#cropping images into satisfying uniform little tiles

[littleeyesofpallas]

I know i tried to put these thoughts in order once already... and I think I got about as close as I ever will with that. But my idiot brain decided to go back to it and try to make a big tiled diagram to organize it all. and of course I couldn't. There just aren't enough shared edges and coherent spacing for all the right thing to be adjacent to eachother.

But so long as we're revisiting this, there was a subject I tiptoed around before, because i knew if i indulged in it it would quickly derail yhe broader subject. But since this is otherwose mostly recap, ill indulge myself a bit, if only to add a little something new to this rant.

Ichigo's manji/swastika motif is pretty firmly rooted in the buddhist side of things, as is the manji's use in the term and concept of bankai in every functional reading of the manga for what it is... but then his black sun thing, even though it's barely present, loops back around to weird escoteric n*zi bullshit that they stole from hindu and buddhist iconography, which unfortunately retroactively realigns Ichigo's motif with n*zi weirdness, even if he doesn't ever actively play into any of it... And the n*zi bullshit of course is where the sternritter uniforms came from, which again makes it uncomfortably close in proximity, even if it doesn't ever seem to make any kind of statement of any of it.

But then Yhwach is obviously a play on Yahweh which is super awkward too, although arguably it's less any kind of a direct attempt at referencing judaism and just a proxy of the christian references. The angelic theme of the sternritter tying more into christian art than jewish, as well as the obvious catholic priest frock uniform influence. Yhwach being an obvious jesus analog what with the son of god, the miracle baby thing, and the blood sacrament bestowing schrift.

in fact his name was thankfully canonically romanized, but the katakana for it is actually Yuu-ha-ba-hha[ユーハバッハ] which is a real mess on its own. That's a German Wa though, japanized as "ba" which in turn indicates an approximation of an English V, not a W. Honestly I'm a little surprised Kubo didn't just opt to call him Jehova.

But then there's vague Louis XIV stuff, which is kind of out of left field. But the LichtReich:"Light Kingdom" mixed with Uryuu's Licht von Prinz:"Prince of Light" epithets position Yhwach as a King of Light, and and the ornate sun gates tied specifically to his royal palace tie his light motif back to the sun, making him a King of the Sun, which is where the obtuse link to le Roi Soleil comes in.

And really it all ties back in to sun imagery from every angle.

And by loose proxy the overt Backbeard associations with Yhwach also being something of a black sun motif. Like Backbeard he's the leader of a western invasion force, a parallel opposition of a Japanese supernatural/occult counterpart just like in the classic yokai manga, GeGeGe no Kitaro. He loosely borrows the aesthetic of abstract darkness and menacing eyes that are at this point a fixture of manga/anime villains just in general.

But also the Soul King himself being a vaguely christlike martyr, and a buddha figure, and like buddha the source of powerful reliquary of his enshrined disembodied bodyparts, which in turn somewhat loosely loops back around to christian reliquary practice as well.

But then the limblessness also sort of ties into Daruma and the bodhidarma? Along with eyes that grant wishes, and a specific sort of thick facial hair, and a withered limbless inert meditative state...

And that one Bleach Brave Souls Spirit Society AU throws some Amaterasu into the mix, because why the hell not...

Again, I didn't really find a geometrically satisfying way to put this all together into a single coherent diagram, but maybe having some of these isolated themes all placed side by side will help intuitively illustrate what it feels like I just have to take so many more words to outline than seems necessary...

(there are upsettingly not actual good detailed looks at YHWACH's obviously eagle motif sword somehow...)

A thing that kind of confuses me —and stay with me here becauase this is going to be a bit of a leap in tangential thinking— is that bits of Ichigo already lightly reference classic super heroes: early chapter covers as well as the shinigami substitute badge itself reference Superman and the S-shield*, and in the context of Mashiro being a supersentai and kamen rider reference, Ichigo's name is likely at least partially a reference to Kamen Rider Ichigo(the retroactive distinction given the original kamen rider after the introduction of Kamen Rider Daigo.)

*and guess what oops another sun motif in superman. it's often not as central to Superman himself, but funny enough the sun thing usually factors more into parodies of Superman like Apollo or Hyperion or Sentry...

And if you're unfamiliar, the origin story of the original kamen rider is that Takeshi Hongo is abducted by SHOCKER a remnant of the n*zi's still active in Japan that experiment on him to turn him into one in a line of super soldiers against his will. The experiment is a success but he turns on his abductors with their own technology and wages a war of revenge and "Justice"(in the literal, lex talion-esque sense of the word) against the evil organization that ruined his life.

And it has since been a kind of unspoken world building rule that every kamen rider since, even as their themes settings and host of powers and villains change, is given or inherits his powers from the same source as the villains(being made by the enemy's experiments, having stolen enemy tech, being part of a race of monsters, etc...) but having his heroism defined not by the source of his powers, but by the conscious and deliberate choice and dedication to fighting evil.

So, point is... when it turns out that Ichigo is struggling with his powers coming from the enemy he's actively fighting, that he didn't choose for himself, where the ultimate moral is that so long as he can use it to protect the people he cares about, it shouldn't really matter where it comes from... When that enemy faction and Ichgio's own powers both start brushing shoulders with very overt n*zi imagery, it actually becomes weirder that Kubo didn't make said imagery more explicit.

Does that make sense?

Like, sure, if he had had the manji as a symbol strictly associated with bankai and the buddhist themes of enlightenment and dodged any sort of overt n*zi parallels that would be one thing. But to then make this whole dynamic with the Quincy and use all this imagery, but then not do something that very clearly outlines itself as

"guy with n*zi powers rejects his powers' benefactors to use them to fight n*zis; Just like in Kamen Rider!"

feels... weird? Not "wrong" per say... and not even "suspect" exactly... I don't really know how to pinpoint it. But if the Quincy as n*zis had just been a side effect of the Quincy as SHOCKER as an extension of Ichgio as Kamen Rider, then ALL this could've been much more easily swept under the rug. And we were kind of already right there, so why not?

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Flash: Zoom (Part one)

Sometimes, there’s this thing that happens and a request grows a mind of it’s own, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. This is what happened here, and the culprit is @something-tofightfor, who snatched up this image prompt and made a request before anyone else had the chance:

This one is something a little differently than I’ve done before, and with that being said, it’s quite the ride, but a fun one! Here, we see Billy as a Marine, and over a decade later, as a TBI patient. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy-- there’s a lot more to come in this one!

Image prompt 7: Billy Russo x reader

Rating: R for language; possible trigger warning in mentions of crime and mental health

Word count: 3530

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @maydayfigment @vetseras @thisisparadisemylove @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes​ @delos-destinations @luminex3 @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @tenhargreeves @witchygagirl @fific7

As always, if you’d like to be added to or removed from my tag list, just shoot me an ask or DM!

Billy smiled like he’d never seen the atrocities of war. He grinned, and he showcased perfectly straight, unnaturally white teeth. His expression always reached his eyes, dark eyelashes framing his lids and accentuating the slight upturning of the corner of each, the left and the right. His jaw, strong and angular, could cut glass. Billy Russo was so organically gorgeous, so naturally photogenic, it was frustrating. 

“People spend all of their money and years of their lives to maybe get photographed for a damn JC Penney catalog, yet here you are putting zero effort forth and looking like this.” You stopped fanning the instant Polaroid, took one more look, and rolled your eyes, offering the photograph to Billy. “Take a look, George Clooney.”

Billy smirked and plucked the photo from your fingers, giving it a quick glance before handing it back. “Imagine how much better they’d come out if you let me buy you a real camera. What’s your brand, Y/N? Nikon? Canon?” Billy turned toward you, his palms skimming down the length of your arms. “You want somethin’ digital?” 

You cocked your head at Billy. His hands had dropped to your hips. “Polaroid. Classic. I’m all about instant gratification, Russo.”

Billy laughed in a deep timbre, pulling you closer and into a lingering hug. “One day,” he spoke into your hair. “When you grow into having patience… patience waiting for me until that next time I come home… I’m buying you that camera.” His New York accent was coming through strong, and that tended to happen when Billy really believed in something. You tightened your arms that were circled around his middle and pressed your cheek to Billy’s chest, listening for his heartbeat. 

As you listened to that rhythm, your face fell and your posture deflated with your exhale. You slumped your shoulders and your arms dropped from Billy’s midsection, but you continued to linger in his arms. He always made sure to speak as if coming back was a guarantee; as if fighting on the front lines in Kandahar was just a normal trip overseas. You swallowed past a lump that had formed in your throat. You wouldn’t succumb to it in front of Billy. Not yet. 

He was attuned to your posture, however small the shift in the way you carried yourself may be. Billy was attentive— he knew things about you, little nuances, unconscious mannerisms or habits, why you hated steak fries but loved waffle fries. There was a file in his brain, one specifically dedicated to you. He cared about you, your well-being and your happiness… your life. And he was a part of it, an essential part, whether he knew it or not. When he was gone, across oceans and continents and hemispheres, he took that essential part of your life with him. 

It wasn’t lost on you that you were long past the falling head-over-heels, missing meals because your thoughts were all- consuming, dreamy-eyed and irrevocably smitten phase of what you had with Billy. You cared about him a lot, maybe more than he cared about you. The two of you had never exchanged “I love you”s; it was very rare and circumstantial the handful of times you or Billy talked about the future. And he’d made nods toward that precarious, never guaranteed place twice in just the last 10 minutes. 

Lifting your head, you looked up at him, that woozy feeling of being drunk with one look into his darkened eyes very akin to that intoxicating feeling that came with love. “I’m holding you to that, Lieutenant.” 

                                                     *****     *****

You’d snagged a job with a popular psychiatric publication, and you chalked it all up to luck. Between your blog, business cards, spending all of your free time (and money) advertising, and networking with anyone who’d pay the smallest bit of attention, your name had been mentioned to a person with serious media connections. A random, brief phone call during a leisurely shoot one afternoon in the park resulted in a request for a viewing of your portfolio. Deemed “supremely impressive”, you were hired for a very specific field job.

That was how you ended up at Sacred Saints Hospital, deep in the heart of New York City.

New York was home, yet you’d been away for a good amount of time, traveling to build up your portfolio. The health facility you were to feature in the job you’d be hired for was a well-known facility. Sacred Saints was expansive, offering physical health services—surgery and recovery, intensive care, extensive stay— as well as mental health services and rehabilitation. Your goal for the piece was to photograph a host of mental health-centered techniques and options while still presenting patients as “normal” human beings, human beings that were not untouchable and should not be stigmatized. 

The challenge was going to be finding a balance between clear, clinical photos and those of therapy at work versus the personal aspect of mental health care. Whatever got written wasn’t up to you, but one of your niches was getting shots of moments that captured emotion: someone throwing their head back in laughter, a person staring blankly, eyes full with tears of grief. You could only hope those shots would provoke receptive emotions in their viewers. Photography was deeply personal work when allowed to be. It was also a matter of legality in many situations, and this was one of them. 

You needed clearance. The publication had kicked things off by securing permissions from the hospital-- you’d been issued a temporary badge for security issues, identification and such, and being cleared to enter the wards. The rest of what was required was consent from patients being photographed. The latter was much trickier given certain mental disabilities and the quick unpredictability that came with some personality disorders and brain injuries, but it was necessary, no exception. Day 1 was mostly dedicated to obtaining patient consent. 

You treaded lightly. These people were still mothers, sons, sisters, uncles, still human… still people. They had the right of integrity, and you weren’t there to take that from them; you were there to bring awareness to the public, to remind everyone on the outside that the people inside of this facility were no different than those that read the magazine… that humanity is something every person deserves and should be given. 

You were satisfied with your work for the afternoon, which had been surprisingly productive. A small stack of patient consent forms had been signed, and if you could get one to two more, you could start with your favorite part of the job-- the actual photography-- the next day. 

Not merely content but happy, you walked along the tile floor of the main corridor with your camera hanging around your neck. The glint of artificial light reflecting off something shiny grabbed your attention; it was a badge on a policeman’s uniform, just above his left chest pocket. You felt a sudden surge of adrenaline. Another deputy appeared from the threshold of what appeared to be the same room and your footsteps quickened, your shoulders and head held higher as you approached them. As far as you’d seen, there were no other rooms guarded by any sort of law enforcement official on the ward. Your mouth was dry in anticipation; you knew you had to get into that room, to do all you could to coerce the patient to be photographed. It was blatantly obvious they had something no one else at Sacred Saints did, and that something needed to be captured on film. With a professional nod and a smile, you greeted the policemen, showing them your temporary badge of secured access and offering a short summary of what your goal was. 

“I did notice you’re the only two officials on the ward,” you added, coming toward the end of your hopefully successful allowed entry of the room to your right. You’d only gotten one quick glance through the square-paned window set in the patient’s door and the only thing you could make out was dark hair, cropped close to the skull. 

One of the deputies, a short and stocky male with a no-nonsense expression, eyed you with one raised brow. “We ain’t here for fun, lady. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several counts of murder for starters. This ain’t the circus… though the asshole looks like a sideshow freak.” He elbowed his partner in a jovial manner, the two of them snickering.

You narrowed your eyes at both officials, a total lack of any sort of amusement apparent on your face. You were seriously doubting this level of holding guard was necessary, as if these two clowns were serving a purpose standing outside of this person’s room dehumanizing him to a stranger. 

“I understand he’s a felon, officer, but the two of you seem like competent individuals.” Taking a long stride to peek more closely into the patient’s room, the taller of the guards stepped in front of you. Holding up your hand, you continued to speak. “It seems he’s restrained to the bed, his arms and legs are strapped like he’s in a straight-jacket. What harm can he possibly do in such a position?” 

The steeled look you’d been given by the cop attempting to block you from entering softened marginally as you stated the obvious. The patient couldn’t move from the bed, convicted felon or not. He was utterly powerless.

“You ain’t gonna get nothin’, lady,” the first man you’d encountered piped up. “He claims he got no clue why he’s in here, don’t remember, nothin’.” This policeman’s thick Brooklyn accent gave you some sort of uneasy deja vu, but you couldn’t put together the pieces, what it was a reminder of. 

“I just want to ask if I can take his picture. No coercion, a simple yes or no question. It won’t take longer than five minutes, if that long, and you can see the entire interaction if you open those blinds.” There were windows the length of the room on either side, though the view was obstructed by cheap, plastic blinds, drawn so no outside view was available.

Both officers looked extremely bored, ready for you to get out of their hair and scamper away in defeat. You weren’t giving in, and you stood even with them, brows raised just a fraction in anticipation. The cops shared an exasperated glance, and the one standing in your way moved to the side. “We can see all we need through the door, ma’am.” 

Of course you can, you thought to yourself bitterly. This man doesn’t have the freedom to move anything more than his head.

“You’re wastin’ your time even askin’.” You turned your head to look blankly to the cop from Brooklyn, his increasingly stupid, know-it-all commentary really starting to irk you. 

“It’s my time to waste, officer.” You managed to plaster a forced smile on your face, taking another step toward the door. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.” You spoke to the less obnoxious deputy only. Your hand already on the doorknob, you stepped inside the room within half a second, closing the door with a soft click behind you.

                                                   *****       *****

He hated being strapped to this goddamn bed. He hated that his goddamn face hurt. He hated that he couldn’t fucking sleep because of those fucking dreams, and he hated every goddamn thing about this fucking place. The cops guarding his room twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week; the nurses who tiptoed around his room, terrified; that stupid bitch of a doctor who wanted him to finger-paint like he was in kindergarten; that woman who was always at the foot of his bed, just standing there and staring with a self-righteous smirk of contempt and satisfaction. All of it was a living hell, but he hated nothing more than to be strapped to this goddamn bed.

He could hear voices outside his room; the useless cops, no doubt, and also the voice of a female. Everything was muted, words muffled; he couldn't hear actual words, but he could hear sound and tone. Who was the woman this time? Was it Dr. Dumont? The mystery woman who watched him sleep? A nurse, perhaps? Whoever it was, Billy didn’t want to be bothered or provoked… but maybe whoever it was would unstrap him. He could ask Dr. Dumont, or scare a nurse into asking for him. God, he wanted to walk, he wanted to go to the fucking gym, he wanted to look outside. Anything but these same four, drab walls, the smells and sights and sounds of Sacred Saints hospital.

With a click of his door opening, in walked a woman he’d not seen before. Who is this? Billy was in thought immediately, but the question he’d asked himself  didn’t unnerve him that much anymore. People were always in and out; some repeat offenders, some he’d never seen before and would probably never see again, if he had any luck in his new joke of a life. But the one person that should have been there, that was never there, was Frank-- his best friend, his brother, the only family he’d ever had. Where is Frank? 

Nobody ever answered him. He just continued to wonder, to ask, to hope. Desperately, he attempted to push the question from his mind, peering at the woman who had just entered his room. At least she ain’t a repeat offender. 

He’d never seen her before, and through his suspicion and wariness, he didn’t fail to notice that that she was extremely attractive. In another life, he’d stride over to her, get her number, and her legs would be wrapped around him that same night. She’d be writing beneath him, screaming his name. In another life, Billy, he thought bitterly. In another life.

                                                   *****        *****

There was already a small pit of sympathy that had settled deep down in your chest. This man had obviously done some terrible things, but who knew what had been haunting his mind then, what was haunting it now. There were no excuses that needed to be made for him, but to be talked about and ridiculed by men of the law that stood just outside his door… that would be dehumanizing for anyone. 

As you opened the door cautiously, stepping inside in the same fashion, you kept a shadow of a smile on your face and somehow kept it from faltering. Not because he was confined, strapped to his bed— you'd seen that through that small excuse of a window paned with plastic in his door— but because there wasn’t a man looking at you as you’d expected; it was a phantom.

A stark white, generic plastic mask was pulled down over his face, and all you could see that reminded you that this was indeed a human being were his short spikes of black hair. And as you got closer, you felt your heart quicken at the stark contrast of inky black and blinding white between eyes and mask. 

You kept your wits about you, but couldn’t help but think how badly you wanted those cops to be wrong, how badly you wanted and needed a photo of this man— how this was what you felt deep in your soul that you were trying to convey. This opportunity was fated; nothing this perfect happened by chance.

Just as you spoke a hello, a loud rapping at the door interrupted your pending introduction and in walked an older woman, wearing scrubs, clogs on her feet that squeaked over the flooring with each step. She held a small paper medicine cup in one hand, a drink of water in the other. She set both down on a bedside table. 

“Time to get you out of this.” She reached out and roughly tugged at the restraints, a deafening sound of the pulling back of more Velcro than you’d ever seen in your lifetime. The man in the bed pushed himself up, still not saying a word as he was given medication. “The Tylenol you requested.” With a turning of his head, the man lifted his mask just enough for a quick swallowing of the pills, still revealing nothing. As he turned back to face you, he rolled his neck to the right, then the left. You briefly wondered what the mask meant to the patient as the nurse took his trash. Nodding at you briskly, she quickly left the room, leaving the two of you alone. 

The stranger in front of you was tall, the length of the bed he lay in, and rail thin— skeletal, even. There was nothing imposing about him, no danger or peril in the air. From the little you’d seen, you couldn’t imagine this man as being dangerous at all, much less a felon, a murderer. But he was quiet— so quiet. Not one utterance, one word, one sound since you’d entered the room. You wondered if this was a tactic, a technique, or a result of his TBI. 

Greeting him again, you got down to business by introducing yourself, explaining why you were there. “I’m Y/N, and I’m a photographer. I was assigned to take photographs for a periodical, and wanted to ask if you’d mind if I took a few pictures.” You spoke in a professional manner, kept your voice amicable, and spoke at a volume just shy of what you considered “normal”. You felt the need to keep the patient placated, at ease, and you wanted the cops to hear nothing you said.

“I have a release form, I’d just need your name and signature, and if you choose, your photo won’t have to be captioned and your name never mentioned. I only need the information for your release. Nothing more.” You gestured to the clipboard you held, the thin stack of release forms secured there, and tried not to look as hopeful as you felt. 

This could be it— the photo, the one that would give you more exposure, and more importantly, the one that would evoke emotion and draw readers in. The humanity and recognition for these patients that you were initially working to capture could very well be debunked by this one photo of a man who was desperately trying to shroud his humanness. Then again, the obvious contrast could be striking. That, however, was ultimately left up to the writer.

Your attention was captured as the man in the bed slowly tilted his head to the side, regarding you through the cut-out eye holes of the plastic mask. The color of his eyes were jarring, almost black, and they bored into you with a type of intensity you’d never encountered before. Your pulse quickened and you could feel the pounding of your heart against your chest. He’s convicted of multiple felonies, including several murders for starters. You remembered the policeman with the Brooklyn accent, his warning, and just as you felt a cold, creeping fear crawling up your spine, you remembered the rest of what had been said: This ain’t the circus, even though the asshole looks like a circus freak.  Your fear twisted into determination, and you didn’t shy away from his stare; in fact, your posture shifted as you stood up straighter, never looking away from this masked man. 

“You got a pen?” The voice was muffled by the barrier of his mask, the tone was deep and rough from disuse. He also had somewhat of a Brooklyn accent and his voice sounded vaguely familiar… you rationalized that you didn’t know this person, and perhaps the voice just reminded you of that arrogant prick of a cop you’d had the pleasure of meeting just outside. In response to his question, however, your triumph skyrocketed. You knew your emphatic nod was eager. 

“Yes, right here.” You calmly took the few steps to his bedside, keeping in mind to not ambush a TBI patient with sudden movement. Holding out the clipboard, you referenced points of the release to be filled in with the pen he’d asked for. “All I need is your name, printed here, today’s date, and your signature here. This second box can be checked, stating you do not want to be identified as the subject of this photo at any time.” 

He took the pen and clipboard and you began to toy with your camera, adjusting the focus, the drive mode, and the aperture. Your fingers were quick, working deftly, and you peeked once through the viewfinder for verification. In the silence of the room, you heard the faint sound of pen scratching over paper, and then, the clipboard was raised, pen laid on top. Holding back a beaming smile was difficult, but you managed as you were given back the clipboard, this time with a signed release. 

“Thank you, Mr—“ You glanced down at the information he’d given you, and your heart seized in your chest. William Russo. It was there in clear print, block letters you recognized from your past, a signature so familiar you’d know it  anywhere... the certain curving of the R and perfect circle of the O. Your stomach lurched and a wave of nausea washed over you, and then, your voice was stolen and replaced with his own as he finished for you. 

“Russo.”

[calcinators-blog]

Two Irons (Part 10.)

Conversation had not been tempted after you left. The General swiftly recognized you knew more than you should which kept him from engaging you, though sheer, bitter resolve.

You noticed his appraisal of the situation inside distinct creases of worry, banding across his forehead. You witnessed when you briefly fell inside of his determined pace, only to fall out as he pushed ahead. There was worry in how he managed to remain at minimum, a half-step ahead as you marched after him through the maze of passageways, riddling the multiplex of the base that sprawled out in all directions.

You saw the same worry manifest in fidgeting, readjusting the length of his tailored sleeves. Dignified and subtle, but still there. Autopilot. The muscles do what the brain says, and his said “worry.”

From what you could gather by the young General’s speeches, transmit like clockwork to bolster morale, was that he had no shortage of confidence in himself. There might not have been a creator, a God perched over all matter, but there was modus operandi of equal divinity. There was logic, science, reason. The methods that the General strictly operated inside had no room for accommodation of vocabulary like “close enough” or “almost.”

Considering programing was his authority, he must have been not only deeply surprised, but also monumentally devastated by one of his own defecting. The entire military of the Order was ultimately built and sustained by his M.O. The traitor had become a blight of failure. Humiliation from FN-2187 had created a dent in his otherwise gleaming legacy. The training regime, distilled from ideas that had long ago hatched within the Imperial Academy, was supposed to be flawless...

So, how did FN-2187 resist? How did he free himself?

You watched the back of the General’s head. He was more than a few steps ahead but impossible to lose in a crowd. You shared a collective conscious of similar thought.

Maybe that’s the way the universe works. Maybe we all return to where we come from.

And then it was strange, foreign to recall the fields of red dwarf poppies. As a child, running free and barefoot through the sun-warmed earth to now, in adulthood, contained by a sheath of sterility and coldness about the sharp, unforgiving architecture you lived in. The smell of sanitizer and steel left much to be desired after the indulgence of the crisp, fresh fragrance of soil after rainfall.

Playing tag and chasing your friends one day– being hunted the next.

Each time the General’s boot lifted from off the polished tile beneath, you imagined bursting and blooming of the poppies, as if he was leading you over lush earthen floor of your childhood— of your home planet. Each flower wilted before you could catch up, as if to remind you of how reality had fused with the surreal.

You imagined further, the General as he padded numbly through files on his holopad, wondering how the results and data had lied to him. How he must have searched, eyes blood-shot, smoking cigarette after cigarette, reduced to nothing but forced to carry on. You imaged how when you cropped up, the tension had a new direction to move towards instead of uselessly and cyclically inside. You imaged how quickly you were caught in between two people, desperate for answers they believed you had or could fetch, when you clutched onto nothing but what? Recycled air?

In spite of them, you had to survive. Ahead of you, the back of the General filled your gaze still, likely bound to parallel thoughts. Who would outsmart the other?

For immunity, you had to fulfill your promise to the Commander. The General, however, needed simply to expose your role and if that happened, then what? You had no illusions it would leave FN-2199 and the Lieutenant Colonel to become your replacement— or worse.

And Kylo Ren—

A shiver for the name you avoided.

—has the nerve to say that nothing’s changed. Of course it’s changed. It’s a new game entirely. The only thing that’s stayed the same are the stakes.

Maybe it was the visual of poppies, maybe it was the whiff and desperation and denial in his sleeve-adjustments for the umpteenth time— they were impeccably tailored, where’s your pokerface— but you had happened across an interesting idea.

What if, somehow, you could both be satisfied? 

Through flashes of neon and blinking lights, though the call and response of instructions, coming and going, back and fourth. The weight of your boots echoed as they hit the deck plates; the walk was drowned in droids chirping, control panels humming, and orders over comm. systems. The heavy gaberwool greatcoat, slung over his shoulders, intermittently brushed against you, in stride. Moving far beyond the possibility of having the Commander eavesdrop, finding something related to comfort, he led through hallways choked with engineers and stormroopers, mechs and uniforms. The sea bent around him, like a jagged rock, guiding wave after wave.

All the while, you held onto your idea, letting it develop into something irresistible.

He eventually stopped on an abandoned catwalk, slighted by an imposing viewport in the heart of what appeared to be, from the sudden lack of bodies, an unused observation platform. The single transparent wall was leaning just so that it appeared to invite all of space inside the deck. Cropped were the snow-capped peaks of foothills and undisturbed foliage growing in desperately straight lines. Instead you were surrounded by the profound blackness of the universe. Remarkably similar to the Finalizer, you felt so much less grounded by the view. Littered with countless specks of light. You stood in silent awe of the stillness and divinity. The cosmic blanket painted a black web across your face.

If you ever had another moment all to yourself again, you’d come back here. It beckoned you in with promises to cleanse you of all of your worries, to make you feel normal again, as it did for some holy few seconds.

You breathed it in, trying to hold it inside your lungs, but on your dreaded exhale, you were brought back into the moment. With an exaggerated scoff, finding nothing inspirational about the heavens overhead, the General held little patience for additional pleasantries, “When I was informed that petulant chi— the Commander— had ripped apart another of my soldiers, I was concerned. Imagine my surprise, upon seeking him out, to find you once again.”

Oh, switch off already.

You pressed for a smile, but it became twisted and crooked and guilty through execution. You were already prepared to stow away the awkwardness of your last encounter with the Commander, keeping the foray beneath you. It lapped tenderly around your ankles, stirring and moving unpredictably in the General’s dry commentary.

He continued, demanding of you, “Now that you’ve made it obnoxiously apparent that my concern is warranted, what are you up to?”

A credit for your thoughts, General... This “you” that you speak of... You can’t possibly mean Disaster Ren and myself. But, if you do, thanks for lumping me with that.

The thread, connecting you to your deal with the General, had rapidly been fraying. You hadn’t yet figured out how to spin the conversation successfully so that both you and the General could profit, to help each other get what you wanted. If you could somehow make your allegiance to the Commander redundant, you would.

But, if I just tell the General what Kylo Ren is up to, he’ll have to deal with Matt. Won’t he?

Decidedly, it was tempting.

I can’t take much more of this as it is. But, the cons? Kylo Ren could kill me. He’ll have no obligation to keep me alive. Forfeiting my silence is forfeiting my life.

The way that the General looked to you made you consider how long you had been quiet, how much time between his question and your reply. “I don’t know anything,” you assured him, lying through your teeth and hoping it was enough— Commander, who?

The General rubbed his temples, as if to ward off a fast approaching headache.

He sighed with terrible impatience before refocusing. “Listen here,” bordering a snarl, each following word sounding clipped. The tip of his pointer finger prodded before your chest, though, didn’t quite touch, “What Ren has done, as per usual, has me in an uncomfortable position. If you have any loyalty for the First Order, you will not mollycoddle him.”

You saw through his veil of assertion. Not that he didn’t mean what he had said, only that because you were standing versus being strapped to an interrogation table, did you understand you were still within a comfortable position to negotiate.

After coming face-to-face with evil incarnate, the General was a proverbial walk in the park. It was easier to underestimate him, bearing new cynical edges as you had, than to regard him in the same context as the Commander’s voracious presence.

And what if my loyalty is tired?

The hallucination of the corridor was brought fourth again, highlighting Matt’s emphatic stillness and his backwards calmness that found him after the storm. Reliving the moment, how he turned the passageway into a slaughterhouse, made your stomach churn. You thought of him touching you and being filled with rage in return.

Evil was heavy. The First Order was heavy.

Whatever goodness FN-2187 had left behind needed to stay. Your home planet needed goodness too. It was starved; that’s why it was dying a prolonged death.

“Do you think the Commander would hesitate to protect you in this way, as you are to him now? Do you think if he had to use you, he wouldn’t take that chance?” The General’s voice had changed.

I... never thought about that.

He had changed your acuity in the way conversation had turned. Kylo Ren was not driven by compassion; he would leave you stranded if he had the chance. If you could abandon him before he could abandon you, it was a blessing in disguise to be standing where you were.

That was the tipping point.

You spoke softly. You would have looked stern if you were not so terrified of what words that escaped you, “I want what he promised me. You have to give me that, at least, before I say anything.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I need your word.”

You would test to see if your charisma could successfully parley with the General. You had conditions that needed to be satisfied.

“Help me and I’ll help you,” the phrase met your lips. It was just a string of words, warm in your throat as the sounds of speech were produced, but it felt a lot like hatching an escape plan. “It’s very simple, General.”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped. “You will tell me without making demands of me...” 

You looked down as he refused, then back to meet his stare, “So, then what? Poke me to death.”

His gloved fingertip still hovered weakly before your chest, at the top of your sternum. He pulled his hand back, straightening the length of his sleeve as he set his arm back as his side.

Re-calculating, he managed, “What is it that you need so badly that you’ll freely abandon all reason to extort?”

Well, General, not to sound greedy but there’s a lot of things that I want.

Maybe it would be sensible to request something else, but at your core, you desired greater than seeing yourself, and Nines especially with his prophesied death, out of harm’s way. It was no more complicated than that.

“I want to know you can keep someone safe– and by safe, I mean away from Kylo Ren. Really far away.”

You felt it unnecessary to give reason why Nines was important, allowing the General to speculate as he desired. If he had remembered how he had been the trooper that held the lightsaber was irrelevant, but you wondered still.

A puckish grin commandeered the face of the man before you, impossible to hide, “So, you’ll tell me what he’s been doing, in great secrecy, if I can secure a life?”

The smile, chilling, but promising. As if he was saying— oh, that’s easy.

And just to be safe, you followed up for the sake of the comment he had made at the table, “Lieutenant Colonel Zack, too.”

He looked questioningly at you, “The Lieutenant Colonel’s safety is already secured. It is superfluous to ask me for further consideration... Unless...”

You would leave out the details concerning Zack as well. It was impossible for you to know the General’s existing paranoia concerning the Lieutenant Colonel.

“We make a deal first. I’m not saying anything else unless I know Kylo Ren won’t be a problem.” His name off your tongue tasted rough, metallic, sharing likeness of a mouth full of blood. The fever was still there.

The General's hands pressed together, with the ends at his lips, making steeple of his fingers. His mouth set in a hard line. As if he were engaged in a game, his careful deliberation was apparent on sight as the totalizator in his mind ran through scenarios. He understood that he had to make some kind of a deal with you. The Commander would give him nothing, and the pressure to adhere and surpass a “certain mysterious individual’s expectation” was tremendous.

“So, tell me,” there was no containing his dire interest as he extended a gloved hand, “What is he doing?”

Your allegiance shifted in a touch that didn’t burn you– that couldn't. And the moment was so brief that it might have not taken place at all.

Although you had done it for yourself, and your those you cared for, there was no mistaking the look all over his face; an eclipse of his satisfaction had blotted out all previous symptoms of worry. With matched alacrity, his hand firmly closed around yours, leaving you to steal a quick, albeit brave look towards his vaporous gaze. Suggested being freshly dosed with a strong euphoriant, the eyes you found caged discs, sliding about the apex, growing in conquest. Now he had won. He would savor it.

Everything that you knew came out, “He’s surveying your troopers, making sure that none have the intention of going rouge.”

You could hardly believe the sound of your voice, the words out loud at last.

Here we go.

The General had soured but boasted, turning his chin up, “My soldiers are exceptionally trained, programmed from birth. We know there isn’t anyone else deluded with non-conformity-“

“-But that’s exactly why he doesn’t believe it.” To his displeasure, you cut him short. “That’s why he doubts you. Your process, your methods. FN-2187 had surprised you, had he not? If can happen again, it will happen again.”

As if it were derogatory, the idea that his troopers could be so massively flawed, the General was quick to interject. “Impossible. If the psytech assigned to the FN squadron had found any signs of nonconformity we would have severed them from our operations. They were too valuable.”

A single psytech. They took the Captain’s elite squadron and assigned the entire group to one professional, who couldn’t tell that FN-2187 was having some kind of episode, that lead him to free the Resistance fighter and steal a TIE fighter?

You held your face as still as you could.

“How many psytechs are enlisted?”

“I hardly see why that matters. We have enough.”

“Well, it’s just that...” You awkwardly navigated though his suspicion, knowing it was fortified by trip mines, “If we have so many...”

“It’s the most effective method, one overseer to monitor an entire group. The evaluations can be easily duplicated and everyone receives the same treatment.”

Yes, and that’s worked out so marvelously for you so far.

For your own delayed curiosity, understanding how you could wedge yourself inside restricted information, you prodded, “Do you remember their name?”

The General wasn’t about to budge. “No, Detective. I suddenly can’t recall.”

“Maybe if you remember, I have more to tell you.”

After eyeing you for some time, he released it, “You tell me first, and then I’ll tell you.”

Hardball always. Why is this so tough? General, I practically surrendered my life to you just now and you want to act as if I’m not walking target practice.

“Kylo Ren has been closely monitoring the FN squadron and everyone they interact with.“

Hux mumbled, to himself, “This is nothing new to me...” You looked to him; he waved his hand in the air towards you, motioning you to keep talking, “And?”

“And—” you stopped prematurely. Outside, the frigid environment had crested the exterior pane with a layer of frost; briefly amazing that such a small detail had become grossly magnified by your sliding attention.

You forced yourself to continue, “And he’s been spying, in my sector. No one knows that he’s there, but me.”

Speaking on top of you, somehow his pallor intensifying, “I beg your pardon? Spying? You don’t think we would know if he...”

Mimicking his interruption, you spoke on top of him, “General. He dresses in civilian clothes.” Feeding the moment with a long pause, greatly testing the man before you, you finally heaved it out, “He’s Matt.”

And it was stumbled in the air, moving about like a TIE-fighter freshly blasted into the sky.

“... Matt?” The General was nothing short of dumbfounded. Awareness jumped to his face with all the urgency of a droid on low battery, all comically delayed and choppy– movements you had already anticipated as he worked through them.

“Matt the radar technician, sir. Matt is Kylo Ren.”

Hux was shell-shocked, painted by the unfathomable. It was juvenile and ridiculous. As man who could have boasted about the depth in his inner thesaurus, he was entirely lost for appropriate words. He bent in the middle, folding over himself to curse and roar with profanity that almost made you flush with embarrassment, had it not been such a gratifying moment.

You allowed the scene he was making to play out before interjecting, “You mean, you had no idea?”

Eyes like daggers, “What do you think? We have casual kriffing Fridays?”

You waited until after he became composed, or semi-composed. It had taken a disastrous chunk of time for the red to drain out of his face. After discussing more details, the terms and conditions, had he began to loose the facetious tone.

He was taking you seriously. He even gave up a piece of information you had considered he had forgotten that you asked for, “His name is Dr. Thos. He’s the head of his department in his ward. Why you care matters little to me, but that’s name you wanted, isn’t it?”

The General ensured you that he would secure FN-2199, the Lieutenant Colonel, and yourself. With very short, snipped phrases, he told you he would now look after the rest of the matter. He also included at the end, like an afterthought, that he would utilize the information you gave him with caution. He then advised you return to your duties, giving you some idea of the time; you were still inside your work cycle.

Going your separate ways, you hurried off with a stunted sense of direction, trying to commit the course to the area to memory. As you vacated, unimposing signage informed you to remember the name,  as you longed to stay and look out, to enjoy artificial sanctuary for just a moment longer. Just long enough, at least, to drain a bit of the celestial peace from the abundance of the vista and sequester it within for when you would need it again. There was no pretending to be calm, not if you still felt the need to look over your shoulders as you moved.

Although you had returned to your office with the intention of being productive, you struggled to parse what was required; entering this in that, shifting this to there. Menial and impossible. Work required a level of focus that wasn’t in you, not after being leeched by previous difficulties. So you left, but not without a small stack of files in hand, to prove to yourself and whoever was watching that the effort was indeed there.

While flimsiplast was an uncommon media to work with, every so often it would come by your desk and so you had initially thought nothing of it. Not until you began your walk back to your personal quarters. It was then when you looked over what you were holding, finding one section in particular that had been bound together. The unusual use of scarlet ink demanded it was different. Urgent.

You leafed through the hair-thin acrylic sheets— this doesn’t look like it was meant for my office— finding an impersonal account of the Commander’s slaughter from Captian Phasma, where the word “witness” had been circled with a stylus. Attached as well: a copy of the stormtrooper’s profile, a medcenter coronary report describing an itemized list of injury... An estimation by the financial department to replace the lights and smooth over the rest of the damage.

You were glazed. Queasy. Everything that had just happened to you, the reminder of it all in your hands. A cruel joke? No, although it felt like that at first. It was someone telling you they knew, understood what you had seen.

Witness.

Halfheartedly, you sent the file to the bottom of the stack. You couldn’t read the profile, risking the bias of familiarity. You didn’t want to feel like you knew them. It was easier if it was impersonal. And it wasn’t easy at all. For every insignificant thought you forced yourself to queue, there were countless others behind it to chase you back. Just look. I don’t want to. You have to. But why? Again.

He did it because he could. I could never do that.

You thought of the burning in your palms and how it made you want to hurt him. In revenge. Is that all? What if you had manged to hurt him, would you have stopped? it made you sick to think about your intention evolving into something you would be helpless to have power over.

I’m not like him.

Perhaps you understood what he had done better than you once thought. Perhaps he had resisted, as you were now. Incremental submission to the pull of dark, the suffocating hate. Changing over time, adapting, for what? For survival? Was that what it was?

You shut down the thought again, your throat taut as you swallowed. Fortunately, the walk was over and you could redirect your attention to other matters, like the immediate disposal of the flimsi.

Starkiller borrowing the likeness of snow-globe, you gravitated towards the narrow viewport once inside your room. A gentle flurry of glittering white desperately tried to repair the tensile apparatus of peace among the base. In the distance, a furious comet sliced through the starlight, rushing and running beyond the tree line. You appreciated the sight, an unspoken apology from the planet to you, before feeling along the wall for the control panel.

The room flickered into life before you, flushed by spotlights in the bulkhead above. An alabaster trooper helmet, discarded on the foot of your bed, stared at you.

How did you get here?

It was eerily and perfectly facing you, watching, as if waiting for you. And that’s when you felt it: paranoia on sight, on recognition. Adrenaline fused with you again once, looping through your blood.

The stormtrooper from the hallway, the one who had been murdered— what if was theirs? If the Commander had somehow gotten word of your new deal with the General, this would be the exact kind of psychological and theatrical display you would expect. Death is a production. Death is a choice. The symbolic mask was dizzying enough without the sickening afterthought that he was near.

Looking from the bed, around the rest of the room, you saw it.

A body.

They, in full stormtrooper armor, were confined to a chair. Head tilted back, limply. Awkwardly positioned. Entirely too motionless.

Not only that, but without the helmet, the identity of the body was instantly recognizable. You would never forget that face, even from the obscured profile over the back of the chair. The hair color alone was enough.

Stars. No.

You dropped the files. They flew out in every direction under you, the sound of rustling filling the air. Birds, charging into flight, the sound of hundreds of wings fanning a fire around you. Falling, they curled at your feet, bowing, strewn around you like freshly fallen snow.

You drew back, as if standing on the ledge of a cold-aired chasm.

Nines.