it painful. Make it messy. But above all, make him suffer. I want him to know that no one can deceive me and get away with it."

La Bestia Purpura: "The type to 'feed the fish'?

Mr. Cazini: "I want the kind that 'feeds the dogs' with their damn bones and bitter meat, all the dogs in that damn rotten city."

La Bestia Purpura: "Hoh Hoh Hoh~ I have a fun contractor."

La Bestia Purpura: "But how much will I earn?"

Mr. Cazini: "You're quite the...enthusiastic one, aren't you, Signorina Purpura? I like your style."

Mr. Cazini: "As for your fee, I suppose it all depends on your performance, isn't it? But what would you say to a cool 300 pesos? That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?"

If you could turn your eyes into dollar signs like in cartoons, you would be doing it right now.

La Bestia Purpura: "Very reasonable, but I must remind you that trips to another continent are not cheap, Mr. Cazini."

La Bestia Purpura: "Besides, it would be quite suspicious for me to travel alone, wouldn't it?"

Mr. Cazini smiles, appreciating your financial prowess

Mr. Cazini: "Ah, you're a smart one, I'll give you that. You're right, of course. Travel expenses and any...companions you may require will be taken care of."

He leans forward, his expression becoming serious, but not as grim as before.

Mr. Cazini: "But I have one condition, Signorina Purpura."

La Bestia Purpura: "Don't worry, I just need someone to accompany me and pick me up after work, so it looks like a normal business job."

La Bestia Purpura: "But what would be your condition?"

Mr. Cazini: "Bring me the tongue of that Dannato imboglione."

La Bestia Purpura: "(The mafia really doesn't mess around.)"

La Bestia Purpura: "Okay."

Mr. Cazini smiles, nodding in satisfaction

Mr. Cazini:"Excellent. I want that slimy bastard to taste his own words, and I'll trust you to make it so."

He leans back in his chair, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

Mr. Cazini: "Of course, this is just between us, Signorina Purpura. If anyone asks, you're here on...legitimate business. Capiche?"

For some reason, you think it's a good idea to make a joke about the establishment of the person who's going to hire you.

La Bestia Purpura: "Sure, it's my dream to work in tight clothes with a tiara of cards on my head."

Really?

Luckily for you, it seems Mr. Cazini enjoyed your cheeky joke.

Mr. Cazini: "Haha, ah, I'm sure you'd look absolutely delightful in that outfit."

He takes a moment to regain his composure, still chuckling.

Mr. Cazini: "But in all seriousness, Signorina Purpura, this job is no walk in the park. You understand that, yes?"

La Bestia Purpura: "I understand perfectly, considering the price of this job, it's definitely not going to be a piece of cake."

With that, Mr. Cazini snaps his fingers, making his henchmen return to the office with some documents in their hands.

Mr. Cazini: "That's good."

One of the henchmen hands you a large stack of documents.

Mr. Cazini: "My team did some research on who you'll have to "relate" to.

You open one of the documents, expecting it to be from the target of the conversation, but you end up being surprised by the person who appears in the document.

La Bestia Purpura: "Sorry, but I thought I should "relate" with Mr. Gumery."

Mr. Cazini: "Unfortunately, cara mia, he's not an easy person to socialize with, let's just say he's a bit suspicious."

La Bestia Purpura: "(Considering he's in the mafia's crosshairs, it's no surprise.)"

You raise an eyebrow in curiosity.

La Bestia Purpura: "And who is this I'm supposed to 'relate' to, then?"

Mr. Cazini leans back in his chair, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

Mr. Cazini: "Well, you see, Mr. Gumery is indeed a suspicious man, but he does have a weakness. He's a bit of a womanizer, if you know what I mean."

You read a bit of this person's document again.

La Bestia Purpura: "Does he like flirting with married secretaries?"

Mr. Cazini: "Ah, I see you noticed that detail, didn't you? Yes, he does. Married or not, it doesn't seem to matter to him. He's a bit of a scoundrel, you know."

La Bestia Purpura: "(¡Qué rato más despreciable!)"

La Bestia Purpura: "Do you want me to take her job?"

Mr. Cazini: "No, no, we're not going to involve people who were victims of his lack of chivalry, I want you to get close to her."

Mr. Cazini: "Form a relationship with her."

La Bestia Purpura: "From this information you've given me, she seems like a very bitter type."

Mr. Cazzini nods again, acknowledging his observation.

Mr. Cazzini: "Oh, yes, my team has been looking into her, it seems she has been dealing with his constant harassment for some time, along with her 'quiet' personal life.

Why did he emphasize 'quiet'?

Mr. Cazzini: "So I figured she's not exactly thrilled about the idea of ​​a new 'friend' in her life."

Mr. Cazini: "But I have no doubt that someone as... charming as you, Signorina Purpura, can find a way to change her mind."

Mr. Cazini: "And who knows? You might be able to get her to reveal some dirt about him."

Mr. Cazini: "Then you will be able to put an end not only to my suffering, but to that poor lady's as well, from this despicable being."

La Bestia Purpura: "I understand. I swear I will do my best, Mr. Cazini."

Mr. Cazini smiles, satisfied with his promise.

Mr. Cazini: "Excellent. I have no doubt you'll be quite convincing."

He glances at his watch, his expression turning slightly more serious.

Mr. Cazini: "Now, I believe it's time for you to leave, Signorina Purpura. We don't want to raise any suspicions, do we?"

La Bestia Purpura: "Of course."

Mr. Cazini: "Great, know that everything you need to know about the service information and the apartment where you're supposed to stay is in the documents, just worry about the mission."

Mr. Cazini looks at one of his henchwoman and snaps his fingers to get her attention.

Mr. Cazini: " Mio caro cuore, could you please accompany her out?"

You notice that the henchwoman blushes and gives those "little giggles" that teenagers get complimented by their crushes.

Henchwoman: "Heheh, as you wish, Mr. Cazini."

Mafia boss, rich and casanova? What a surprising surprise.

You get up from your chair to be accompanied by the Henchwoman to the office door.

Mr. Cazini: "Oh, one more thing."

You answer his call, curious if there was any other information you should know.

La Bestia Púrpura: "Si?"

Mr. Cazini: "Make absolutely sure that your name is not linked to me, the last thing I want is for my name to be linked to yet another crime."

Mr. Cazini: "It's not good for business."

You just give a cheeky smile at his meaningless request, not sure if he was mocking your capabilities.

La Bestia Purpura: "Hmph, no one will know who I am, I assure you."

Mr. Cazini nodded, satisfied with her answer.

Mr. Cazini: "Excellent, then I leave you to your good work."

Mr. Cazini: "I will be eagerly awaiting your... results, Signorina Purpura."

With that, you can finally leave the office and soon after that establishment, after a long bus ride paid for by the henchman, you managed to arrive safely at your apartment.

Giving you the opportunity to read more about your work document, especially the one you approached.

La Bestia Purpura: "Renee Graves, nice to meet you."

END

[phonemantra-blog]

Brussels Pride, held annually in May, isn't just a vibrant celebration for the LGBTQ+ community. New research by The Data Appeal Company reveals it's also a significant economic driver for the Belgian capital. This analysis, presented at the European LGBTQ+ Tourism Summit, sheds light on the power of inclusivity in attracting tourism dollars. Brussels Pride Pride Power: Measuring the Economic Impact The Data Appeal Company, leveraging their proprietary LGBTQ+ Index, analyzed the impact of Brussels Pride on local tourism. Here's a breakdown of the key findings: Thriving Economy: The event generated nearly 20 million dollars, bolstering the local economy. Restaurant & Bar Boom: The biggest beneficiaries were restaurants and bars, capturing 66% of the total spending. Transportation Boost: Transportation spending accounted for 22%, reflecting the influx of visitors. Day Trippers Dominate: Interestingly, only 12% of spending went towards accommodation, suggesting most attendees were day-trippers specifically visiting for Pride festivities. Accessibility: A Key Ingredient Brussels' excellent connectivity to major European cities like Paris, Amsterdam, and Cologne played a crucial role. Easy access by train and other forms of transportation enticed visitors from surrounding regions to join the celebration. During Pride Week, hotel rates peaked at 213 euros per night on May 18th, with a 50% occupancy rate, highlighting the surge in tourism. Brussels: A Beacon of Inclusivity The study goes beyond economic impact. Brussels boasts an impressive LGBTQ+ Index score of 77 out of 100, exceeding the national average of 67. This reflects the city's strong commitment to inclusivity, as perceived by both residents and visitors. The analysis also highlights Ghent as the top city for LGBTQ+ inclusivity in Belgium, with a remarkable score of 88. This achievement is likely due to Ghent's diverse student population and progressive policies fostering a welcoming environment. The Power of the LGBTQ+ Index The Data Appeal Company's LGBTQ+ Index is a groundbreaking tool that evaluates a destination's inclusivity towards LGBTQ+ travelers. Utilizing AI and semantic analysis, the index analyzes online content, comments, and reviews to assess the perception of LGBTQ+ friendliness for a particular location or company. Within Brussels itself, specific neighborhoods stood out: Ixelles: A vibrant, international area with a large student population. Uccle: Another student-centric area known for its open atmosphere. European District: The heart of the EU, known for its international and progressive spirit. These neighborhoods exemplify how diversity and inclusivity can enhance a city's social fabric and appeal to LGBTQ+ travelers. Inclusivity Drives Tourism Growth Damiano Meola, Marketing Director at The Data Appeal Company, emphasizes the broader significance of these findings: This research highlights the win-win situation created by inclusivity. When cities embrace LGBTQ+ rights and create welcoming environments, it not only fosters a more vibrant and diverse community but also attracts tourism dollars, boosting the local economy.

[camisoledadparis]

THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … November 3

1500 – Benvenuto Cellini (d.1571), sculptor, goldsmith, memoirist, and flamboyant pederast, is one of the greatest artists in the history of Western art. He was the last of the great Renaissance artists, for the free exploration and celebration of the sensual (particularly the homoeroticism) that inspired his genius and was a hallmark of Renaissance Florentine culture were soon aborted.

Benvenuto Cellini was born in Florence at the peak of the Italian Renaissance. Apprenticed to a goldsmith, he excelled in that art. In fact, he was so successful that he was called upon to fulfill major commissions throughout Italy and France. Indeed, he traveled so much that until he was forty-five years old, he never lived longer than five years in any one place. The reasons for his sometimes abrupt departures ranged from political upheavals and plague to outbursts of temperament, including murder.

At nineteen, Cellini went to Rome, where over the years he worked for Popes Clement VII and Paul III. In 1536, he traveled to France, where he sculpted decorations for the palace at Fontainebleau. In 1545, Cellini returned to Florence, where he lived the rest of his life.

Florence was notorious in the Renaissance as "Sodom City": in German slang, "Florenzer" meant "sodomite." In the late fifteenth century, one in two Florentine men had come to the attention of the authorities on suspicion of sodomy by the time they were thirty. In 1432, the "Office of the Night" was created to eliminate sodomy, but after seventy years it was disbanded as the task was deemed hopeless. About ninety percent of the cases reported involved boys under the age of eighteen. Sexual activity between men and boys was an integral feature of Florentine culture in the sixteenth century.

Cellini himself was convicted of homosexual sodomy with a boy named Domenico in Florence in 1523 and fined 12 bags of flour. He was prosecuted but absolved of charges of heterosexual sodomy in France. In Florence, Cellini was supported by his appreciative patron Duke Cosimo I de'Medici. Cosimo's first commission was for a large bronze Perseus holding Medusa's severed head. This magnificent nude figure in the Piazza della Signoria is a gay icon for its depiction of a beautiful young man.

Perseus

Cellini's subsequent works, including the marble statues of Ganymede and the Eagle, Narcissus, and Apollo and Hyacinth are particularly appealing to men who love boys. In Ganymede and the Eagle, the young Trojan boy lovingly ruffles the neck feathers of his seducer, while in Apollo and Hyacinth, the mature Apollo ruffles the tousled curls of an expectantly receptive Hyacinth, on his knees at the god's feet.

The homoerotic spirit that nourished Cellini's art was soon to be crushed in Florence. In response to the Protestant Reformation, the Roman Catholic Church at the Council of Trent (1545-1563) adopted policies designed to make the Church even more austere than the Protestants. It also embarked on a campaign to crush heresy. It established the Index of Prohibited Books and it proscribed carnality in art. In 1559, Pope Paul IV ordered draperies painted on the nudes in Michelangelo's Last Judgment. The Council's decrees were enthusiastically enforced through the sadistic power of the Inquisition.

In this context, in 1557, when his apprentice Fernando di Giovanni di Montepulciano accused Cellini of having sodomised him many times, the penalty was a hefty fifty golden scudi fine, and four years of prison, remitted to four years of house arrest thanks to the intercession of Duke Cosimo.

During his years of house arrest, Cellini attempted to rehabilitate his reputation. Not only did he devote himself to religious art (including a deeply religious marble crucifix), but he also took minor holy orders and fathered a son in 1560 by his servant Piera, whom he married in 1563.

Most importantly, however, during his period of house arrest, Cellini began his celebrated Vita. In this autobiography, the artist recounts his acquaintanceships with princes and popes and his great achievements as sculptor and goldsmith, while disavowing, with wounded innocence, his reputation as a pederast. He implies that he is a ladies' man, but cannot resist bragging that once he took his apprentice Diego in drag to a party of artists and their whores. The boy was voted the most beautiful prostitute in Florence, which nearly caused a riot when one of the girls groped Diego and discovered the truth of his sex.

Although the Vita attempts to present an appearance of orthodox morality and fails to mention Cellini's gay affairs or his convictions for sodomy, it nevertheless repays interest for its homosexual content. Especially significant in this context is Chapter 71 of Book Two, which may be read as a defense of sodomy, that "noble practice" indulged in by "the greatest emperors and the greatest kings of the world." Cellini says that he lacks the knowledge or means to meddle in the "noble practice," but he nevertheless commends it as "a marvelous matter." Whether these passages can be taken seriously or in jest is a matter of debate; certainly the context in which he was writing—under house arrest for having had sex with a young man—is an important consideration in interpreting the autobiography.

1846 – (Francis Davis) Frank Millet was an American painter, sculptor, and writer who died in the sinking of the RMS Titanic on April 15, 1912.

Francis Davis Millet was born in Mattapoisett, Massachusetts. At age sixteen, Millet entered the Massachusetts regiment, first as a drummer boy and then a surgical assistant (helping his father, a surgeon) in the American Civil War. He repeatedly pointed to his experience working for his father as giving him an appreciation for the vivid blood red that he repeatedly used in his early paintings. He graduated from Harvard with a Master of Arts degree. He worked as a reporter and editor for the Boston Courier and then as a correspondent for the Advertiser at the Philadelphia Centennial Exposition.

Millet had a studio in Rome in the early 1870s, and Venice in the mid-1870s, where he lived with Charles Warren Stoddard, a well-known American travel journalist who, evidence indicates, had an active sexual interest in men. Historian Jonathan Ned Katz presents letters from Millet to Stoddard that suggest they had a romantic and intimate affair while living a bohemian life together.

A well-regarded American Academic Classicist, Millet was close friends with Augustus Saint-Gaudens and Mark Twain, both of whom were present at his 1879 marriage to Elizabeth Merrill in Paris, France; Twain was his best man. He was also well acquainted with the impressionist artist John Singer Sargent, who often used Millet's daughter Kate as a model, as well as the esteemed Huxley family.

Millet became a member of the Society of American Artists in 1880, and in 1885 was elected as a member of the National Academy of Design, New York and as Vice-Chairman of the Fine Arts Committee. He was made a trustee of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and sat on the advisory committee of the National Gallery of Art. He was decorations director for the World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago in 1893, where he is credited with having invented the first form of spray paint. His career included work with a number of worlds' fairs, including Vienna, Chicago, Paris, and Tokyo, where he made contributions as a juror, administrator, mural painter/decorator, or adviser.

Millet lived with  Archibald Butt, who called him "my artist friend who lives with me", in a large mansion at 2000 G Street NW. They were known for throwing spartan but large parties that were attended by members of Congress, justices of the Supreme Court, and President Taft himself. There is some speculation that Butt and Millet were lovers.

Historian Richard Davenport-Hines wrote in 2012: "The enduring partnership of Butt and Millet was an early case of "Don't ask, don't tell". Washington insiders tried not to focus to closely on the men's relationship, but they recognized their mutual affection, and they were together in death as in life."

On April 10, 1912, Millet boarded the RMS Titanic at Cherbourg, France, bound for New York City. He was traveling with long-time friend Archibald Butt. He was last seen helping women and children into lifeboats. His body was recovered after the sinking by the cable boat Mackay-Bennett and returned to East Bridgewater, Massachusetts, where he was buried in Central Cemetery.

In 1913, the Butt-Millet Memorial Fountain was erected in Washington, D.C., in memory of Millet and his long-time friend and lover Archibald Butt, with whom he shared a home, and who also died on the Titanic.

1871 – Hanns Heinz Ewers (d.1943) was a German writer famous for his short stories and novels that expanded the parameters of the horror genre. He began his literary career as a poet when he published "A Book of Fables", satirical verses, in 1901. In addition to writing, he was an actor and created a vaudeville theater the same year he made his literary debut. He also founded another acting company that toured Central and Eastern Europe, but he abandoned the theater due to censorship.

It was his stories about the occult and horror that made his name. His first novel "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" was published in 1910 and his masterpiece, "Alarune", in 1911. The two novels were part of a trilogy based on the autobiographical character of Frank Braun, who also appears in the 1921 novel "Vampyr".

Ewers was deeply attracted to the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche, and the Nietzschean philosophy of the "intellectuals" of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, as well as their nationalism (to say nothing of their mysticism) attracted him to the Nazi Party, though he never joined it. He did not agree with the party's anti-Semitism and this plus his homosexual tendencies soon ended his popularity with the party management.Though he wrote a novel based on the life of Nazi martyr Horst Wessel, allegedly at the bequest of Adolf Hitler, his works were banned by the Nazis in 1934.

A penniless Hanns Heinz Ewers died from tuberculosis on June 12, 1943 in Berlin. He was 72 years old.

1939 – Terrence McNally (d.2020) was an American playwright who has received four Tony Awards, an Emmy, two Guggenheim Fellowships, a Rockefeller Grant, the Lucille Lortel Award, the Hull-Warriner Award, and a citation from the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

After graduation, McNally moved to Mexico to focus on his writing, completing a one-act play which he submitted to the Actors Studio in New York for production. While the play was turned down by the acting school, the Studio was impressed with the script, and McNally was invited to serve as the Studio's stage manager so that he could gain practical knowledge of theater. In his early years in New York, he was a protégé and lover of the noted playwright Edward Albee.

Although several early comedies such as Next in 1969 and 1975's The Ritz, set in a gay bathhouse, won McNally critical praise, it was not until later in his career that he would become truly successful with works such as his Off-Broadway play Frankie and Johnny in the Clair de Lune and its screen adaptation with stars Al Pacino and Michelle Pfeiffer.

In 1990, McNally won an Emmy Award for Best Writing in a Miniseries or Special for Andre's Mother, a drama about a woman trying to cope with her son's death from AIDS. A year later, he returned to the stage with another AIDS-related play, Lips Together, Teeth Apart, a study of the irrational fears many people harbor towards homosexuals and people who have AIDS.

With Kiss of the Spider Woman (based on the novel by Manuel Puig) in 1992, McNally returned to the musical stage, collaborating on a script which explores the complex relationship between two men caged together in a Latin American prison.

Another of McNally's other plays is 1994's Love! Valour! Compassion!, with Lane and John Glover, which examines the relationships of eight gay men; it, too, was made into a popular movie.

In 1997, McNally stirred up a storm of controversy with Corpus Christi, a modern day retelling of the story of Jesus' birth, ministry, and death in which both he and his disciples are portrayed as homosexual. In fact, the play was initially canceled because of death threats from extremist religious groups against the board members of the Manhattan Theatre Club which was to produce the play. However, several other playwrights such as Tony Kushner threatened to withdraw their plays if Corpus Christi was not produced, and the board finally relented. When the play opened, the theatre was besieged by almost 2,000 protesters, furious at what they considered blasphemy.

On January 19, 2008, Robert Forsyth, Anglican bishop of South Sydney condemned Corpus Christi for depicting Judas seducing Jesus: "It is deliberately, not innocently, offensive and they're obviously having a laugh about it." The play also showed Jesus administrating a marriage between two male apostles.

In a January 2003 interview, McNally addressed critics who said he had "added" two gay characters to his Broadway adaptation of the film The Full Monty: "If Neil Simon had written the script, they wouldn't have said that. I get it for being gay, for proselytising. It's so annoying, all that bullshit."

McNally was partnered to Thomas Kirdahy following a civil union ceremony in Vermont in 2003, and they subsequently married in Washington, D.C. on April 6, 2010. McNally was one of the first victims of COVID-19 and died from complications on March 24 2020.

1948 – Walter Lee Williams is a former professor of anthropology, history, and gender studies at the University of Southern California. He is one of the pioneers in the field of Queer studies, with a long background in human rights activism. In 2013, after his retirement, he was arrested and imprisoned for five years on the charge of "illicit conduct in foreign places."

As a teenager in Atlanta in the 1960s, Williams was inspired by Martin Luther King to get involved in the civil rights movement. In 1978 he became a gay rights activist, protesting against Anita Bryant’s Save Our Children campaign.

Williams earned an undergraduate degree in History and Anthropology from Georgia State University in 1970, and continued to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill where he earned a Master's in History in 1972, and a Ph.D. in History and Anthropology, in 1974. His doctoral thesis was Black American Attitudes Toward Africa: The Missionary Movement, 1877—1900, and would form the basis of his first book.

In 1979, while Williams was an assistant professor at the University of Cincinnati, he and Gregory Sprague founded the Committee on Lesbian and Gay History, an affiliate of the American Historical Association.

In his fourth book, The Spirit and the Flesh: Sexual Diversity in American Indian Culture, in 1986, Williams came out as gay. This book was the first complete study of the berdache, androgynous and gender-variant people among the American Indians. The book won the 1987 Gay Book of the Year Award from the American Library Association, the 1986 Ruth Benedict Award from the Society of Lesbian and Gay Anthropologists, and the Award for Outstanding Scholarship from the American Foundation for Gender and Genital Medicine and Science presented at the 1987 World Congress for Sexology.

He has published ten books and taught American Indian Studies. He has also been recognized for his work with the gay and lesbian community. An ethnographer, Williams has also traveled throughout North America from Alaska to Yucatan to study Native American tribes. His other areas of expertise include cultures of Southeast Asia and the South Pacific, based on his years of field research in Indonesia, Thailand, Malaysia, Cambodia, the Philippines and Polynesia.

In 1994-1995, Williams, with Jim Kepner, oversaw the merger of the International Gay and Lesbian Archives and the ONE, Inc. library holdings to form the ONE National Gay & Lesbian Archives at USC, the largest repository of LGBT materials in the world.

On March 24, 2006, Williams was awarded the Gandhi, King, Ikeda Award from Morehouse College, for his work during the civil rights and peace movements and in support of LGBT rights.

Williams taught anthropology, gender studies and history at the University of Southern California until his retirement in 2011. He lived in Mexico on a retirement visa from 2011 to 2013, where he continued his earlier research among the Mayan Indians.

On April 30, 2013, a federal arrest warrant was issued for Williams in the United States District Court for the Central District of California for sexual exploitation of children, travel with intent to engage in illicit sexual conduct, and engaging in illicit sexual conduct in foreign places. Williams was accused of engaging in sexual acts with teenage boys in the Philippines via webcam.

On June 17, 2013, he was placed on the FBI Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list. He was arrested in Mexico one day after he was put on the FBI Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list and was extradited to Los Angeles, California. The FBI, with reasonable suspicion, searched Williams's computer, finding unclothed photographs of teenage boys. In 2014, he pleaded guilty to illicit sexual contact with boys aged 14 to 16 in the Philippines and was sentenced to five years in prison.

1952 – David Ho, HIV-AIDS researcher, was born on this date; a Taiwan-born American AIDS researcher famous for pioneering the use of protease inhibitors in treating HIV-infected patients with his team. Ho devised the method of treating HIV with "cocktails". He theorized that combining the powerful protease inhibitor drugs with other HIV medications would provide a more effective way to treat the disease.

Ho is married to artist Susan Kuo, with whom he has three children. Many of us owe our lives to his work.

1959 – Timothy Patrick Murphy (d.1988) was an American actor, perhaps best known for his role as "Mickey Trotter" on the popular CBS prime time soap opera Dallas during the 1982-83 season.

Murphy started his acting career as an adolescent in several television commercials and from there he went on to act in the 1978 miniseries Centennial. Other than his role in Dallas, he spent more than a year playing a young con-man on the CBS daytime soap drama Search for Tomorrow, and also had a regular role on the short-lived 1984 ABC prime-time drama Glitter. In addition to this, he appeared in episodes of Hotel, The Love Boat and Hunter.

He appeared in the 1981 film Bushido Blade. One of Murphy's most substantial roles was in the 1984 feature film Sam's Son, the film biography of the life of actor Michael Landon, in which he played the character of Gene Orowitz (the young Landon).

Murphy contracted HIV and died of AIDS on December 6, 1988 in California, aged 29. He once stated that he'd had an affair with the allegedly bisexual actor Brad Davis, who had AIDS and committed assisted suicide in 1991

[allycatcreatethings]

The Acceptance of Adulthood

Chapter 2: New Tales

How has Finn been holding up nowadays? And how are Emmet and the gang have been after all these years? When one plotline ends, new ones begin.

[First - Next - Previous - Chapter Index] [Word Count: 3613]

*~ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ~*

The morning sun rises to greet most people, and Finn wakes up from his soft bed, yawning from staying up last night, looking exhausted in the mirror. He stretched with his arms over his shoulder, cracking a bit of his spine before standing, and sighed as he saw his bedroom still looking like a bomb had gone off, dirty laundry everywhere on the floor, and his basket packed to the brim. 

"Oh… Okay. Good to know." Finn's words fell out slower; his movement was sluggish, moaning in pain of his tired body. He closed his curtains to the harsh lighting, only letting out a bit of the sunlight as he strolled over to the bookshelf and glanced up at Rex's Figurine in his place. "Need to ask Mom for my turn…" He said, trailing off his thoughts before shaking his head.

"Good Morning, Rex. I hope you had a good rest, unlike me, per usual." Finn said as he shrugged and chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. He soon put an open book in front of Rex for privacy like a screen as he stepped gradually to his dresser drawer and changed into new, clean clothes.

Finn chose a plain white shirt and blue sweatpants with small pockets—nothing too wild for the day. He grabbed his orange jacket with one of those strange patterns on older pillowcases, but he didn't care much about his appearance. Finn wasn't planning to go outside today because it often felt like bitter medicine. Finn and his younger sister Bianca had big plans today with the Lego sets. 

After placing the book away for Rex, Finn soon left his room, smiling excitedly before waving and saying goodbye, walking, and closing his bedroom door. "See you later, Rex."

He slowly drifted down the hallway of his house and descended the wooden stairs into the basement without saying anything to his parents as they were away at work for the day.

The Lego world has changed over the years.

The Systar System and Apocalypseburg had come together, although the new name was still in the works. They both went to the conclusion of Syspocalypstar. Finn giggles to himself at that name.

After five years of doing this Lego world and their story, it became much more effortless to cooperate and love the new ideas that bounced around the siblings. The teamwork in maintaining the new city is impressive to watch, and we can have our adventures if and when we want. It was acceptable because Finn often did it with Emmet and his friends, just like in the good old days.

I missed the good old days. "Good Morning," Finn said, sneaking up behind his sister with a tired smile.

Bianca flinched, wiped her head to see her brother, and returned a smug but startled grin. "Ah, Finn! Next time, warn me that you're coming down. I'm finishing making the decorations; look how cute they are!" she said, beaming and proudly holding them up to her brother. 

Her craft-making skill of creating things, not just Lego, has improved significantly over the years. She could make a tiny house out of nothing but glue, cardboard, and paint and still make it beautiful. Her Lego building skills are excellent, too, but Bianca often needed something to go off of before modifying it, like a spaceship or a house. Oh, how Benny would love that.

"Man, I'm still feeling fatigued today and just woke up," Finn mumbled and yawned beside Bianca, preparing some Legos for their play.

Bianca looked concerned as she touched Finn's shoulder, making him freeze in place. "Are you sure that you had-"

"No! Well, maybe…" Finn interrupted, glancing down at the Lego bricks in his hand in shame. Bianca placed her hand over his and gave her brother a reassuring smile. "I'm a bit unsure…"

Bianca seemed skeptical and raised a brow about Finn hiding his emotions again, and she sighed, "Well, I'll prepare the play set on the floor, and you relax, alright? Also, did you eat any breakfast?" 

"Yeah." Finn lied. He wanted to start playing with his sister and ignore what his body told him to do, not wanting to sleep all day. He had been doing that for a few days now and hated it. But the food did sound good. No, he'll be alright.

"Oh… Okay?" Bianca stated, unsure of Finn's answer, yet continued getting things ready. She then brings a part of Queen's Watevra Wa'Nabi castle, and soon Finn gets Emmet out of his home and into his car, bright and early for the day. Then they began their story, Finn smiling as he narrated Emmet's actions and words with ease, and it would be a memorable evening. Finn puts Emmet into his car with a list of things and moves it along the road as something special for his friends, and he wants to get ready for it.

*~ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ~*

It's been a long time since the colossal event of Armamageddon happened a while back, and Emmet never missed his older home.

Emmet hummed as he got out of his car and inside the Unchained Coffee shop and pulled out a list of drinks with a nervous sigh. Then something said in the back of his head to get donuts for the side for a beautiful surprise for his friends. Today will be a big day. 

"Hello, I got the list all ready to go! Oh, can I also get some donuts too?" Emmet said with his usual classic smile and manner we all know as he passed the paper.

The cashier grabs the list from Emmet's hands and then calculates the price, knowing the special from his frequent visits to the Cafe.

"That would be $128." The gruff cashier stated, giving Emmet a judging glare at the random choices.

"Oh-ho, Awesome, Thanks!" Emmet expressed with a smile as he paid with cash. He walked over to the table, sat in a chair, got headphones out, placed them on his head, and picked a playlist.

The playlist was more into musicals at first, and it featured "Another Believer" by Danny Elfman. Emmet grins while he waits patiently, humming along to the song while he kicks his legs to the beat in his little world.

At least this time, the cashier didn't say much to him out loud. Too judgmental to Emmet's liking.

It had been a long time since Emmet had a vision, but he was thankful his friends and Lucy were safe now. Ever since he touched the Piece of Resistance, images of destiny or the outside world occasionally crowd his mind. They stopped only a few months ago, and Emmet wondered why that was the case. But he enjoyed the break from the call of adventure. He deserves it.

Just as the song finishes, the order is ringed up and clicked Emmet out of his musings. He thanked the cashier again and took the drinks and donuts, saying good morning to everyone who passed him until Emmet got to his car. It had become a routine of his almost every morning, even in his Brickburg days.

He fumbled to get his keys and unlocked his car door. He was positioning the treats on the passenger seat and putting on the seatbelt before patting the seat mattress.

Emmet removed his headphones and let the tunes play out loud, not bothering to play music on his car radio. He gets in the driver's seat and checks to see the mirrors, clicks his seatbelt on, nods as he uses his left turn signal and shoulder check, and drives away to the castle. 

The song on Emmet's playlist switched to "Everything is Awesome (Tween Dream Remix)" by Garfunkel & Oates with Ebam Schletter. It was familiar, and it put a more generous smile on his face. 

Emmet drove past a new place called Raptor Resort, and he looked at it with a mixed expression. After Rex disappeared, there wasn't anyone to watch the Raptors, so Emmet was able to make a place for them to stay. He didn't know why the Raptors didn't disappear but was pleased they did not. At least the Raptors had been spared from becoming nothing.

The familiar song finishes up faster than he would have wanted, but that's what a good memory is like. It's arriving for a bit and then leaving once again. 

The next tune was an interesting choice to keep on his playlist, but it was called "Song of the Night" by Kikuo. It's a cute song, but it was in a language Emmet doesn't know, but he shrugs it off. 

It also fits because the castle is in a never-ending night sky. It works because the music that plays in the background keeps the illusion alive for the habitats of the old Systar Systems, which need readjusting to Syspocalypstar. We let the people get used to the rules of both, with one having so many in place for protection, while the other even has the laws of physics barely nonexistent. 

Sadly, he had to turn off his phone with the song so the magical music didn't get disturbed and ruin the illusion, but at least Emmet waited to let the song finish. After that, he had to go through security, and Emmet greeted him with a smile. He soon parked in the parking spot and turned his car off. 

Getting out of the driver's seat, Emmet took a deep breath, taking in the fresh air. Emmet sighs as he yawns. Odd, I didn't feel sleepy earlier, so why am I feeling it now? Oh well. 

Emmet opened the passenger door and grabbed the treats off the seat, ensuring everyone got something. 

The Rainbow Shake is for Unikitty; Benny got a Galaxy Latte, while MedalBeard got a Sherbet Raspberry Punch.

Batman, Wyldstyle, and Emmet, of course, have their usual coffee, two black and Emmet with a bit of cream with 25 sugars. 

Queen Watevra Wa'Nabi's drink was a surprise because she didn't choose which drink to try next, and Mayhem was the only one who didn't respond to his text, so Emmet got her the usual Caramel Frappe.

Mayhem is probably on her job today but should be here any minute, yet there is no need to rush. Everything was there, including the doughnuts; Emmet thought of them before placing the order. The people working at Coffee Unchained picked the doughnuts randomly because Emmet overlooked specifying which ones to have; oops. They probably gave him the unwanted or needed-to-get-rid-of doughnuts, and he forgot to say how many, as there were about two dozen doughnuts in there.

As he enters the castle walls, he hears the Stars welcome him with their cute little voices and songs. Soon Emmet saw Lucy holding the door to let him inside, saw how many things he was carrying, and offered her support. 

"You know you didn't have to do all that, Silly. Thanks for-" Lucy stops, sees the doughnut box, and sighs. "-Classic Emmet."

"Morning, Lucy!" Emmet chirped as he saw everyone else had started gathering the equipment for arranging the anniversary party. 

"Alright, everyone, let's set up this party for the big day!" Emmet declared, grabbing a clipboard from a table, "There's also the drinks and some donuts available on the table near the entrance if you guys want to have it right away!"  

Emmet has now assisted with the construction of the party, keeping his cheerful smile. MetalBeard had the strength to hold up the heavy pillars (even though they could build them), while Unikitty cheered them on while each was positioned and placed the tables down with their chairs with her magic. 

Wyldstyle helped the DJ with which music to play, and Benny flew around with the decorations, placing them where he landed. Most of the decorations were space-themed, and they had mixed colours. 

The hue was as vibrant as a rainbow, but the contrasting black and yellow stood for the other partner, Batman. Queen Watevra Wa'Nabi was getting ready for the outfits while trying to encourage her husband to wear something unique for their special day.

Emmet gets distracted as he watches the other couple having a small banter and tease, reminding him of Lucy and his relationship. While not officially married yet, Emmet and Lucy are happily together.

Everything went cordially to plan, but then Emmet realized something was wrong and missing. 

"Hey, Guys?" Emmet asks and waves to get the others' attention. "Who was planning to get the party food?"

"It was Unikitty, right?" Benny said, almost finishing up the adornments as he zoomed by Emmet. 

Unikitty looked puzzled as she shook her head, "It wasn't me; I was getting the things for the cute decorations. Maybe Wyldstyle?"

Wyldstyle didn't even glimpse back at the group, exclaiming, "No, I am doing my job right now with the DJ! Emmet, you should have the list, right?"

Emmet nodded back as he grasped his clipboard as went down with each check mark, not saying any words except for a hum. Did he forget somebody? Or Maybe everything won't work out as they hoped. "Oh!" A light bulb went off his head as he rushed to his phone to call them, wishing they would pick up. He walked away to get somewhere quiet as the phone rang.

It took the person only a few seconds before they answered. "Yes? Sweet Mayhem speaking."

"Hey, Mayhem, did you forget about the food? You were supposed to do that but haven't shown up at the right time as intended for the party...." Emmet said, looking sheepish as he stepped down a hallway for privacy. "A-Also, you have a drink here waiting for you and some doughnuts; it even has your name written all over it!"

"Aww… How sweet of you!" Mayhem sounded flattered by the kind gesture before realization came into her tone. "Oh Shoot, I thought that was tomorrow!" She answered as Emmet could hear a facepalm and a tired moan. 

"While I was doing the routine check-up, something came up on my radar earlier this morning, and I had to inspect it. There haven't been any missing reports. But I hope they're alright." Mayhem emitted and explained in summary to have Emmet understand.

Emmet went silent as she said about someone going missing, his breath stifled in worry. He almost left the call and wanted to space out, but Mayhem's voice returned. "Emmet?"

"Huh? Oh, Yeah, Mayhem?" Emmet said, sounding distracted. Plans needed to change again, but he was curious about the inquiry in her tone.

"When you were in the Dryar System with Rex, how did it feel when you were between both realms of the man upstairs and our world?" She asks seriously, hearing clicks on a pin pad. 

Emmet quickly tenses up at the mention of Rex, yet why is she asking the question?

He took a deep breath before answering, "I-It felt like I couldn't move right, like when I fell into that world for the first time. Restrict is probably a suitable word to describe how it felt. I felt helpless."

"I'm so sorry to hear that…" Mayhem apologized, yet her voice trailed off.

Emmet sighed as he continued down the random hallway, looking at the new and older memories hung on castle walls. He started to space out as Mayhem sounded concerned, her words became nothing, as Emmet looked at a picture, and it glanced at him with red, slit eyes as if it was eating him alive in grief. 

No, it couldn't be. Why was the only picture of Rex staring at me, and what was wrong with Rex's eyes?

Rex. The only picture of him left. Emmet was the one to take it before Emmet knew Rex as him from the future or time whatever, but as a friend- a hero. 

[My hero.]

Emmet could've helped him, but he tried, so why is this picture mocking him for his mistake?

[It was actually out of your control; please don't play the blaming game. You are my idol.]

[OUR HERO.]

Emmet’s breathing started to pick up, and he couldn’t move; why couldn’t he move?! The edge of his vision began to blur out, and he somehow got struck by fear of his mistakes…

*~ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ~*

… h... 

… … ..-hey?"

"Hey!"

Bianca shakes Finn's shoulder to get his attention. "Finn, are you alright? You spaced out!" Bianca holds her hand to keep her brother close, and Finn shakes his head in response.

The older brother then tried to explain, yet no words came out like it was a struggle. He began to stand up, only to fumble back to the ground as his legs were too weak to hold his weight. The sister rushed over, worried sick, as she got Finn to move his body to the couch to lie and sat beside him.

"Had another episode, eh? Jeez, that's like the third one this week…" Bianca checked to see if her brother was alright to ease their panic. "Doesn't seem like you got hurt. Do you need any food or water, Finn?" She asked as Finn nodded and gave her a thumbs up.

Finn's mind felt so fuzzy, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. A few months ago, Finn developed a condition where his body gives up and makes him faint, weakening him. No one could understand why it happened or how it started, but it almost cost him his life when it transpired in the shower, causing him to blackout for three days, only to wake up in the hospital. It was horrifying, but even before that, his body had become more fatigued, and everyday tasks were becoming more burdensome without support. 

His parents thought Finn was getting lazier after he graduated from school and had nothing to do, but things got worse when he couldn't stand upright on certain days and was entirely alright at other times. It became the norm for him to collapse to the ground and need a recovery every time, but Finn despised everything as it was out of his control.

Finn's mind kept returning to the game. He looked at the LEGO playset worriedly, frowned, and groaned in frustration. Great, the story has to wait…

*~ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ~*

Emmet suddenly felt weak. Mayhem's voice completely disappeared as he lowered to the floor, dropping his phone as the photo of Rex stared at his soul, looking completely distorted now with multiple red, slit eyes with colourful swirls, more becoming 2d Animation than the Lego that Emmet understands. He couldn't move and comprehend why something was paralyzing his body, like a deer freezing in the headlights. 

What's worse, Emmet started to have a vision again and saw a young boy who wasn't like him, hugging Emmet with giant moving walls, seeing his world becoming more miniature and away from him. He tried gripping his hair, but the paralyzing feeling shot through his veins; his face suddenly forced the blank smile, and his body became stiff into a straight position. 

He watched the vision play as the girl asked the other one if they needed food or water, to which the young boy only gave a thumbs up. The girl nodded, telling him to rest as she went upstairs, leaving them both alone. 

It had been such a long time since Emmet had a vision, but something was wrong; it felt way too real to be one. Suddenly, his eyesight adjusts to the harsh lighting in the Man Upstairs realm, and he quickly finds himself in the palms of a giant, unable to move.

It took Emmet a few seconds to process where he was without panicking, but he found himself in a basement again, close to the Dryar system, but on something else the person was lying on, but he was not quite sure. 

The youthful boy looked miserable, and Emmet could assume that he needed assistance. But how to do that when your body is stuck is problematic. Emmet first tried to scream to get the boy's attention, but nothing came out, and he could only hear himself like an internal dialogue. 

How he could get to the realm without falling or fainting was a mystery, but he had to communicate somehow with the giant. At least Emmet knew what hands were from Vitruvius Ghost, with some complicated explanation dumps and needing to ask to repeat the information.  

Then Emmet had another lightbulb and the most random idea, hoping the boy didn't freak out. He attempted to move and put in all his concentration, vibrating a little. The giant didn't feel it, so Emmet kept at it, forcing himself to move until suddenly he could move his arm, which got the giant's attention. Emmet maintained movement until his entire body creaked stiffly, not wanting to lose steam.

Move! Come on, notice me! Emmet mentally screamed, maintain forcing his whole body to move.

Finn briefly snapped out of his blank stare as he felt something and quickly thought it was somehow a bug crawling in his hand, and he almost freaked out as his fingers unfurled to reveal the Lego Figurine, and the feeling stopped when Emmet froze.

What in the world? Emmet? Why are you here? Finn thought with a head tilt before Emmet turned his head toward the giant and gave him a small wave, and Finn paused in fear and confusion; his eyes widened like dinner plates as his brain was slowly processing this. WHAT IN THE???

*~ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ~*

[rrrrinmaru]

liveblog of 01 - to begin

first thoughts are that i really like the podcast-esque opening of the prologue with DPSC FM - it's giving wtnv vibes and the va does an excellent job of delivering his lines. i would actually enjoy hearing a full podcast version of the events of this game narrated through a radio station i think...

"traceback ii is about to pass the event horizon and enter the black hole" / "we are stuck in this loop, in this never ending journey" - pensive... is this related to the main storyline or is this foreshadowing about the multiple world theory?

"metaflux index" - it's fascinating that they've developed the technology to sense this metaflux index and identify problem spots in the city where wanderers are more likely to appear. they seem to be able to predict the rough locations where the wanderers will appear and likely can dispatch hunters to these areas on standby, but i wonder if they can narrow it down to the time itself?like "1400, wanderer attack down at the pizzeria", or if it's a shorter warning time, like the metaflux index spikes and it signals a wanderer attack in the next 20 minutes?

deepspace tunnel appearing leading to anomalous geomagnetic storms, which caused the wanderers to appear - i'm assuming the deepspace tunnel is something like a wormhole / space portal. does this mean the wanderers entered our planet through some portal / wormhole tearing a rift in space and time to deposit them directly on our planet (think loki and the first avengers movie when he brought the chitauri over with his spectre)? did someone create this portal or was it like some act of mother nature?

if you listen carefully during the 01 story, when tara is speaking to you, the president in the background says "but we only care about results. the ends justify the means." considering they view the wanderers as invasive aliens (zergs www), the standpoint makes sense, but it is quite funny to hear it be declared so self-righteously. does make me wonder how much you can get away with if you claim it's for the purpose of defeating the wanderers though... severe structural damage ala the avengers?

it seems that the new list of hunter graduates are released ahead of graduation and the leaders (?) of each hunting division / squad / team get to select the rookies they want to join their team - there doesn't seem to be any autonomy on the part of the graduates to indicate which team they want to join.

i do wonder why mc is the first rookie called up to receive the badge: from a gameplay perspective, it makes sense since it would be a chore to have to "sit through" other people before it reaches our turn. i don't think it's based on alphabetical order either since all the players' names are different, and it's likely that any numerical number (e.g. student number 12020) would be in order of name. from a plot perspective, are we like... hunter valedictorian???

tara being into tarot cards is so funny i won't lie. all this technological advancement and the venturing into space to see all the planets and having a wormhole tunnel appear in our planet and having to fight aliens and still bestie believes in fate. i mean so do i but it's still kinda funny wwww she's super cute though. i love her short bob.

interesting how mc uses a gun for the first mission - are they assigned guns only as beginner rookies? it's clear mc can use other weapons from the battle mechanics, so why gun - more importantly, have they invented auto aim in plot yet or does she still have to manually aim at people?

not sure if this is a gameplay thing or intentional plotwise - xavier's wounds were glowing with "metaflux" (suggests that wanderers' attacks use metaflux?) but the moment you touch him to try to wake him up, the glow disappears.

IS XAVIER COLLARED? COLLARED? COLLARED? HOW HAS NO ONE SPOKEN ABOUT THE COLLAR? WHAT THE FUCK? HE HAS A COLLAR?

"it activated its protofield" - are there any repercussions to like... just ignoring the protofield? like you see it manifest in front of you and you know a wanderer's lurking inside and you just decide no thanks and walk away? obviously you cordon off the area so the public can't wander in and stuff, but apart from that are there any... space time repercussions? like the protofield gets bigger the longer it goes ignored, or the wanderer can just dismiss the protofield and come back out to walk the earth?

protocores are crushable??????

erm very bold of xavier to just take my wrist and drag me along but ermmmmmmmm hehe hehe...... let's just say i'm agreeable.

hm i'm a bit confused. luminivores eat light - xavier's evol is light - they eat the light he produces (??) - therefore the warehouse full of luminivores is likely a trap for him. i think xavier mentions that the luminivores will respawn with the light if they don't defeat the luminivores quickly enough, meaning the luminivores consume the light and use it as refuel / to respawn with health. but when mc and xavier resonate, the combined power of the resonated light evol is "so bright" it seems to dissolve all the luminivores? does this mean it's like a speed / intensity thing? shine a bright enough /damaging enough light on the luminivores to hurt them faster than they can devour the light and it's enough to destroy them? maybe part of the hunter gear should include really, really, really high powered industry grade flashlights

protocores seem a lot weaker than i imagined... can they really be destroyed so easily? xavier crushed them in his palm and they were disintegrated by the power of the resonated light evol? regardless, protocores can be broken into protocore fragments - can they be pieced together to form a new protocore?

i do wonder - they can sense metaflux energy levels, and a high enough metaflux energy level typically means that wanderers will be appearing / have appeared in the area. is the reverse true, whereby a metaflux "explosion" (maybe in the research of metaflux energy and somehow the scientists accidentally create an explosion), will it draw wanderers to appear at that location like a beacon?

tara was about to try every method possible to contact mc, both scientific AND mystical? i would give money to see tara conduct a seance in the abandoned warehouse to try to triangulate my location. maybe pull out an ouija board. speak with any lingering spirits to figure out if i'm having a little tete-a-tete with a hot single silver-haired injured man in my area.

do teams like data analysis go into the field as well? that is so funny... imagine joining the hunter academy (?) because you've always been fascinated by metaflux and want to help develop technology / weapons to better sense and identify and hunt wanderers, and you suck it up throughout all the combat fitness and field training because you just want to be Where The Scientists Are and when you finally get assigned to data analysis you find out you still have compulsory field assignments. like i would end it all

mini drones with 360 degree eyes and infrared sensors designed to monitor wanderer activity patrol the sky - oh so we are in the Surveillance Society that all the sci-fi books predicted. got it

if jenna saved tara 14 years ago during the wanderer attack, and assuming jenna was like employed with some kind of law enforcement at the time, putting her at maybe 20-22 (at least), she should be about >= 34 years old? sexy... ok i am seeing the tara/jenna vision...

i wonder if they have flying cars....

fucking funny how rafayel just catches the fish and. lets it flop on the net pathetically for however long he talks, SUFFOCATING, before he plops it in your water container. he was really ready to just chat with you while he let his friend (fish are friends not food) die

HE JUST WALKS OFF OH MY GOD ok lilydally i see what you see in him. the bitch energy is hilarious

mc says she hasn't met zayne for over a decade and only recently met him 6 months ago for a follow-up checkup for her heart, but their families are friends and meet occasionally for meals - did they just stop meeting post wanderer attack? actually, did mc's grandma take mc in before or after the wanderer attack? if mc met zayne when she was 8 (and assuming this was pre-wanderer attack), she's at least 22 years old

not gonna lie if my ex-childhood friend turned out to be my primary care physician i might ask for someone else to be my physician... unless they were the best at their job and irreplaceable (which i assume zayne is?)

damn this office is fancy as hell... what kind of doctor's office has a whole ass couch inside? with a long table? with multiple couch cushions??

i like how low caleb's bar is. what matters is that you're alive. thank you chief.

military flights go INTO the deepspace tunnel?! by military she meant SPACE EXPLORATION? < with hindsight i now know by military, caleb is in the deepspace aviation administration. it's funny how they still call it aviation. the sky is vastly different from space, methinks........

you can find wanderers IN the deepspace tunnel? like are they floating? are they in their own spaceship of some kind? how do their bodies adapt to the change in pressure from space and on earth? if it's revealed wanderers are capable of flying spaceships too that would be so funny.... forget hand to hand combat on solid ground. let's have a laser battle in space in the deepspace portal. we'll see whose nuclear shields hold up better

caleb doesn't like cilantro... i will remember this