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astral-herald · 2 months ago

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Viktor's (subverted) Aristotelian Tragedy

A common sentiment I’m seeing throughout post-finale Viktor discourse is an understandable concern or distaste for the element of choice lost throughout his story. I know a lot of us – myself included – expected more time spent on his transformation, along with emphasis on the anger/rage/betrayal fueling it. But seeing him allow Singed to “begin the process” in episode 8 reminded me of Arcane’s origins – tragedy. Bear with me for another long analysis :)

Aristotle wrote the following on the tragedy: “A tragedy is the imitation of an action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in itself…with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish a catharsis of these emotions.” He also emphasized that the true tragic hero couldn’t be perfect, and his downfall into such catharsis-inducing circumstances was reliant on a fatal flaw, oftentimes pride.

Viktor fits this mold, as do many Arcane characters, and it stands to reason that this was intentional since the writing team has reiterated that the show is a tragedy, at its core.

Regarding Viktor’s fatal flaw, I’d argue it’s pride, but it manifests very uniquely. He never makes any grand declarations about his success and doesn’t draw attention to himself in any clear way throughout season one (“Progress Day” comes to mind). Instead, his pride manifests as staunch independence and self-reliance that lead to his downfall; his unwillingness to break his stoic mold arguably led to his use of the Hexcore…so it goes.

Fascinating caveat: Viktor’s pride is a defense mechanism, a necessary tool he built in order to survive and succeed in a hostile environment to people of his station. His self-reliance is increasingly desperate as his illness worsens. He’s cornered by fate but banks on the sanctity of choice at every turn – in season one, Viktor is bound by the conviction that we all have a choice. It’s why he’s so distressed when Jayce makes the wrong one regarding weaponizing Hextech.

“There is always a choice.”

Viktor’s choice to fuse with the Hexcore is the classic Aristotelian fatal flaw moment, the singular incident that opens the flood gates for eventual catharsis. We watch Viktor make an irreparable choice, one that we know to be bad, and endure the repercussions. He then makes the choice to abandon the Hexcore, and end his life, but audiences can’t shake the feeling that those consequences aren’t leaving anytime soon.

So why is Viktor so anti-choice in his final season 2, act 3 form?

Choice is Viktor’s weapon. Pride is what leads him to abusing it. Despite how uncomfortable and depressing it is to watch, Viktor’s slow descent into the Herald is a perfect twist of fate. The Arcane is even so insidious that it meshes with his original intent, to help those suffering in the undercity, while convincing him that their subservience is healing. He becomes responsible for their choices. He knows what’s best because he’s relieving the Gloriously Evolved of their suffering, right? The utopia is for the greater good, yes?

Admittedly, it was really hard watching act 3 Viktor descend fully into his choiceless ethos. But we can still relate it to his tragic flaw – his pride has mushroomed into coldhearted omniscience; not only does he know what’s best for everyone, evolution, but he also has the sense to make the choice for them to supersede their “baser instincts.” The grief we feel upon seeing this perverted, violent version of himself, as far removed from Viktor as possible, is the culmination of Aristotle’s treatise on tragedy. The catharsis is the rock-bottom Machine Herald.

"Choice is false."

But then Arcane decided to basically make Jayvik canon (get out of here, Christian Linke) and destroyed the early drafts of this post. I’m going to rapid-fire this next bit:

Jayce forces Viktor back to life. Viktor has no agency in his season 2 inciting incident. Again, it’s distressing when we mourn his agency, but it remains in accordance with Aristotelian tragedy.

Viktor clings to humanity as long as he possibly can. When Jayce calls out Viktor’s trajectory, alleging that his old partner had died in the Council chamber, whatever is left of Viktor gives way to the Arcane because his last tether has been snapped.

Jayce knows the game – Old Man Jenkins Mage Viktor told him so. Jayce becomes the linchpin in subverting Viktor’s tragedy. He knows what must happen. He understands now.

Machine Herald Viktor is given the chance to undo his fatal flaw, to reverse the catharsis, when he sees Old Man Jenkins Mage Viktor. With Jayce’s help, he takes it.

Given that it’s a version of Viktor who ultimately frees him from himself by empowering Jayce, we can gather that Viktor has liberated himself from his tragedy.

Aristotle’s catharsis is rapidly transformed from something based in release to something healing – Viktor’s tether to humanity returns. He grasps it. The walls of his pride and self-reliance collapse. He accepts Jayce’s help, finally being seen as the full individual he is. Catharsis ensues, for sure, but I don’t think it’s based in the typical tragedy genre.

All this to say, I think Viktor’s arc was, in fact, carefully constructed. He represents the Aristotelian descent into a fatal flaw and that’s very distressing to see unfold, especially since he embodied the tragic hero archetype so well from day one. However, Jayce undoes this narrative and we’re given an incredibly subversive ending that I, personally, never saw coming.

I’m sure that Mage Viktor has a much larger bearing on this analysis than I’m accounting for. But for now, suffice to say that he is Viktor’s way out of the tragedy. TALK ABOUT CHOICE!

This doesn’t erase anyone’s discomfort for Viktor having less and less agency, but I’d like to emphasize the logic and literary precedent behind the story decisions.

PS: here's a quick source I looked at about Aristotelian tragedies. I hope to re-up on Greek tragedies so I can get more specific about the parallels Arcane draws from them.

#wow! big one! thanks for reading if you stuck thru to the end #if you couldn't tell...i am a fan of viktor's entire story #it still doesn't feel fully real to me #and OFC they could have - and should have - spent way more time showing rather than telling #but that's a problem unfortunately endemic to the entire season so i see no point in dwelling too much #i just. i love him #and i will never stop talking about him for as long as i live ok ok #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #jayce talis #jayvik #arcane meta #arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane s2 #arcane spoilers #also i fucking love old man jenkins mage viktor and nobody will silence me on that front #viktor propaganda

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the-glorious-evolution-fanart · 2 months ago

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This is the anon who sent the Stanwick ask.

I'd like to apologize for hurting you, your ace friends and any other ace fans of Viktor by implying that asexual Viktor is another negative among Arcane's writing flaws. It's not.

I thought I was pointing out how the confirmation of Viktor being ace wasn't good because of when and who confirmed it (Christian Linke) not the fact that asexuality being included was the problem and didn't think I was being acephobic in my remark, but when I reread my ask a few times I realized I wasn't paying attention to how I sounded to the ace community. I'm really sorry for not realizing how much Viktor being confirmed as ace means to other fans especially to those who have stuck by this character for a long time. After all, who am I to decide for others what's good ace rep?

Also thank you very much for replying to my earlier ask in so much detail even though I sounded like a stuck-up jerk.

Hey hi, you don't have to apologize to me, I wasn't hurt. I don't think you did something bad or sounded like a jerk. Personally I'm really not in the cancel-culture mindset over fandom people who aren't harming people. You're also on Anon so I don't think anyone could find you. I just wanted to point out how a particular way of thinking or rather, tunnel vision can mislead.

I don't think your wording implied being ace is bad. I think it's just about the focus of one's thoughts and goals!

I understand (and have seen) the massive pushback against that writer. I'd point out two things: Death of the Author can be applied here, especially as a character being ace or not really is not problematic as a topic; I'd say other things are, for example how Undercity (Zaun) people are described, written and talked about in a degrading or insulting manner (like saying they're jealous of Piltover's success/riches, oftentimes emphasizing Zaunites' negative traits such as sliminess and in the end strongly implying they have to work together with Piltovians if things are to "get better"). This in particular makes me a bit sad because back before 2014. Zaun was envisioned as a fantasy representation of Eastern and South-Eastern Europe, my area of the world. Viktor has my accent. Zaun was turned from a powerhouse equaling Piltover, to its slums with the lore retcon. Anyway;

Death of the Author: viewing facts in a work without taking into consideration the author's intents and feelings they wanted to convey. This is only one of a bunch of approaches to investigating a work of art. When "Viktor being ace" is viewed as an intentional tool of a writer to stop JayVik, it looks extremely toxic. (There's a larger discussion here to be had, if authors have the right to create pairings in their own works or write characters as not being in a relationship. Do we have the right to like and dislike, or do we have to be forced to like everything? But keep reading, I have more thoughts on Arcane's case.) However in the context of just the work itself (I don't recall seeing Arcane showing definite proof of Viktor having that kind of drive, unlike Jayce, Vi, etc.) it's only a character trait.

Lastly, canon is just what a group of people picked. You're not restricted nor forced to honour canon, and you aren't obligated to feel pain if canon doesn't align with some things you wanted, when it comes to your personal feelings. Be free! I've made very important friendships in my life thanks to the old Viktor lore. The pain I feel from removal of a character is because I will not be able to share thoughts and excitement about that character with more people in the future, as odds of new people discovering the old retconned lore dramatically decrease. From what I've seen, there's no threat of that happening to jayvik! That tag receives an astronomically higher note count than isolated Viktor the Machine Herald content.

Maybe it's been always like this, but modern fandom puts too much emphasis on what end points of canon are, and treat it as a war like some side can "win" it, forgetting that the choices about what happens in a linear storyline with a beginning and an end lie way way more in the hands of the authors. This creates massive toxicity over something that can't really be influenced, unless you deem death threats and petitions to authors over ships to be a valid tool for "winning in escapism". (I'm not implying you personally, just showing what is the ultimate weapon in this line of thinking.) I'd put only one caveat here, and that has to do with cases of multiple teams of writers who write opposite narratives with opposite goals, in that case it's good to analyze and figure out which narrative is better, stronger, more aligned with the story's themes and so on. I think way more weight actually lies in the middle body of work - character dynamics, how their relationships connect to the work's topics. I don't feel multiple relationship narratives was the case with Arcane (but I reserve the right to be wrong) - I feel like Arcane intentionally (sadly) used bait. I don't ship it, yet I felt bait when I watched Arcane. I think this fact strongly contributes to toxicity, and I heavily disagree with that marketing tool.

In the end, I hope I didn't frighten you with this long response, I'm sorry I don't sound more coherent, and I think you're free to ship jayvik if you like it and are allowed to discard a writer's words without need to deny a piece of information that may or may not be included by authors into Arcane! (It depends where you draw a circle around canon, do you view only the Series from opening scene of first episode to the end credits of the last, or if you include additional facts - not opinions - authors add in surrounding commentary.) For example, while I don't like Zaunites being written as jealous or required to help Piltovians, I'm not gonna say that didn't happen in Arcane because "that would be bad writing". It's a fact in the writing. It's bad. What I can do, is say I will discard that fact in my fanworks!

#thank you for the message!#i feel like I tied myself into a pretzel #arcane analysis

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maluron · 1 year ago

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you know how last week @snowflakechallenge had us make a list of fandom stuff we'd like to see happen? well yesterday it was "create a fanwork" and

here's my take on "Machine Herald deals with Naph coming down with a cough", untitled little genfic that'll probably need editing later (also if someone else still wants to spin their own take on that prompt please please please please do so?)

Naph interrupts his work to cough into his sleeve. Again.

Everyone down there coughs now and then; it's a fact of life in Zaun. Everyone, even the chembarons who use breathing masks like the pilties they've all but became. The only exception is those who have entirely replaced their respiratory system as a last resort--being the only one to offer such services, the Machine Herald is well-aware of the fact, and there are not many of them. The air is cleaner now than it's been up to a decade ago, thanks to filters more performants, more numerous, better maintained. At least, the air less aggressive than it was, but it's still a far shout from clean. Infections are still common even if thankfully outright Sump Rot and Lung Blight are on the decrease.

Still. With Naph today it's happened already too much in too little time. More than the boy usually does. A persistent cough, coupled with glassy eyes and a slight slowness in his work... Viktor fires up a thermal sensor and checks: and there's a moderate fever. A minor infection then; no need to fret.

As he's suppressed his fear response he does not worry anyway, whatever the situation, only takes in facts and acts on them. But even if he still could worry there would be no cause here and now.

Naph tries to hide the affliction, of course. That's children of Zaun for you. They learn very young, way too young, to hide weakness. When asking for help goes unanswered, you rely on ourself only. Naph is no different. Viktor himself, so long ago, wasn't either. It doesn't mean that they should keep on that way.

Why does Viktor care about this one more than others? He cares about the nebulous concept of "the children of Zaun should live in better conditions". What makes this one different is that he's not afraid of him. Well... back when they first met he was afraid of The Machine Herald but willing to see for himself the rumors' basis and to learn more. And also, to get rid of his fear when it impeded him. Clever boy. That was a good start. Naph came back time and again. He does want to learn. And so... Viktor admits that he got used to his presence. Having no emotions he can't say that he enjoys sharing knowledge and encouraging learning. But it's logical to want to form apt minds to do the good work.

Also, he's built a sense of familiarity out of Naph. Even though he's only one out of many street urchins. Having no emotions, again, he's not afraid he'll die, he would not be upset should he die. Not more upset than at any other failure--every and any preventable death is a failure. So why would this one be worse? ...maybe because of the personal investment he's been making in his education, should it go to waste.

Still. This cough. It's not nothing but it's not dire. And it still needs adressing.

When Naph coughs again, Viktor puts a stop on whatever he was doing. "That's it. No workshop for you today." "What! But..." "I won't have you coughing all over this prototype, spray particules on delicate circuitry and mess up soldering whenever a fit interrupts you."

One could hold up a finger from any hand to emphasize a point and of course The Machine Herald does so with his freakng Hexclaw from extra emphasis. That's final.

Naph does not want to be sent home, that's obvious. Viktor never asked what home was for the boy, if home existed at all, if anyone will take care of him there. Naph is also afraid of being confined to bed, deemed uselss. Neither will happen. Viktor put a stop on the working and even the learning but prefers to keep him close as long as needed.

The bits he was tinkering with are swept away and replaced byt a hot drink--not sweetmilk this time but some nasty tea, heaped with honey that doesn't entirely mask its bitterness. A cold compress os offered--fever is the body's natural response against illness--Viktor is no medical doctor but opines it's better to let it run its course and to suppress it only if too high or gets too uncomfortable. There is no use in feeling crappy if one can help it after all, there's no glory in suffering--after all he offers time and again to anyone wulling to evolve past the possibilities of suffering!

So Naph has to rest even if he doesn't take well the idea of staying idle under his mentor's watchful eye. On different circumstances he would gladly take the oportunity to slack off... if there were no immediate consequences at least. But letting down The Machine Herald by not being up to... whatever expectations he had? There is no expectation on you, at least not today, except for you to get better. And that's out of your hands anyway. Defeated, Naph agrees he won't be able to do anything too hard. Light reading it is then, something that even looks merely recreational--yet Viktor assures him that no no there are history and life lessons in it and swears it is educational. That it's not slacking off.

Naph won't even ask how comes The Machine Herald ever got less-educational reading materials in the first place. After making faces at his tea however he finds the never to ask, "And so, you won't give a copper head for that?" "I won't." He will not give him even wire mesh lungs. At least not yet. Hopefully never. As he did on himself to replace his own failing lungs back in the days. Luckily Naph shouldn't need that. This is only a cold. And sure chest colds can get nasty, but it's not chem lung. (Not yet.) And even if, caught early there are ways to slow the progress down, and when it's progressed too far, to graft replacements. But with more luck, by the time Naph grows up chem lung won't even happen anymore?

"Now, we've had this conversation already and we can have it again when you're better ('cause he will get better--the odds are all in his favour) if you want me to give you copper-plated cranial augments..." Naph snorts, laughs, coughs again and laughs some more and manages to cut Viktor's speech short.

#arcane #league of legends #machine herald #naph #snowflakechallenge2024 #help i am TERRIFIED of posting stuff for big BIG fandoms #do it anyway

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gailynovelry · 2 years ago

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Gail's Masterpost

Hi there, and welcome to the blog! We're Gaily Novelry, a little self-pub author with something of a fixation on pretty, brain-bending stories. You can also find us on Neocities, and on our art & cover critique side blogs (@gaildoesdraws & @gailycovercrit).

When we write, we like to work on colorful, intricate genre fiction stories with an emphasis on characters. WIPs below;

Published Stories

Heralds of Rhimn — A queer dark fantasy series set in a universe where most of the old gods are dead, and the ones left behind have a death grip on their devoted societies . . .

“In the world of Rhimn, a Herald is a god’s highest servant, expected to carry out their god’s will until the day of their death. Navaeli of Nowhere knows this all too well. Bound in service of Silamir, a resurrected goddess of death and rebirth, her life has been one of constant cowering. Irongardhe knights hunt her down on the orders of Gardhe, the sun god who killed Silamir so long ago. Unfortunately, Silamir is eager to fight these battles herself, even if that means taking Navaeli’s body for her own. For the longest time, Navaeli has been resigned to her fate as either a corpse or a vessel for her vengeful goddess. Fate has other plans. An ugly encounter with a knight’s patrol puts her at the mercy of Crislie Crimsworth — a handsome, headstrong girl who solves her problems with her fists, and is dying to escape the disapproval of her mother. When Navaeli’s goddess forces her to move on before she’s fully healed, Crislie seizes the chance to follow her out into the world. But what starts off as an exciting opportunity becomes a desperate flight as the budding attraction between her and Navaeli forces Crislie to confront the crimes of her country. As if Crislie wasn’t enough trouble on her own, a chance meeting makes the two of them responsible for Meparik, a young feyrie thief with more trust in glamour than kindness. Together, the three will contend with the machinations of Rhimn’s pantheon, the cruelties of the Irongardhe, and the ugliness within themselves. There might be people worth surviving for after all! But is it possible to free Navaeli from her divine yoke, or will she be the first casualty in the oncoming war between the gods?

Shadow Herald, Winter Herald, and Ember Warrior are right here on Itch.io. There's also a Neocities page just for this project, with links to fun worldbuilding and soon some short stories.

Works In Progress

Mindhive — Queer dystopian fiction.

“Dead-broke and dead-set on paying off his student loans before he’s forty, Nathaniel Emersin signed up as a paid test subject for ReGene, a genetics company with a mysterious new invention that they promise will change the world; the Worker Bee Implant. But Nathaniel has one little secret that didn’t make it onto paper . . . He’s also been hired by a rival company to sabotage the trial and steal the mysterious new technology that ReGene’s been working on.”

Contains one overthinking trans man, a polycule, some very embarrassing telepathy, an AI you may want to steal from out of his research facility, capitalism being very, very capitalism, and some blood and needles that you should be aware of on the off-chance that you’re afraid of that.

Mindhive also has a Neocities page! It contains teaser chapters and a bit of (lightly spoilery) in-universe documentation of the trial.

The full novel is to be made available whenever we complete this one between Heralds of Rhimn books, or when the bleak state of the world drives us into finishing it out of fury. Whichever comes first!

Less Developed WIPs — There are ideas simmering on the backburner. Plenty of them.

You probably won't see much of these until I finish Heralds of Rhimn and Mindhive, but occasionally we are hit with inspiration, so a post or two out of the blue happens sometimes!

#wip masterpost #indie books

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jayvikbrainrot · 3 years ago

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Uhhh my discord was talking about how much Viktor removed of himself as the Machine Herald and my hand slipped...

“Don’t bother trying to move Herald,” Jayce said, slowly walking over to the other man, “I finally figured out which electromagnetic frequency cancels out your main energy source. Your vitals should be fine, but everything else…”

He emphasized his point by stepping on his wrist, earning him a satisfying cry of anguish, “Is all mine.”

The Machine Herald was lying on his back, completely helpless.

With his mask down, it was always hard to tell what was going on in his head. Jayce could hear his labored breathing, he twisted his heel, earning another cry.

“I’m surprised you even allow yourself to feel pain, isn’t it unnecessary?” He removed his foot and crouched down. That mask pissed him off, if he calculated correctly he should have 30 minutes to play with him, but he had no idea the type of contingencies the Herald had running in the background.

He flipped up the mask.

There he was, the bastard. Not too much had changed from the last time he had seen him. Jayce knew on some level, the man was still vain, not too many modifications to his face. Something that should have been easy to let go if he was so unsatisfied.

His face was sneering at him, Jayce was almost surprised he didn’t spit.

“Pain is necessary you stupid git.” He said with that familiar accent.

“Oh what about pleasure or are you still too good for that too?” He reached over to grab his chin, to focus his gaze on him. An unfortunate game they played, sometimes decent enough to have fun, other times too venomous to even look at each other.

“Oh Jayce…that’s gone.” And he smiled.

It was a vicious thing, a manic ruthless expression that gave Jayce pause.

“Gone? What the fuck does that mean?”

“See for yourself.” He said casually, “I know you’re quite proud of that useless bit of flesh, but it’s gone now. You’ll need to find something else to shove up your ass.”

Jayce couldn’t believe his ears, had Viktor seriously lost his mind? He tossed aside Viktor’s face, and moved to his pants. Removing the garment was easy enough, but annoyingly, Viktor was laughing the entire time. He tugged down the cloth to find…. Nothing. His pelvis was completely replaced, with nothing to represent the other man’s sexual organs.

“Oh what the hell.”

Viktor’s laughed died down into a wheezing sound, “Looks like you can go fuck yourself Defender.”

Jayce’s good mood had tanked. If they weren’t even going to fool around what was the fucking point. He stood up, there had to be some way to salvage this. He had specifically pushed Viktor into this alley just so they could be alone.

It was a pain that he removed his fucking penis, but Jayce was pretty confident that something would replace it eventually. Viktor moaned too loud, too often when they were together for him to forsake it completely. In the meantime he would have to improvise.

“Do you ever suffer from phantom limb?”

Viktor didn’t answer, the brat.

“Well, there was an experiment done where participants put their hand on a table. Alongside it researchers placed a fake arm, and made it seem like it was coming from the participant.”

He walked around to Viktor’s head and placed his hammer behind him. Propping his head up on it. In order for this to work, he needed Viktor to see what he was doing.

“And so the researchers wanted to see how people reacted to stimuli applied to the fake hand.”

He dropped to one knee and took Viktor’s hand. Shaking it for emphasis. “How sensitive is this thing anyway kitten?”

“Fuck off.” He spat.

Didn’t bother Jayce any. He continued on, placing the hand on Viktor’s dickless crotch and taking his own place between his legs.

“Well.. the funniest thing happened. Researchers showed the participant a hammer, and then slammed it down onto the fake hand.” Jayce picked up Viktor’s hand and bent down his fingers until only the index and middle remained up. “And you know what happened next?”

Viktor was looking at him, half curious, half wary.

“What?”

“They screamed.”

Jayce then took Viktor’s fingers into his mouth down to the knuckle, deep throating the digits in a way he knew Viktor liked. Hopefully the visual of having Jayce bobbing his head near his crotch, and the stimuli against his fingers would be enough to trick his brain into feeling something. Viktor once made the mistake of revealing his fingers were sensitive enough to feel even the most minute changes in textures, so hopefully this would not be wasted on him.

He glanced up, even through his lashes he could see Viktor’s horror which could only mean it was working. He hollowed his cheeks, bobbing up and down a few more times before popping off the tip.

Viktor was flushed, horrified, and from what Jayce could tell, terribly aroused.

“What the fuck…” Viktor hissed.

“Fun right? Now what I’m curious about is how the hell you’re going to cum?”

“You son of a-aaghh-“

But Jayce wasn't going to let him finish that thought. Jayce rarely gave Viktor head so no doubt Viktor was feeling some amount of regret that Jayce wasn’t using the real thing.

He used all his tricks, humming, deep throating, he even ran his tongue down the middle of the finger split to give him something truly unique. And in response Viktor had gone from stubborn grimace, to eyes closed keening and panting. It was a shame he had to paralyze him in order to do this.

“Jayce…Jayce…” Viktor’s eyes fluttered, as Jayce figured he was really feeling something.

Time for the finale.

He lightly grazed his teeth down the entire length of Viktor’s makeshift shaft, and then sucked hard, slowly coming back off it. Making eye contact with Viktor the entire time.

He held the fingers next to his lips, “Having fun?”

“You…what are you waiting for?” Viktor wheezed, his eyes half lidded.

“Oh. I’m done actually.” He let the hand drop from his own and stood up.

The look on Viktor’s face was worth it. Unbridled fury and disbelief as he circled around to pick up his hammer. The thunk made by Viktor’s head was a nice bonus.

“You can’t be serious?!” He all but growled.

“Oh I very much am.” He leaned over Viktor, his shadow falling across his face. “Next time, don’t remove your fucking dick before we meet, it’s the only part of you I like.”

He stood up, turned on his heel, and enjoyed the sounds of a very angry Machine Herald cursing him out as he left.

#Jayvik #divorce era #Machine Herald #Defender of Tomorrow #drabble #I don't know how they act in this time period #dont at me

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shinygoldstar · 4 years ago

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Midnight Snack

DannyMay Day 11: Midnight

(Also DannyMay Shadow, Scars, Power, Nature, Seasons, Teeth can you find them all?)

Word Count: 2271 (not beta’d. experimental writing)

Warning: mentions of ghost cannibalism, nothing explicit

@floralflowerpower – for that ghost cannibalism post

(it’s 1 am so i’m gonna sleep now. might post on AO3 later)

Edit: AO3 Added!

It was mid-October. The leaves are starting to turn yellow heralding the approaching autumn. Danny was happy because that meant the unusually hot weather is almost over. It wasn’t that he’s melting from the heat- quite the opposite, he’s probably the only person in Amity that isn’t sweltering under the sun with his cold core. But due to this exact same reason, his cooler body temperature also drew in water vapor which condenses on his skin, pooling into beads of water dripping down his shirt, making him appear extra sweaty. He can’t wait for the temperature to be cool enough to not change clothes every few hours. Good thing his clothes are purchased by the dozen; no one really noticed him wearing new sets of clothes throughout the day.

It was the contaminated fridge foods that disappeared first. No one missed them. At least until they can’t find the mutated turkeys for their annual Thanksgiving hunting event.

Danny yawned as he and his friends entered Fenton Works. Autumn is comfy. Just the right temperature where he can wear loose clothing and not be stared at for being underdressed for the weather. No ‘sweating’ either. His mouth closed with a click, a bit too fast on his new fangs. Danny winced. The fangs seemed to have grown longer overnight again. At this rate Danny won’t be able to pass them off as normal pointy canine teeth for much longer. It didn’t hurt but the itch is annoying. Danny took a detour to the fridge, grabbing an ice cube from the freezer and popped it into his mouth, absentmindedly chewing on the cubes to take the edge off the itch as they walked down to the basement lab. His parents are at a paranormal convention at a nearby city and won’t be back until tomorrow. Danny and his friends gladly took the opportunity to do their ‘Danny’s quarterly fitness test’.

Danny flipped on the light switch and walked to the center of the lab, transforming into his ghost form. “Okay I’m ready. What’s first on the list?”

Tucker dropped his bag and took out a piece of notebook paper, “Okay, first we gotta do the baseline measurements. Height, weight, temperature, and the ecto reading.” Sam dug through her sports bag, pulling out the measurement tape. She held it against Danny, eyes scanning the tape measurement numbers. “Still the same height.”

Tucker nodded, noting down the measurement in Danny’s health notebook. “Next, weight.” Danny stood over the scale. “Yup, still the same weight too.”

Then it was the ecto-samples that Jack misplaced in the kitchen fridge. Jack warned everyone a few days later (everyone knows to avoid glowing food on normal basis so the delayed warning is mostly just courtesy), but no one could find where it went and assumed it grew legs to join the other tiny ecto-samples lurking as their equivalent of household pests. (No matter how often Maddie tried to patch up the mouse hole it keeps reappearing in the same shape but in a different part of the house as if the original mouse hole got transplanted from its original location)

“Lunch Lady’s right. You need to eat more. You’re still as skinny as ever.” Sam remarked as Danny took the thermometer out of his mouth. “76 F. The ghosts keep attacking me all day and night. You’d think my parents would notice when a ghost sneaks pass them while they work in the lab but I triggered all their ghost alarms just by being in the house so they deactivated the system when I’m around. They must’ve kept it turned off during the day too.”

“Tough luck dude. Ecto scan next.” Tucker passed the scanner to Sam while Danny stood still for her to scan. The machine beeped, “Wow 6.8, that’s quite a jump from last quarter’s 5.1”

“Maybe it was from all the ghost fighting I did over the summer?”

As the leaves began to fall from the branches, ghost attacks lessened in frequency. Not looking the gift horse in the mouth Danny happily enjoyed the lack of ghost attacks to focus more on his studies. If he did well enough, he might even get Bs for his efforts. He also managed to avoid getting detention for the entire week much to the relief of everyone involved.

Two days before Thanksgiving, the Fentons finally remembered their turkeys. But by then it was gone. In a rush, they quickly purchased a pre-made turkey instead. While Danny enjoyed the fact that they’re having a normal family dinner for once, he can’t help but feel like there’s something off about the chicken. As if it’s missing a particular tangy or zingy flavor that would’ve made it richer in flavor. ‘Must’ve been because it’s overcooked.’

"Honey? Have you seen the new ecto-samples I placed in the basement lab fridge?" “Again Jack? This is the third time this month. Have you checked the upstairs fridge?” “I-ah was pretty sure I placed them in the correct fridge this time. Must be some no-good thievin’ ghost.” “I’ll set up the ecto-anti-theft, that’ll get ‘em good! No ghost can escape Jack Fenton for long!”

*Intruder Alert* *Intruder Alert*

Red lights peppered with robotic voice and alarm noises lurched Maddie into full alert mode. She quickly took stock of her surroundings and tried to wake Jack up. But Jack had his earplugs on and continued to snore blissfully. A loud knock on the door caught her attention. “What’s going on mom?” Jazz’s voice floated through the door. Maddie quickly rose to open the bedroom door, swiftly pulled Jazz in and locked the door. “Jazz dear, try to wake your dad up. I’ll go check on the intruder.” Maddie strode quietly to the door then paused, “Have you checked on Danny?” Jazz bit her lips and looked away for a moment “-ah yeah! Danny’s snoring so loud he can’t hear the alarm.” Maddie twisted the doorknob but paused, hesitating. “He’s fine mom.” Jazz reassures her. “If Danny wakes up, he’ll come here first. I’ll let him know what’s going on.”

The alarm rang loudly in her ears as she walked down the stairs to the basement lab, its loud ringing noise effectively covering up the sound of her footsteps. Reaching the basement floor, Maddie quickly crept over to hide behind the shelf on her left, eyes scanning the lab for the intruder.

The glass jars clinked as a shadow moved about the fridge. A very familiar shadow. That didn’t glow. Maddie turned on the lab lights. “Danny?” she started, carefully walking over to face him, her eyes still scanning him to check if he’s really her Danny. The faint, barely noticeable scar on his eyebrow from his attempt to fly off the tree when he was five is there confirming his identity.

“What are you doing down here-?” Maddie noticed the glowing jar in his hand, “and what exactly are you doing?” Danny hazily stared at her; eyes half-lidded. Maddie snapped her fingers to get his attention. Danny didn’t blink. “He's still not awake, Danny come on wake up!”, she shook his shoulders. “Huh? Wuzzat?” Danny groggily woke up. He blinked in confusion.

Finally aware of his surroundings, Danny looked down at his right hand that still held the glowing sample. “Aah!” Danny yelped dropping the sample, then realizing he dropped the sample, tries to catch the jar, fumbling clumsily. Maddie would’ve laughed if it was anywhere else but in this situation. “Danny, do you remember what you were doing?”

“I was doing my homework and was craving for a good cheeseburger?”

---

“And the half-opened jar of ectoplasm?”

“Pickles?”

---

“Dude are you for real? That was priceless!” Tucker crowed with laughter. Sam leaned away from Tucker to avoid the meat spittle, “Urgh! Gross Tucker! Swallow it before you speak!”

Danny grumbled into his glass of milkshake, “’s not funny Tuck. you didn't see her face. She was about ready to scan me for signs of ecto-possession. Good thing my lie about craving cheeseburger and opening the wrong fridge worked. Otherwise I’d be in big trouble if she scanned me now with my latest ecto-reading. Anyways I'm banned from the lab now.” Danny bit into his burger.

“So what really happened there dude? Did you seriously sleepwalk into the basement lab?”

“I think so? I don’t really remember anything before Mom found me in the lab. Only that I was feeling a bit hungry.”

The ghosts stopped coming. Everyone in Amity held their breath when there were no ghost attacks for two weeks straight, then a month. Then two months, three. No ghosts. They let out their collective breath. It might be too soon to hope but for now they will enjoy their ghost-free, perfectly ordinary life. It feels a bit strange to not have ghost related interruptions as part of their daily routine but they didn’t miss the ghost-related reconstruction expenses. The local insurance company employees received a nice bonus for the ghost-free month.

By the time March rolled in, Danny is restless. “Guys, there's definitely something big going on.”, he waved his hands for emphasis. “The Fenton portal is still open yet no ghost came through? Not even Boxy since the North District warehouse thing last month. There’s definitely something big going on. I've been taking the ghost-free break for granted for a while now and it helped save my grades but this is too big to ignore.”

“Dude, maybe it’s because you’re much more powerful now? Your latest reading last week is 8.2. None of the ghosts we’ve met so far is above 6 except for Vlad and the Ghost King.” Tucker suggested.

“You might have a point there, Tucker. We haven’t seen any of the ghosts bothering Vlad so far and he’s definitely higher than 6.” Sam added.

Danny frowned, “Maybe you’re right but I just have this nagging feeling that that’s not quite it.”

Danny entered the Zone with little fanfare. The area around the Fenton portal looked normal enough, the usual rocks and clouds of debris are still floating around in their usual areas. Danny aimlessly passed through the nooks and crannies, ducking under the endless spiral staircase, not entirely sure of what to look for. The Zone felt a bit quiet today but Danny haven’t been to the Zone that frequently to be certain about it.

The Ghost Zone, while still filled with random bits of odds and ends felt empty somehow. It wasn't until he sighted Skulker that he realized he hasn't seen any of the tiny blog ghosts nor the occasional passerby ghosts through his trip.

Luckily or unluckily, Danny quickly spotted someone he knew in the distance. As if called, Skulker turned his head towards Danny, then veered sharply to the left and flew fast in Danny's opposite direction, a first for the self-proclaimed hunter to not hunt his favorite prey. ‘Something's not right and Skulker definitely knows something.’ Danny thought.

Danny quickly chased after him; Skulker could never beat Danny at speed chase even at his best, and he won't be winning today's unplanned race either. “Hey Skulker! What’s going on?” Danny yelled over the gap between them but Skulker gave no reply, diving down deep into the reddish forest ravines of the island below. Not to be deterred, Danny did a quick aerial flip, adjusting his flight angle to follow down Skulker’s path. Danny soon caught up to Skulker and launched him into a nearby rock with sticky ectoplasm to hold him still long enough to talk. Skulker ejected from his metal suit but Danny was faster and caught the real ghost before he can escape.

(Why is Skulker fleeing?)

"Hey Skulker, not hunting me for once?" Danny asked teasingly.

Skulker paled (Danny never knew ghosts can turn pale) and squirmed even more. Danny's smile dropped.

"What’s going on Skulker?" he asked worriedly. “None of the ghosts have appeared in the human world and the Zone looks empty somehow”

Skulker squirmed a bit more but realizing he’s stuck finally said, “Ghost Child, haven’t you ever wondered why the Infinite Realms is never overcrowded?”

Danny frowned, puzzled as to where this leads to. “How is this related to this situation?” Skulker stared at Danny stunned.

“What?” Danny asked, suddenly self-conscious, “-was there something I was supposed to know about?”

Skulker sighed, unconsciously loosening a bit of his tension, “You’re so young. So very young. We Ghosts don’t fade as fast as Newcomers arrive from your world. In the Realms, there's a natural system that keeps the population under control. An ecosystem. There's predator and there's prey. And then there's the Apex Predator. There's a reason why Dark was feared. It wasn't just for his harsh rule. It was because he was the Apex Predator.”

Danny struck at the odd wording, "’Was’? Was that because he got sealed?” Danny paused, “But wait- if he's sealed, he would still be the Apex predator. So how-? Wait. Did I?"

Skulker nodded, "Good you're catching on fast. By defeating Pariah Dark, you have proven to the Realms that you're the best candidate for the Apex Predator. And with the new status comes sets of conducts, one your body instincts know well. You've been culling down the uncontrolled excess from Pariah Dark's sleep quite fast. Your hunger would settle down soon of course once balance has been re-established in the Realms."

“But- How- Wait- What-?” Danny looked down at his hand “Hey Skulker--!” but his hand is bare.

Danny’s lips tasted oddly tangy, energized.

-----

(Skulker might've slipped out of Danny's slack hand while Danny is in shock. Danny might've bit his lips hard enough to bleed. It's not that hard with his new fangs. But this is just speculation...)

#midnight snack au #danny phantom #dannymay2021 #DP ghost cannibalism #goldpost #Skulker BS'd on the spot and I took it as worldbuilding material #the added last part is the original ending #interpretation of the final ending is now up to you #😏😏😏

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nitrateglow · 5 years ago

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Favorite opening titles/sequences?

Oh damn, there are so many. In general, I think the best movie openings set up the tone of the story to come and the cleverest ones subtly hint at the movie’s themes. Daniel Thomas MacInnes put it best:

While many movies treat a title and credit sequence as an afterthought, or perhaps a necessary distraction from the film, a good filmmaker knows how to integrate it into the film, so that it has a dramatic power. By placing a sequence of events on-screen while the credits roll, you are placing an emphasis on them. You are highlighting them, focusing attenion upon them. This can prove highly effective for the story you want to tell, and it's underlying themes.

Here are some openings from my favorite movies which I believe possess such dramatic power.

The Red Shoes

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On one hand, this opening is very much of the old-style title sequence: a simple set of cards listing the major players in the production. However, the music and use of colored illustrations in these images set the tone for the movie to come so well, something beautiful and emotional. You get the sense that you’re being beckoned into a fairy tale world, much like the classic Disney films which begin with a live-action book opening, introducing the characters and their universe as illustrations. The Red Shoes toes the line between realism and fantasy, especially in its most famous ballet sequences, so this is such a perfect way to open the movie.

A Christmas Carol 1951

Once again, this is nothing flashy, but the music is EVERYTHING, setting the tone well. We’re introduced to this version of the Dickens classic, not with some sweet jingle bell harmony, but with a loud, sinister brass section that sounds like it belongs in a horror movie. Then, just as suddenly, we hear “Hark the Herald, Angels Sing” in a jubilant register… and then right before the movie starts, the music jumps back to the malevolent motif. It’s such a great way of getting the audience in the right frame of mind, reminding us this is both a ghost story and a tale of Christmas redemption.

Blast of Silence

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Blast of Silence opens with darkness, then the sound of the hero’s birth— his mother’s dying groans, his own weeping and screaming—over a train barreling through a tunnel. Accompanying this is the film’s (in)famous second-person narration, with the gravel-voiced, street-wise, and sardonic Lionel Stander illustrating the protagonist’s anger and cynicism right away (“You were born with the hate and anger built in!”). Then light breaks through and we realize the camera is on the front of a train just coming into the light. It’s a brilliant opening, setting up the story’s noir vibe and evoking a strange sense of determinism in how it suggests Frankie Bono’s tragic end was destined from the beginning of his life… much like a train on the tracks.

Wait Until Dark

Both the pre-credits scene and the titles sequence are brilliant. The first image of the film is itself disconcerting: an expanse of red cloth, suddenly cut open with a knife before we even learn we’re looking at a doll—and already, the film is setting up its sense of imminent brutality, coupled with the dissonant dread evoked by Henry Mancini’s wonderful score and the editing itself. The interaction between Lisa and old Louis is also a subtle way of setting up the deceptive games the characters play out, with Louis wishing Lisa luck one minute, then calling up the psychopathic Roat to rat her out as she drives away with the intent on betraying her partners-in-crime. The airport scenes continue establishing the themes of dread, betrayal, and mystery, especially with Mancini’s creepy music making us aware Lisa’s drug trafficking enterprise will not end well, long before even she is aware of that.

Horus Prince of the Sun

Best cold opening ever. Horus is a movie that deserves to be listed with the great, history-changing films of the late 1960s: it is every bit as rebellious as something like The Graduate, only it had a greater restriction to overcome: the idea that animation is all kids’ stuff destined to imprisonment within the Disney mold. Rather than opening with the titles or a cute storybook, Horus starts with a barren landscape. And then we see a boy running for his life from a pack of snarling wolves that are not anthropomorphized or made cute in any conceivable fashion. The opening consists largely of our hero Horus fighting these wolves in a violent, harsh fashion, telling the audience right away this won’t be your usual kiddie musical. No music accompanies the images at all, granting the sequence a sense of gritty realism one would expect from a crime drama of the period, not a fantasy film.

A Clockwork Orange

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I have always found the opening titles of A Clockwork Orange so striking, even before we get to Alex staring us down in chilling close-up. The way the titles are just set against plain colors that alternate between the cuts—they suggest the flipping of switches on a machine or computer (foreshadowing Alex’s “cure” perhaps?). Wendy Carlos’s electronic score further establishes such a mental connection: the sound is inhuman and sinister, planting dread in your guttiwuts before Alex even appears. And when he does, is that not just one of the best introductions to a character ever? That smirk alone says so much—Alex is evil incarnate, but there’s a boyishness which makes it compelling.

The Castle of Cagliostro

I’ve often gone over why I love this movie’s opening (I even made a post about the pre-credits sequence: https://nitrateglow.tumblr.com/post/184327179573/the-castle-of-cagliostro-scene-analysis-the), but I’ll say it again: the pre-credits scene sets up Cagliostro’s playful side, with Lupin and Jigen defying physics in Looney Tunes fashion as they rob a casino, and the titles sequence establishes the film’s more introspective, melancholy qualities, with a gentle love ballad accompanying the thieves’ journey to Cagliostro. I adore this movie so much because it balances all of these elements with elegance, putting real soul into what is essentially a fun caper adventure.

Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind

Nausicaa’s cold opening reminds me a lot of Horus’s in that it throws the audience right into a desolate, dangerous world. Yupa finds a village where all the inhabitants have died from the polluted landscape, and the images are somber and despairing. We learn right away this is a world where death can take you at any moment and where human survival is becoming less likely. And yet, right after this scene, we cut to the credits, a series of tapestry images depicting a messiah rushing in a renewed world, accompanied by Joe Hisaishi’s gorgeous main theme, which can only be described as cautious, tragic optimism incarnate. Nausicaa is a movie which ultimately ends on such a note, though it does not shy away from despair and feelings of hopelessness, making it a rich emotional experience—and this is all forecasted from the film’s opening.

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x22wg · 5 years ago

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Shore Leave (part 10)

Fresh from the gym, Michael Burnham stepped out of the shower with a soft moan of contentment from the warmth still lingering on her skin. Catching a glimpse of her profile in the mirror gave her pause, unable to look away. It still felt unfamiliar and strange to see herself like this. Such curves and just... so much of them. Michael found herself mesmerized by how the roundness of her belly curved into plump lovehandles, studying every crease and burgeoning roll with detached curiosity.

Touching her chubby cheek, Michael could not help but smile. While it felt like she barely recognized herself... when she had come face to face with the "Red Angel" down on Essof IV, her mother had known who she was right away.

Finishing drying her hair, Michael laughed at the absurdity of it all: She had nearly died trying to lure herself back from the future, only to learn that not only was her mother alive but a time traveller. And somehow she had decided what was most shocking about the whole thing was her mother seeing through a bit of extra chub. Perhaps that asphyxiation had killed off a few brain cells and Dr. Culber just didn't want to admit it.

"At least this helped against the temperature fluctuations." Michael patted her chunky flank and remarked wryly: "I suppose Georgiou wasn't lying about 'protecting me'..."

Burnham's hand moved to the front of her potbelly, relieved to see that she was making progress reversing the effects of the Emperor's "care". Sliding her hand up an invisible ruler she confirmed that her belly probably didn't stick out further than her – admittedly significantly fuller – breasts.

Her confidence surged, convinced that her efforts were paying off: Going to the gym. Carefully monitoring her nutrition intake. Being away from Tilly...

...Michael slumped, her confidence evaporated in an instant. Heaving a sigh she slouched down onto a bench. Lovehandles quivered with the impact as her belly pooled onto sprawling thighs. It let her stew in her lonesome misery for but a short while before she was called to action by a hungry growl.

Burnham knew better than tempt fate by starving herself and quickly finished up to make her way to the mess hall. Silently she imagined a carefully selected list of nutritious dishes. More vocally she groaned at the mental blandness. No wonder Tilly thought she was too serious and dull.

Michael shook her head as she walked down the corridor: What Tilly thought of her was the last–

"Oh. Hi there." Stopping a few meters away, Tilly shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and held up a tentative palm by way of greeting. Her elusive gaze flitted to Burnham's damp hair: "Fresh from the gym, huh? Been working out? I thought we were going togeth– oh never mind! Gotta stick to the regimen, right? Get swole. Rawr!" For emphasis, Tilly flexed her arm and felt her own veiled bicep. "...haha..."

Awkwardly stroking her own arm, Burnham was grateful for the redhead's defensive blathering: her attempt to fill the awkward silence between them. "Yeah..." she said eventually, failing miserably to affect a carefree air: "I just popped by for a bit..."

"Uhh-huh."

She wasn't fooling anyone. She was every bit as uptight as Tilly thought she was. "Uh... I better go..."

"Yeah, I was just... uh.. heading to the lab."

"Right..." Burnham made a hasty retreat before she ended up making things even worse by blurting out what she was having for breakfast. A strictly regimented platoon of lentils, spinach, beans and– a final glimpse of Tilly's copper locks caught Michael's eye before she disappeared around a corner. Instantly the list in her mind evaporated and she stomped into the mess hall with frantic determination. She snatched up a tray and slammed it down in front of the replicator: "Cheeseburgers. Plural," she said tersely. "Add fries..." Michael paused for a moment. "...and chocolate fudge cake."

"Is this really necessary?"

Initially, Burnham had been quite willing to break from her daily routine to check in with Stamets in Engineering. After all, she was the one who would have to use the time suit they were attempting to synthesize. Not to mention, in a way, seeing the suit take shape brought her just that little bit closer to her mother. It was a small comfort in place of the emotional solace she craved in the wake of her mother's sudden, but devastatingly short, reappearance. Michael knew she had not left her willingly, but still it felt like rejection. Just like she herself had been rejecting her only other source of that comfort which she craved...

What Burnham was less enthused by was being met by Stamets, Jett Reno... and a measuring drone. "I thought this was about the suit?"

"It is," Stamets assured her, before adding rather more awkwardly – with an attempt at a reassuring smile to match: "It's just a precaution."

"You already have the schematics–"

Utterly unwilling to pull any punches as usual, Reno activated the drone's hover-mode to interrupt Burnham: "What my esteemed colleague here's trying to say is: we're dealing with a piece of kit more advanced than we – especially he – can fathom. It's not a prom dress we can take in and let out on a whim."

"It will fit," Michael said firmly. Saru had seen the Red Angel – seen her – on Keminar. Wearing the time suit. Ostensibly no heftier than her mother, on whose schematics the suit would be based.

"She has a point..." Stamets glanced over at Reno. Mischievousness tugged at the corner of his eye, eager to contradict his colleague for that jab she had just directed at him. "Any adjustments we make to the design now will be obsolete if Commander Burnham loses more weight."

Reno considered the matter for a moment before offering her begrudging acquiescence. She disabled the measuring drone as if to tell Burnham she was dismissed and said inscrutably: "...or gains it all back..."

"...and then she was like 'yeah?'" Tilly leaned forward, abandoning her malevolently nonchalant Georgiou impression to get her companions' attention by tapping Detmer's soufflé with her spoon: "That woman's a total psycho."

Seeing Owosekun and Detmer pause opposite her, Tilly realized what she had done and gently stroked the offended dessert as if to make it better: "Whoops..."

When this didn't seem to allay their concern, an apprehensive grimace spread across Tilly's face: "Shoot. She's behind me, isn't she..."

Turning warily, she breathed a sigh of relief that was quickly replaced by absolute bewilderment.

"Is this seat taken?" Michael asked evenly. The three women just looked at her like a stranger – which, to be fair, for the last couple weeks she had been at mealtimes. Then their eyes fixated upon her food tray as she sat down: filled almost to the brim with extra dessert.

"Oh... wow..." Tilly exclaimed shakily, the look on her face saying "who are you and what have you done with Michael Burnham?"

"Anyone want some cake?" Michael affected her most winning smile. "No? That means more for me then."

"Are you... alright?"

Burnham took a big bite out of her club sandwich, munching through her words: "Yeah, why wouldn't I be? Mmh, this is really good, you should try some."

Reluctantly, Detmer took a bite of the offered half, nodding in agreement as she chewed. "I didn't know this was on the regular menu."

"It took some convincing," Burnham said as she tucked into luscious dish after luscious dish, making theatre of how heartily she was eating.

"How do you 'convince' a machine?" Owo chuckled.

Detmer visibly relaxed as she accepted the rest of the sandwich: "Tilly, didn't you say you reprogrammed a food synthesizer to only make ice cream when you were a kid?"

As if slapped out of a trance, Tilly spluttered in confusion before feeling compelled to reply: "Uh... oh... what? Oh... that. It was just a matter of calculating the necessary protein concentration and small particle dispersion of emulsifiers."

"Right... of course..." Detmer managed to pretend to understand for all of three seconds before she burst out laughing. And just like that, the awkward atmosphere vanished.

"You gonna eat that?" Burnham asked jokingly, following up on the levity by pointing to Detmer's soufflé. Her humorous request was met with a smile, so chummy it was akin to a balm for her soul. She tucked into the dessert as it was offered to her, doing her best to reflect the warm camaraderie to Tilly beside her and smiling through chocolate-stained teeth.

"Seriously, is there anything you can't do?" Owo told Tilly, shaking her head in mild disbelief.

The redhead's eyes fluttered as she turned her attention away from Burnham to reply, rather morosely: "Well, too bad you can't power a time crystal with ice crea-heywaitaminute!"

Burnham thought her uniform should have fit better by now, compared to the last time she greeted a mystery guest arriving in Discovery's transporter room. She was certain it had felt less restrictive as of late, but having to walk at a brisk pace to keep up with Captain Pike really seemed to push the seams of her trousers to their limit. She made sure to file into the room after the captain so she could surreptitiously feel up her bum to make sure there were no hull breaches.

Feels so big... and round, she analysed before she snapped back to reality and quickly stepped up beside Pike before he caught on. They had to wait a moment for Tilly to arrive: A small eternity in which she could not quite put that round rear out of her mind... especially when Tilly came up from behind to join them.

Reflexively putting on her overbearing façade, Michael still raised a curious eyebrow when she glanced over at the redhead on her right: "Is that for me?" she joked, eyeing the bowl of spumoni ice cream in Tilly's hands.

"Ohh... no, no! I wouldn't want to ruin your diet! It's for... well, you'll see."

Before Burnham could retort, the trill of the transporter heralded the arrival of a young woman with wild hair and wilder fashion sense. Woad tattoos and nose ring was perhaps not the look Michael imagined for a planetary queen.

"Your Serene Highness, may I–" Pike said with respectful urgency, but was quickly cut off by an outburst of girlish enthusiasm:

"Tilly!" the queen of Xahea exclaimed with a big grin and rushed over to embrace her friend.

Burnham and Pike exchanged patient looks as the two women greeted each other with unbridled excitement. At least "patient" was what Michael was going for. Somehow a burning feeling was welling up inside her; petulant, almost childish.

"Po, this is Commander Michael Burnham," Tilly explained once the hugging was done and ice cream had been offered. She gestured towards the thin-lipped Burnham.

"Your roomie," Po observed, her second eyelids blinking curiously as she cocked her head slightly: "You look taller in your photos."

"Yes I've put on–" Burnham smoothed her uniform over her thick waist, somewhat self-conscious. "Wait... taller?" Expecting a comment on her weight, the queen's comment threw Michael for a loop.

Virtually vibrating with barely controlled excitement, Tilly continued by introducing Pike. He proceeded to give the queen a small bow, measured to the exact amount of courtesy expected of their respective stations: "Your Highness Me Hani Ika Hali Ka Po..."

"Po's fine."

"Right. Can you eat and walk?" Pike glanced down at the bowl in Po's hands. "I understand you can help us power a time crystal."

Taking a big spoonful of spumoni, Po nodded blithely and made to follow. Still somewhat perplexed, Burnham made up the rearguard, unable to keep from glowering as she watched Po and Tilly up front, all giggles as they huddled together.

#Star Trek Discovery #wg story #wg fic #michael burnham #michael/tilly #sylvia tilly #diet #chubby #chub #jealousy

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jdcoin · 5 years ago

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Brief History of Cryptocurrency With Special Emphasis on JD Coin

Gone are the days when knowledge of people regarding currency only revolved around pieces of paper that they held in their own hands. Today they are simply amazed by the idea of storing value in digital form in something known as cryptocurrency. This massive shift is the result of decades of mathematical study, progressive thinking as well as strong attempts of changing the world’s existing and centrally controlled economic system.

Early experiments with cryptocurrency

The idea of getting digital currency is not a new one. Prior to cryptocurrencies, many attempts of creating one have taken place. In fact, people started toying up with the idea of virtual currency as early as 1980s when the ideas were translated into experiments around money.

As extension to popular encryption algorithm RSA, the popular cryptographer from the US namely David Chaum invented the first form of internet money as DigiCash in Netherlands but its popularity was only for short span. In the second phase, startups made payment solutions as well as virtual money systems with little bit tweak and then PayPal emerged in the scenario. It offered continuous peer-to-peer transfer mechanism as well as the way of accepting payment for merchants. Another attempt was e-Gold that accepted gold deposits from the users and then issues gold credits to their accounts but its popularity too was short-lived.

Nakamoto’s gift came to the fore

The economic crisis of 2008 in the US became the barrier in the world economy and it eventually saw the rise of good samaritan called Satoshi Nakatomoto. In 2009, he published the whitepaper elucidating the technology, concept as well as source code for implementation of blockchain. He also introduced the first cryptocurrency called Bitcoin. However the invention of Nakamoto was only based on foundational technology.

The emergence of cashless and electronic money based economy

Upon surge in the interest in Bitcoin and also blockchain since the year 2009, a number of other cryptocurrencies came into existence. Currently, there are over 850 cryptocurrencies being traded around the world. Ripple, ZCash, Litecoin are some examples of existing coins. The total capitalization of cryptocurrencies crossed $100 billion in 2017, a milestone in the cryptocurrency world.

As an obvious outcome, a new industry of cryptocurrency trading has emerged worldwide. The blockchain-based applications surely make use of cryptocurrency by all possible means. To that extent, the exchange plays the vital role of provider of access to cryptocurrencies, which the people will use so as to utilize such blockchain-based applications.

Proposed in 2013 by Vitalik Buterin, the project of Ethereum also went live in the year 2015. It is the open-source and blockchain-based distributed computing platform whose key highlights include smart contracts, Ethereum Virtual Machine and also a set of programming languages in order to develop blockchain applications amongst others.

How JD Coin Can Make All the Difference?

Offers Transparency

It is one of the companies in the cryptocurrency world with all the details available on its website. Be it about the Board of Directors or any other information or legal documents, everything is accessible. Utmost transparency is maintained by this company.

Authentic

With the goal to work solely for the investors, this company develops a work plan to ensure that the investors get maximum ROI or Return of Investment. Genuineness is what sets it out in the hardcore competitive world.

Provides ultimate superiority

In order to ensure that all the transactions are secured, JD Coin has built a special Anti-Money Laundering program for the users’ benefits.

In a nutshell, A relatively new cryptocurrency called JD Coin is competing in the race with Bitcoin for popularity as well as dominance. Below is a brief comparison between Bitcoin and JD Coin which highlights why the latter one is to be trusted.

Ownership info

While any detail on ownership of Bitcoin is still not known, everything about JD Coin is accessible on its official website.

AML (Anti-Money Laundering) Program

As already mentioned, JD Coin has developed an exclusive Anti-Money Laundering program for the benefits of the users. Bitcoin is yet to come up with such scheme.

Transaction Volume

While the transaction volume of Bitcoin is 21 million, that of JD Coin is as high as 84 million.

Transaction time

Compared to Bitcoin that mined only one every 10 minutes, one JD Coin is mined just in 1 minute.

Future of Cryptocurrencies

The philosophy of the cryptocurrencies seems to break down all the barriers especially in context of trading and finance. Within few years it is assumed that this new age currency may be popular enough for mainstream adoption of the blockchain based application. It will indeed herald a new era replacing centralized and government-controlled money with a decentralized and distributed alternative being controlled by nothing apart from the market forces.

#Cryptocurrency

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jdcoinus-blog · 5 years ago

Text

Brief History of Cryptocurrency With Special Emphasis on JD Coin

Early experiments with cryptocurrency

Nakamoto’s gift came to the fore

The emergence of cashless and electronic money based economy

How JD Coin Can Make All the Difference?

Offers Transparency

Authentic

Provides ultimate superiority

In order to ensure that all the transactions are secured, JD Coin has built a special Anti-Money Laundering program for the users’ benefits.

Ownership info

While any detail on ownership of Bitcoin is still not known, everything about JD Coin is accessible on its official website.

AML (Anti-Money Laundering) Program

As already mentioned, JD Coin has developed an exclusive Anti-Money Laundering program for the benefits of the users. Bitcoin is yet to come up with such scheme.

Transaction Volume

While the transaction volume of Bitcoin is 21 million, that of JD Coin is as high as 84 million.

Transaction time

Compared to Bitcoin that mined only one every 10 minutes, one JD Coin is mined just in 1 minute.

Future of Cryptocurrencies

#JD Coin

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hrk4 · 7 years ago

Text

The year that was...

Dear Friends:

Season’s Greetings!

Standing between the two armies eager for battle, Krishna’s exhortation to his friend in dismay was, in essence, this: Why do you hesitate to do what is most natural to you? Why are you so afraid to be yourself? Why are you combating your own temperament, making a mockery of your hard-earned proficiency, and behaving in a manner singularly ill-suited to what you hold dear? Arjuna’s despondency was a consequence of his own sentimentality and hence Krishna inspires him to return to himself, reminding him constantly of his true nature as a warrior. A twenty-first century Krishna would have most certainly appended a proviso to his famous utterance – “Try to excel in the work and path aligned to your nature, even if it is flawed or less glamorous. It is better than following the way of others. You will never feel guilty if you follow your inherent nature.” In that rider, he might well have illustrated the various machinations of society that detracts from the individual the opportunity to stay true to the Self. At every turn in the road of life, people—even with the noblest of intentions—await the slightest of chances to misguide the traveller, gently nudging him away from the inner path. He is expected to tread the beaten track; he is directed to follow the well-known route.

For someone who has relentlessly strayed from the banal passageways leading to predictable endpoints, I faced a profusion of advice and admonition this year from family and friends, badgering me to recognize, nay embrace, the multi-hued, dazzling avenues that would lead me to some goal or achievement or outcome of their choice, which in turn would be hailed by the people of the world as something that perhaps justifies my existence. I’m glad to place on record that all such attempts have failed miserably and I continue to be myself, treading the inward path wholly aligned to my nature. What is particularly memorable is that I did not react to the advice and admonition with anger or arrogance (I must admit that at times I was tempted to flash the middle finger but such murderous thoughts didn’t last long); instead, I quietly accepted it as a gift that is useless to me but given with warmth nevertheless. I smiled at them, not condescendingly, nor artlessly, but with the awareness that nobody is in a better position than I am to evaluate my mind, and therefore any such attempt is bound to fall short – at least in my eyes. Of course, the dark side of this whole business is that my instincts have driven me—often unconsciously—to be more careful around such people – the unsolicited advisors and admonishers; this has translated into the unfortunate measuring of utterances and the calculation of gestures – clearly a deviation from the natural flow of the self. Therefore the informal tête-à-têtes with such people are bound to decline albeit gradually and in not-so-obvious ways.

In my view, friends are those exceptional individuals with whom you can be yourself, in addition to the unmistakable emotional connection. This is both a function of the attitude of the friends—whether they continually judge you or not—and of your own preoccupation with what the world is thinking of you. The less they judge you and the less you agonize over what others’ think, the more comfortable the relationship. As a silent witness I observed some of my close friends moving far away from me and some of my casual acquaintances moving closer, becoming friends. Through this transitory phase, I tried to remain calm and accept the changing reality, which is inevitable. In such instances, I find solace in recollecting memories with old friends of mine whom I hardly get to meet but every time I do, we start from where we left off, even if that was months or years ago.

When I sat down to gather my thoughts on what the year 2017 has meant to me, more than what my ‘achievements’ were, or even what my ‘learning’ was, my mind was forcibly drawn towards where I stand as an individual; my focus was primarily on how I transformed through the course of these twelve months. ‘Achievements’ implies ego; ‘learning’ suggests an unfinished process; but ‘transformed’ connotes a newer, perhaps better, state of being that has already been effected. That said, to record some of the completed tasks and learnt lessons might be valuable for future improvements, and hence I have found it appropriate to archive them here.

My activities in 2017 were largely confined to the following domains: i. Writing, ii. Music, iii. Research, iv. Design, v. Publishing, and vi. Monkey Business (what my friends at Infy would call ‘इत्यादि-इत्यादि’).

I. I wrote some articles/essays and did a fair bit of translation/editing for Prekshaa Journal as well as for my upcoming books. Apart from having two short stories published (in Indian Review and Cha), I also spent some time writing a detailed outline of my first novel. I taught two courses at Bangalore Writers Workshop and was also a judge at the annual Deccan Herald short story competition. (Lesson learned: Working without constant expectations is both pleasurable and profitable; fretting over deadlines and unfinished projects is counterproductive.)

II. I formally dived into the amateur circuit of Carnatic classical music with an hour-long solo violin concert at Chowdiah Memorial Hall in November. Earlier in the year, I played a couple of chamber concerts. (Lesson learned: If playing in your room is tiring and playing in front of your guru is sweat-inducing, playing in front of an audience is in a different league altogether.)

III. This has mostly involved reading some of the important texts of the Hindu tradition, both primary and secondary sources. This has also meant my taking baby steps into the worlds of Sanskrit poetry, ancient Indian polity and law, history, Kannada literature, and the Epics.

IV. I designed close to fifteen books and four album covers, the highlight being the Prekshaa calendar. I also explored a bit in the area of Indic fonts and hopefully will have a breakthrough soon.

V. For all practical purposes, I didn’t write any book in 2017; I only published books (through W.I.S.E. Words Inc., the Indie publishing setup I run along with Dr. Koti Sreekrishna); eight in all: Stories Behind Verses (by Arjun Bharadwaj and Shashi Kiran B N; in collaboration with Prekshaa Pratishtana), பகவத்கீதை தற்காலத் தமிழில் (by Sripriya Srinivasan), The Song in Pictures (in association with my photographer-friends Anirudh, Anshuman, Divya, Frank, Navneeth, Prathigna, and Skanda), and five anthologies of essays by Prof. M Hiriyanna (a republication of otherwise unavailable classics).

VI. Apart from getting addicted to cryptic crosswords and card magic, I did some voice-acting on stage and voice-over work in the studio. Two short videos produced for Shaale stand testimony to what they’re worth. I signed out of Twitter and LinkedIn. I also spent a few extra hours sorting out my finances. Plus, I started cooking regularly. (Lesson learned: Without all this monkey business, my life will be meaningless.)

It is impossible to write down all the wonderful things I learnt in 2017 but it might be instructive—to my future self, if not anyone else—to document some learnings from my gurus as well as the wonderful artists I had the good fortune of meeting this year:

A. Ever since I was getting ready to perform on stage, my guru Dr. L Subramaniam has been consistently pushing me to improve my art; his focus has entirely shifted from the technical aspect of violin-playing (which was the mainstay during the early years of my lessons with him) and moved to the aesthetic and emotional aspects of music. To give life to every note, to add emotion to every phrase, and to make every performance unique has been his refrain. LS sir has often said: Even if you play for five minutes, it should be something sublime.

B. My entry into Sanskrit poetry and literature has been a direct result of the single-minded prodding, encouragement, and support given to me by Śatāvadhāni Dr. R Ganesh. His emphasis on the importance of familiarity with Sanskrit literature and classical art forms of India—particularly dance—for any student of Indian culture has influenced me deeply. Time and again I have felt that any student of Hindu heritage will benefit by embracing the holistic approach as advocated by Dr. Ganesh as opposed to the numerous other approaches, far more seductive in appeal but piecemeal all the same.

C. Dr. S L Bhyrappa made the astute observation that as a novelist and philosopher, instead of getting affected by a certain individual’s actions (often antagonistic in nature), he tends to go deeper into the psyche of that individual—regarding him/her as a character in a story—and analyzes the more fundamental reason that makes him/her behave in the said manner. In another instance, when Dr. Ganesh asked him during an interview, “What in your opinion keeps a relationship going? What truly sustains love?” he replied with a single word: Mārdava (tenderness, gentleness, compassion).

D. Every visit to Dr. S R Ramaswamy’s office room—rather karmabhūmi—in Chamarajpet is equivalent to reading a pile of books; he teaches us so much, not only by his eloquent speech but also by the force of his personality. When a friend of mine inquired about his fragile health condition, he merely said, “From my twentieth year, I realized that I’m just an āgantuka (stranger, guest, visitor) here in this world.” One seldom finds that sort of awareness—not merely in word, but in action as well. The wonderful paradox in SRR’s worldview is that although he feels like a visitor, he toils with the gusto of a landowner!

E. I have learnt so much just by observing Prof. L V Shanthakumari, an epitome of tranquillity. It baffles me how a person can transcend such pain and yet not make any bones about it. Her presence itself is calming and reassuring but not without a healthy dose of humour and wide-ranging discussion. If only our society had more elderly sages like her.

F. During a conversation I had with Mantap Prabhakar Upadhya, he spoke a great deal about the mind of an artiste during performance. He underscored the importance of art leading to self-forgetfulness; unless the artist can become one with the art, the connoisseurs will not get the ultimate experience. He then told me that when he dances, he doesn’t do it for the applause or for appreciation but as a means of washing off his ego.

G. In my interactions with Nirupama and Rajendra, I found unmatched zest for innovation and a relentless pursuit of self-betterment, not just as dancers but also as human beings. I am reminded of an old saying—One can accomplish almost anything for which one has unlimited enthusiasm—whenever I meet them. When there is absolutely no need to do anything different, when the formula works, and when things are going smoothly, and yet you choose to innovate, that is when you become a pioneer.

H. The continual learning from the extended Prekshaa family—it would be gross injustice to use a term like ‘team’ or ‘crew’—is something that I cannot fully put in writing. I have never seen a more selfless bunch of people, always putting the needs of the organization over their own, making mock of their own travails, and creating an atmosphere of riotous fun without ever subtracting from the tasks to be accomplished. To me, this is nothing less than lokasaṅgraha in action.

2017 started off with a celebration of my mother’s sixtieth birthday (in February) with a small get-together and large doses of music. On the occasion, we brought out her book Sixty Years, Sixty Episodes, a collection of interesting anecdotes from various dimensions of her life. By mid-year, our family was going through a terrible phase with the sudden deaths of members of the immediate and extended family. My grandmother, Smt. Malathi Rangaswamy passed away in July at the age of eighty-five. She was perfectly normal even the previous evening—afflicted by neither a fever nor a cold—and the next afternoon, she was gone. To live according to your terms is rare but rarer still is to die according to your terms. Those who knew her surely felt that with her passing, an era had ended. An old school orthodoxy that had its own warmth and beauty in spite of its obvious limitations. A life of rigorous economy and wise investments. A determination that always placed principles before passions; a firmness, even rigidity, that put faith above joys and comforts; motherly love that knew no discrimination; and benevolence that knew no bounds. The end of 2017 brings with it my father’s semi-retirement from his erstwhile semi-retirement. After a few successful consultancy assignments, he is setting out to write a book chronicling his twenty-year journey of social service in the area of Avoidable Blindness; quite aptly, he has chosen to call the book Eye-opener.

My travels this year were mostly limited to South India—south of the Vindhyas, to be precise,—a place that is my home and that satisfies me more than anywhere else on the planet, with the sole exception of the Himalayas.

The more I read international news and the more I talk to friends living in the US and Europe, the more I’m convinced that as on date, India is—in addition to being so vibrant and diverse—among the safest and sanest places to live in the world; doubtless, we have our own problems but when a population of over a billion is governed by less than a hundred thousand police stations and yet able to maintain peace by and large, then it has definitely something to do with our ‘civilizational maturity,’ as one of my friends put it.

Speaking at the launch of his most recent book, Dr. S R Ramaswamy recalled a wonderful remark by his guru D V Gundappa: “If we were to think that the Supreme [or Destiny or the universe; call it what you wish] bestows upon us those things that we deserve—ex officio—then we would have absolutely nothing. It is because of His immense kindness that He grants us—ex gratia—all the things that we have.” In sum, we don’t get merely what we deserve, but far more than that. And I shall leave you with that thought.

Here’s wishing you and your loved ones a great 2018!

Cheers, Hari

#memoirs #newyear

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scrumptiousstarlightpuppy-blog · 7 years ago

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Clarifying Simple Methods For Brawl Stars Cheats

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kyberled · 8 years ago

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Flashback

Send “Flashback” to have your muse see one of my muse’s bad memories || Accepting

(Length warning - 5204 words, cut put in place to save your dashes)

The roof of the inn leaked. He wasn’t sure why he was so surprised; the entire building had screamed ‘cheap’, and the bags over the windows (’to keep the weather out’, he’d been told, but the fact that they were opaque had not been lost on him. He hadn’t complained then, and certainly wouldn’t, now (at least, not much), but it didn’t change the fact that there was water dripping onto his nose. His brow furrowed as he glared at the far wall.

He didn’t know what he had been expecting.

He groaned as he sat up, stretching his arms over his head. He glanced up to the ceiling, and a fat, icy droplet plopped onto his face. He flinched, and grumbled as he wiped it away. A metallic rattling drew his attention to the corner of the room, where R7 was shivering and holding a scrap of cardboard over his dome. He beeped sadly at Braig, swivelling his sensors in the ex-Jedi’s direction.

“I know, I know, I’m cold, too.” Braig sighs as he stands, shaking his head vigorously to send water droplets flying in every direction (much to Tess’s chagrin, and the little rabbit droid let out an irritated chirp).

“Rust!” Tess whined, wiping frantically at his head and shaking back and forth in an off-kilter mimicry of Braig’s own attempt to dry off.

“You’re not gonna rust, Tess,” Braig said, rolling his eyes and pulling the hair tie off of his wrist with his teeth before pulling his shaggy hair from his eyes. “We got you and R7 coated a few rotations ago, back at that one station, you know, the, uh–” He snaps his fingers in the air, scrunching his face up and pressing his forehead into the space between his thumb and forefinger as though that might help him remember.

“The one with the crushed-ice machine,” he gave up with a sigh, shaking his head and keeping his face pointed down as he reached for the door.

“Rust.” Tess sulked again, at the lowest audible range his speakers would allow. Braig paid him little mind. The door opened with a creak almost before Braig’s fingers even touched the knob. He blinked, frowned, patted at his jacket until he was certain he could feel his sabers under his jacket, and checked both holsters to ensure that his blasters hadn’t been lifted.

Still both there.

He glanced to R7, who whizzed over to him with a whistle and opened one of his compartments to reveal a neatly-hidden stack of credits. Braig grinned, popping his eyebrows for just a second before R7′s compartment closed and the ragged trio stepped out into the mould-scented hallway. If the puddles on the floor were anything to go by, the entire building was in disrepair. Braig wrinkled his nose at the sorry state, then turned back to his door. He closed it, then gave it a nudge with the knuckles of his loosely-curled fist. It creaked, and, with a groan of protest and a little more pressure, it opened again.

Braig scowled, pursing his lips into a thin line of displeasure.

“Kriffin’ barve’s just lucky the important stuff’s hidden away on the ship,” he muttered, pushing a few stray locks from his face (though he knew they’d fall back into place as soon as he started walking, again). He stuffed his hands into his pockets, hunched his shoulders, and set off down the hall, giving a nod to signal for his two droids to follow (though they were already all but clinging to his ankles at every step; places like this were magnets for scrappers, and neither of them wanted to be torn apart and sold on the invisible market). Braig sniffed, still blinking sleep from his eyes and craning his neck against the moisture-borne stiffness that was settling itself oh-so-neatly in his muscles. His head throbbed, and he ground the heel of his left hand into his temple as his right fished in the inner pocket of his jacket for the cold metal flask that he kept closer to his heart than a beloved childhood toy.

It made things easier.

The cap came off with a pop, and the spout was cold against his lips. A nice, if not somewhat jarring, contrast. He tipped the flask back to prompt more of the foul-tasting liquid down his throat. He was about to descend down the stairs, when a slew of voices caught his attention. Normally, such a thing wouldn’t have phased him, but the Force was being particularly insistent that he take heed. His foot hovered over the top stair, and he raised one eyebrow as he stood otherwise frozen in place at the top of the stairs. From where he stood, he could just barely make out the light from the open doorway. At his feet, Tess peered around Braig’s leg, clutching onto the rough material of his trousers, and R7 rolled forwards just enough to nudge at Braig’s side. He paid them little mind, instead craning his head to listen, and felt his blood curdle even as it froze as he understood what was being discussed.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve seen him,” that was the inkeeper’s voice, nasally and phlegm-filled, and yet somehow dry and raspy at the same time. There was a faint rustling sound that Braig could only imagine was the reptilian scratching at those loose, half-shed scales that framed his face like scraggly facial hair, sending a few flakes falling like fetid snow to the mouldy floor. “Staying up on the second floor, he is. Had a couple of droids with him, too - they worth anything to ya?”

“Negative,” came a second voice, and Braig had to take a half-step back to keep his balance, remembering at the last second that the floor creaked (that was always the mistake they made in holos), and to instead prop his weight against R7 before he could give away their position.

He knew that voice.

He knew that voice very well, had, at one point, known it almost better than his own.

Even worn down by age, by decades sloughed off long before they were due, he knew that voice.

“We’re not interested in clan– in droids,” the voice corrected itself, adding a cleared throat for emphasis. “Just the Jedi.”

Braig turned and ran. He hesitated just long enough to scoop Tess into his arms (rabbit droids were not, ironically enough, known for their speed or agility) and bolted down the hallway. There was no point for stealth now, not with that slagbrained inkeep pointing the soldiers in his direction, not when he could hear their feet pounding up the rickety staircase (he felt a bit of grim satisfaction when he heard the wood splinter beneath a plastoid boot, and a string of Mando’a curses as the soldier struggled to free himself from the poor construction). The whole reason Braig had paid for this dilapidated piece of trash was because he’d been assured of the anonymity of the patrons would be closely guarded, and, having judged by the signatures of those he had sensed bustling in the background, Braig had believed it. How foolish he had been.

And now, I won’t even get in on that ‘cheap’ breakfast, he thought to himself, trying desperately to bring some light to his otherwise desperate situation. The Force let out a blood-curdling shriek to his left, and he threw himself into the right wall just in time to avoid being pierced by a bright green blaster bolt. Tess squeaked at the sudden impact, though Braig wasn’t sure if it had been prompted by fear or discomfort. He didn’t stop to think about it. He kept running, legs and lungs working to put as much distance between himself and the soldiers as he could. Another bolt was heralded through the Force, and he pivoted abruptly, amethyst blade screaming to life in his hand as he did so. The two vivid streaks of light connected, sending the bolt ricocheting off to the side. R7 whistled loudly, and little jets sparked up around his wheels to propel the old droid through the filthy window. Braig followed after him, throwing Tess into the air, clipping his saber to his belt. He hit the ground in a roll. Glass dug into his jacket, scraping at any exposed flesh it could reach. Tess dropped from the air; Braig caught him as he stood, huffing a breath and raising his eyebrows in a silent apology for the rough handling. A shout from behind; more bolts whizzing by. More scorch marks on the wall; they’d blend in with the others. He doubted the chaos behind him would even draw any stares, unless they overheard the shouts of ‘Stop the Jedi!’

…

He really hoped nobody heard.

Another bolt; he swerved again, then noticed R7 bobbing down beside him.

“Sev,” he said, and the little droid turned his dome towards his friend.

“Catch.” Braig said, and tossed an indignant Tess through the air once more. Tess clutched on to R7 desperately, and the astromech bobbed a bit under the sudden increase in weight and booped his offence. As the pair of droids reached an alley that veered off in two different directions, Braig waved them one way and turned himself down the opposite path. Sure, they’d said that they weren’t interested in his droids, but (another bolt) better safe than sorry.

They were friends, and together held the privilege of carrying the legacy of the Jedi in the datachips under their casings (Or, the legacy of the Jedi, from his own point of view).

Another bolt.

That one had come a bit too close, sparks shooting off of the impact site. A few nicked his ear. It burned. The footsteps were getting closer. Shouts; ‘Jedi’, and he could almost smirk, almost laugh. He wished that didn’t sound like an insult.

That it didn’t sound like a death knell.

Another bolt.

He glanced over his shoulder, and the shrivelled, shattered old thing in his chest clenched.

The storm trooper suits looked so much like what the men had worn, back when they were still considered ‘men’. Not quite, though.

He looked forward; a building was coming up. He didn’t bother looking up; Crouched, coiled, and let the Force hurl him into the air.

More shouting, more bolts; One connected with his shoulder. Just a clip, but it still burned. He hissed, swore against the wind that screamed around him. A part of him was numbly aware that he would have gotten into a lot of trouble for language so foul only a few decades prior. The bolt had altered his focus; he hit the ground harder than he would have liked, any further profanity kept locked in his mind as air was forced from his lungs. He didn’t give himself time to breathe.

Stood, pressed his hand over the injury with gritted teeth as he threw the Force around it to suppress the pain.

The soldiers wouldn’t hesitate. He couldn’t, either.

He stood, feeling the ground thundering under his feet as he ran. The voices were louder behind him, though the fact that they had to go around the building slowed them down. He vaguely noted that most of them were different. Not all of them, though.

There was still the one he remembered.

Don’t think about it.

Run.

The good thing about hiding out in the slums was that it wasn’t organised into blocks and districts like the city proper (like home had been); it was a maze of shacks and ditches and shanties, the perfect place to get lost in. The downside was that he didn’t know this place any better than they did - and, if these soldiers were stationed here often, they’d have some idea of how to get around. He, however, did not, and found he had no way of knowing where he was. Didn’t matter; keep running. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or what awaited him up ahead. Didn’t sense anything worth worrying about, and so kept running. He knew he couldn’t keep this up forever.

Hopefully, the soldiers couldn’t, either. He was pretty sure he could hear and sense them falling farther behind. He let himself slow as buildings began to thin out, as dirt-trodden ‘roads’ made way to dried out plains of yellowed grass. He staggered a few steps, then bent forward to rest his hands on his knees as he gasped. He had to consciously remind himself that that was a poor way to regain breath, and stood to correct his mistake. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in measured, increasingly deeper breaths until his lungs weren’t wailing quite so loud. His throat still burned from the run, and he swallowed, hoping to soothe the dry, scratchy texture, even a little bit. He pushed his hair out of his face, ignoring the sheen of sweat that dripped between his fingers as he did so. He looked around, squinting against the light that somehow filtered through the bleak grey clouds that gathered overhead. Nothing but dirt, dust, and grass for as far as the eye could see, in every direction except for behind him. Braig turned fully to face the dilapidated town, mouth still hanging slightly open as his tired body worked to cool itself off and return functions to a normal pace. His brow furrowed, and concentration lapsed in the wake of exertion, and he winced and sucked his teeth as the bolt-burn on his shoulder let out an inaudible shriek through his nervous system. He seemed to scrunch in on himself as he pressed his palm against the wound. It sizzled and oozed and crackled all at once, and he grimaced as he felt the gritty texture of dirt, likely lodged there during the chase. It hurt, but he didn’t want to heal it up, here - that would require him to go into a meditative state, and he wasn’t sure that was such a good idea with Imps on his tail. He glanced to the comm on his right wrist, and was about to tap the button to signal R7 to his position when a distant, buzzing rumble caught his attention. His head snapped up, pupils shrinking to pinpricks as adrenaline hit him hard.

It wasn’t a voice, but it was a very familiar sound.

Speeders.

Of course, they would have speeders.

Braig was already backing up when his fingers found the comm button; its cheery beep seemed grossly out of place given the current situation.

“R7, you there, buddy? Gonna need you to bring the sip around- Like, now-!” He was about to turn and run when the first speeder breached the perimeter of the slums. Braig knew there was no way he’d ever be able to outrun a speeder, not when it was that close, and there was no cover; He caught the birth of a whistle before he shut his comm off. R7 and Tess would be on their way, so all he had to do was hold off until they got here. They just might stand a chance if they could get into the air. He took a deep breath, then drew both sabers, letting them come to life in his hands as more speeders emerged from the alleys he had lead them through.

He had been right; He noted with a bleak huff of amusement that these soldiers really did know the lay of the land here better than he did. No real surprise there; he’d only been here for a little less than a full day. No, the surprise came when the final speeder pulled into view. The others had formed up in a wide semi-circle, spaced evenly and caging him off from the city. These were all white, gleaming in regulation plastoid, just like their faceless, inhuman riders, who all sat stock-still with blasters trained on him, but not firing; That was strange. He didn’t sense enough fear from any of them to justify being literally petrified, in fact didn’t sense much fear at all. They had numbers on their side, and the reputation of the Jedi wasn’t as imposing as it had used to be, but it was more than that… His brow furrowed, and he was about to search deeper through the Force when it hit him like a sewage-coated brick. He almost staggered back, instead compensating the sudden loss of balance by shifting his weight and adjusting his stance. The Force spat at him like a feral cat as the dark grey speeder settled to the centre of the perimeter, its rider’s dark robes billowing out like noxious smoke in its wake. Black leather boots stepped into the dust, a cloak of an equally dark shade swishing around the dark figure’s ankles as they walked.

“What do you know, a real life Jedi!” They said, in a sing-song voice that brought to mind curdled lullabies and ash-covered nursery rhymes. “Perhaps I should call a zoo - you don’t see too many specimens like this, any more.” A sneer decorated a washed-out face, once an almost sky blue, now a dishwater grey. That was what really knocked Braig off kilter - he remembered that face.

He bared his teeth, an instinctive reaction to accompany the snarl building up in the Force around him, but the battered old thing in his chest gave a painful tug when he made contact with those wide, gold-tinted eyes,

(’Padawan Braig, are you sure these jackets will be warm enough? I don’t want to freeze before I can find my crystal.’ Looking down to that earnest face, so full of naive fear and yet brimming with eagerness at the journey ahead of them; clutching fistfuls of his own sleeves, the youngling had alternated between staring out the viewports of the ship, chattering with the others, and posing countless questions and concerns to him, their chaperone, and Braig had smiled down and told him that ‘of course, I’m sure, you’ll be fine–’)

“Ry'Za,” he said aloud, breaking the trance of memory. The Nautolan scoffed, tossing their head to the side. The saber in their hand shrieked to crimson life, and it confirmed what Braig never wanted to be true. Another fallen to the dark side.

(’Look, look, I did it, I found one!’ Bounding out of the frigid caves, little mitten-wrapped hands clutching their crystaline prize to his chest like it was the most valuable thing in the galaxy, and, perhaps to them, it was. ‘I found my crystal! I can be a real Jedi, now, just like you!’ The smile that was directed up at Braig was pure and brilliant, but lasted only for a moment before Ry’Za’s attention was pulled back and away to the chatter of the other younglings; they would still be carrying on long after the last of their group emerged from those tunnels.)

Braig wanted to ask what had happened to that bright-eyed little one, but he knew already that he wouldn’t like the answer; He wanted to ask where that pride in being a Jedi had gone, but he knew there hadn’t been anything to be proud of for a long time.

He wanted to ask what Palpatine had done to turn such brilliant hope into such burning hate, but he knew he had enough nightmares, as it was. All he could do was stand and stare as Ry’Za strode forward, the point of their angry red blade scouring the ground with every step.

“If any of you hit me,” they announced, scowl of distaste melting into a feral, toothy grin, “I’ll kill you.” They said so in such a casual tone that it could have been a joke, but nobody laughed. Braig didn’t have time to; a violent red arc was intercepted by a slash of purple. Sabers clashed again and again. Braig ducked, slashed at Ry’Za’s knees; missed. Ry’Za sprang back onto their free hand, then pushed off to flip back onto their feet. Distance now between the two Forcefuls, the troopers let loose. Flurries of green erupted in an unforgiving gauntlet. Braig stumbled back, throwing sabers up to deflect the onslaught. It should have been easy. But exhaustion was a cruel mistress, and the burned gauge in his shoulder crueller still; a bead of sweat rolls down his temple, and his jaw clenched as he called upon the Force to give him a second wind and force the pain to the back of his mind. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out like this, especially not when the Force gave a malicious howl of frenzied excitement over his head. He leaped backwards to avoid being cleaved in two, and even then his sabres came up in an X to intercept the attack. Frustration and pain made a home for themselves on his face, a twisted mockery of the delighted grin Ry’Za sported. This couldn’t go on. He had to get the upper hand, or all Tess and R7 would find when they finally showed up would be a few miserable scorch marks in the grass (where were they?).

Muscles coiled and released as Braig lunged - left hand flipped to reverse-grip, right slashed up at Ry’Za’s chest. Deflected- Turned to parry another round of bolts (realised he was now stuck between Ry’Za on one side, and the troopers on the other - not a good position to be in), flicked his wrist to block, flourish, bring blade down on Ry’Za’s wrist - missed, but only barely; a satisfying hiss from his opponent.

(’Do we get to pick our crystal colour? …. Because I want mine to be green, like Master Yoda’s. I want to serve the Order as long as he has.’)

Another blast from the side. Braig took advantage of Ry’Za’s pain; sabers joined together with a practised flick- hand curled around the darksider’s damaged wrist and dug into singed flesh (a snarl from Ry’Za), pivoted. Knife-edge of his boot met Ry’Za’s knee with a satisfying crunch, throwing them off-balance and into the path of an incoming stream of bolts. Only a few made contact, striking the side of the ribs, the shoulder, the arm. It seemed to be little more than an irritant, and Braig found himself wondering what kind of armour the Imps were doling out, and how he could get his hands on some. Ry’Za reeled from the impact and came up spitting like a feral beast.

“I told you if you hit me, I’d kill you!” There was the fear he had been looking for, rank and vile in the split second before Ry’Za raked their hands through the air and sent three of the speeders careening sideways, crashing into each other with a noise like confused thunder amid the screams and yelps of the men who had been riding them. The dusty air filled with a metallic, sulphuric scent as smoke billowed upwards. Braig used the brief distraction to glance up to the skies, hoping to see his ship somewhere on the horizon, but there was nothing. He looked back down as Ry’Za turned to face him, raising his brows and tiling his head to the side to accompany a shrug.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he chastised the former youngling, and Ry’Za snarled before lunging again. The rage and hate that burned off of him was suffocating (’Padawan Braig?’), fuelled each strike like an exploding star. Slash, block, block, step back- Pivot, turn. Strike, duck, jump back roll duck block strike slash parry (’What is it, Ry’Za?’) At some point, Ry’Za had caught on to Braig’s bad shoulder; most attacks were aimed to that side.

It hurt.

The remaining storm troopers had exchanged looks before helping the survivors from their wreckage before taking aim and firing, though more hesitant this time, lest they once again strike their superior (’Were you ever afraid of the tunnels, when it was your turn to go?’)

Braig’s jaw ached with how his teeth clenched at the smouldering ache in his shoulder. The snarl on Ry’Za’s face morphed into a twisted grin, dancing into a hissing, savage, bloodthirsty cackle. Braig’s blood curdled at the sound. (’Mm, well…’) He jumped a few paces backwards, landing in a roll and bringing his saber up just in time to intercept another near-lethal blow (’Maybe a little. Just don’t tell anyone, okay?’). Ry’Za’s laugh morphed into a chuckle as they pressed down, inching shrieking plasma closer to Braig’s face. Gnarled yellow teeth bared in a victorious smile as the angle shifted suddenly. Braig let out a hiss– His shoulder screamed its own pain through his nerves as the pressure was forced to his freshly-weakened side. His arm buckled.

(’Hey, Padawan Braig?’)

He threw one saber aside, putting both arms behind one to release the strain. He found himself looking up to Ry’Za, and wondering when the little youngling had grown so much - but part of his mind rationalised that the height difference wasn’t just because Ry’Za was taller. They were also forcing Braig to lower his stance, closer and closer to kneeling as though he was waiting for execution - he almost was.

(’You can just call me ‘Braig’, you know.’)

He looked up into those wild, dead eyes, searching for any trace of familiarity, of warmth, of light. Ry’Za only grinned again and leaned in until Braig could feel the rank dampness of their breath mingling with the heat of the saber blades as it danced across his face. He had to squint against the blinding light.

(’Oh, okay. Braig?’)

Ry’Za hadn’t noticed the discarded saber. They likely thought it had been cast aside, and would be ignored for the rest of the fight. And, if Braig had been interested in fighting fair, they would have been right; but, he hadn’t lived through the war by fighting fair.

(’What is it?’)

He pivoted abruptly- Weight was thrown to his rear leg as he turned. Forward leg stayed where it was, taking advantage of the force Ry’Za had been exerting to send the young Inquisitor toppling off balance.

(’Will we see each other again?’)

Braig’s free hand found strands of the Force.

Pulled.

(’Hm… I don’t know.’)

The discarded saber’s locking mechanism clicked, its blade howling as it flew threw the air.

(’I hope so, though.’)

Devouring amethyst bloomed from Ry’Za’s throat, right over where their precious armour had ended.

(’Yeah…’)

Their dying scream was little more than a gurgle accompanied by a puff of steam.

(’I hope so, too.’)

They collapsed to the dust in a heap; their saber rolled slowly to a stop at Braig’s feet as he pulled his own into his hand.

Silence fell, and Braig felt his shoulders rise and fall as he panted for breath. To him, it seemed as though he was staring at that corpse, the black of their robes making a fitting funeral shroud. The Force around him seemed to grow emptier all the time, and he nearly managed to shudder before a bolt flew by his head, and he jumped back just in time to take another bolt to his leg.

He snarled as he fell to the ground, bracing his landing on his forearms to keep from smashing into the ground. He looked up through rivulets of sweat and strands of hair to glare at the troopers, struggling to stand even with the Force bolstering his efforts. Blasters were steadied in his direction, and the curse that crawled upon his tongue would have curled the toes of the saltiest spacer died with the sudden roar.

He closed his eyes– The wind tugged at his hair and kicked a cloud of dust into the air. Flash of light.

Screams.

Heat, explosion.

He looked up to the sight of the ship touching down. The gangplank hit the ground with a thunk, and R7 rolled out, nearly toppled over as his wheels caught on a rock, and whizzed over to Braig’s side. The battered rogue gulped a breath as he wiped sweat from his eyes, then reached out to pat the astromech’s dome affectionately.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said raggedly, grunting as he struggled to his feet. R7 beeped cheerily, scooting forward to act as a support when Braig’s freshly-injured leg threatened to give way.

“Thanks again,” Braig said, though exhaustion sapped the emotion from his voice. R7 began rolling towards the ship, and Braig limped alongside him before he stopped and turned to the smouldering heap that had once been the squad of storm troopers.

“Wait,” he said to R7, nearly losing his footing when the oblivious droid kept trundling on for a few seconds. R7 paused, letting out a curious whistle, but followed after his friend, anyways. Braig knew that he should be getting onto the ship, even if only to lay down and rest or drown himself in Bacta, but he had to know.

He had to be sure.

Dirt and grime dripped into his eyes as he limped forward, and he no longer cared enough to wipe the hair from his face. He kept his eyes focused on the ground, searching for that corpse that had until now been host to that familiar voice. The smell of charred meat reached up to him, but he’d grown used to that from a lifetime of war, and so barely noticed. He stumbled over one, two, two and a half bodies by the time he made it to the one that had brought back memories. He only found a fragment, but, fortunately, it still had its head attached. R7 booped warily, focusing his sensors on the corpse, then on the tired man at his side. Braig muffled a noise of discomfort as he crouched down, used his good hand to tug the helmet aside. His vision seemed dull as he regarded the face - so similar to the others, and yet so different at the same time.

He remembered the scar on the aged clone’s lower jaw, just as well as he remembered the explosion that caused it (faintly, but he remembered), but more than that he remembered the small tattoo right under his ear. A gentle swirl of spirals, allegedly inspired by the waves on Kamino. Braig felt his face crumple, just slightly, and he bowed his head and closed his eyes as R7 slunk a bit closer.

“Otto,” Braig said simply, nodding to himself. “That was Otto.” He sat there for a moment longer before he nodded again and struggled back to his feet, leaning heavily on R7 as he did. “Let’s go - staying here was a bad idea.” R7 chirped his agreement, and spun his dome to express his enthusiasm. As they walked side-by-side back to the ship, R7 gave a soft, low-toned boop.

“Yeah,” Braig nodded, pushing his fingers through his hair. “I miss home, too.”

#he wanted to be around other people for a bit #that was a bad idea #princessofwar #Welcome to Braig Theatre Leia hope you enjoy the show :D #long post //#death //#violence //#injury //#body horror //#gore //#&& best foot forward; ic #&& far far away; drabbles #&& as best i can; answers #&& lawless abandon; rogue

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