#doctor who is no longer in its prime

[lets-try-some-writing]

Got Angst for Prime.

AU: Whatever AU you want to use.

Concept: Ratchet's Optics never really recovered from his Synth-En incident. He sees everything in a tint of green. And his optics show it. So, every time OP looks Ratchet in the optics, he sees the blue with a tinge of green surrounding it, and he gets hit with how bad he failed Ratchet.

(I've pretty much always HC that Ratchet had some lasting aftereffects of his tests. This one's my favorite though.)

I can't help it.

I am going to make this shippy.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

Optimus had always loved Ratchet's optics. If you asked him, he would deny the way he often found himself staring wistfully off in the doctor's direction. It was all professional concern for a mech who simply didn't know when he needed to rest and recover. If he shared a glance with Ratchet for a little longer than normal, it was simply because he cared. That was what he told others. Whether or not they believe him was up for debate.

But beneath that veil of half truths created for both his and Ratchet's safety, Optimus's affections ran deep.

Even before the war, he'd loved those optics. Ratchet's optics were aged even when Orion was young. And yet they held a life to them that was undeniable. Passion incapable of being smothered by the harsh words of others and the seemingly impossible trial that was going up a caste. Ratchet bore every burden and political scheme with blunt determination, his optics always shining brightly as a hint of a smirk played on his features. Optimus loved that mischievous grin and the telltale glint that Ratchet got in his optics when he had some wild plan cooked up. Even though he was unable to bring himself to utter the compliments that formed in the back of his mind, he loved the Doctor's optics more than he cared to admit. So much energy contained within a compact frame. It was beautiful in its own unique way.

Once the war began and Orion Pax became Optimus Prime, he did not think about Ratchet's optics as much. At least until they began to lose the shine that he had been so familiar with in his youth.

War was uncaring and it held no love for those trapped within its web. Optimus endured it with the patience of the old gods of Cybertron long since left to rot. Whispers of ancient beings far beyond his comprehension clouded his sense of time. Tears he wept for the fallen turned his gaze away from those around him and instead to the rivers of energon that flowed around his pedes. He endured it as the last of a long line of divines given frame. But Ratchet was mortal, and as the war dragged on, those optics that Optimus adored grew darker. Passion changed to red hot fury so bright and dangerous that Ratchet's gaze felt almost like venom at times.

Stokes of fire leapt through Ratchet's blazing optics, and more than once Optimus feared he'd be scorched by that boiling inferno of loss and grief. And yet despite being the one to lead their war ever onward, Optimus never felt Ratchet's anger directed at him. When those optics gazed up at him, Optimus felt only age old affection and care. Fire was tamed and turned to comforting warmth. Steady servos ran along his arms and a soothing voice lulled Optimus into temporary serenity on long cycles where he simply had no more tears to shed or reason to give to their Primus forsaken war. All the while those optics met his own and Optimus was at peace.

Vorns passed by. Optimus continued in his eternal march toward victory and Ratchet continued to change. Rage turned into bitterness, the molten hot wrath of war transforming into a deep set sorrow that left creases in the living metal that surrounded Ratchet's optics. Grim darkness pooled in that once passionate gaze. Those optics flickered in wrath long fostered each time Megatron made himself known. Those optics flared with every injury that the team brought with them back to base once they arrived on Earth. Those optics that Optimus loved so dearly dimmed and quieted, their light softening in the dark of the medical bay on long nights when Ratchet thought no one would hear his quiet sobs.

Optimus always loved Ratchet's optics.

He should have treated him better.

"Does it still hurt?" Optimus asked as he ran his digits over the weld on Ratchet's side.

"Of course it does. The weld has only been in place for a month and the wound ran deep." Ratchet replied clinically, not looking up from his work even as Optimus risked wrapped his arms around the doctor's waist. Others could see, but in the moment, he didn't care.

"I'm sorry." He murmured into the crook of Ratchet's neck as he leaned down, desperate to feel the comforting warmth of Ratchet's frame against his. The Doctor stilled, his field extending and wrapping around Optimus is concern.

"Optimus, please, we've talked about this. I was out of line in saying that. You are not at fault." Ratchet broke from Optimus's embrace and turned around. Optimus wanted to look away in shame as those optics looked up at him, still as lovely as ever, but tinted a haunting green.

A sign of Optimus's greatest failure.

"I am at fault, and you know that as well as I do. Let us not delude ourselves." Optimus reached out to cup Ratchet's face. The Doctor leaned into his touch obligingly. Any open affection was a risk, but there was something unspoken that needed to be addressed before time ran out and the world drew them apart yet again.

"You have always done what you think is right. I can't blame you for hoping and trying to save a mech who was once a friend." Ratchet's optics cycled and the green became more prominent within them in response to his emotions. Optimus frowned and shifted so caress the metal around the Doctors optics. His scarred digits traced creases and small scuffs, lingering around the corners of Ratchet's optics as Optimus observed the green hue in sorrow.

"You shouldn't have felt pressured to do this to yourself. The risks were too great. If I had only-" A digit pressed to Optimus's derma before he could continue, silencing his attempts at being self deprecating before they could truly begin.

"I made my choice. It is not your fault. Besides, the world is just a little more green for me now. That is all." Ratchet forced a smile, but Optimus could not bring himself to do the same. Ratchet's words while he was on synthetic energon were cruel... but undeniably true. How many times had Optimus had the chance to bring down Megatron only to let the warlord go? How many lives could he have saved if he had only put aside his feelings on the matter and acted?

"I can tell you are beating yourself up over it. Stop. It's over now and I'm fine." Ratchet pulled away and Optimus's servos fell. They stood quietly together for a nanoklik before Ratchet moved forward, his smaller frame pressing against Optimus's in a gentle embrace. Strong arms hooked themselves around the crooks of Optimus's torso, unwavering but gentle enough that if he wished, the Prime could pull away.

"Forgive me." Optimus murmured in the quiet of the medical bay. A gentle hum met his plea. Neither said another word as they stood in the relative dark, comforted in the presence of one another. Only the light of the nearby console lit up the area, but it was more than enough for the Prime to work with.

Green tinted optics glowed in the gloom, illuminating Optimus's face as he leaned down. Ratchet's optics closed, most likely expecting a gentle touch to the crest of his helm. Instead, Optimus leaned as close as he was able, even going so far as to angle his helm so that he could get near enough to place a ghost of a kiss over Ratchet's optics. Each closed optic received the lightest of touches, so soft that it may as well have been a gust of wind. But as Optimus pulled back and settled into the helm touch that Ratchet had likely been prepared for, the Prime finally smiled.

"Thank you for standing by my side." Ratchet stared in shock as the Prime's digits again found their place tracing around the Doctor's optics. Ratchet stood still, uncertain of how to respond until Optimus spoke again.

"I've always loved your optics, regardless of their hue." Optimus assured, earning a gentle huff from his companion.

"You sap." Ratchet whispered even as his optics glowed in all too rare joy at the show of affection. The green was still present, a permanent reminder of the costs of war. However Optimus continued to smile all the same, simply pleased to have those optics locked on him.

Yes, Optimus would admit it aloud if times permitted.

He had always loved Ratchet's optics.

[fatuismooches]

Dw hahahaha I'm still alive just dying over ( why did I chose to study a PHD 😭 ) But im on a break from school so except so a lot more brainrot from me lmao, also sorry if this is jumbly kinda just put my words out there hahaha

I know we always talk about fragile reader during the illness but what about after? Fragile reader was plauged with this illness for hundreds of years so they deffinently adapted. Like typically when walking then would shuffle their feet a lot cause it took less energy so sometime they shuffle their feet and don't even realize. They didnt have the ability to do tasks such a pouring liquids into cups so whenever they're about to pour themselves a glass of water then to do collect themselves because what if their illness comes back? What if there dreaming and they'll suddenly drop everything. All of Zandik's work is reverted. So often times segments will just find reader staring intensely at a simple task. And of course they'll go comfort reader. Whilst they wish they could do it they know how much reader wants their autonomy back after such a restrictive few centuries.

But let not ignore the segments and Prime cause they've picked up a few habits also. They've gotten used to treating reader as fragile as glass so whenever they fall or trip post illness they freak out. It would require some comfort from reader to bring them back to earth and remember that reader is no longer ill. But you KNOW that they're pulling out every healing treatment they've got. They're all evil and sadistic doctors but for you they'll be good. <4

But regarding Zandik himself... Well he was so excited to finally have cured his lover that he completely forgot about the effects you'd suffer after. So when a few segments report of you not being completely free of your curse he's immediately trying to figure out how he can help you. He decides that the best thing to do is to be there for you. It typically is unusual to see the Doctor away from his work but now it's the norm for Il Doctors to be with his lover.

- Jellofish Anon

After being sick for so long, one would think you'd be ecstatic to finally be cured, to be free of the illness that plagued your body and life so much. And well, they were right, but the happiness still came with its anxieties. Change was never an easy thing, even when it was the good type. After dealing with this for so many years, you were bound to still be nervous about doing certain things. To not have the confidence in yourself to carry out the task. You worry that you'll mess up or fail and waste your time trying to do so and just end up making more of a problem for yourself and others. Even though you know that's illogical now, it's hard to get out of a mindset you've been stuck with for so long. Of course, your inner conflict doesn't go unnoticed by your lovers, and each segment would provide their own kind of comfort based on who they are, whether gruffly or soothingly, to give you the courage to take back your life.

You can't exactly blame Dottore and the segments for being overbearing, after all, they've witnessed your weak state for numerous centuries, and they've seen you hit your lowest many times too. They can't help but worry about their darling too. It's endearing at first but you have to hold them and help them realize that was the past you, the new you is someone different thanks to them. You can be strong and safe and independent without them now, even if it sort of makes them crazy knowing the situations you put yourself in now. Still, they observe you very much even when you least expect it.

Of course, the cure is not without its drawbacks - you still have to deal with the lingering effects of your illness sometimes. Which definitely aren't as bad as before, but they still serve to remind you of your old life. But you know that regardless of what the future may bring, you'll always have Dottore by your side to ease whatever pains you have.

(Dottore post-illness would be such a cutie. It's such a rewarding feeling, to see the one he loves no longer burdened and free to pursue what they want just like he does. He would sit and listen to all the stories you have for him each day, all the exciting things you can do now, the days of pain in the past. Of course, the segments would be extremely excited to finally have a worthy assistant - you - but there's only one of you after all. Unfortunately, they have to share, and bear the painful curse of having you to themselves once nearly every two weeks.)

(I've been planning to make this a full fic for like a year...)

[swarvey]

paper rings | harvey x f!reader

summary -> Harvey gets drunk with the boys; you have a realization. warnings -> none! wc -> 3818

a/n: calm before the storm <3

ch. 6 | ch. 7 | ch. 8

paper rings masterlist

chapter seven: i think he knows -> "it's like i'm seventeen, nobody understands."

“Done!” 

Triumphantly placing the last piece of the bundle in the box, you watched happily as a blue Junimo picked it up and took it away. As you continuously brought goods to the Community Center in hopes of restoring it — per Mayor Lewis’s request — you noticed this particular Junimo seemed to have taking a liking to you, as it kept following you to random places. Not only was it mainly the one who would take your completed bundles, but once in a while, it would show up at the farm or in the mines, usually looking at you with curious eyes before disappearing. You weren’t complaining, of course. It was harmlessly adorable, and after seeing it a couple of times, you fittingly named it Blueberry. It seemed as determined to bring the building back to its prime as you were.

You could hardly believe anyone in town would shop at the Joja Mart over Pierre’s. Sure, the guy could be a bit stuck-up, but at least his goods weren’t processed to hell like Joja’s. You shivered at the thought of working for the cursed company again, not comprehending how Sam and Shane could tolerate being in that place regularly. 

Well, Sam less so, as he always seemed to figure out how to entertain himself. It seemed like Shane just liked being in a place where no one would bother him, which made you all the more confused as to why he hung around Harvey and, of all people, Elliott, who seemed to be his polar opposite. 

You sighed contently as Blueberry wound around your feet once before walking away with the bundle, proudly looking at the two rooms you had completed so far. Although the effort was taking you a bit longer than you liked, seeing the rooms steadily come together was enough for you. You chose not to question how the Community Center was repairing itself, or where the Junimos came from — you’d learned long ago that many things in the Valley were unexplainable, and you were okay with that. 

You smiled as you waved goodbye to your little blue friend, swearing you saw it wave back.

I wonder what Harvey would think of this little guy.

-

“What in the everloving fuck am I looking at right now.”

For once, Harvey completely agreed with Shane’s words. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, but whatever Elliott was holding up on his phone screen was not making an ounce of sense to him.

“It’s a visualization of my novel!” the writer exclaimed, his usually precise tone slurred due to the three empty glasses in front of him. “I decided to expand my creative mind and turn to another output. This will allow me to make full use of my thought process.”

Shane snorted, grabbing the phone out of his hands and squinting at the poorly drawn stick figures. “Dude, I don’t know how to break it to you,” he started, laughter already bubbling in his voice, “but this looks like shit .”

Harvey shook his head and smiled as Shane cackled. Elliott snatched his phone back in retaliation, visibly offended. “It’s a rough draft, it’s not meant to look polished! You agree, don’t you, my good doctor?”

“. . . It kind of looks like shit,” he admitted, his rare use of profanity slipping off his tongue easily. Harvey took a long swig of his drink, avoiding Elliott’s utterly betrayed gaze.

Meanwhile, Shane continued to crack up, holding his stomach as he doubled over. “If this is the rough draft, the real thing might just pass off as a kindergartener’s drawing. Hey, why don’t I ask Jas to give you some tips? She’s not half bad, that kid.”

“I absolutely will not — actually,” Elliott paused, cutting off his own sentence, “that may not be a terrible idea. Then, I could obtain a glimpse of how she views my work, and incorporate it into the final product!”

As Shane groaned, tuning out the rest of the other man’s rambling, Harvey felt his phone buzz, looking down to see a text from you lighting up his screen.

Y/N : hey, you at the saloon?

In the midst of his drunken haze, he allowed a lovestruck smile to stretch his lips. He didn’t even notice Shane and Elliott momentarily pausing their bickering to glance at him, both of them raising their brows. 

Harvey : Am I that predictable?

Y/N : like clockwork. drunk off your ass yet?

Harvey : I never get drunk off my ass, Y/N.

Y/N : really? 

should i send the video?

Harvey : DO NOT!!

I asked you to delete it years ago. :(

Y/N : LOL you’re totally drunk

i’ll ask emily to take some funny photos

i’ve been meaning to update your contact pic anyway

Harvey : You are impossible.

Harvey felt like a teenager again, hiding his grin and tinted cheeks behind his hand. 

Harvey : Are you at home?

Y/N : yeah, i’m beat, probably gonna head to bed

still down for the festival on tuesday?

His posture straightened as he suddenly remembered the invitation he’d given you to the Stardew Valley Fair. After checking the date and seeing that it was Saturday, he realized he had less than a week to mentally prepare himself for the event. 

“Shit,” he swore quietly, once again not noticing the appalled look on Elliott’s face at his swear. Shane snickered, no doubt finding it amusing to see the doctor so intoxicated — it was largely his fault, after all, since he’d been determined to partake in as many rounds as humanely possible.

Harvey : Of course! Why don’t I meet you at the clinic?

I’ll have to close up in the morning, so you can come in and wait for me.

Y/N : wow, inviting me over to your clinic? 

does this mean i get a free check-up? 

A free . . . check-up?

Harvey could only imagine this was what short-circuiting felt like.

Apparently, alcohol caused his thoughts to run even more wild. Images of you propped up on his examination table and smiling at him innocently flashed through his mind, his fingers frozen and unable to type out a response.

“Talking to Y/N, I’m guessing?” Harvey quickly closed his phone at the sound of Gus’s voice, realizing Shane must have ordered yet another round of drinks for everyone. His friends looked away, though he could still make out their amused smirks. “How’s that goin’ for ya?”

Right. After his first dinner with you in town, Harvey had confessed to Gus the situation he was in, his head bowed in guilt as he lectured him about treating you properly. Despite his protectiveness over you, Gus was still supportive of his feelings, giving him as much advice as he could.

“It’s, uh, going well,” Harvey replied, thinking that was the best word to describe your relations with him as of late. “We’re just as close as we were before.”

The older man nodded, grabbing the empty glasses to stow them away. “Well, you better take care of her, son. It’s not every day people have a connection like the two of you do, and I’d hate to see either of ya get hurt.” With that, Gus worked his way over to the next table, leaving Harvey to sit with his words.

“He’s right,” Shane said, pushing over another glass to him. “You two are somethin’ else for sure. Kinda makes me sick.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Elliott countered. Upon seeing half his new drink was already gone, Harvey questioned how his speech was still comprehensible. “As I have been insisting since our dear Harvey first brought up the farmer, these two are a clear example of fate .”

“Oh, enough with that bullshit. Fate this, fate that — if fate’s real, why can’t it get me a new fuckin’ job, huh? That place makes me feel like I’m losing whatever brain cells I have left.”

Buzz!

“What does she want, anyway?” Shane asked, attempting to read Harvey’s screen. He quickly picked up his phone, looking away sheepishly as he hid your conversation. His friend huffed an unamused laugh, shrugging. “This is some damn middle school shit,” he grumbled, and Elliott laughed into his glass as he sipped his drink.

Y/N : relax harvs, i can practically see you having a heart attack through the screen

it was a joke btw, i’ll make sure to properly pay and schedule an appointment whenever i need one :salute:

Great. Now you thought he was being stingy. 

Harvey : Sorry, I got distracted. You know you can come in whenever you’d like.

Y/N : i know, thanks dr. harvey 

anyways, have fun, i’m off to bed

goodnight!

Harvey : Goodnight, Y/N.

When Harvey awoke the next morning, blinking past the dull ache in his head, he saw an unread text from you sent an hour before. His eyes widened as he opened it, realizing Emily must have listened to your request and snuck a picture of him when he wasn’t paying attention.

Of course, she had caught him while he was texting you, his face and ears burning red and his hidden smile completely up for show in the photo. He groaned in embarrassment, certain you would notice his expression and question him for it.

Instead, your text focused on a completely different aspect of the image.

Y/N : what the hell are those two idiots doing??

Confused, Harvey looked back at the picture and zoomed in, stifling a laugh at the sight of his two friends in the middle of a heated argument. Shane’s lips were pulled back in an aggressive snark while Elliott raised his phone to his face, his eyes lit with an honest passion.

Harvey : Lovers’ quarrel. Happens every day.

-

Memories hit you like a truck as you and your horse slowly headed towards town. You could practically smell the buttered popcorn and hear the ringing sound of festival games already filling the air. The Stardew Valley festival used to be the perfect way to end your summers as a kid, especially when your grandfather would tag along with you. He would always take your hand and smile at you warmly, sometimes even giving you a pouch of coins to spend on your own. You smiled to yourself at the thought. Although he wasn’t walking beside you anymore, you swore you could still feel his familiar energy around you.

Or maybe Emily’s starting to get to me. 

Either way, your excitement only grew at the sight of the booths and games coming together, making sure to stop by your stand and drop off the goods you brought to show off. You were sure each of the items was of top quality and glanced at the other displays to see your competition, though you already knew who you had to beat. You glared at Pierre’s abundant stand, scoffing as you made your way toward Harvey’s clinic. Surely, you would win against the overconfident store owner — you were growing your own crops, after all. 

You poked your head into the clinic, eyes brightening at the sight of your childhood friend. Harvey, too consumed in tidying up, didn’t notice you right away, continuing to rearrange some items in the cabinet and humming to himself. You were suddenly reminded of the image Emily sent you the night before, recalling how, for a split second, you’d thought Harvey looked a bit cute with his flushed cheeks and ears. He’d always gotten a bit pink when he drank, but something about that particular angle of him caught your eye. Maybe it was the fact that he was looking at his phone, no doubt in the middle of texting you? Or maybe it was the dumb smile on his face?

Not that you would ever mention any of that, though. Why would you? They were simply quick thoughts you were having, nothing more.

No, you opted to instead highlight the incredibly stupid looks on his friends’ faces, laughing when he called them lovers. Although you didn’t nearly talk to the other two men as much as he did, you could tell they were all good friends. You were glad Harvey had a circle of support around him — knowing him, he constantly had something to stress over, and you knew you couldn’t always be there for him.

You walked up behind Harvey, giving him an exasperated look when he still didn’t turn around. Half-smiling, you extended your hands toward him, slowly inching closer before poking his sides.

“ Boo! ”

“ Huh —?”

Harvey jumped as he yelped in surprise, dropping several rolls of bandages onto the floor. He bent forward and rested his hands on his knees to catch his breath, all while you died of laughter beside him.

“You know I scare easily!” he complained, standing straight to adjust his glasses. 

“Of course I know,” you replied, wiping a fake tear off your cheek. “That’s why I did it.”

“You will never stop tormenting me, will you?”

“Nope. Not ‘til I drop dead.”

“Great,” he deadpanned, shaking his head. “Were you able to finish all your farmwork this morning?”

You nodded, lips still stretched into a lingering smile. “Pet bowls filled, animals fed, and crops watered — all done.” You glanced around the room, noticing he was alone. “Where’s Maru?”

That’s an innocent question, right? Of course it was. She worked under him, after all, it only made sense to ask why she wasn’t there to help. One thought led to another in your head, and suddenly, you were thinking about the Flower Dance; about how pink Maru’s face had been while talking to Harvey; about the soft shyness covering his face, an expression you didn’t know how to read and would bet your farmland it was because he reserved it for her and her only—

“Oh, I told her to sleep in,” he replied easily, putting the bandages in their proper place. “There wasn’t much to do, so I figured I would just get it out of the way.”

Of course. Of course, he told her to sleep in, because Harvey was and always would be thoughtful, more than you’d ever understand.

“Not much to do, huh?” you repeated, and he nodded.

Without warning, you grabbed Harvey’s arm and began to drag him out of the clinic, ignoring his protests about his unfinished work. 

“You can finish when you get back, Harvey, the clinic isn’t going anywhere,” you said, anticipation filling you as Lewis had just finished looking at all the displays. “Mayor Lewis, hey!” You waved him down, and he greeted both of you with a big smile.

“It’s good to see you two.” He sighed, a wistful look taking over him. “I can’t believe how much you’ve grown up. Ah, before I forget,” he started, reaching into his pocket. “Y/N, congratulations! You won first place with a rating of a hundred.” You whooped, nearly knocking Harvey over with your excitement as you happily accepted the small bag Lewis gave you. “Here, your prize is a thousand star tokens — use them wisely!”

“A thousand? ” Harvey questioned, peering into the bag. “We used to spend the entire day getting this many tokens.”

“And now, we have a head start,” you said, an old sense of competitiveness creeping its way back into your senses. “Let’s go win some prizes!”

As the plaza began to fill with more and more people, you and Harvey fell back onto your old rhythm — while you took care of all the games requiring strength and technique, he took care of the trickier, mind-twisting ones. Your jaw remained dropped as he stared at the wheel for the seventh time in a row, a finger touching his lips as he thought.

“Green,” Harvey said, to which the man running the game scowled. 

“You sure, bud? You seem awful confident, but your luck might just run out,” he reasoned, though you could tell he was trying to trick him.

Harvey narrowed his eyes. “I’m sure.” 

You laughed giddily as the two of you walked away from the wheel with a heavy sack of tokens, Harvey flaunting a proud look on his face.

“I still don’t get it — how do you do that?” you asked, in awe at his winning streak that had remained unbroken since you first played with him. “You make us tons more compared to that slingshot game!”

He shrugged, putting his hands in his coat pockets. “I mean, after stopping by every year, I started to recognize the pattern. I suppose it’s more statistics, since there’s a much higher chance that—”

“Look who it is!” 

You felt a light punch land on your shoulder as Alex and Haley approached you, watching amusedly as Haley scolded him for hitting you.

“Geez, it wasn’t even that hard,” he mumbled, but lightened up at the sight of your pouch. “You guys won those already?”

“Honestly, it was mostly Harvey,” you admitted, nudging his arm. “Ever since we were kids, he’s always been scarily good at that wheel game. What were you saying, Harvs? Something about statistics, or something?”

No response. 

You looked at him, noticing he was suddenly spacing out and staring at the space in between the two in front of you.

“Harvey? You okay?”

“What?” he questioned, blinking. “Yes, uh, it’s just some simple math, that’s all. Nothing much to it.”

Haley huffed. “Well, can you teach this guy how to do it? ‘Cause whenever I play with him, we never seem to win anything.” Alex opened his mouth to respond, but she paid no mind, opting to walk toward the game Leah was playing instead.

“Wait up!” Just as he was about to turn, Alex looked back at you, grinning. “I’ll see you around, Y/N! Hey, if I have any leftover tokens, I’ll get you something from the prize booth, okay?”

“Deal!” 

After he ran to catch up with the blonde, you turned back to Harvey, cocking your head at the serious look that had hooded over his eyes.

“Um, you sure you’re okay?” you asked, but before you could question him further, he took your arm and led you to the prize booth, gently taking the tokens from your hand. You had never seen him look so determined before, as if he was trying to prove something.

“Here you go, ma’am,” he said, sliding them over to the lady behind the counter. “I believe this should be enough for one of everything you have.”

“One of—? Harvey, what are you doing?!”

That’s how the two of you ended up leaving the Stardew Valley Festival early, Harvey helping you carry home the copious amount of prizes you received.

“You’re sure you don’t want any of this? Come on, Harvs, you practically won all of this yourself,” you said, opening the door to your house. 

Harvey shook his head, smiling as he placed everything in a neat pile at the foot of your bed. You had never seen so many stuffed animals in your life.

“Please, I have no space for any of this in my apartment, anyway.” He looked fondly at the matching bear they’d given the two of you — although yours was obviously more worn down, the design on the new one was the exact same as its counterpart.

You shook your head, pressing the bear back into his arms. “I’ve already got mine, this one can be yours. I can’t have two of the same thing.” You definitely could. Part of you just liked the idea of matching with him.

“If you insist.” He smiled at the stuffed animal in his arms, though it quickly wiped from his face as he turned to leave. “Is that . . .?” You followed his gaze, stomach dropping at what had caught his eye.

He was staring directly at the bouquet you’d hung by your bedside the first morning you had moved in.

Fuck, fuck. He can’t know, I had no idea what those stupid flowers meant back then! You wanted to punch your past self in the jaw for her stupidity. After the Spring season had past, you’d learned the true meaning behind the bouquets Pierre sold, cursing him for not telling you back then. There was no way Harvey could know you bought it with him in mind, not when neither of you saw each other in that way.

Not when he had Maru in mind, supposedly the girl he felt he was constantly gravitating towards.

“Oh, that?” you laughed awkwardly, a cold sweat brewing on your neck. “I bought it for myself!”

He blinked, and for a second, you thought you saw relief flash in his eyes. “Ah, for . . . yourself?”

“Hey, don’t judge,” you responded, crossing your arms. “I just thought they looked nice, so I decided to dry the whole thing to make it last. That’s all.”

“But you do know what a bouquet symbolizes, correct?”

“I do, in fact, know what they mean, Dr. Judgey,” you shot back, feigning offense. “What happened to being a supportive friend?”

“Alright, enough with the dramatism,” he laughed lightly, adjusting his hold on the bear. “I had fun today, Y/N. Um . . . thank you, for spending time with me.”

The tension left your shoulders as you smiled at him. “It’s the least I can do, especially after you got me all this stuff.” You held the door open for him as he left. “Same time next year?” you asked playfully. He managed to salute in agreement with one of his hands, peeking around the stuffed animal’s body to make sure he wasn’t running into anything. 

You spent the rest of the night staring at the flowers on the wall, wondering why your heart clenched whenever you thought back to Harvey seeing them. There was no way he could figure it out, right? As smart as he was, you highly doubted he would think the bouquet was meant for him. You used to visibly gag in front of him whenever people mentioned the idea of you dating him.

So, why were you now having the same reaction at the thought of him dating someone else?

You groaned in frustration into your pillow, lifting your head to look at the pestering flowers once more. You knew it wasn’t fair — it wasn’t fair you were just starting to like him when you’d quite literally had years to do so, and it especially wasn’t fair that he was, in fact, in love with someone else. You couldn’t blame him, though, of course you couldn’t. Maru was smart, pretty, and kind; she lined up with Harvey perfectly.

And yet, there was a part of you screaming there was no one more fitting for him than you. It didn’t matter, though. None of your thoughts mattered if Harvey didn’t see you in that light, if all he saw when he looked at you was his childhood friend who he was able to reconnect with.

You closed your eyes.

It never hurt to pretend, though.

[suethesocks]

Egyptian Ben 10 AU!!

A long while ago i got the idea of making an au where ben is an Egyptian Orthodox Christian (the idea entirely spawned off a joke my friend made about a hypothetical ben like that having to explain his fasting to rook)

At first the idea was gonna be that his parents are Egyptian immigrants and he was born and raised in Bellwood, but last second before finishing his character bio i decided to flip everything over and make this AU *in* Egypt

The timeline i have in mind for these bios are all at around right after the highbreed arc, but also before season 3 straight up starts. I feel like thats a good jumping-on point

In terms of aliens mostly i just get to explore what the aliens would look like as teenagers since uaf and ov didnt really do much with that (they didnt even bother giving wildmutt a tail) and have fun trying to make his flannel into outfits for the aliens. Hoever if i get any cool ideas for entirely revamping aliens id definitely do it

I tried to make fourarms darker skinned not sure if its showing. Id have done the same with stinkfly but the uniforms colorscheme wouldve crashed. I wanted to try giving wildmutt black fur because this ben has darker hair but nothing really quite worked hsjhds wildmutts obnoxious orange is just too iconic

Prep school is mostly an american thing, here the closest equivalent for the early 2000s would be an international school. Also i changed lawyer to doctor as thats the sort of "go-to" job that makes a lot of money, lawyers in egypt arent usually as fortunate

Here she doesnt wear her uniform this is just how she dresses. I tried to fit the cat motif like OS but i couldnt really think of something that fit. If i were drawing UAF or OV gwen in my own take id have given her cat imagery but i think for Jwanas personality it actually makes more sense for her to be boring and lose the cat

Jwanas also a lot more angsty about her magic (and it is magic) since her parents and basically entire surrounding community both Muslim and Christian are very against magic and consider it sin. Shes also a lot more angsty in general because like the bio says shes under alot of stress and is very jealous of ben, which is conflicting because ben is also her best friend and she doesnt wanna feel this sort of animosity to him. She also doesnt realize how much he looks up to her as someone who is a lot more intelligent and disciplined than he'll ever be (for example the concept of jwana having the spark isnt here, ben just can never learn magic because he doesnt have what it takes)

Kevin much like ben is more or less the same as he is in the show. With jwana i went with my own take but Ben and Kevin are more of, culminations of what i think are their best parts in the series and then just fleshing that out more

I felt like the outfit he has in earth-prime works best with a few touchups. Prime kevin has consistently had that rugged guy-who-lives-in-a-garage look so despite being the most basic outfit it works the best with a few touchups

I did change his anatomy, i wanted to make him look like a mutant freak. I gave him this sort of frankenstine's monster posture (a small reference to him being an amalgamation in os). He also has these stretch marks all over his body since his material absorption doesnt just create a coat around him but also alters his skin itself (so these markings arent there for os-era kevin) He also has a lot of weird bumps over his body

This kevin is 100% mutant no alien shenanigans. If i do aggregor i'll uhhh think of something else for him to be. His transition to the lightside is a lot longer and for the majority of the highbreed arc hes not even there hes more of an occasional ally if he feels like helping

Was his dad a plumber or not im not sure tbh, im leaning towards not though

Next post is gonna be a bunch of villains for funsies

[bulbabutt]

not to still be all up in arms about the transformers religion but holy fuck, robots having religion is nothing new, they can have theology! that makes sense! robots who are fully sentient seeking out a reason for their souls is totally fine! im not saying the transformers shouldnt believe in primus or the all spark or believe in the 13 primes that whole thing works, it just bothers me that the canon of their religion is canon to the story. why is their planet LITERALLY their god. why is their religion based in literal history. i shouldnt even call it their religion, its just their canonical history. thats the problem! it comes from the perspective of writers who see religious doctrine as real history!

it also sucks for the nature of the robot as a concept! instead of being machines so advanced they are sentient, they are now fully formed beings granted souls by their god. thats no longer synthetic life conceptually, is it? that is a higher being creating life out of nothing. the concept of robots comes from slave labour, machines created by man to further their own advancements. machines created by organic life, not machines granted life by an ethereal being. they were created as commentary on capitalism. it asks the question "if this life is created synthetically, but it forms sentient thought, it is alive?". most other stories containing robots do this. think about overwatch's omnics, mass effects geth, star trek characters like data and the doctor, we the audience see them as alive but people in their worlds have to debate about it. that is the point of science fiction, to have theological discussions about robots.

what disappoints me about transformers isnt the changing of the lore, but the fact they couldnt conceive of anything more interesting to say about robots. i was watching g1 thinking "i cant wait to see future adaptations take this concept and flesh it out", and watching these adaptations strip the nature of the robot entirely from the lore in place of some all powerful god really sucks! imagine if their theology was the same, but their history was not. imagine robots who believe their planet is their god in spite of not actually knowing that to be true. wouldnt that be conceptually more interesting? wouldnt that say something?

instead of a unicron who is just a cosmic horror, a rogue planet who hungers for other worlds to sustain itself, unicron now represents all evil in the universe. hes a being of pure evil, existing as the equal and opposite to the canonically good god primus, the planet of cybertron. that ruins the concept to me. theyre taking the fun of science fiction out of it, turning it into basic "all good in the universe comes from god". it takes the choice of being good or evil out of it. giving them literal souls takes them choosing to say they have souls out of it. it takes the choice of valuing biological life away from the robots themselves to say that it is simply evil to not.

maybe some adaptation i havent gotten to yet will say something else, but as it stands right now im just so disappointed that this is the route it took.

[rataccatak]

Analysis of how KaySD draws Sergey Razumovsky

Or: trying to justify a thirstpost about the world's most terrible man

Sergey's gone through a number of artists through the years, and I gotta say, KaySD's rendition has captured my heart. In fact, it was a screenshot of Kay's Sergey that first got me into Major Grom. While Phob's is the official art style that we associate with the comics, Kay's style, I believe, better serves Sergey's character in the current PD run.

Genre-wise, PD returns to being a big-action, ensemble comic, which--compared to The Game's tight conflict and human drama focus--deliberately implements Kay's more traditionally comic-book style to this effect. The first arc (nine volumes in total) of PD are all Kay; though the current issues are being outsourced to a number of different artists now, Kay's style--with its roots in distinctly American superhero comics, such as DC--was what they wanted to prime audience's expectations with. After Time of the Raven, there was a big push for Bubble to adhere their stories to big names like Marvel, and with that came the desire to usher in things like a multiverse, space and supernatural elements, and franchise crossovers. Plague Doctor was one of their latest installments of that new "culture," and they had to match their aesthetics appropriately.

Okay, but that brings me back to the brainrot part of this post, which is HOT DAMN KAY'S SERGEY LOOKS SICK???

The whole idea of Plague Doctor is that, for like seven years or something, Sergey has been declared dead or missing or otherwise MIA. Nobody, both in-universe and irl, knows where he is or what the fuck he's up to. You crack open issue 1, encounter a guy in sunglasses and a hat who is painfully obviously Sergey, but you get to the last page and

(I will say this is probably the most unflattering frame of him. His chin makes him look like such a chad derogatory)

BAM. HOMEBOY IS ROCKING A NEW HAIRCUT, HE'S WEARING ANOTHER STUPID PURPLE SUIT, HE'S RIPPED, AND HE HAS BLUE EYES.

This isn't the soft, sort of angelically beautiful Sergey we're used to seeing from Phobs. It's radically different, an entirely different character almost, which was the intent.

His new look is more practical, both tactically and socially. His hair is cut, so people won't recognize him as easily. It won't get in his face or get grabbed during fights, and combined with his more muscled build, this is a Sergey who's taking things more seriously this time around. Gone is the flamboyant cape and swishing fiery locks; the plague doctor campaign is no longer a passion, but a duty. And he's ready to enter the thunderdome and get his hands dirty and god damn it, he will die trying.

Kay does take care to preserve the core elements of Phob's Sergey, while making a hard left into traditional masc territory. He's still unrealistically attractive, in that distinctly soft and youthful way. He's more noticeably fit but still maintains a slim, smooth appearance.

But on top of that, he adds this charm and charisma to him that is distinctly boyish (as in, young and mischievous, a pretty face that's up to no good). It makes his persona as a young, leftist radical more believable; he looks like a student revolutionaire, angry and passionate about all issues topical and trending.

He does look more obviously aged. Guy is now in his mid(?) thirties, and the past five years probably amounted to like three lifetimes of stress, so it certainly makes sense. Compared to how Kay drew The Game Sergey, his face is more defined with sharper lines, muscularity, and wrinkles. The short hair also ages him somewhat, making him look less angelic and more like... a regular dude.

And of course, there's the overnight peach fuzz.

The more mature, aged look helps him actually look like a person who's lived a life as loaded and fucked up as Sergey's. He's a guy whose parents died, grew up in foster care, became a CEO that rocketed to stardom in five years, committed the most elaborate fucked up terrorist campaign ever, and then immediately fell from fame to the deepest coldest cell in St Petersburg (and this is all just the OG Major Grom run). He's not Phob's Sergey (or Rag, whoever it was in The Game)--a blameless childish pretty boy who's detached from his crimes. Kay does a good job in making Sergey have this subtle undertone of... unsettled, unhinged, what have you. I don't know how much of this is hindsight bias, but he looks like a guy with a fucked up secret. You wouldn't think twice if you were seeing him in a grocery store or something but I can imagine later recognizing his mugshot on the news and thinking wow now that i think about it, he really does look like a serial killer.

And let's talk about his fashion. For all the features of Sergey's flamboyant costumes in Phob's renditions, Kay dresses him quite casually, and it works, ironically, to make him look deceptively plain in the way all extremely rich people dress (think of the $10k white t-shirts and sunglasses get-up all rich men wear). He dresses like his current social stature: a new-money sod who has gotten used to his wealth enough that he doesn't have to show off with his clothes anymore. Of course, this could also be turned on its head and instead, be an indication of Sergey's original, cheap clothes that he habited from his childhood. Certainly, the ironic rightwing graphic tees Kay puts him in edge towards that point of view, only now they're colored by Sergey's sense of political humor. I doubt a "god guns government" shirt is selling for $500 at some luxury tailor shop.

This is what I love about Kay's Sergey. In making him look more human, we get to orient him more organically into our own world. He looks like a thirty year old loser who studied CS in college and now commits cyber terrorism and doesn't know how to cook. He looks like a young adult leftist who is terminally online and has 500+ open tabs on Marxist theory. He looks like a guy who became too rich too young, who was the world's angle and then its devil in the span of like two years, and is now disillusioned with it all, who wears $5 graphic tees and stays up all night looking behind his back and tries desperately to find something that actually matters.

Once Sergey looks more believable, he becomes more understandable. And the more we understand him, the more the story has the potential to make him intrigue and surprise and reach us in multiple, unexpected ways.

[randomatthingy]

An observation on The Stranger

Something that I find interesting about The Stranger is its ties to the Circus and Fairs because, in times before the internet, they were a prime feeder of The Stranger. Picture this, you are living in a small town of 20 or so people in the middle of nowhere. You know everyone, everyone knows you. If something happens, you know about it instantly. You can have a perfect interaction with everyone.

Then they come. A group of people from elsewhere. They come, set up shop in Mr. Whatnot's abandoned field, and then open the gates. Strange colors fill your eyes, unknown scents fill your nose, and you partake in activities that you could have never thought of. All the while, the outsiders that opened the circus or fair do activities that should be impossible for people to do. They swallow swords, breathe fire, and their bodies contort in odd manners. They all wore masks and heavy makeup, so you can't tell their true feelings or emotions. You try and talk to them, but theirs something wrong. You don't know them well enough to have meaningful conversations, and what you can learn is but the surface of who they truly are.

Then, after the weekend, they're gone. You'd expect their big top to take down longer, but it doesn't. They're just gone Monday morning. You will probably never see them again, these outsiders, with their strange games and abilities, masks to hide their identities, and unknown personalities are gone, forever. Maybe they come again, maybe another group like them, but it's always different, a little uncanny. If one of their numbers were to come without a mask or makeup, you wouldn't recognize them, and they would have probably worn many different masks and makeup schemes throughout one night, so you couldn't even place them if you had talked to them.

And sometimes, these outsiders would disappear with someone. The blacksmith's son, or the orchard keeper's daughter. Or they give something. Maybe the old miller has a weird plant he likes to burn now, maybe the general store owner's wife now has a cough, not unlike the lion tamer had, and now the doctor has it too. You know this is linked to the strange people from elsewhere that brought the carnival to town, or maybe not. You wouldn't know. You don't even know what one looks like underneath the mask. You didn't spend enough time with them before they left to recognize their voice. If that doesn't scream Stranger, I don't know what will.

[melishade]

Attack on Prime New Age Anthology: The Message

Main Story

Alright everyone! We are officially starting the New Age Anthology, which will be starting from the Autobot perspective during the last few chapters and the aftermath of Guren No Yumiya. These pieces will be extremely important for the final chapters that will get published once I'm done with my HIATUS. But first, we go back to Retaliation III.

Ratchet waved goodbye to a patient as they left his office after their check up. He lowered his servo before taking a deep breath and sighing. He didn't need to. He had no real use for breathing, but the humans' techniques were rubbing off on him. The doctor than picked up his datapad to update the patient's chart.

Ratchet was...trying his best to heal. Or at the very least, keep himself occupied these days. Part of him was happy to be back home. Another part of him felt guilty for neglecting his duties to Earth. He had sworn to stay there, feeling that was where he was initially needed, but...after everything that happened four years ago with Unicron...and losing Optimus...

Ratchet shook his helm. He didn't need to think about that right now. It still hurt that Optimus was gone, but...his sacrifice wasn't in vain. Cybertron was alive and rebuilding everything that was lost. There's actual peace on the planet. All of their struggles and suffering wasn't for nothing. And...at the very least Optimus can rest easy. Hopefully, Optimus knew that his sacrifice led to a strong legacy. There was still division among the people, and there was still much rebuilding to be had, but progress was being made. And that was something Ratchet himself needed to take joy in.

Ratchet walked over to an energon dispenser and picked up a small cube for himself. He couldn't find himself eating rust sticks or drinking high grade. He wasn't ready for that yet, but it was nice to actually not worry about finding energon or dying from a lack of it. The medic then walked over to a chair situated in front of a computer screen and took a sip of his energon before updating his chart. Ratchet grumbled at the notifications on his datapad. All this work that needed to be done in such little time. Maybe he should get an assistant. That seemed like the best course of action.

Ratchet's audio receptors twitched a little when he heard buzzing on the computer screen next to him. He turned to the screen and saw nothing but static in his vision. Odd. Had the systems malfunctioned again? Ratchet was about to take a look at the wiring, but he stopped when he heard-!

Hello?! Can any hear me?!

Ratchet turned his attention back to the static to see an image forming. It...it was a human. A dark-skinned human male was sending an S.O.S. to Cybertron?! How?! Where was this coming from?! Ratchet saw more of the monitor clearing up and the signal from a planet was coming into view. And that signal...he recognized it...was that from Wheeljack's ship?!

I hope this works because we’ve been scavenging for resources to reach you! My name is Onyankopon! I’m a friend of Wheeljack’s, and we really need your help! Our world is ravaged by the power of the titans, and they have been used to enslave and dominate the world for over 2,000 years! And there’s someone who wants to activate millions of Colossal Titans and use its power to flatten and burn the world into ash! Every nation, every person, every tree and flower will be destroyed if this power is activated! And the longer we wait, the higher chance this power will get activated and end the world! The people in my country will be destroyed if you don’t help!

Ratchet was taken aback by the slew of information. Wheeljack was working with humans?! Colossal Titans?! Wait, what about Arcee?! Where in the Allspark was she?! Ratchet then saw another human come into view of the video message.

My name is Hanji Zoe: Commander of the Survey Corps! I’ve been working tirelessly to stop the Rumbling from happening! So have Wheeljack and Arcee! And so has Optimus!

Ratchet dropped both the datapad and the energon still in his servos. He couldn't listen to the rest of the message as this 'Hanji Zoe' continued rambling on. Optimus...Optimus was...no that's impossible. Optimus wasn't...isn't! Alive?! How?! Ratchet watched him die! He couldn't be alive! Ratchet found that his servos were trembling in fear. What did this mean?! What was going on?!

"Evening, Doctor." Knockout greeted as he walked into the room. The former Decepticon paused when he saw the message playing on the screen of the two humans screaming out in desperation.

We just want peace! We just want to live! So please help us!

Help us save our world! Please! HELP US!

Knockout watched the message cut to static before somehow replaying again. "Ratchet, what's-..." His word died in his throat when Ratchet turned to him with sheer panic etched into his faceplates.

"Go get Ultra Magnus and the others! NOW!" Ratchet barked at him.

===

Ratchet was hunched over on a bench, tapping his pede impatiently. Bumblebee was pacing back and forth around the room while Bulkhead crossed his arms, looking worried himself. Ultra Magnus was currently talking to Knockout regarding the video that assumingly came from Wheeljack's ship. Smokescreen was the last to arrive, running down the hall to meet up with his comrades.

"Sorry, I'm late," Smokescreen apologized, "What did I miss?"

"Some humans sent an S.O.S. from Wheeljack's ship," Bulkhead explained.

"Is Wheeljack in danger?!" Smokescreen exclaimed.

"Maybe," Bulkhead confessed "The humans sounded urgent."

"So then, shouldn't we go help Wheeljack and Arcee?! They need us right!" Smokescreen proclaimed.

"It got complicated," Bumblebee explained, but didn't stop his pacing.

"Complicated how?!" Smokescreen demanded.

"They're saying Optimus is alive," Bumblebee answered.

"Whoa, what?!" Smokescreen yelled.

"Knockout, are you sure?" Ultra Magnus questioned the medic.

"Look, I did pick up a thing or two from Soundwave, and I've run diagnostics multiple times." Knockout pointed to the screen with the two humans, "That thing is real."

"Run it again!" Ratchet ordered him.

"I. Already. Have!" Knockout enunciated, "There's nothing else besides those coordinates that came from the ship!"

"If there were humans using Wheeljack's ship to send a message, Wheeljack had to be the one that taught them how to do it," Bulkhead surmised.

"But Optimus being alive?!" Smokescreen spoke up, "I can't tell if it's a good or bad thing!"

"Optimus being alive can very well be a lie," Bumblebee proclaimed, "Before you were part of the team, we've had one too many calls with clones and doppelgangers. We can't take this lightly...even if the humans on the call sound desperate."

"What do we do?" Ratchet demanded, "What in the Allspark do we even say? Do we tell the council about this? How in the Allspark did Optimus end up on another planet full of humans? If that even is him?!"

"...I'm gonna contact Raf," Bumblebee declared as he walked up to the computer screen.

"Bee, I doubt Rafael is going to be much help," Knockout proclaimed, "If anything, he'll probably get the same results I have: that it's authentic."

"We need to be sure." The screen lit up and the familiar sound of a ringing phone was heard. The screen then changed to show an adult Rafael in a lab coat waving to them.

"Bee, it's been so long!" Rafael greeted with a smile.

"Hey, Raf," Bumblebee greeted with a tight smile, "Can you help us out with something?"

"Oh, look at that! The Bots only call us when they need something!" Miko jabbed at them as she came into view.

"For Primus' sake, Miko! This is important!" Ratchet shouted in anger.

"Whoa! Ratchet what's wrong?!" Jack demanded out of confusion.

"Something came up." Bumblebee typed something before sending the message over to Rafael, "Can you scan this to see if there's been any alterations?"

"Sure." Rafael noticed the message coming up on his screen and began to type away to inspect it. "Colossal Titans? Apocalypse? Whoa! Optimus is alive!"

"Shit! WHAT?!" Miko screeched.

"I thought you guys said you all watched him dive into the center of Cybertron!" Jack recalled.

"We did! But these humans are saying that he's alive!" Bumblebee explained.

"When was this sent?!" Rafael demanded.

"We don't know, the signal was weak!" Knockout answered.

"Shouldn't we go check it out?!" Miko insisted.

"This could very well be deception," Ratchet reminded, "We take this chance, we could very well be falling into a trap."

"But what about Optimus?!" Smokescreen exclaimed, "We can't leave him, right?!"

"We don't know if it's him," Bulkhead reminded.

"But shouldn't we go and find out!" Smokescreen turned to Bumblebee, "Bee, back me up here!"

Bumblebee looked at Smokescreen with apprehension. "Smokescreen...I don't know...I really don't want to get my hopes up here."

"But don't you want to go and check it out?!" Smokescreen pressed on.

Bumblebee's shoulders slumped in defeat before he covered his optics. "By the Allspark, I do really want to see if it's true."

"Wait, are we really going down there on the off chance that this message is real and Optimus is somehow alive?!" Knockout demanded.

"I do not believe for one second that Optimus Prime is alive," Ultra Magnus spoke up, "But based on the urgency of the message, Wheeljack and Arcee may very well be in immediate danger, and we need to help the comrades that are still alive. We need to go to this planet, investigate it, and bring Arcee and Wheeljack back home."

"What are you going to tell the council about Optimus?" Bumblebee asked.

"Nothing," Ultra Magnus answered, "That portion of the report can be false. I will just tell them this is a rescue operation for our Autobots."

"We should come too!" Jack declared on the other end of the call, "If this planet has humans, then you'll need us now more than ever to be your face!"

"Very well." Ultra Magnus nodded his helm, "Speak with Agent Fowler to get your equipment ready!"

"On it!" Miko immediately ran off the screen.

"I'm helping triangulate coordinates!" Rafael furiously typed on the keyboard.

"As for the rest of you!" Ultra Magnus addressed the Autobots, "Cancel any and all plans you have for today! The mission is top priority now! I will get the Iron Will prepared for transport! Knockout, Ratchet, prepare the medical bay for anyone injured! Bumblebee, Smokescreen, Bulkhead, get any weapons for an offensive attack! Dismissed!"

"Yes, sir!" The Autobots immediately dispersed to perform their individual tasks. As Bumblebee followed Smokescreen down the hall, the Warrior paused in his step. He remembered a plan he had today and activated his comm. link.

==

Rung was quietly taking notes in his office and organizing his schedule for the next few days. The therapist turned his attention to the window, seeing the bustling life of Cybertron, and smiled. He was extremely happy to see how everything was flourishing. There was still much to be rebuilt, but he was happy to see life returning to his home once again.

Rung blinked when he heard the familiar 'ping' of his comm. link in his audio receptor. "Hello?"

"Hey, Rung," Bumblebee greeted.

"Hello, Bumblebee," Rung greeted with a smile, "Is everything alright? I'm still expecting you for your appointment in an hour, right?"

"Yeah, I'm...gonna have to cancel. I'm sorry," Bumblebee apologized, "I know it's last minute, and I'll pay the cancelation fee soon. I promise."

"Oh no. What happened?" Rung asked with concern.

"Well...looks like you were right about me seeing Arcee and Wheeljack sooner rather than later." Rung felt his spark drop at Bumblebee's words, "But it sounds like they're in trouble, so the Bots and I need to help them out. I don't know how long it will take-!"

"I understand, Bumblebee," Rung replied with a tight voice, "Go save your comrades. And consider the cancelation fee waived."

"Wait, are you sure?" Bumblebee asked in surprise, "I swear I can-!"

"I know for a fact that Arcee is important to you," Rung declared, "Bring her home."

"Thank you, Rung," Bumblebee sighed with relief, "I'll make it up; I swear."

"Good luck, Bumblebee." Rung had disconnected his call with Bumblebee before calling the front desk, "Cancel all appointments for the rest of the day."

"Rung, are you sure?" the receptionist asked in surprise.

"Yes, something came up," Rung replied, "Take the day off. I'll be closing the office early and you will be given paid time off."

"Oh...um...thank you,"

"You're welcome." Rung disconnected the call before sitting up from his desk, abandoning his work in the process. The therapist removed his glasses and threw them on the desk. He began to walk around the room, rubbing his optics in frustration. He stared at the ceiling, trying to hold back his tears, but he couldn't help it and they began to fall.

Rung collapsed to his knees and fell forward. His servos clenched into fists and openly wept.

"Optimus, forgive me," Rung pleaded, "Forgive me for my inaction and mistakes. Forgive me, please."

(And the New Age Anthology begins! The publishing schedule? IDK. It'll be erratic, probably. But I hope you guys enjoy what I'm going to put out!)

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Scenes from the Gaza Strip, where local residents and family members say their farewells for Palestinian journalist Salem Abu Tyour and his young son. The pair were killed on Monday following an Israeli occupation airstrike targeting their residential home in the Al-Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip. At least 142 journalists have been killed by the Israeli occupation forces since Oct. 7th. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🚀🚀🏘️💥 🚨

ENDLESS BOMBINGS MARK THE 206TH DAY OF "ISRAEL'S" GENOCIDAL WAR IN GAZA

On the 206th day of "Israel's" ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 5 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 47 Palestinians, mostly women and children, while another 61 others have been wounded over the previous 24-hours.

In a conversation with the families of Israeli hostages held by the Hamas Resistance movement in Gaza, the Israeli occupation Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, told the families that the IOF would invade Rafah regardless of any truce deals made with the Palestinian Resistance.

“The idea that we will stop the war before achieving all its aims is not an option,” the occupation's Prime Minister is quoted as saying to the families.

“We will enter Rafah and we will eliminate the Hamas battalions there — whether or not there is a deal — in order to achieve total victory.”

In a statement released by the Prime Minister's office, it is claimed that the families of the hostages urged Netanyahu, and National Security Advisor Tzachi Hanegbi, to continue the war and resist international pressure.

More than 1.7 million Palestinians are currently packed into the small southern Gazan city of Rafah, with most living in giant tent cities erected following the Israeli bombardment and invasion of the northern Gaza Strip, early in the war.

In a report published by the International humanitarian medical organization, Medicines Sans Frontières (MSF), also known as Doctor's Without Borders, the organization describes dire healthcare conditions for the civilian population now displaced and living in Rafah, warning that Palestinians face severe risk of disease outbreak due to the harsh living conditions in the city, and the systematic destruction of the Palestinian healthcare system in Gaza.

"The lives of people who fled bombardment are now at risk due to the looming threat of disease outbreaks in Rafah, where living conditions are dire, where there is a desperate shortage of clean water for drinking or bathing, and where rubbish and raw sewage accumulate in the streets," MSF warns in its report.

"People’s needs are skyrocketing and the healthcare system no longer has the capacity to respond. One by one, hospitals in Gaza are being rendered inoperable as they are attacked, damaged or destroyed by Israeli forces, or have insufficient fuel and other supplies to provide services."

MSF further warns that it is "gravely concerned" about what the devastation of the healthcare system will mean in Gaza for many years to come.

MSF goes on to point to the "few medical facilities" that still function, which are being pushed to the brink, "overwhelmed with patients with conflict-related trauma injuries."

"As a result, people with other types of medical needs, such as pregnant women with complications and people living with chronic conditions, are unable to receive the care they require."

MSF goes on to warn that "Gaza’s entire healthcare system has been decimated and the population is under siege. Without access to medical care, thousands more lives will be lost, beyond those killed in the Israeli bombardments seen in the news – these are Gaza’s 'silent killings'."

At the same time that MSF warns of the collapse of Gaza's healthcare system, the Palestinian Civil Defense of the Gaza Strip appealed to the International community to pressure the Israeli occupation to allow the entry of specialized equipment for the removal of bodies from Gaza, and to exhume those buried under collapsed buildings.

According to Gaza's Civil Defense, more than 10'000 missing Palestinians remain buried under the rubble of their homes and shelters, with crews unable to recover them due to continued Israeli destruction and the lack of specialized equipment.

They warned that this leaves Civil Defense personnel in a precarious situation in which they attempt to recover the bodies of the dead as buildings continue to collapse around them.

The Civil Defense further warned of the accumulation of thousands of bodies under the rubble, which already begins to spread disease and cause epidemics as high temperatures accelerate the rate of decomposition.

The Palestinian Civil Defense further added that working without specialized equipment would mean it could take 2 to 3 years to recover the bodies of the dead, estimating that over 37 million tonnes of rubble is strewn across the Gaza Strip.

Meanwhile, the Israeli occupation's bombardment across Gaza continued unabated, and further intensified over the last several days, with Israeli airstrikes pummeling the southern and central Gaza Strip, while bombings also continued in the north.

In one of the latest Zionist atrocities, IOF warplanes bombed a residential building belonging to the Al-Afifi family, in the Tal al-Sultan neighborhood, west of Rafah City, in the south of Gaza, resulting in the deaths of four Palestinian women, all sisters.

Occupation airstrikes also targeted agricultural lands west of Rafah, luckily without any casualties, while Israeli occupation gunboats continued shelling Rafah's western coastline.

Also in the south of Gaza, local Civil Defense crews said they'd recovered the bodies of 6 Palestinian victims of Israeli occupation bombings from buildings in the Al-Amal neighborhood, west of Khan Yunis.

Later in the day, occupation bombing targeted the Ma'an neighborhood of the same city.

Elsewhere, Israeli fighter jets bombarded a civilian home belonging to the Akhil family, in the Al-Daraj neighborhood of Gaza City, in the north of the Palestinian enclave, killing the family's grandfather along with his grandson.

The Zionist atrocities continued when an IOF aircraft bombed another residential home on Al-Sikka Street, east of the Jabalia Refugee Camp, in the northern Gaza Strip, resulting in a number of casualties.

The Israeli occupation continued its war crimes with an airstrike on a residential house belonging to the Abu Tuyur family, in the vicinity of the Al-Qudsi supermarket in the "Camp 1" area of the Al-Nuseirat Refugee Camp, in the central Gaza Strip, martyring three civilians.

Further atrocities were committed when an IOF warplane bombed a home east of the Al-Masdar neighborhood in the central Gaza Governate, while at the same time, Zionist artillery detatchments shelled the Nuseirat Camp with an intense mortar bombardment.

Occupation air forces further bombed a house in the Al-Tuffah neighborhood of Gaza City, slaughtering two more civilians and wounding a number of others.

Simultaneously, Israeli fighter jets bombed the Al-Daraj and Sheikh Radwan neighborhoods of Gaza City.

Zionist occupation forces continued its bombardment on neighborhoods west of Rafah City, in Gaza's south, while also launching several raids targeting the outskirts of Beit Hanoun, in the northern Gaza Strip.

Occupation shelling also targeted the Juhr al-Dik area of central Gaza, while also shelling the southern neighborhoods of Gaza City.

According to local sources, as a result of the Israeli occupation's intensified bombardment of the Gaza Strip yesterday, at least 34 civilians were killed, of which, 26 were killed in the Rafah area.

Meanwhile, the occupation renewed its bombardment in the morning, with several casualties recorded across various areas of the enclave.

Intense occupation airstrikes centered on the northern and western neighborhoods of the Nuseirat Camp, resulting in the deaths of four Palestinian civilians, and also wounding at least 15 others.

Three occupation airstrikes also targeted the Al-Zaytoun neighborhood, southeast of Gaza City, resulting in the martyredom of three civilians and the wounding of 10 others.

Zionist fighter jets continued its crimes by by repeatedly bombing the town of Jabalia, along with the Refugee Camp of the same name outside the town, both in Gaza's north, resulting in the wounding of 7 civilians, including 3 children.

Israeli artillery shelling also targeted the Al-Bureij and Al-Maghazi Refugee Camps, along with shelling the Tal al-Hawa, Sheikh Ajlin, and Al-Zaytoun neighborhoods of Gaza City. Zionist shelling additionally targeted the Sheikh Zayed neighborhood of Beit Lahiya.

Israeli artillery similarly targeted residential homes in the eastern neighborhoods of Khan Yunis.

As a result of "Israel's" ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the current death toll in the Palestinian enclave has risen to exceed 34'535 Palestinians killed, including over 14'690 children and 9'680 women, while another 77'704 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

April 30th, 2024

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@WorkerSolidarityNews

[see-arcane]

The Vampyres (PREVIEW)

Something is culling the dead.

Whether they imbibe blood, leech life, or merely traded mortality away to their devil of choice, the revenants of the world are disappearing. A phenomenon that has been carving its way through the undead like a belated necrosis moving steadily through the past century and more. One which the Vampyre, a possessor of many names and collector of many lives, has been fretting over for some time.

A laughable fear, for he is one of those canny cadaverous few who made a deal for perpetual resurrection. The bitten may crumble, but the bargainer may rise from death after death. So he reminds himself. So he worries is no longer the case.

Not when the old boyar in the Carpathians was one of the first to vanish. Still, the monster from the mountains may simply be in hiding, just as the rest must be. The Vampyre himself is surely jumping at shadows. So he convinces himself for a single night…

…before a Thing known only as ‘Quinn Morse’ makes itself and its work known.

Surprise! I accidentally finished a novella during what was supposed to be a short story break. Whoops. Updates to come.

Below is a preview of the opening chapters. A link to the Google Doc version is here.

Warnings for some grisly imagery. Keep an eye out for some familiar faces (such as they are).

 The Vampyres

 “Why, this is Hell, nor am I out of it.

Think’st thou that I who saw the face of God

And tasted the eternal joys of Heaven

Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

In being deprived of everlasting bliss?

O Faustus, leave these frivolous demands

Which strikes a terror to my fainting soul!”

 —Mephistopheles, Doctor Faustus

 I

           The phone came alive at midnight. A fact he would mercifully only become aware of well after two in the morning. He followed at least one form of etiquette at the table by silencing the device from start to finish of each game. He broke no rules in any casino, however polished or derelict. It was what preserved his hobby. The gambling itself he could leave or take.

         But the players themselves were excellent sport.

         He beggared every starved and bloodshot player hoping to win funds enough to live off for a month, then played as if blind in order to lose it all to whichever moneyed tick needed it least. Considering how equal the misfortune spread across the board for any who played with him—rich or poor, Good Samaritan or giddy sinner—it was rarely too long before even the least credulous in his circles began to shiver when he showed his face. Or so it was in less congested metropolises where the cattle weren’t so bombarded with other distractions that they couldn’t recognize an ill omen when he took a seat at the felted table. It remained true now, as always, that whoever played against him wound up either penniless or slated for an avalanche of misery the moment they spent the money he’d lost to them. A fact that so many of them never bothered to notice even in this age of conspiracy and wildfire gossip living in their myriad screens.

         Bless their blunted little souls.

         That night he was feeling slightly more at ease than he had in some weeks. Even one of the cocktail girls, whose mind carried a pleasing well of empathy and whose fingernails were still lined with soil from a group tree planting, tickled at his peripheral senses and twitched his appetite half awake. If he wanted, he could talk her number out of her over a drink he would never choke down, perhaps keeping her pinned at a stool with his face and his wallet. He might dance her along for a date or three and then bite her throat out before they struck June. The same could be said for the svelte young man behind the bar who had almost fumbled his showman mixologist pour upon making eye contact with him. He had a tang of hope and action sweating from him, the kind that was destined either to make a hero or a martyr of him someday. It would almost be a mercy to put him down in his prime.

         The girl, then.

He flung a little mental nudge her way. Enough to make her turn her head. At the same time, he fished out the phone to play with. Just to have it ready should the exchange come quicker than anticipated. A small mountain of text messages sat fresh and unread there. This was surprising by its own merit, considering how scant his contacts were. Then he saw the name. Irritation broke out on his mood like a rash.

Taking himself to a private corner, he began to read. And read. And read. Irritation grew into something heavier. Sicker.

At the bottom of the reading, he tapped play so he might watch.

When all was seen and heard, his hand twitched, crunched in the phone’s sides, and sent spider web cracks flying across the screen. A ruddy gentleman stopped en route to the toilet in time to see this and mumble something about how he ought to invest in a device of higher quality. The man had this cousin working for a new startup, you see, and if he was so inclined—

The last mote of joy he took away that night was the look on that rubicund face as it met the eyes of something no longer bothering to pretend it was human. A grey eye might be ignored. Not so for a dead one. He left the man scrambling his way to the stalls.

On his way to the doors, he made sure to radiate every deathly ounce of his presence into the air as he could. A quelling cold that made the glee of the night’s winners crumble into a dread of things they could not name. Then he was out and under the moon. He nursed from that pale waxing wedge in a desperate reflex. It was a thin taste here, lost in the searing pollution of streetlights and neon, but he basked just the same. Still basking, he crushed the phone in his fist and dropped the remains down a sewer grate. Then he was gone, one of a thousand streaks of rolling light and metal on the asphalt.

 II

 He only ever carried phones as a prop.

In this age and those to follow, it would be imperative to keep one of the aggravating little slabs on hand for the purposes of adding the phone numbers of sundry quarries or engage in the back-and-forth patter that so many of them insisted on in those hours when they weren’t side by side. Fortunately, he’d found himself blessed enough to dodge one of the maladies which others indulging in a healthy unlife hadn’t. True, the form he had bartered for had only so many perks, but opting out of extravagant powers had trimmed down the amount of tells.

         Some poor bastards had to walk around without reflections or shadows while grumbling over the barriers of running water and uninvited thresholds. Others only discovered their drawbacks as the 20th century budded, revealing too late that their photographs came out either empty or hideously distorted. Even the audio of their voices came out muted or garbled into static. He’d avoided all of these caveats by trading for a more thinly arcane state of undeath rather than glutting himself on all the powerful options in reach. And why not? It still came with the most desired prize without any need for filigree.

         Given blood and moonlight enough, there was no iteration of death from which he could not rebound. Same as any of the self-made devils lurking about in the shadows. Such shadows as were left for things like them. In a lighter mood, he might have enjoyed the notion of picking at the wounds of those who’d not bothered with the foresight of arranging investments and back doors of identification for the centuries to come. Only fools could miss how tight the noose of bureaucracy was becoming. A body loitering among the mayfly mortals had to be prepared and he had once laughed to himself at how many times the sorcerous types had to gnash their fangs and scramble to cover themselves as time ticked on and their lounging hedonism softened into corrosion.

         But such amusing thoughts had iced over in recent decades.

         He had not gotten as far as he had alive or undead by resting on his laurels. Oh, he might enjoy playing with his food and sowing a bit of casual desolation where it could be nurtured, but he never gambled when it came to things that might inconvenience him. Things like other bloodsuckers, for instance. A few had been proper nuisances of old. The majority of the stray vampiric beauties wandering around crypts and lonely midnights luring gullible lovers into their teeth were invariably the result of irresponsible collecting by the usual harem hoarders. Such carelessness often led to sleeping cadavers staked and slaughtered in their boxes like oversized leeches. Not a concern for himself, naturally—he could enjoy a bed rather than graveyard dirt or casket walls—but the attention itself got too many hackles up.

         Enough of them raised about a certain type of person could lead to inconvenience. One of his older worries had been the notion of an outright arrest. A trial. A boxing away into a great stone cage of a prison where he would have no choice but to resort to his teeth rather than his daggers or risk being found out as a perpetually young and deathless inmate. A bloody break out, an escape, some secret place where he could lay under the moon and heal from the bullets, going on the run for a decades-long stint until all assumed he must be dead, all these he could picture…

         …but frankly would rather avoid. Hence the need for cannier sorts with this unique condition. Those who knew how to take their fun and their fodder between the lines of human living and laws.

It was not against the law that certain formerly-benign persons around you turned apoplectic with madness, horror, or rage after spending a few months in your company. Nor was it against the law to stamp someone’s empty little head with the alien impression of infatuation, lust, or that softly syrupy joke called romance so that they, like the insect drawn to the pitcher plant, would come within reach willingly; regardless of former commitments or fearful kin. There was no law against trances, against the mystic weight of locking an unwitting brain inside an oath with more power to it than hollow words, against having a seventh sense of awareness when it came to the makeup of a soul.

         And, apart from those silly backwards places where superstition still ruled, there was certainly no law against being an accused vampire. Or a vampyre, to go by his preferred spelling. Kate Northcott mocked him for this and other affectations on those sparse occasions when they met.

         Her name was not Kate Northcott any more than his was Gordon Williams, but it was the name she was the most attached to.

         “I turned into a proper ghost story with it in the 1880s. Back when the mesmerist fad was booming, you know. Popped one little stage magician’s blood vessel right there in the middle of his act.” A dainty finger waggled. “I take offense to people playing with my toys. It’s his own fault for trying to walk my poor John around.”

         Her poor John, who had, like every beau before him, been told the exact nature of both their lovely cruel Kate’s being and precisely what she intended to do with them should they go through with marriage and life thereafter. More, that she would see them dead if they abandoned her. Each man had run. Each had died. Perhaps they’d have lasted longer if she ever allowed a trip to the altar before laying out the truth post-honeymoon, but the rules of her own contract demanded the revelation come before any wedding bells. Not a terrible bargain, all things considered.

         This in mind, he had posited that she might have better luck keeping a paramour if she used her fine senses to detect one of those lot who would trip over their own aching members for the chance to be an eternal puppet to her psychic appetite and the twitch of her riding crop. Miss Northcott had batted her lashes. As always, the lambent shine of her eyes tried to work their magic on his own will. As always, they’d scrabbled for a grip on the frictionless wall that shielded his mind from all such parasites; dead drinkers of blood or soul or otherwise. Following the expected failure, she had huffed and tittered.

         “Now what’s the point if they want it? I don’t see you jumping at the sea of willing victims hoping for unlife eternal draped in your arms at the cost of a hickey and a liquid diet. You could have had a set of twins that one time, no? The brother and sister, whoever they were. The Audreys? The Ambers?”

         “The appetizers,” he said with all the pining recollection of an epicure mourning an especially pleasing steak. “They were a pleasant distraction. It’s the most any quarry can aspire to.” So saying, he made a point of revealing one of the daggers he still kept on his person. Antique and bejeweled, he took some small pride in keeping the whole set gleaming and up to the task whenever the latest game came to an end. He’d unsheathed his current pick, admiring the dead grey of his stare reflected in the steel. “I have no interest in collecting sycophants.”

         “Likewise.” She had sipped at her cup daintily. Perhaps purposefully, the better to show she was capable of consuming more than the spirit of a collared victim. Whether she could taste anything the café had to offer was not a topic he was interested enough to pry for. “But that begs the question of why you’re suddenly so concerned for your fellows that you would bother with the labors of social interaction to pass the warning on.”

         Gordon regarded her stonily over his untouched plate.

         “I’m not concerned for any of our ‘fellows’ any more than I’m concerned for you. I have every belief that I am one of the least endangered of our kind and all its branches by dint of having some amount of grey matter dedicated to not flaunting my reality like those idiots who decided to take Bowie and Deneuve as role models. At most, I give you credit for being canny enough to dwell within plausible deniability with your methods. More, you have senses enough to glean for yourself if this threat is in your midst and have enough intelligence to enlist others to help with culling it.”

         She muffled a laugh and picked at her croissant.

         “Even if I believed you would exert effort to come to my aid, I still fail to see what threat you’ve conjured to be afraid of. Your only evidence so far is that you haven’t been in touch with the others of the old guard in some time. Most have never been keen on letter-writing or trading numbers. The last I checked, the bulk of them prefer the sedentary life to our migratory lifestyle. Castles and manors and villages turned into necropolises and so on. Hermit types by nature.”

         “Hermits would be at home. All the places I’ve visited have been empty.” He was surprised at having to keep his throat from bobbing in anxious imitation of a tic from his living years; back when there was need to fret for his life. “And filled with dust.”

         Miss Northcott had frowned up at him.

         “Dust..?”

         “Dust and growth. There were flowers growing in the messes that were fresh enough in their conversions to have flesh leftover. Compost.” He thought back to the surreal gardens left behind in that sequestered corner of Munich that belonged to Dolingen. Then a Serbian village that had been swallowed by a ravenously loving pack of wurdulacs, stopped short of virulence by their rules of homeland borders. Among others. Dust in piles, dust wearing ancient clothes, dust in coffins. And scattered throughout, the bounty of younger fledglings. Meat and bone converted to soil from which wild roses, ash trees, and garlic sprouted in healthy crops. As for the nobler estates?

         “The chateaus and mansions are either abandoned, passed on to the wealthy living, or museum pieces now. Maybe their former masters left it all behind in the past hundred or so years to dodge modern eyes scrutinizing the family tree. I’d like to think so. Just as I’d like to think there was a less worrisome reason that all the pseudonyms and auxiliary domains I tried to follow up on had no recognizable owners when I checked in. But even if I were dense enough to convince myself of such, there’s at least one case that suggests—,”

         “The Carpathians.” She beamed at him and his stunted oration. “The castle in the mountains has been gutted since 1897, dear. Looted and halfway dismantled to the foundation by the locals. What’s left of it is there for the tourists.” Her slim hand patted his knuckles. “If you’re worried about the handsy old boyar, don’t be. He’s been mobbed and murdered before. A shame about his girlfriends in their boxes, but they were only born of a bite, poor things. No contractual resurrection to fall back on. The Count, if he is still bothering with being a Count, is doubtlessly off haunting some contemporary castle someplace. Probably a nice high rise for him to skitter down or make his batty flights from. Just as the other oldies have likely taken themselves to higher ground. And if their minions really have run afoul of some sterling sorts with hammer, stake, and axe?” Miss Northcott shrugged. “Well, there’s always more pretty chattel to choose from.”

         Now she did laugh aloud. A brittle crystalline sound.

         “Honestly, I’m shocked that you’d be the one to turn jumpy over such a thing. Supposing there was some active force in the world bumping the lower tier wraiths off, it would still be no more than an annoyance for us. We’ve both had our share of murders to prove as much. The dried-up old conqueror certainly had his fill in the warlord days, if I don’t mistake the legends.”

         “He did,” Gordon granted. “And he has reassembled himself plenty of times before. Which is my point. Supposing he is undead and active today, or was a hundred years prior, why would he let the peasants harvest his fortress down into a ruin?”

         “Well, he’s obviously left the place,” Miss Northcott shrugged without looking at him. Her attention had gravitated down to her phone. A manicured thumb tapped and scrolled. More appetite than apprehension lived in her gaze. “You can only pass yourself off as your own descendant so long before things start getting sticky. Everyone hits the point where you have to get on with setting up elsewhere. And really, the warlord days are ancient history. If he’d gone out with a flourish of a massacre on the neighboring towns squirming under his eye, it would only have gotten him more unwanted attention. I recommend you start trawling through top mogul names and see if you can’t spot his picture lurking in there, gone fat and happy slurping up interns.” Her lips pursed. “Supposing he was one of the lucky sorts who can have a photo taken.”

         With that, the topic was dead. Gordon managed to sit through another quarter of an hour in which she lamented the double-edged factor of her electronic allergy, woeful at never having a decent photo to spare for social media or dating apps, but likewise glad of the identity-baffling glamour it leant.

Chirpily, she reminded him that even those who grew suspicious of her would never be able to take a reliable photo or video of anything but a spectral horror with mist for eyes, unlike some. Better still, no one even spoke on the phone anymore. Bless texting.

He held on until she started regaling him with talk of her latest doomed darling—a Mr. Quinn Morse, the mortuary assistant who she had met in the before and after of her latest fiancé’s funeral—and what a scrumptious psychic treat he was to the palate. She was frankly surprised at herself! He had proven so pleasant a distraction she might not even bother goosing his mind into vomiting out a proposal. Not for a while anyway. Why, she may even take up two-timing the boy just to snack on a fiancé behind his back, ha ha.

         Gordon didn’t bother wishing her bon appétit. He picked out a young couple on his way back to the train. Mister and Missus would be found folded inside a dumpster later that evening, chests carved and throats torn. A rejuvenating bout of gluttony that only gave him new energy with which to curse the lack of answers he sat with. Worse still was the lack of competent allies to make up for the former’s deficit. For a while longer he strained to lower his suspicions to the level of Miss Northcott’s confidence.

         His main concern was so implausible as to border on impossible, after all.  

         The turned might be slain, it was true. But those who had commissioned their states from their devil or deity of choice were immune to total destruction by any of the cattle, no matter how endowed in strength or holy accoutrement.

Days and nights were spent rereading these facts in the volumes that still traveled with him to whatever land or identity he haunted. They remained preciously stored in enhanced safes as the centuries ticked on, now handled only with silk gloves and the most delicate turns of cover and page. He scoured the old tongues, some living, some dead, some entirely detached from human script, and took as much solace as he could from the facts laid there.

His contract was one of perpetual function. So long as he drank his dose of blood, he would go on forever. So long as his dead skin was grazed by moonlight, he would shed any injury or temporary death. So long as he was the thing he was, no act of man would have the power to unmake him.  

All these were still maintained. He was safe. As anyone else at his level or higher would be. The more grandiose warlocks and dealmakers who’d glutted themselves on fearsome add-ons available to other forms of revenant had simply moved on and were going about their business elsewhere, under new names. Of course. Of course.

“Of course,” he murmured to the yellowed pages. “They all just happened to do so within the last century. On a whim.”

It could be, couldn’t it? Technology and the microscopic examinations of increasingly thorough systems surrounding properties and owners thereof would make it necessary to move on from old roosts sooner or later.

“Without taking any measures to preserve their estates.”

But then what of the villages? The ones full of living peasantry gleefully peeling the properties down to floorboards. The dead spaces where only silence and specific warding flora bloomed. What sense was there to those, if not the fact that something had been and gone and torn the masters of the land out by their bloody roots?

Something.

That was the prospect that worried him most. Something coming to call, something culling the undead and undying, something roaming across borders of land and water to pick them off year by year, decade by decade. Something that may have been active since the boyar in the mountains disappeared. Something which was not human and so did not fall within the parameters of their sundry pacts’ protection.

Gordon grimaced. It would come down to a technicality, wouldn’t it? Be they gods or demons or Folk in-between, there was always some damned loophole built in to ensure a trade was never quite as advertised. Gordon had studied and sworn and dealt with a god wearing the aspect of one of those horrors that passed for divinities in the Mediterranean. One of tripled faces, of lunar light, of words stitched with power. After so many centuries, he had dared to become complacent enough to think he had gotten away with an impenetrable exchange.

But now came this worrisome century and a quarter in which all those dead who lived off the living were dropping out of sight. He might have dared to make an inquiry to Powers beyond mortal matter if he weren’t likewise concerned that this culling was the work of said Powers themselves. Terminating contracts, as it were. Even if this weren’t the case, what more did he have left to barter with for protection from…

From what?

He didn’t know. Still. The result left him twisting unhappily between throes of frustration at his ignorance and grimmer dread of knowledge that might come in the shape of the long-avoided coffin come to collect.

As always, the cure for his own despondency was to share it with others. Hence the casino. The brief high that had almost transfigured into relief.

And then had come the texts from ‘N.’

Even with the phone safely demolished and abandoned, its final bleak gift stayed branded behind his eyes, searing through his thoughts awake or asleep. The first came at ten past midnight:

R. Need help. My arm’s going black. The knife, it

A lull of minutes followed this. The next message came through at 12:15 AM:

It’s real. He’s here and he’s real. Quinn Morse was a cover. I can’t find any of his pictures in the album now. He replaced everything with their markers. All of them.

Another beat. 12:22 AM:

Pick up, damn it! This isn’t a joke! He’s got all the doors and windows cut off and the police won’t be here in time! I already tried to put him down, but he just keeps going. I can’t drink him. I can’t even hold him. He knew he knew the whole time he

Beat. 12:30 AM:

Pick up you bastard

12:31 AM:

Please, R, he’s outside. He’s got my arm. What’s left of my arm. The door’s breaking and h

The next message came at 12:41 AM. A video. Hitting play, the clearest thing throughout the few endless minutes was the background. Miss Northcott’s plush bedroom stood out in crisp relief compared to the two figures in the foreground. One was a vaguely female haze that Gordon recognized as what was left of Kate Northcott. She flickered in and out of the camera’s concept of her reality. One moment she was spectral fog made of hunger and venom. In the next, she was something far more tangible and suffering for it.

Each flicker revealed a new stage of decomposition twitching in a bloodied sundress. Only one arm was left to flail with as the right was missing, swinging only a necrotic stump at the shoulder. The rest of the body was following suit between spasms. Sometimes a glottal noise that could pass for a voice broke through the static. What had been crystal was now a shrill and dwindling rasp. Dimly, Gordon thought it was strange the noise was not wetter—his cuisine almost always gurgled when enduring the kind of wound he saw staining her breast.

A crimson slit, quickly drying to maroon, had opened where her heart would be. Her remaining hand alternated between scrabbling at the wound and trying to wave off the shape throwing its shadow over her from outside the borders of the screen. As she tried to kick herself back along the floor, the reason for her scuttling along the imported rug was made clear: a bullet hole had gone through one knee. The knee itself was now almost obliterated with decay while the calf and thigh on either side were going hideously spongy. Much like the rest of her.

The last noise she made was as close to a scream with dust for a throat could manage—

“Quin—,”

—before a flash of silver-white swept down. It flew in a shining arc from the upper corner of the screen and through the hazy shriveled stem that had been a neck. A moment later there was no haze left. Only the corpse of the thing known as Kate Northcott collapsing in two pieces. The bulk of it flopped to the floor with a gruesome rattle. Her head, the lush tresses now so much grizzled and flimsy white, tumbled away until it struck the nightstand. When it stilled, the sockets revealed that the eyes had dried away to nothing.

Then Quinn Morse stepped into frame.

If Miss Northcott was mist, her killer was a ghost. The impression of a man smeared just out of true. Really, it was the impression of a character; some escapee from a folk legend or a graphic novel. Such was the outline Gordon could make out in the blur of him. He was a strange medley of huntsman and mourner. Sheathed in black, Gordon could pick out suggestions of both the late Victorian and the fantasy of the American adventurer in his attire. Or perhaps he was assuming too much by the hints beneath the hanging duster and the broad brim of a hat dark as charcoal. The only things not some shade of ink were the white fall of hair growing from under the hat in wild drapes and the twin infernos of the eyes floating in the shadowed void where a face should be. Not red, but a sickening grey that might have matched Gordon’s own but for how they burned.

He thought of cats. He thought of foxes. He thought of carrion birds.

He thought of coins not unlike the pair Quinn Morse held up in his gloved fingers. Gold pinched in old leather. They shined just as bright as the long blade gripped in the opposite hand, its helping of blood dripping.

Gordon watched with the camera as Quinn Morse first held the coins up to be seen, then popped one apiece into each of the eye sockets. Finally, a bundle of familiar blossoms and sprigs appeared from the dark mass of the coat. This was tucked neatly into the head’s sagging maw as if arranging a bouquet. Quinn Morse stepped out of sight. The video ended.

A final text message appeared the instant the show finished:

My God, my God! Look not so fierce upon me! Adders and serpents, let me breathe awhile! Ugly Hell, gape not! Come not Lucifer! I’ll burn my books!—O Mephistopheles!

He had wanted to laugh. To roll his eyes. To make himself tap out a reply in mocking returned verse. To inform Mr. Morse that he was lacking for proper material to parrot, especially in assuming his gods and devils brushed anywhere near something so young and gaudy as the Abrahamic.

He could. He would.

But somewhere in these plans he had found himself crumpling the phone to shrapnel and racing home to start clearing out his necessities for a trip to distant quarters. He kept more than one residence as a rule whenever he wasn’t taking one of his gourmand tours. A fact Miss Northcott may have known, but not well enough to have learned his other addresses. Or names.

Gordon Williams was thrown away that night.

Mason Darvell greeted the morning.

[bijoumikhawal]

Bite the Hand that Starves You: Chapter Four

Fic as of this chapter contains: discussion of abortion, references to drug use, intersex and trans characters, torture/graphic violence, colonialism and its aftermath, implied sexual violence, disassociation

Kardasi: Peikirvi - would translate to something like "concubine", specifically refers to an individual that socially presents as male, and was assigned such at birth, but can carry children (and often could impregnate someone else), who is legally bound to someone. Usually this is done with a pre-existing couple who has fertility issues.

---

It wasn't a baby. In terminating it, you were admitting that- it wasn't a baby. It never breathed, thought, or spoke.

Garak wished there was something physical that made sense. He knows if he asked, they'd show him some vial, or petri dish, with an unidentifiable clump, and that didn't feel right. It didn't feel like something worth funding over. In terminating it, you were admitting that it wasn't.

It wasn't a baby, so of course it didn't look like one, and it wasn't worth fussing over. Not once it was gone, anyway.

“Everything checks out.” Dr. Ammshah said. “I also talked over a few options for your care going forward with Dr. Bashir. First, I know you said you wished to keep all your organs, but we still can do a tubal detachment-"

“No.”

“I thought you might say that.” Dr. Ammshah looked away- purposely a display of deference. “In that case, there are implants available which don’t need to be replaced more than once every kashmim. It’s a lot longer lasting than the shots preferred in the Federation, and if you ever want to have children, it’s not too difficult to remove. I know you’ve had issues with an implant before, so let me reassure you: this implant has no electrical components. The worst it can do is move somewhere it shouldn’t.” She's rolled her sleeves up- most likely a nervous habit. It reveals inked scars on her forearms.

Garak thought for a moment. “Doctor Bashir.” The observation of her arms is distant and evokes no feeling in him. He knew from the moment Julian said her name why she had been eager to help him in particular.

His head turned to Garak quickly- he hadn't stopped paying attention, but hadn't expected to be called upon. “Yes?”

“If I were to do shots, would I be allowed to keep the doses on hand and self administer them, or would I have to come to the infirmary every time?” His own arms are unmarked. It was too dangerous, given who would see his bare skin, for Tolan to give into that form of sentiment- to permanently have Garak carry evidence with him.

“Normally I give patients a few doses and they self administer. I see no reason why you'd be different.” It was not said with anything but pure neutrality.

“I wanted to be sure. I'd rather use the shots, in that case.” His name would have become fetid in her mouth if she knew of Garak outside the boundaries of this room and those marks.

“Would you like me to go ahead and give you the first dose?”

Garak nodded. No more incidents like this. At last.

The first time he sees Kel, the stripes of her childhood have faded, and he assumes she is Barkan’s. So did everyone else. As her age of emergence approached, its clear to everyone they'd assumed wrong. One time at Bamarren, in the garden, and Barkan a week late coming back for Palandine's cycle-

It must've been embarrassing, when Barkan realized. Most peikirvi fucked the wife too, at least once. Historically, it was thought all they did was transfer the husband's seed, with a little of themselves- ultimately, they were not recorded as the father in that case. They knew better now.

Barkan never allows the two of them in the same bed without him as a physical barrier. They went back to Prime a few times- Garak has his own room in the historic Lokar home after the ceremony.

Dr. Bashir put the hypospray down next to his hand. “I'll go ahead and have the pharmacy retrieve a few more doses for you so they're ready when you leave.”

Garak’s hand curled around the handle. “Thank you, doctor.”

The round circle of metal (always cold) went a half inch past the end of his neck ridges, under the chin, like always.

He never sleeps well there. He kept remembering- one time he'd been helping prepare guest rooms, and fell asleep on top of an heirloom silk quilt. Mila never locked him in a closet, but she'd roll out a mat of rough sticks and make him kneel on it in front of the estate cenotaphs for hours.

He'd lived decently on his own as an Order agent, but never that decently.

“Do you have any questions for me?” Dr. Ammshah asked.

“No.” He'd already dismissed the one from earlier. Except- “If this happens again, will Dr. Bashir need to call on you?”

She turned to him. Like with now, and the examination, she'd had Dr. Bashir take careful watch. “I think that may be something at his discretion. Normally, I would have someone observe quite a few procedures before trying to undertake one. But usually I'm dealing with residencies, not a full fledged doctor. Most likely, I'd still end up supervising over video at least.”

Dr. Bashir inclined his head. “I do think I’d be able to handle it, but yes, I would most likely call you just in case.”

The Lokars have silk quilts too- they'd been very fashionable, six to eight generations ago. Barkan has him on top of one once. The whole time Garak is thinking about the launderer, a quiet young thing, and wondering how the hell he was going to clean it.

The Garak cenotaph on Tain’s estate was blank in his childhood (Tolan is on it now), but the message was clear- you will die here.

Garak nodded and leaned back. “I don't plan on this happening again.”

It was better if it wasn't a baby. If it was, where would he bury it? Where you buried your dead was your home. What name would be put on the cenotaph he did not have, on a station with no soil deeper than his knee?

---

Jabara sat next to him, jarring him out of his thoughts. “You're three hours into overtime today.”

Julian wished he could say he hadn't noticed, but he had. Perfect internal clock and everything.

Dr. Ammshah would be leaving in a few days. A check up after a day, a few days of buffer in case of a last minute emergency, then she'd be on her way back to Vulcan. Which left him with one less pair of hands soon.

“I'm just trying to make sure everything goes smoothly.” Julian rubbed a hand over his face. “How's setting up the storage bay going?”

“It's going fine. It hasn't really been used since the last time we needed it, so it didn't need to be cleared out.”

He had been to send his earliest cases home with a minder. That freed up eight beds, with more flagged as being viable to go home under the same conditions. However, he still had more patients coming in- both newly ill and those who'd tried to tough out what they'd assumed was a bad dining choice at first. The surgical suite had a few beds in it now.

Calculations in his head guessed that at least they'd seen a slowdown starting the day Dr. Ammshah left. “That's good. Are any beds ready yet?”

“A few. Yaatare wants to move the first patient over in the next hour or so.”

“I'll want to look things over first.”

“I know. And I was hoping I'd have to comm you to tell you instead of finding you still here.” Jabara stared scalpels in the side of his head.

“Everyone's doing overtime right now.”

“When was your last day off?”

Julian sighed. “Jabara-”

“You're comfortable telling off the rest of the medical staff and any Starfleet officer you see for poor work habits like too much overtime, but you set a poor example.” Jabara leaned back. “You asked me to be blunt with you from the beginning sir, so- it gives the impression that you're a hypocrite, or that you don't trust your staff.”

Julian flinched. It wasn't the first time Jabara told him that- the fact that she fully took him up fully on the request to be blunt was why he preferred working with her. “You want me to check on the storage bay and go back to my quarters.”

“At least. I also frankly don't want to hear you came back here any sooner than eight hours from now. Ten would be better.”

Julian put his hands up. “Alright. I'll go.”

---

Quark’s was perhaps not the best place to unwind if your stress came from how busy you were. Normally the sights- bright lights, Dabo attendants covered in glitter and rhinestones, flashes of brilliant color everywhere- sounds- shrieks of delight and anger, the wheels turning, glass clinking, conversations- smells- all kinds of food, astringent alcohol, a bit of sweat, cleaner (Quark never allowed vomit to sit the way he never let a paying customer's glass sit empty)- made it exciting.

Right now, Julian was just regretting his choices, holed up in a corner alone. Quark had taken one look at him and mixed something without even asking what he was in the mood for- it was vaguely reminiscent of a hot toddy. Julian found he didn't mind it.

He wiped the red foam from the corner of his mouth and sighed.

“I don't usually see you here by yourself.”

Julian managed a smile as Jadzia slid into the seat across from him. “Well I'm not by myself now, am I?”

“Mm. Is this how it usually works for you?”

“How what works?”

“Dates. You sit alone, looking sad and pretty, and someone eventually walks over.”

“Ah, so I'm pretty.” Julian said, sipping his drink. “And no, usually I'm here for fun and enjoying myself.”

Jadzia peered at his mug. “Oh, Quark gave you a Sweet Howler.” She grimaced a bit. “I heard kunowaat was going around. I didn't realize it was this bad.”

How badly was this going to hit him in the morning? Julian sighed. “It's not the worst thing to deal with. A steady, high, clean water intake, and a constant drip of diozaine, and basically anyone who catches it will live. It's just resource intensive and… annoying."

“I can imagine. I'm glad I'm vaccinated.”

“We've been working on that.” Julian muttered. “I told other Starfleet Medical doctors on Bajor to make it a top priority, but the problem with Bajorans and vaccines…”

“We still haven't built up everyone's trust after the Occupation.”

“No. Especially not in rural areas, like where it started this time.” Julian looked up at her. “Enough about work. How have you been? Any interesting holosuite programs you've discovered?”

Are you alright after the Joining Council almost let you die to save themselves some face?

“I've been okay. And no, no new interesting programs have made their way into my clutches.”

I've been okay, often meant something very different, Julian found.

“And which ones does the major like?” Julian asked.

“I don't think she has a preference yet.”

“Really?”

Jadzia shrugged. “She likes a little of everything, and nothing in its entirety out of what I've introduced her to. We've been trying out more programs recently…” she cocked her head. “Some people are just a bit picky. That makes it all the more special when you do find what they like.”

Interesting.

“How has Bareil been?”

Jadzia gave him a puzzled look. “Why would I know?”

Julian tapped his fingers on the side of his mug. “You just mentioned you've been with the major a lot lately. I thought she might’ve mentioned something.”

Jadzia doesn't quite buy it, still giving him an odd look. “She hasn't, really. Since when are you interested in what vedeks are doing, Julian?”

“Well, he's not just any vedek. If I'm to live right next to Bajor I ought to know what's going on with… politics.”

Jadzia squinted at him. “Do you know something I don't?”

“About Bareil? No.”

“Hm.” Jadzia leaned back.

“Are you going to report me to Odo?” Julian said lightly.

Jadzia softened a bit, not that she was especially hardened in the first place. “For all I know, he put you up to asking me.” She looked around, then peeked under the table. “Doesn't look like he's nearby, though.”

“You can't tell.”

“Well, not anymore.” Jadzia admitted. “It used to be something was a little off about whatever form he took. He's gotten better recently. A spare jacket in one of the labs turned out to be him and made me jump half a Quark into the air a few days ago.”

Julian snickered. “Half a Quark… I'll have to remember that one.”

---

Garak sat on the floor.

His holding cell was now an apartment. A ransacked apartment- Garak had accidentally slept in his shop last night, and Dukat hadn’t hesitated to seize the opportunity to target him in his tantrum- but just. An apartment.

He wondered if he'd be pushing his luck to request different quarters now.

He looked around, taking stock, and halted on an ajar wall panel. He yanked at it, heart pounding, and the metal bent- the red box was still there. Garak cradled it in his lap for a moment.

The recitation mask stared up at him. And kept staring.

Garak picked it up and threw it at the wall.

It only bounced off. The mask was lightweight, but the stone was strong and resilient.

Garak let out an angry sigh- bordering on a growl, really- as he got up off the floor. He picked up a chair leg that had broken off.

The mask gave him no more satisfaction than a clunk.

Garak tried, all night- throwing it, stomping on it, putting it under a table leg and then pushing down with all he had- the mask did not break.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Sparkless

Optimus Prime, the leader of the Autobots, is neither a Prime nor a Cybertronian at all. He knows this now, as do the team. And with that revelation, everything has begun to come crashing down.

Previous part here.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

There was a profound silence in the base as every single spark within froze in horror. The team stood still as stone, watching as Ratchet shook and laughed in exhaustion. Optimus laid on the ground, unable to move but struggling to see through the tears that formed in his optics as all that he knew came tumbling down. Ratchet, unable to keep his secret, laughed and laughed as he explained. All the while, those present could hardly comprehend what was happening.

Ratchet: I had no choice. Orion was dying. My friend was sick and there was NOTHING I could do to save him. We needed a leader, someone who could guide us... and so I made Optimus Prime. A clone body infused with the CNA of past Primes, a super computer within a Matrix shell, and an AI modeled after Orion Pax and altered to become what we needed.

Arcee: Why... why couldn't you have just made a real clone? The Decepticons have done that with their Vehicons for millennia-

Ratchet: I could have made it living, but that left too much room for deviation... I did all this for the Autobots. I spent every cycle seeing a machine wear the face of my friend so that we could have a chance for victory. Do you really think we would have lasted this long without my creation?

Bulkhead: We could have TRIED Ratchet! You didn't need to make some sort of construct to fill in the void!

Ratchet: But didn't I? The Autobots would have fallen apart and been horribly weakened without Orion. We would have splintered and Megatron would have won... so I made a perfect Prime, a perfect leader, and an unstoppable warmachine... although it was not intended to adapt this much. It was not meant to become so lifelike.

Smokescreen: Artificial life... that's- that's heresy.

Ratchet: You think I don't know that? I should have shut it down long ago. I should have wiped its AI once Bumblebee was no longer in need of direct care... But I didn't.

Bumblebee: All of this was just one huge lie? Why couldn't you have told anyone the truth? Why couldn't you have told Optimus?!

Ratchet: What would that have done Bumblebee? Optimus believed it was alive, I made it that way. You all would have destroyed me and my creation. I willingly accept that fate, but not until this war is OVER.

Ratchet: Until then, until this war is finished, I will fight against death and ensure that my creation fulfills its function... regardless of the consequences.

Ratchet stared down coldly at the lifeform he devised, watching in forced apathy as Optimus twitched and tried to cry. Ratchet's spark cried out in agony as the sheer level of emotion in his creation's optics, but the medic merely grabbed Optimus by the back of his neck guard and hauled him into the medical bay, not even waiting for the team to follow. Once Optimus was strapped down, Ratchet paused in his efforts and looked to the team with one question.

"I can purge its AI right here, right now... is that what you want?"

There was no emotion in the doctor's voice as he inserted a connecter into the back of Optimus's helm. The once Prime wept but could not make a sound as he looked to Ratchet pleadingly. The team for their part were still in a state of shock, but the moment Ratchet pulled up a program on his console, Bumblebee was the first to break free and grab the medic's arm.

"Stop! You would be killing him!"

"It is not alive, merely a construct I created for a sole purpose of which it has yet to complete. Leaving it in its current state could possibly lead to its AI going rouge. It was not designed to withstand the truth of its nature."

"Optimus is a HE! And HE has the right to live just as much as any of us!"

Seeing Bumblebee's resolve, the rest of the team were quick to take his side. Arcee and Bulkhead raised their weapons and stood between Ratchet and their leader as Smokescreen hurriedly undid the restraints keeping Optimus bound. Ratchet observed silently before nodding once and closing down the program that he had been preparing to run to wipe his creation's AI clean. It would have been a pain to work with a fresh Optimus AI, but Ratchet was more than willing if asked. He could not input the command on his own... not when his creation was so very full of life. But if ordered, he would obey.

His spark sang with relief when he was commanded to step away, even though his logical processors dictated that now that he was exposed, eliminating his work was the best option. If the Decepticons ever got their servos on the tech he developed to create Optimus, they would be unstoppable. And while it was a logical and valid concern, Ratchet similarly did not hesitate when commanded to let Optimus move again. He issued the release order dismissively and immediately turned back to the scans of Optimus's AI that were taken as the AI in question proceeded to fall to the ground and weep.

The team huddled around their leader, reassuring and comforting him despite knowing what he was. Seeing their reactions, a small part of Ratchet wanted to feel joy. His creation was being accepted despite its heretical nature. If nothing else...

A remnant of Orion Pax endured.

Things changed again and quite drastically around the base in response to the drama. Ratchet became all but a complete exile. He couldn't be killed or otherwise removed due to his medical knowledge and expertise regarding all things Optimus, but he also was not regarded fondly. Arcee was outright hostile and often did her best to make his life difficult without impacting the rest of the team. More than once Ratchet found his energon laced with something or other intended to make his tanks churn. He tended to meet her gaze, glare, and chug the whole thing right in front of her. He knew punishment was what he deserved, and he accepted it.

Bulkhead, and Wheeljack once he returned and was filled in, both kept to the habit of simply serving as Optimus's body guards in a way. They never left the false Prime alone in the same room with Ratchet, and even when they were all together as a team, they kept the medic from his creation at all costs. Smokescreen for his part tried to play moral support as much as possible and did everything in his power to keep the team from trying to murder Ratchet. There was a degree of appreciation in the medic's spark at the rookie's actions, but deep down every single bot knew that the only reason Ratchet still lived was because he was needed.

Heresy, traitorous behavior, lying, scheming, unholy artificial intelligence creation, blasphemy, unethical experimentation. The list went on. If he were on Cybertron, he would be lucky to only have a quick execution and his creation dismantled and throw in the deep archives to never be touched again.

Bumblebee was the only one of the team who seemed to be less angry and more understanding. Ratchet played a significant role in his rearing, and for that reason, Bumblebee seemed to be able to sniff out the fact that Ratchet had good intentions in creating Optimus Prime. The scout, despite lacking a voice, took up a role as temporary leader while the true commander of the Autobots dealt with an identity crisis to rival those who underwent empurata.

It was fine. Ratchet kept to himself and did not so much as look in Optimus's direction whenever the Prime emerged from his room to do something or other. However the odd glances he stole showed that his creation was hurting in every conceivable way. Betrayal shone in Optimus's optics as well as confliction so deep that it was obvious even from a distance. From what snippets Ratchet observed, Optimus did not know how to act anymore. He refused to offer Bumblebee any affection, seemingly fearful of what his actions meant. He second guessed every decision he was asked to make and only found himself able to move with fluency in combat where a swirling sea of thoughts was nearly impossible to maintain.

Relics were gathered, the team continued with their cold disregard for Ratchet, and Optimus clung to sanity by a mere string. He never uttered a word, but late in the night, Ratchet could hear him crying. The children were never informed of what had occurred, nor were the human government agents made aware. It was none of their concern. But of course, eventually Ratchet reached a breaking point when he traversed the halls late one night and found Optimus's door open, with the mech in question huddled up against the wall weeping. Optimus jolted when he entered, but Ratchet did not stop in his steps as he approached, knelt down beside his creation, and promptly began running scans.

"Why are you here, Ratchet?"

"You are my creation and our leader. It is my duty to tend to you."

"You were willing to kill me."

"Of course I was. You are an artificial intelligence, and I am sure you know from Orion's memory that such technology when combined with emotion can create... devastating effects."

"Then why leave me alive? Why create me at all?"

"Because we need a Prime. Your mission has not yet been completed. This war is still not won. Only once that is done are you permitted to be shut down."

"You won't let me die... will you?"

"No. You were too costly to make and currently hold far too much value to destroy. Do not forget, you are still Primus's chosen to the rest of the galaxy."

"I see. So it does not matter what I want, or what I feel. I am a fake anyway..."

"I will make you a promise Optimus."

"And what might that be?"

"When the time comes for you to be decommissioned, we shall die together."

"But you are a real Cybertronian. Why would you-?"

"I could theoretically make more like you, Optimus. That knowledge is dangerous. Not to mention, it is only right I receive punishment for desecrating the CNA and memory of my oldest friend."

"And so I must march on."

"Yes. Until this war is won. Then I will not stop you from choosing death."

"Very well."

A deal was made, and despite the pain that dwelled within both of them, Ratchet took comfort in his creation, and Optimus in his maker. There was understanding between them, a purpose which was to be fulfilled. When that was done, their sorrow would not matter anymore.

That was the truth they shared. And so as the weeks passed by, Optimus still wept, not accepting Ratchet's offer to shut down his emotional systems. Optimus's reasoning was that despite being artificial, he wanted to feel every single emotion. He wanted to enjoy the echo of life and pretend, if only for a while, that he was who he once thought himself to be. He focused himself on trying to go back to normal, only allowing himself to lament in the dead of night. As for Ratchet? He observed in silence and only allowed the guilt of all he had done to drown out all else when the others were not present.

He desecrated his friend, he destroyed his legacy.

All for the Autobots.

[denimbex1986]

'The moment Jodie Whittaker’s Doctor regenerated will go down history as one of the great rug-pulls of modern Who.

There she was, standing on a rocky outcrop, ready to hand over the mantle to the next in line. But this time there was an extra twist for those watching. Instead of regenerating into Ncuti Gatwa, who was announced as the next Doctor in 2022 after rising to fame in Netflix's Sex Education, people instead saw David Tennant standing in his place, ready to reprise the role he’d last held thirteen years ago.

To quote the Doctor, as he reacted to this change of plans: what?!

With that catchphrase (can a word be a catchphrase? With Tennant, anything is possible), he was back in the TARDIS, and I was immediately reinvested – catapulted back in time to a version of my teenage self where long scarves were sacred and Converse magically looked good when paired with pinstripe suits.

I wasn’t around for original Who, but watched from behind the sofa as my father (a lifelong fan) turned on the telly for the reboot in 2005. Terrifying as the Daleks may be, this show is catnip for kids: the monsters; the prospect of entering a magic box and going for adventures in time and space; and above everything else, the knowledge the Doctor will ultimately save the day.

Heading up the first rebooted series, Christopher Eccleston came and went, with a brooding kind of mystique to him – a bit too dour for my nine-year-old self, but the baddies kept me hooked: the gas-mask zombies, the Slitheen, even (shudder) the return of the Daleks. And just as I was getting properly into the show, along came David Tennant.

For millions of fans like me, Tennant wasn’t just a version of the Doctor: he was the definitive Doctor. Taking the reins from Eccleston after the show’s excellent but troubled first season (Eccleston has talked about how leaving the show put him on a BBC blacklist and almost destroyed his career), he immediately breathed fresh life into the character.

Alongside the showrunner Russell T Davies (who himself has an impressive list of credits to his name, including It's A Sin and Queer as Folk) Tennant helped launch Who into the stratosphere: suddenly, watching the show was (wait for it) cool, something that both kids and adults would tune in for. In its prime, Doctor Who under Tennant pulled in as many as 13m viewers - a world away from Jodie Whittaker's swansong, which only pulled in four.

Davies’ combination of grounded characters – he always took the time to flesh out the companion’s families and make their lives feel meaningful – and tightly plotted episodes was a winning combination. Think The Parting of the Ways, where the Doctor and Rose tearfully bid farewell on a bleak beach in Norway; or the haunting Midnight, which must be among his bleakest.

Of course, a great script is one thing, but selling it is another. As the face of the show, Tennant could switch from cheeky chappie to ultra-serious blaster of baddies in a nanosecond; yes, Eccleston had the gravitas, but Tennant had that, plus sass. And clearly, he loved playing the Doctor: a lifelong fan himself, he once told GWR FM, "Who wouldn't want to be the Doctor? I've even got my own TARDIS!" It’s a fair point.

Needless to say, I lapped it up; even more so when Catherine Tate came on board as the permanently furious Donna. It was a golden era, but alas, all good things must come to an end. When both Davies and Tennant left in 2010, the show struggled. Matt Smith was charismatic and chirpy, yes, but the writing, under Steven Moffat’s tenure, was blander, the plots more slapdash. Where were the classics: the Blinks, the Empty Children?

As the years progressed, I stopped watching entirely – as did many others. Doctor Who was no longer cool; it was once again the domain of nerds and dedicated fans who were invested enough in the show's lore that the fiendishly complicated scripts made sense (or indeed the show's revolving catalogue of rebooted monsters from the original series). For some, the bad patches were worth toughing out. Which is fine, of course; I’m a nerd myself.

Something was missing; a spark, perhaps. Both Jodie Whittaker and Peter Capaldi’s tenures suffered as a result of poor scriptwriting; the plots were shoddy. The Doctor suddenly started sprouting mysterious incarnations. Why were the Weeping Angels suddenly everywhere? I would read the series reviews and roll my eyes at the screen, longing for the good old days.

I was just about ready to hang up my sonic screwdriver for good - at least until I heard that Russell T Davies was coming back as the series’ showrunner once more, along with Tennant and Catherine Tate as his companion Donna. The classic gang, back together again, and returning for one more bite at the apple before passing on the mantle to Gatwa.

Bringing Tennant back was a masterstroke from Davies. If my ears pricked up, so too did the ears of thousands of ex-Whovians, hungry for some sweet nostalgia. And we’ve been amply rewarded: that first sight of Tennant strolling around London in his revamped Tardis made me squeal like a child. As did the first mention of “Allons-y!”, his old catchphrase.

Watching him bounce around the universe with old companion Donna has been a joy; even better, this is a Doctor brought firmly into the modern-day universe. He’s still recognisably himself, but this time around he has crushes on Nathaniel Curtis’ Isaac Newton (“He was so hot... oh! Is that who I am now?”) and lets Donna and her daughter Rose (Yasmin Finney) school him on pronoun usage. You can sense the mischief in Davies’ pen, as well as the clear love he still has for the series, peppering his scripts with Easter eggs galore.

So as the third and final special approaches, I’m not ready to let Tennant go yet. How could I be? We've only just gotten him back, but wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey rolls on, and it's been a joy to see the show looking more invigorated than it has in years.

Job done? With Davies in charge, I'm optimistic that the soft reboot he and Tennant have kick-started will continue in style. Gatwa has big shoes to fill, but one thing's for certain about Doctor Who: it's all about change. Roll on the future... but if Tennant ever decides to make another guest appearance, I'll be there in the blink of a Weeping Angel's eye.'

[askvectorprime]

Dear Vector Prime, When the Last Autobot turned Hi-Q into Optimus Prime, what happened to Hi-Q's body? Did his consciousness cease to exist? Were his own memories and personality overridden by that of Prime's? Does his original, organic Nebulan body still exist, entombed within Optimus' body?

Dear Q Querier,

That’s a very good question. When the Nebulan bio-engineer Doctor Arcana conceived of the binary bonding process, it was with a clear objective in mind: to grant Nebulan pilots fine motor control over Cybertronian bodies, connecting their nervous systems to the circuitry either remotely via radio or through a physical link at the neck. The original minds of the Autobots would themselves remain in radio contact with their human successors, providing invaluable cultural and strategic insight.

In practice, however, Arcana was no neuroscientist—and nobody involved in the project was prepared for the shift in qualia that would accompany the combination. The unique superposition of their brainwaves led to strange patterns of interference, their thoughts perfectly entangled with one another. Organic minds have much greater elasticity than our central processors, and show remarkable adaptability when converting our digital sensory input to analog sensations—so these gestalt beings would usually come to self-identify by their Cybertronian name. Assimilation failure, where the binary bond would fail to reconcile the two individuals within the body, is rare, but not unheard of: amongst the Autobots, Chromedome and Stylor would struggle most to overcome their differences, and have had the operation reversed post-war.

As an extension of Primus, the Last Autobot was blessed with a glimpse of his plan—and though he was initially surprised by the alien form the Chosen One had taken, it was the work of moments to perfect the binary bond between them, melding spark and soul into a singular life, embodied as a techno-organic fusion. The human body which had once belonged to Hi-Q was suffused with Nucleon, and seated there, intact, behind the windows in Prime’s chest. This was something of a vestigial organ, for in truth, the combination went much deeper; the two were bonded at a molecular level, Hi-Q’s DNA replicated throughout Prime’s genetic code. However, as a side-effect of the body’s enshrinement, Optimus Prime was unable to transform.

Perhaps Primus had intended this to be a sign of his will: that the war would end, the Cybertronian race no longer needing to change to meet its needs. Alas, were this the case, the universe had darker designs still. As battle called, Prime underwent surgery to remove the physical remnant of Hi-Q, restoring access to his alt-mode at the cost of the preternatural energy he possessed. At the request of Hi-Q’s relatives, an exemption was made to allow a number of Cybertronians passage to Nebulos, so that a funeral could be held. At the wake, Prime gave a short eulogy, in which he insisted that Hi-Q was not in fact dead, which gravely upset many of the mourners. The funeral marked the last time Prime would visit the planet.

Optimus Prime and Hi-Q were both great leaders who shared similar values of peace and freedom. In the wake of their merging, these feelings were only amplified, leaving their convictions stronger than ever before. However, both had struggled in the past to share their inner thoughts with others, preferring to bear their burdens alone. If Prime remembers being Hi-Q, or if he still thinks of himself as Hi-Q from time to time… he’s never said. However, it brings me some comfort to imagine that the self-doubt which troubled them both would have interfered destructively with their enormous mutual respect—leaving a self-acceptance that neither had independently known.

[dahyeltal]

Thinkin’ about lonely Spock Prime seeking out AOS McCoy at a Starfleet event in San Francisco and spending the evening with him...as Ambassador Selek.

Spock Prime knows how his McCoy liked to be treated, and it turns out that this McCoy is no different. McCoy is wined and dined, lured closer and closer by ‘Selek’s endless wit and banter, and the compliments didn’t hurt either. McCoy hadn’t felt love at first sight since he met Joss and Clay back in middle school, but this handsome stranger had him wrapped around his finger. When his probability of success was at its highest, Spock Prime ended the night by propositioning McCoy, who happily accepted.

Spock Prime takes McCoy to his nearby apartment at the Vulcan embassy, and McCoy remarks offhandedly that the room reminded him of his ‘Vulcan coworker.’ Spock Prime feels a burning jealousy that his counterpart had McCoy right here with him, unclaimed. Spock Prime scent marks him to hell and back without realizing it, marks him like he was in the throes of Pon Farr, with McCoy loving every second of it. McCoy calls out sick the next day—hard to doctor when you can’t sit or walk comfortably—and they spend the day together, with Spock Prime pampering McCoy until the human is fully in love with him.

When McCoy goes back to work, Spock knows. His counterpart’s scent is so deeply embedded in McCoy that he knows the second he enters the room. But he also knows that McCoy doesn’t know Ambassador Selek’s true identity, and he’s not allowed to know. McCoy can know of Spock Prime’s existence but not his identity. Spock is upset for McCoy, or at least that’s what he tells himself when he confronts his counterpart with barely concealed disdain.

Spock Prime is remorseful and apologetic, seeing now, without the intoxicating replica of his former bondmate nearby, that his actions were made in error. He promises young Spock he will no longer interfere with the doctor, and Spock presses him for his logic. Why McCoy? Why, out of everyone there that evening, was he chosen? “Because I enjoy his company most.”

Spock is confused by his counterpart’s statement but is given no more information. 

They return to their routine, take off for another mission, and all is well...until Spock catches a despondent McCoy in the hall outside their adjoining quarters as he leaves for his shift. While the doctor was normally emotional, this behavior was different.

As was his openness when he asked Spock: “Do Vulcans normally give you the best date of your life and then ignore all attempts at communication?”

Spock is taken aback, unsure of how to respond. “It is atypical behavior, as it is for humans,” he decides as the diplomatic approach. “You should focus on the mission at hand, as he is not worth your attention.”

“How did you know I was with a man?”

Spock has no answer, only an order. “You are late to your shift, please report to sickbay as scheduled.”

😘

REMEMBER: Spones day is on June 26th! Be sure to follow @sponeszine for updates!

[slocumjoe]

If you were to rate the Fo4 companions from most to least favourite how would you rate them?

I can't list them in order, because I have too many feelings on them....and also, I love them all! It's just...there's such a Rollercoaster of quality of writing, of character concept, of VA performance, of actual attention and care given to the meat-and-potatoes aspects...

Like, I can say I have a favorite (Danse) and a least favorite (Piper) and a dude in the middle who I give not a crap about (Deacon), but I still like these characters??? They're fun! Its just, I like my idea of them more than what's actually there.

So, uhhhh

RORY TALKS ABOUT THE COMPANIONS 2 ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

this is basically a long-post of a bunch of mini-essays, so grab a snack or nice bev and get cozy

Cait, to me, is a prime example of "this character sounds better on paper". I've already complained about her three greatest flaws; being bloated, being mishandled, and being a very confused character. If I were to describe Cait, it would be that she's a troubled young woman who was traumatized all her life, but understands that it's effected her heavily and wants to work past it and better herself.

In game, she's...an Irish Girl. She talks about drinking and fucking and fighting. If not that, she's detailing her absolutely horrific life. It gives me tonal whiplash. I feel like they were too busy adding things on rather than fleshing her out. I mean, really...what is the significance of the Tough Irish Girl type in the wasteland, where everyone acts that way? Is Cait an example of your average wastelander, someone whos supposed to show the daily life in this world? Well...no, that can't be it, she's put away from others, an outsider who doesn't fit in whatever circumstances she finds herself in. She doesn't belong with raiders, she doesn't fit into the average civilian life. So, is she about ostracization and how even after being nuked, there still is a society to ostracize people? That is brought up in text, but that's not at all Cait's thing, that concept is with Hancock.

I travel with Cait to quickly get her affinity up to speedrun her "recovery" (see the Cait breakdown to learn my thoughts on That Fucking Chair) because I want her to get better...but I don't like traveling with her that much. It's not just that she often disagrees with my usual choices, she's just rather flat. I don't get the impression that the writers really considered her psychology, what she stood for, what someone should or could take away from her.

But I like her conceptually. There's a lot of fun and emotional catharsis to be had with a traumatized character like her, someone who has to navigate life after escaping her bad situations, and not knowing what to do with the survival instincts she had to cultivate, but no longer needs.

Codsworth is inoffensive to me, and I like sassy but polite characters. I find them refreshing in settings like Fallout. I had more fun imagining his lines as thinly-veiled bitching than sincerity, though. I think he's fine, just simple. Simple is best, sometimes. I wouldn't trust Beth to give the indentured servitude robot an even remotely palatable story, given how they handled the synths and their whole thing...

But Codsworth, I like having him around. He's the lemon water to the black coffee, sugary soda, whiskey, and occasional cups of tar. He's needed at a palette cleanser.

Curie should have been a main plot companion, argue with the wall. She's a Ms. Nanny who becomes a synth, which are functionally human beings. She has a lot of narrative potential, being an example and counterargument for many different things.

Unfortunately, she's kept mostly a secret, being the most hidden companion, and she's left as a simple French maid fantasy. I'm not even sure why they bothered to make her a doctor. It has nothing to do with how she's actually handled and presented. Curie's more often blushing than meaningfully interacting with the world. She talks to Amari, she becomes a synth, and the rest of her story is just her going KYAA~ at the SS. I wish they gave her some edge, some weirdness. I like my version where she's this slightly pretentious, condescending, incredibly old-seeming entity that clearly doesnt come from around here.

Danse...my boy. My boy. I adore him. You don't need me to explain why. And you don't need me to explain why his incomplete writing infuriates me.

I've said before he's very similar to Hancock, and since I have something else I want to discuss about with Johnny down in this, I'll use Danse's slot to discuss it, very quickly.

Danse and Hancock are remarkably similar people and characters, even there is parts that drift or parallel in their differences.

Substance dependency (Hancock does chems, Danse is a canonical alcoholic)

They both struggled to find their footing and place in the world, and hate the people they were in their act 1's (Hancock's takes place during his founding of Goodneighbor, Danse's after BB)

They're fiercely loyal and protective of 'their people', even if it can take a LOT for them to consider someone 'their people'

Both are suicidal and identity plays a huge part (Hancock pretends to be someone he isn't, Danse is desperate to be the person he thought he was this whole time/hates that he isn't who he thought he was)

Both of these characters are two sides of the same coin. It's just that Danse's upbringing led him to believe in authority and control being the best way to help and take care of the wasteland, Hancock's upbringing (filled with corrupt authority and control) led him to believe in an egalitarian, we-all-lift mindset where the people have the power, he's just the guy who people talk to about any issues. It's somewhat implied that Cutler was similar to Hancock, judging by Danse's few lines about Cutler.

So uuuhhh Todd where the fuck is the last 2 arcs for danse and last arc for hancock? todd? todd where the fu

As said above, Deacon is nothing to me. I like him. I don't care about him much. I think he's fun to play with, but the moment you start getting into his backstory/angst, I slide right the fuck off.

Okay, the Barb thing. Dead wife. Fucking boring story, done to death. At the point I met Deacon, I had already met Mac, Nick, knew of Longfellow and his deal. So it was like "JESUS they really dont know any other reason for a dude to be sad, do they." But the thing that keeps me from caring about Deacon is that no one can agree if Barb is real. If that actually happened.

...his backstory is supposed to inform his character. Why is Deacon doing this? Because of his backstory. If his backstory isn't real, we know nothing about Deacon, and he is, functionally, not a character. Why does Deacon lie if Barb didnt happen? Dunno. He just...does. Why is Deacon helping synths? Uhh...we needed an RR companion? Deacon's character rides or dies on Barb. If she's real, then the rest of him makes sense. She's the windex and towel to the cloudy glass house that is the rest of him. If she isn't, Deacon...doesn't matter, in any meaningful way. He's a guy in the RR who lies about everything, which means you can't care about him. Because there is nothing to care about, because it's all bullshit.

So, that's my thoughts on Deacon, in-canon. I don't know what his deal is or if his proposed deal is genuine, so I can't click with him. But in my own canon, Barb is real, so my Deacon ken-doll does appeal to me. But in Fallout 4, in text, I regard him the same as I do Tom Bombadil. To give you an idea of how flimsy Deacon is in text, a prevailing fan theory from around 2017-18 was that Deacon was Mrs. Rosa's son. Mrs. Rosa was a pre-war neighbor. Her son was a kid. The fact that Deacon is so weird and fluid and almost omniscient isn't a plus for me, it isn't a point of fascination. It's a puzzle that I know doesn't have a finished product, so I leave and go hang out with Danse, who can't speak if he isn't being absurdly blunt.

Gage is a character that deserved a better DLC. The more I think about Nuka World the more I kinda wish it was just Gage and the handmade rifle, instead the map...but that's about Nuka World. Gage himself could have easily been a swing and a miss and fall face-first into the dirt, but he's a surprisingly well-written character? There are layers of psychology with him. You can look at an action or opinion he has, and map it to something that happened to him. You can literally unravel why he does what he does, is who he is. His writers had a concept for him, and they worked backwards to understand why he would become that way.

What really sells him is his VA. Rolston put his whole pussy into that performance. Gage has so many lines that would be utter cringe if not full-assed. The "That vault suit makes your ass look great" line comes to mind...i've seen modded followers with similar lines, and jesus christ i want to pepper spray some of them. It helps that Gage has multiple faucets to his personality. It also helps that he is intentionally distinct from the other raiders, and occasionally doesn't associate with them, himself. It gives him standards and principles, which help give him shape and dimension. Good character. He isn't my favorite, that's Danse, but he's up there.

Hancock is such a waste of a character and it boggles me no one else seems to think so.

He starts on a bad note because his core reason for existing, is Beth wanted a historical figure reference. There's a reason he gives you a history lesson about John Hancock, it's so everyone knows exaclty what Johnny Ghoulie is a reference to. It's not even so much a reference, because it is a direct mimicking. I cannot stand the moments in 4 where something exists because the team learned a fun historical trivia fact, and wanted to pepper in that they did research. I've already bitched about their love of this with the Railroad at some point on this blog.

I genuinely wouldn't mind Hancock if he wasn't pulling so limp-dickedly. It's specifically the contrivance of explaining why this dude is called John Hancock, in John Hancock's clothing. It's okay if they pull from history and allude to it, But Hancock is just...some history stuff tacked on, with no real thought or care. The clothing, the name, the catchphrase. I feel like this is Disney's Hamilton on Ice.

But moving away from that...what is the point of Hancock?

Is his character about drug use and addiction? NOPE, only Cait's addiction is noteworthy. Okay...idenity issues, since he's larping? Not really. It could be, but that's not at all of interest to the story/writing itself. The Hancock thing is an aesthetic, not a trait. So, don't have that either. Is his character about leadership, in any capacity? Kinda, I guess. He briefly mentions insecurities and guilt about it a few times. But if I said "Hancock's story is about leadership", most people would raise an eyebrow and ask why. Not because it's...wrong, it's just not prominent enough to say that's his story, definitively.

So...what is the point of him? What should I take away from Hancock? Duty to the people? Preston does that, and does it better/more explicitly. Regret about past actions? Mac does that. Protecting the people from political corruption? Piper's thing (AND WE'LL GET TO FUCKING PIPER.) What is there to Hancock that isn't done by another companion? It isn't his depression because ALL these bitches be suicidal. What is unique to Hancock? Pretending to be someone else? Deacon. Drugs? Cait. Trying to figure out who you are, removed from the expections that come with having been someone else? Nick. Leadership, and the failures of it? Danse. Struggling to navigate the world in a new, different body, as a new person, functionally? Curie.

The only thing I can think of is mentioned only twice, and is immediately brushed off; the questionable nature of your leader being buddy-buddy with you, and acting like 'one of the bros' even as they hold power over you and have resources you don't. Parasocial government, if you will. It's brought up by Finn and Bobby No-Nose and is shut down/forgotten.

So...the only thing unique to Hancock, and it's regulated to, like, 3 individual throw-away lines. 2 of which you can miss.

Great.

Again, I like him. I just like him when I'm writing him, and can actually have him work through his shit and concepts. But as he stands, he's just...hey, y'know John Hancock? New Vegas also pulled from history, but New Vegas had shit to say about it. There was debating. There was actual philosophy and politics. There wasn't some dude named Caesar who was just...hanging out. What does Fallout 4 say about John Hancock?

Here's something you can say about Hancock; Hancock owned slaves. He inherited them from his uncle, Thomas Hancock. He later freed them due to terms in Thomas' will. But the guy Fallout 4 meagerly puts up as a figure of freedom and independence, and duty to fellow man, was a slave owner, and had slave owning family.

So, what does that mean for our Hancock? Who looked up to this guy, mantled him, and this guy is, in some way, a perversion of his own ideals.

And our Hancock's favorite quote is from Lincoln. Who started the Civil War. Did Lincoln own slaves? Contested, i couldn't find any clear answers. But Hancock mantles a slave owner, using a quote from the president that would try to outlaw slavery, while pushing for freedom and independence and anarchist rhetoric.

Is that the best you can do with Hancock? No. But it's an example.

MacCready, I've compared to a can of Campbell's soup. He's simple, he's decently-done. He's not Codsworth's lemon water but he isn't Cait's tar. I often struggle to write MacCready because he's so simple. There's not much there, he isn't a complex character. He's not even a complex person. And I like that! I like that the grumpy mercenary is a normal guy, who's just going through the motions and has simple desires. His type is often tar and I'm happy to see that subverted.

Its just that his lack of complexity means there's not much to say about him that you don't already know. He's accessible, which is a good thing. Most people don't want to drink tar, but if you're reaching for a fun beverage, you're not often reaching for water, either.

I think the best thing about MacCready is how excellent he is as a romance option. I think he's the strongest romantic choice in the game, period, largely due to him being a simple guy. I would go for MacCready IRL, because he's a good dad, he has good work ethic, and he's emotionally available and isn't afraid to talk feelings, without being a clusterfuck of issues. I love Danse, but you have to talk him out of suicide before you do anything, and he himself will admit that there's going to be a lot of issues simply because he doesn't know what he's doing or what he wants out of his new life.

You don't get that with MacCready. He knows what he wants and who he is and what he cares about. He's such a solid romantic interest, and there's incredible fic potential with the Sole Survivor and MacCready both as soon-to-be grieving parents.

On the flipside, I can't understand people who romance Nick and think its all sunshine and roses. Mini-rant, but /rad-roche (i think thats their user?) has the right idea, with Nick being a hot mess of unresolved issues who is never not projecting or in denial. Nick is not fit for a romantic relationship, not in the state you see him in game. Especially not before Far Harbor. Especially if you don't get the good ending of Far Harbor. I know, bisexual women, I'm sorry. He's got more shit than Danse and Hancock combined. I write romantic Nick prompts as if this isn't the case, but make no mistake. Me giving yall what you want is not me under the impression that this is a good idea.

Anyway. Nick himself.

Dead wife. Booo. I've already complained about his dumbass quest, which i really dislike for all its contrivances. Also, I find him mismatched with the world around him, and I wish there was more attention paid to that. He's a stock character playing out in real life (in Fallout 4's real life, that is). He's a 40's noir flick detective. This character does not belong in a post-apocalypse. This is an urban setting character. Fallout is not urban.

But that doesn't mean he can't exist! I just wish they went more ham with it. I mean, how does a detective function in a lawless wasteland, full of secrets simply because there's so few people see shit happening, know what goes down? It's an information blackout, out there, and a detective is all about information. Nick deserved to be let loose and go full camp on it all. Instead, we got 2 piddly little piss stains of "mystery" side quests. With someone as clashing as Nick, you really need to either sand down the edges to make him fit, or make the fact he's so weird part of the Thing. Nick is played incredibly straight, and given that that man is clearly lgbtq+, i find that almost a waste. Let this man be deranged. This is why Far Harbor is best Nick. He's holding together in the base game, but i don't want him holding together. I want him to suffer. I want him to monolog like Hamlet before driving a cane into someone's forehead.

Now, as for Piper...

Oh, Piper.

You were doomed.

You were so fucking doomed.

I've written about Piper and her shitty paper multiple times, so if you want a refresher, go to my blog > pinned post > meta section, and find the Piper posts. My peer review of The Synthetic Truth will be your best look into what I think of Piper.

The thing is, if you removed her awfully done journalism aspect, I'd like her base form! When she isn't going on and on about shit that's either wrong, baseless, or presumptuous, she's sassy, she's community-orianted, she's mischievous, she's kinda sardonic. She has a sugar problem. She's a burnt out 20 year old with a parentification issue. There's a lot to like here! The problem is they set up the journalism, fuck it up, and then veer hard-right and crash into the "I'm raising a kid when I'm not even an adult either" thing, where it had no build up or time to unfold naturally.

In my own little world, Piper's journalism fuckups are addressed and have consequences. I don't want her smoothed out and perfect, I want her glaring flaws to be intentional and acknowledged. And that just doesn't happen in text.

Ive also got a ramble on my thoughts on Preston. I've said before I don't like his voice acting most of the time, and I actually got a lot of pushback?? But the people who disagreed didnt...disagree...they just pointed out that John Gentry had a gnarly recording circumstance. I think it was that his first takes weren't supposed to be the final product, because he wasn't really intended to be the VA? Something like that, I forget. Point is, I said John Gentry obviously had a rough time in the booth, and wasn't given a fair shot, and people went "No, his voice acting is good! John Gentry just had a rough time with his line recording and wasn't given a fair shot!"

M-ma'am. Thats...what I said.

If it makes anyone feel better, I don't like the majority of the voice acting in this game...a lot of it is very 'modded skyrim character.' Remember the Skyrim Romance Mod? Thats what most of it sounds like to me. Remember Mrs. Peabody? Holy shit. Do not let anyone involved in that cook ever again. I also have personal beef with Nate. The male VA for the SS...someone, somewhere, made a bunch of choices. It was the wrong one, frequently. (The only good male SS line i can think of is the one romancing Danse. Has some texture to it. It's shy and cute, very good)

As for Preston himself, love him, love my paragon good-guy characters. He's such a sweetheart but he's down for bloodshed. I adore those kinds of characters, those "do no harm, take no shit" types. He's treated as a fluffball by fanon (when not suffering racist ass takes or absolute disregard), but Preston has got some lovely edges to him. If you go through his dialogue page and his approvals, you'll find he can be hard at times. There are moments he approves of 'asshole' choices, which is very fun. I love this dude.

Anyway hot take. IF HE WAS WHITE, ALL OF THESE BITCHES WOULD LIKE HIM. YEAH. I SAID IT. He'd be a depressed white man who's buff and kind and snarky, and you Danse girlies, you Nick girlies, you Deacon girlies, all of them would love him too. He is tailor made for standom but nooo, he isn't #FFFFFF so I guess he's doomed to stupid ass settlement jokes.

Yall lack taste. Hawk puhtoo.

SPEAKING OF AWFUL FUCKING TASTE, LEAVE MY BABY X6-88 ALONE.

X6-88 is so unappreciated. Grotesquely so, by both Bethesda and fans.

X6-88, I've said many times, is a spoiled rich man's cat who sits all poised and hisses if you so much as look at it if you're below a certain tax bracket. He's fussy and egotistical and snippy and dislikes bugs, children, water, heights, and generally anything above ground. He gushes over Danse and thinks he's the coolest. He'll let you kill the Institute if you're Railroad or Minutemen and have high affinity with him. He'll brag about getting to travel with you with his courser buddies. He's a fucking dork.

X6-88 is a nerd/prep who could be goth if left in a Hot Topic to run wild, but until then, he's in a suit for his private school and he's going to sit on HIS bench at recess and snipe at the rival school children with his friends and then he goes home and complains that his english eacher failed him on his Roman history test for writing it in perfect Latin. That is X6-88.

If you don't like X6-88 we cannot be friends. Fuckiung look at him. He's such a little shit. He's perfect.