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[grimsley-official]

I have a question. How did you become an elite four member? If the story's too personal feel free to delete my ask.

(//anonymous ask from @titanfae)

Oh my, while not "too personal", it is quite the long story~

Believe it or not, I was not initially interested in any sort of position within the Pokémon league. You see, I was quite the rebel of sorts as a child and didn't see myself fit for such a thing. Ah, but dear Marshal was extremely insistent about wanting to at least attempt to join... And, of course, I couldn't let Marshal join without me there to be better than him~

To our convenience, the League was searching for new trainers, as several spots had recently opened up. Marshal and I, along with Shauntal and Caitlin, decided to apply all together.

Now for those unaware, the Unovan League chooses it's newest Gym Leaders and Elite Four members with a bracket of sorts. Once you've been approved for said bracket, you have the opportunity to battle against a variety of other trainers in an attempt to stand out. Your skills as a trainer and type specialist are judged by the current Champion, Gym Leaders, and other Pokemon League employees... In our case, our battles were also televised~

Ah, long story short, the others and I were chosen to become the newest Elite Four members after gathering quite a lot of attention from both the public as well as the League~

[angorwhosebabyisthis]

i feel like it's also worth adding that these grown ass women with jobs and families risked losing those things and going to jail for the crime of creating, sharing, and engaging with gay fiction. read that again. read it a third time.

a huge factor in the boom of positive, well-written queer representation we've had in the last decade or so is that creators who grew up in and were influenced by fandom have aged into positions to push for it in the professional creative sphere. audiences who grew up in fandom aged into the group where they could contribute money to those projects, now that the door was finally open; audiences who were already in that bracket, and had been desperate for decades for decent queer rep to put support behind, jumped at the chance. people like to brush it off as ~not that deep~ and act like it's ~terminally online~ and ~cringe~ to pretend fandom--let alone shipping specifically--has any kind of meaningful influence. but it has had a powerful, demonstrable positive impact going back more than half a century, and none of that would have been possible if the infrastructure of modern fandom hadn't already been made.

women who put everything on the line--put in money and blood and sweat and tears and fear for their entire goddamn lives--to build our spaces in secret have done a hell of the fuck a lot more for the representation of queer love in fiction than any of you shitheads whining about how fandom is too shipping-focused, how these hags belong in the kitchen should be doing their taxes and raising their children instead of '''invading fandom spaces.''' these women did genuine actual fucking grassroots activism against systemic oppression so you, the assholes in the audience, could sit on your ass and reap the benefits while you actively contribute to the resurgence of that systemic oppression, no less.

do your research, put your money where your mouth is to contribute a tenth of what these women did for society, or shut the fuck up.

I know "60s housewives who invented slash fanfiction" has taken on a life of its own as a phrase, but Kirk/Spock didn't really exist until the 70s and THOSE WOMEN HAD JOBS. They were teachers and librarians and bookkeepers and scientists and they damn well spent their own money going to conventions, printing zines, buying fanart and making fandom happen. Put some respect on their names.

[personalinjuryclaimsbylawyers]

Expungement Vs. Sealing of Records: Which is Better and Why?

Nobody wants to live their entire lives with the stigma of being a criminal due to prior criminal charges. Since a criminal record can prevent you from enjoying the pleasant things in life, regardless of blame. This is where expungement enters the legal system, aiding the public in seeing a chance.

If you have a criminal tag, you will always feel as though you are in the criminal justice system and that people are judging you because of it. Even a simple arrest or conviction could result in you living with the consequences for the rest of your life. When two options are presented, your records will be cleared and you will be given a fair start.

According to Expungement Lawyers in Texas, a criminal record can be sealed or erased. However, state legislation and eligibility requirements have a significant role. There are always repercussions when you have a criminal record. Background checks may be necessary for several reasons, including employment, home rental or purchase, passport verification, and even other situations.

Expungement vs. sealing

When determining the differences between these two processes and which one will be more advantageous. Understanding the comparison is crucial. While sealed records are focused on proving that your arrest or conviction is overturned, TX expungement entails wiping your records of any past incidents, including arrests and convictions.

When a record of a person is sealed, it signifies that the public will not have access to it. When talking about sealing records, it should be noted that this can only happen if the court orders it. Expunging, on the other hand, entirely clears the forms!

Is sealing of Record Almost the Same as Expunction?

The purpose or result is almost the same but still differs. Expunging and sealing a record may look related but are different, as they differ state law-wise. Typically, criminal records are available to the public. But when requesting an expunction, you can expect your documents to get destroyed, with no proof left of it.

But, when your records get sealed, they’re not destroyed; they are closed. And, anytime law enforcement or government bodies need the documents, they can access them after requesting to open them. The forms are definitely out of the public, but not law bodies.

Eligibility

The most important step you need to take is eligibility TX expungement, which grants a clean slate. when you are detained or found guilty. It would be beneficial if you could take a deep breath, unwind, and consider clearing your reputation of the criminal stigma.

If you can completely erase the records, it can be done through study. Check the criminal court, the law, and any other relevant information first;

Is the crime committed admissible? Some jurisdictions allow for the expungement of arrest and conviction records for Texas Class C Misdemeanor offences. while prohibiting the erasure of records involving felony convictions.

Where do you qualify? In some states, persons who have served their whole sentence — including probation — have the option of being executed. While some states give judges the authority to reduce probation terms and grant the case’s expungement.

The method? You could occasionally need professional assistance. The finest expert to choose to assist you with the process of expunging criminal records is an expungement lawyer. Several courts have a “Motion for Expungement” form. The technique is fully explained there!

Any repercussions? Will your name appear on the form even after the criminal record is sealed? How far up the search results list will your name appear is one of the most important things to know. The records are often kept by police agencies and some licensing boards.

Conclusion

Now that you are aware of the distinction between sealing and expungement of records. Making a decision about which is the best option is simple. You must also be aware of your eligibility for either sealing the record or having your criminal record expunged. If so, you can quickly decide whether to remove the criminal stigma from your name. It’s time to evaluate your life and make the decision to expunge your criminal record. To understand what to anticipate from your case, either learn the law or enlist the aid of an expungement attorney.

[lucysarah-c]

Criminal Record

A young cadet from the survey corps began dating one of the higher-ups. What others did in their personal lives was none of Levi’s business, but in the comfort of your shared room, as each of you focused on your respective piles of paperwork, the brand new hot topic of the regiment felt like fair game.

“Did you hear that John and Grace are dating? I heard it from Erwin this morning,” you broke the silence, attempting to start a conversation with your long-time boyfriend.

“How could I not? Everybody is talking about that shit,” he replied, not even looking up from the opposite side of the desk, as he filled out forms.

“I think they look cute together, but I hope they can handle the attention during meals,” you said, taking a sip of your hot tea and leaning back in your chair.

“She's too young for him, just a damn brat,” your grumpy boyfriend replied, leaving you torn between laughter and concern.

You continued sipping your tea, reclining in your chair with your eyes fixed on your boyfriend's raven head as he wrote. A mischievous smile crept onto your face.

“Levi.”

“What?”

“Levi~”

“What do you want?” This time, he raised his bullet-gray eyes from his work to see why you were being so annoying. “What’s so damn funny for you to have that stupid smile on your face? Go back to work; we're not even halfway through.”

“I was younger than her when we first slept together.”

Your words filled the room like a sermon about sins.

You were having the time of your life, while your boyfriend… well, he seemed to be having a mental breakdown.

Later, the next day.

“Erwin, do you think Grace is too young for John?” You asked him directly, already sensing Levi's discomfort.

“Huh? Well, she is young for him. But who am I to tell them who they should spend their time with? Even if I think it’s a little inappropriate,” Erwin replied, continuing to read one of the many reports he had.

It was just another morning for the six of you (Mike, Erwin, Hange, Moblit, Levi, and you), making sure all the assignments were in check.

You could hardly contain your laughter at his response.

“Did you know that I was younger than her when Levi and I started dating?” You omitted the sexual reference for the sake of your embarrassed boyfriend.

Hange spat out some of her tea and burst into laughter, while Mike simply chuckled.

Levi, on the other hand, kept his eyes fixed on the paper in his hands.

“Oh really? What do you have to say in your defense, Levi?” Erwin was, of course, poking the bear, a smirk playing on his lips as he raised his blue eyes from the paper to look at his friend.

“Oh my god! You even said the other day that she was too young!” Hange said, almost screaming between laughs. They were probably going to tease him about this for a while.

“Shut up, four eyes,” he replied before, probably, considering his next reply. “In my defense?” He echoed, confirming Erwin’s question. “In my damn defense, I used to kill people for money and be involved in drug deals as a thug in the underground. Sleeping with someone underage is the least of my sins; just add it to my long list of criminal records.”

This was my first one-shot ever. It's such a shame that somehow Tumblr erased some of my old posts out of nowhere, and I couldn't find it. It holds a special place in my heart because of that. But, well, I decided to rewrite it and post it again because I really want to keep it in my masterlist. Here is the link to part 2, but be careful, it was written a WHILE ago. Link to my masterlist and my other works if you feel like checking them out.

Tags!: @nube55 @justkon @notgoodforlife @nmlkys @humanitys-strongest-bamf @quillinhand @thoreeo @darkstarlight82 @i-literally-cant-with-this @angelofthorr @aomi04 @levisbrat25 @l3visthighs @hum4n-wr3ckag3 @hannieslovebot @starrylevi @rithty @mariaace @ackrmntea @emilyyyy-08 @levisfavoriteteashop @katestrophes @levistealeaf @an-ever-angry-bi @youre-ackermine @fxnnyackerman @secretmoneybearvoid @trashblackrainbow @@feelingsandemotionsnotexplored @flxrartsstuff @katharinasdiaryy @@kikarouflames Wanna join my tag list? Here!

[castingpods]

He's a dad. He's a convicted criminal. He's just a guy. He's a lab rat for a mad scientist. He's simultaneously terrible and amazing at his job. His best friend is an AI. He's a recovering alcoholic. He sent audio recordings of himself goofing off into outer space. He accidentally taught aliens english. He speaks in 85% pop culture references. he's a staunch pacifist. He crashed a space ship into a space shuttle on purpose. He got his memories erased by a different mad scientist than before.

I didn't say his name but he popped into your head didn't he

[calangolengo]

Some headcanons that I think about a lot for Mute!Stan:

1. He didn't stop talking right away, it was a gradual process. Each year he spoke less, which got him into less trouble as a criminal, he had to do horrible things to himself to control his tongue and speak softly, he was yelled at a lot on the streets to shut up.

2. He learned some sign language on the street, but he wasn't fluent so he still had to speak sometimes.

3. When he got Ford's card he was barely speaking anymore, talking to his brother was one thing since his voice had been out of use for months already.

4. After Ford falls into the portal, Stan organizes his own funeral, his mother almost recognizes his voice because it was very different from Ford's at this point, so he decides to stop talking completely. People saw this as a response to the trauma of losing his brother so they didn't talk much about it.

5. Stan still opened the Mystery Shack, but without the guided tours. He simply made it more like a museum. He placed a speaker in front of each strange object where he recorded some descriptions of the creatures in advance, alone, at night.

6. He spread several speakers throughout the cabin with price information and random curiosities. As well as a larger speaker that constantly repeated that they did not accept refunds at the Mystery Shack.

7. The tours were created by Soos. As a child, he would visit the cabin with his grandmother and, since she was bad with the speakers, he would invent descriptions of the objects himself, which always gathered a small crowd around him who bought many more things on the way out. Stan hired him almost immediately.

8. Soos quickly learned sign language to talk to Stan and later taught Wendy, who also went to work there.

9. The kids learned sign language at home when they learned they were going to stay with their estranged great uncle who they had only heard about and who was apparently mute. It was a challenging project for them. Dipper learned it to challenge himself academically and Mabel learned it because it was fun to use a secret language and also because she thought it was like creating spells with her hands. They weren't very good, but they managed well.

10. When the portal is reactivated, Mabel is still left with the decision of whether to turn it off or not and for the first time in years Stan speaks and asks her not to turn it down, which shocks everyone because they thought Stan was mute since birth.

11. Ford is not happy when he comes back and Stan doesn't talk to him, despite all his knowledge of sign language it was never something that caught his attention and he suspects that Stan is just doing it just to be a jerk.

12. The kids get upset with Stan for being able to talk all that time and refuse to acknowledge his sign language for the rest of the day, avoiding looking at his hands the whole time, Stan panics and basically Soos is the only one who makes communication between Stan and the others viable because he translates everything Stan says.

13. The kids talk to Stan again the next day because he seems miserable for not being able to talk to them and also because they are so used to this type of communication that they forget that they were ignoring him.

14. Ford is the hardest to accommodate; when he's not deliberately ignoring Stan, he tries to catch him off guard so he'll talk. At one point, an argument starts at night on the porch, demanding that his brother talk, which leads Stan to try to talk again, but can't because he's desperate and has a panic attack.

15. During Weirdmageddon, they still switch identities, with Stan speaking and acting exactly like Ford. Bill is tricked because he knows that one of the twins can't talk and ends up being erased with Stan's mind.

16. When his memory is erased, Stan starts talking again. It takes a while for his voice to come back because he didn't use it much. The children still use sign language while talking to him to try to bring his memories back. The scrapbook works little by little.

17. With each passing day, Stan remembers a little more and each day he talks less until, by the time Stan and Ford get on their boat, he has all his memory restored and has stopped talking completely again.

18. Stan speaks few words sometimes, he says his brother's name, a few words of comfort or a greeting, only to Ford and in a low tone of voice, it doesn't happen much but whenever it does it brings Ford to tears, he preserves each of these moments as treasures.

That's it for now, I've been thinking a lot about Mute Stan in the last few days and I wanted to express these thoughts a little, whoever wants to add more things or take over the narrative from here on out, feel free, the floor is open.

[sylvia-on-the-run]

Gaza is being annihilated and burned by the zionist war machine with American cover, international complicity, and disgraceful Arab betrayal.

In a brutal war crime added to the zionist occupation’s long record of massacres, the occupation army bombed the Mufti School for displaced people in Al-Nusseirat Camp last night, resulting in the martyrdom of 22 civilians, including 15 children and women, and injuring 80 others, most of them children and women who sought protection in a place they thought was safe. The enemy did not stop at this criminal act but continued targeting innocent displaced people, bombing their tents for the seventh time within the walls of Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Hospital. This led to the martyrdom of three more and injured 40 others, some of whom were burned alive in horrific scenes displaying the enemy’s brutality.

These crimes reflect the occupation’s clear intent to continue its war of genocide, displacement, and starvation against our people, attempting to erase our people’s entire existence in full view of the silent international community, with blatant complicity from the major powers that claim to protect human rights, and amid disgraceful Arab betrayal.

In northern Gaza, particularly in Jabalia Camp, systematic genocide and ethnic cleansing continue. Our people there have been under a suffocating siege for ten consecutive days, with the enemy relentlessly bombing residential neighborhoods and medical facilities, causing a complete collapse of the healthcare system. Patients and the wounded are left to face slow death amid a lack of medicines and medical supplies.

The United States insists on its full partnership in these crimes against our people in Palestine and our brothers in Lebanon. It continues to provide military, financial, and political support to the zionist war machine and grants it protection on the international stage, blocking any real accountability for its crimes.

We cannot overlook the betrayal of certain official Arab regimes that have chosen to side with the enemy against their own people, still chasing narrow interests and false promises of maintaining their crumbling thrones. These regimes have sold the Palestinian cause for a cheap price, but they will pay the price for their betrayal sooner or later. History will not forgive them, and the Arab people will not forget their disgraceful positions.

We, in the Popular Front, call on every honorable Arab and every free person in the world to take a clear and decisive stand and to move immediately to stop this ongoing zionist massacre. Silence in the face of these crimes is complicity and a betrayal of the blood of innocent children and the displaced, who are being burned alive in displacement tents due to the brutal zionist bombardment.

The Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine Central Media Office October 14, 2024

[jackassrabbit]

You're now a SUBVERSION of the magical girl subgenre. You still get the cute dress but your mascot animal kind of sucks morally speaking.

[lucisfavoritedemon]

Through The Portal: Chapter 4

Series Masterlist

Chapter Summary: Ford must talk Y/n down from making a rash decision. Both must face their tormentor head on.

Pairing(s): Stan x reader (platonic present, romantic past), Ford x reader, Dipper x best friend!reader, Mabel x best friend!reader Bill x reader

Warnings: angst, fluff, mentions of hopelessness, torture, mental manipulation, PTSD, unrequited love, flashbacks.

A/N: The events and ideas are based on a theory I have about the Nightmare Realm. This is in no way canonically true, just my theories based on what we canonically know about the Nightmare Realm.

“What!? Are you crazy? I would never even think about doing that to you!” Ford was frantic, he really couldn’t believe I just blurted that out so casually.

“Using the memory gun and erasing the thoughts of Bill, and what I saw and went through in the Night Realm, it might just work. I’m willing to make that sacrifice if it means keeping the rift safe.”

“No! That’s not even an option on my radar.”

“I’m aware, that’s why I’m making it an option.”

“No. I’m not doing that. I care about you too much to erase your memories all willy-nilly like that.”

“It’s not willy-nilly, Ford. I know what I’m asking of you and I know it’s a hard decision but…”

“A hard decision!? It’s an impossible decision that I am refusing to make. I’m not gonna do it, and neither are you. End of discussion.”

I sigh, “may I ask why?”

“Because, if I erased your memory of your time in there and your memories of Bill…you’d forget who I am.”

His words struck me. Was this Ford’s weird way of hinting at something? I shook the thoughts away. Ford and I had been through a lot when it came to Bill, and maybe he finally felt like someone truly understood him fully. He wouldn’t come out and say it, but he was scared of being the outcast he felt he always was.

“Okay, I’m sorry I asked.”

“It’s okay. As long as you promise never ask me to do that again.”

I nod, “is there anything else you need from me?”

Ford shook his head, “you can head back upstairs. I just felt like you should know what I found. You and I are of like minds and we both know how evil Bill truly is.”

I nod, “okay, if you need anything from me, you know where to find me.”

We shared an understanding look for each other before I walked back upstairs where the twins started to bombard me with questions and stories again. It felt nice that they were accepting of me into their life.

The next couple of weeks were interesting. Dipper and Ford told me about their adventure playing Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons that was then brought to life because Stan had thrown their dice, making the infinity sided die to roll out of its case. I enjoyed them sharing their adventure with me as I tried to make sense of my night terrors as Mabel called them.

The following week I helped the twins help Stan run for Mayor of Gravity Falls. I supported him 100% as the Stan I knew back in 1973 would have made a great mayor. I didn’t realise how much he had changed, or what little knowledge he had on politics. Still, I was happy to support him no matter what. After saving the kids, he was elected mayor by getting the birdly kiss from the mayor picking eagle. Little did I know Stan had a very extensive criminal record. I guess people do really change more than you realize.

I knew the adventure this week, though, was going to be interesting. I was fast asleep when all of a sudden I was in the middle of the nightmare realm. I feared it was another nightmare, then suddenly it morphed to where I was standing in the middle of a field.

“Y/n?” I heard Ford’s voice call out.

I turned around and saw him standing there, “Ford?”

“Wh-what are you doing here?”

That’s when we heard the malicious laugh of Bill Cipher. It was no coincidence Ford and I were here. Bill had a plan for us. Big plans.

“Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well, aren’t you two a sight for sore eye. Stanford Filbrick Pines, my ol’ pal. And, could this be, my sweetheart? Y/n? I think it is.”

“Bill Cipher. What do you want from us?” Ford asked, pulling me behind him.

“Oh quit playing dumb, IQ. You two knew I’d be back. You think shutting down that portal can stop what I have planned. I���ve been making deals, chatting with old friends, preparing for the big day. You can’t keep that rift safe forever. You’ll slip up and when you do…” Bill then shows us a tear leading from our world to the nightmare realm, and I feel like I’m gonna puke.

“Get out of here! You have no dominion in our world!” Ford yelled at Bill, keeping a protective hand on me.”

“Maybe not right now, but things change, Stanford Pines,” Bill’s voice morphs into a creepy deep one, “things change.” He then rises into the tears laughing maniacally.

I shoot up screaming. Scared out of my mind. Bill was coming, and I was utterly terrified. The thought of actually facing Bill scared the shit out of me. Bill was someone I never wanted to actually face ever again. The fact that he appeared to Ford and I meant he was growing stronger and stronger with each passing day. That was the thing that scared me the most.

The next morning I could barely get out of bed. I sat there lost in thought, I was unable to fall back asleep after our meeting with Bill. I heard Ford call for a family meeting and I gathered all the courage I could muster and walked downstairs.

“Y-Y/n? Are you alright?” Ford asked, looking at me concerned.

“I’m scared, worried, I didn’t go back to sleep last night if that’s what you mean.” I stated.

Ford felt terrible I had gotten dragged into this, but little does he know I did it to myself. Bill’s infatuation with us was no coincidence.

“Ooh, mysterious scrolls and potions. Are you going to tell us we’re finally of age to go to wizard school? Is there an owl in this bag?” Mabel asked hopping in a chair and started to go through the bag Ford had on the table.

“No, I assure you if there is an owl in this bag, he’s long dead.” Ford took the bag from her.

Dipper and her sat down as I stood behind Ford. He pulled out a scroll paper and showed it to the kids, “Now, tell me children, do any of you recognize this symbol?” He holds up a scroll with Bill on it.

They both gasp before Dipper speaks, “Bill.”

“Y-You know him?” Ford was shocked, and so was I.

“Know him!? He’s been terrorizing us all summer. I have so many questions and theories.” Dipper spoke frantically.

“Dipper’s been pretty paranoid since Bill turned him into a living sock puppet.” Mabel added.

“The important thing is, we defeated him twice.” Dipper interjected.

“Once with kittens, and once with tickles.”

“It was a lot more heroic than it sounds.”

I looked at Ford concerned about the kids. This was serious, the fact they have faced Bill. It means he now has access to their minds, especially Dipper. Ford looked back at me with the same concerned look.

“The fact you have dealt with Bill is gravely serious.” Ford spoke up.

“So, how do you know Bill?” Dipper questioned. I knew I wasn’t ready to talk about that yet, and I knew Ford wasn’t ready either.

“Y/n and I have encountered many dark beings in our time, Dipper. What matters now is, his powers are growing stronger, and if he pulls off his plans, no one in this family will be safe.”

I wanted to punch Ford for confirming my suspicions. He was never good at comforting, so I don’t blame him entirely, but I didn’t want those to be confirmed. Neither did the kids as they gasped at what Ford just stated.

“Fortunately there should be a way to shield us from his mental tricks.” He unrolls a map onto the table, and grabs a marker, “a way to Bill-proof the shack. All I have to do is place moonstones here, here, here, and here, “he draws circles on the map, “sprinkle some mercury, and let’s see. I always forget the last ingredient.” He flips through Journal 1, “ugh. unicorn hair.”

“That’s not, like, rare, is it?” Dipper asks.

“It’s hopeless. Unicorns reside deep within an enchanted glade, and their hairs can only be obtained by a pure, good-hearted person who goes on a magical quest to find them.”

Mabel began screaming at the top of her lungs. She begged Ford to let her go on this quest to get the hair. Naming everything she has done that proves that she is obsessed with unicorns. Then she mentions that she is probably the most good-hearted person in the room. No one argues with her about that. Ford agrees to let her go, giving her the journal and a crossbow.

“Y/n, you wanna come with me and the girls on this quest?”

“I actually need Y/n here with Dipper and I.” Ford answers before I can say anything.

Mabel shrugs and calls her friends and sets off on the quest for unicorn hair. Ford leads Dipper and I down to the second floor of the basement. A place neither of us have seen yet.

“If we can’t Bill-proof the shack, we’re going to have to do the next best thing. We’re gonna have to Bill-proof our minds.” Ford pulls out a device that strangely looks like a torture device.

Ford begins to turn the machine on and places the metal helmet on Dipper’s head. This must have been the device Ford wanted to use on me a couple weeks ago, but worried my mind would still be vulnerable to his torment because of my dreams.

“So, what is Bill exactly?” Dipper questions.

“No one knows for sure. Accounts differ of his true motivations and origins. I know he is older than our galaxy, and far more twisted.”

“No kidding…” I mumble, still traumatized from my extra time with him in the nightmare realm.

Ford gives a sympathetic look before he continues, “not a physical form, he can only project himself through our thoughts through the mindscape. That’s why he wants this.” Ford holds up the rift, “I dismantled the portal, but with this tear, Bill still has a way into our reality. To get his hands on this rift, he would trick or possess anyone.”

“So how do we keep Bill out of our minds?” Dipper inquired.

“There are a number of ways I personally had a metal plate installed in my head.” Dipper doesn’t believe him, so Ford taps his head proving he does, “but this machine is safer. It will scan your mind, biologically encrypting your thoughts so Bill can’t read them.” Ford switches the screen on, “now, say hello to your thoughts.”

Dipper thoughts play across the screen. Some are interesting, others are utterly embarrassing. I felt bad that his poor thoughts were on display for us.

“By the way, you two never told me what your history with Bill was.”

“Dipper, do you trust us?” Ford asks, and he nods, “then you’ll trust that’s not important. Now, focus. It's time to strengthen your mind.”

The three of us sit there for hours as the machine slowly encrypts Dipper’s thoughts. I look over at Ford who has fallen asleep at his desk. “Must be nice to be able to sleep anywhere…or at all…”

“What’s been going on with you lately by the way? You’re more distant and paranoid, especially today.”

“It’s Bill. He scares the heck out of me. The thought of coming face to face with him in a physical form terrifies me.”

“S-so you had a bad experience with Bill too, huh?”

“I-it wasn’t always like that, Dipper…Bill and I were actually very close…then I got a true peak at what he really wanted…on the other side of my portal…he tortured me…Ford and Stan won’t be happy I am telling you this, but you and Mabel were going to find out eventually…”

“W-Wait, your portal? Y-you didn’t go through with Great Uncle Ford?”

I shake my head, “no…I had made my own. I found an old book in my parents' attic. They used to be Anti-Cipherites, or descendants of some. A group looking to take down Bill. It had an encryption on how to summon him. I did, and that night he appeared to me. He showed me his equation, he tricked me with his flattery, saying I didn’t need school or friends. Helping him would give me everything I ever wanted. Including helping my friend so he could finally go home before his brother left for college….that friend was your Uncle Stan…”

Dipper's eyes widened, “h-how old are you then?”

“Technically 61, but the place I was stuck in has no concept of time, so I never really aged…”

Dipper’s jaw dropped, “s-so you knew Grunkle Stan before he was banned from New Jersey?”

I nodded, “Stan lived with me.”

[ghostlyreader09]

The Crimson Threads: Part Two

aged up damain wayne x yn

hiii! i think i’ll keep with this series💛

The Batcave was still, as it always was. A hollow echo reverberated through the cavernous expanse, filled only by the low hum of monitors and the rhythmic tapping of fingers on keyboards. The glow of digital screens lit the faces of Gotham’s protectors, but the silence between them was thick, palpable—a tension that hung like a storm on the horizon. They had gathered here, in this dark sanctuary, trying to piece together the fragments of a puzzle that eluded them.

Damian stood apart, watching from the shadows, his presence more felt than seen. His arms were crossed tightly, his jaw clenched, every muscle in his body coiled with the same restless energy that had kept him on edge for weeks. He could feel their eyes on him, even if they said nothing. Alfred was the only one who didn’t seem to care for his silence, but even the older man’s usually comforting presence couldn’t soothe the knot that had settled in Damian’s chest.

“What do we know about her?” Bruce’s voice was low, measured, as it always was. The leader. The patriarch. But there was something different in his tone now. Concern. A subtle shift, barely perceptible, but unmistakable to those who had grown accustomed to reading his every mood.

“She’s elusive,” Tim Drake spoke up, his fingers gliding effortlessly across the keyboard, his eyes flicking between lines of code. “But that’s nothing new. Whoever she is, she knows how to stay hidden. She’s got a network of data wipes around her, almost like she’s actively erasing traces of herself.”

“Not just a criminal,” Damian muttered, his voice edged with frustration. He could hear the soft clicks of the Batcomputer as Tim continued his work. “She’s a ghost. A shadow that slips through the cracks.”

“I’ve encountered her,” Bruce said, his eyes dark with a hint of the same frustration Damian felt. “She has a strange ability to heal, yes. But we’ve only seen what she does from a distance. Her powers—there’s something more to them. I need to know what.”

“Her name is Sanguis,” Damian interjected, his voice tight as he took a step into the circle of light. “And she’s more than just a healer. I’ve seen it in her eyes—the way she takes from people. The way she absorbs their wounds. I don’t think she’s just fixing them. She’s using them.”

The room fell silent. The weight of his words hung in the air like a fog, thickening the already suffocating atmosphere of the Batcave.

“Wait,” Jason Todd, the ever-impulsive second son of the Bat, spoke up from across the room, his arms folded, leaning against the wall in that way he always did. “You’re telling me she takes on their pain? She absorbs it? That sounds like a ticking time bomb waiting to go off.”

Damian’s eyes flickered to Jason, a brief flash of something darker crossing his features. “It’s not a bomb. It’s… more controlled. Calculated. But the fact remains that she’s hiding something.”

“Could be the price of her ability,” Tim suggested, his voice soft as his fingers danced over the keys, searching for answers that didn’t seem to exist. “Not a lot of data, but there’s been mention of people she’s healed—victims of accidents or injuries. The reports are conflicting. Some say they just walked away, fully healed. But others… there are no records. No follow-up. No sign of them ever being seen again.”

“Or they’ve been taken,” Damian murmured, his thoughts racing. He could feel the puzzle pieces clicking together in his mind, but none of them fit. The weight of the mystery was pressing down on him, heavy and suffocating.

“And she never stays around long enough to talk,” Bruce said with a deep sigh. “She disappears before anyone can ask questions.”

There was a brief pause, a pregnant silence that seemed to stretch on forever. In the quiet, Damian felt a flicker of something—a memory, perhaps. Something that had been gnawing at him for weeks. He saw her face in his mind—her dark, unreadable eyes. The fleeting moment when her touch had pulled the pain from his body, the agonizing sensation of his wounds closing and her own taking their place.

She had healed him. He had felt the exchange—couldn’t deny it now. But what had it cost her?

“What if she’s not… evil?” he asked, his voice quieter than before, as if testing the words in the air. The shift in tone was subtle, but unmistakable. He had never voiced such a thought aloud. It was dangerous to even entertain it.

Bruce’s gaze flickered to him, sharp and calculating, as though the words themselves were a betrayal of everything they stood for. But instead of reprimanding him, he merely tilted his head, considering. “You’re suggesting she’s… what? A vigilante?”

“I don’t know,” Damian admitted, his voice low. “But she’s doing something more than what we’ve seen. She’s healing—yes. But there’s something about her… something beneath it. She’s not like us. But that doesn’t make her a villain.”

Tim, still absorbed in his search, sighed heavily. “I wish it were that simple. She’s not giving us much to go on. Whatever she’s doing, she’s keeping her identity locked down tight. Almost like she’s afraid of being discovered.”

“Afraid of being found,” Damian corrected, his gaze distant, as if seeing something none of the others could. “Not just discovered. She’s hiding something more than just a name.”

Alfred, who had remained silent through the exchange, stepped forward, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable. “Master Damian is correct in his assumption. But I believe there’s more to Miss Sanguis than mere fear or secrecy.”

“Then what is it, Alfred?” Jason asked, raising an eyebrow. “What’s her game?”

Alfred’s gaze flickered to the darkened corners of the cave, as if he were searching for something that wasn’t there. “Perhaps it’s not a game at all. Perhaps she is… something else. Something different.” He paused, his voice softening. “We are all bound by the cost of our choices. Some of us carry our burdens in ways that are visible to the world. And some, like her, bear them in silence.”

Damian’s thoughts stirred, the weight of those words settling in his chest like a stone. Was she truly carrying something heavier than any of them could understand? Was she paying a price for her healing that none of them could even fathom?

The room fell quiet again, each of them caught in their own contemplation. There were no answers yet. No clear path forward.

Finally, Bruce broke the silence. “We need more information. Keep an eye on her. Track her movements, Tim. And Damian,” he turned his gaze to his son, the unspoken weight of expectation between them, “I want you to stay focused. We don’t know if she’s a friend or foe. But we’ll find out.”

Damian nodded, but something in his chest tightened. His father’s orders had always been clear-cut, but this was different. This wasn’t just a mission. Not anymore. Something inside him, something fragile, something unspoken, had begun to change.

————

The next night, as the moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over Gotham, Damian found himself watching from the rooftops once again. His gaze swept over the streets, the alleys, the quiet places where shadows lived.

And there she was—Sanguis.

She moved through the streets like a wraith, her cloak trailing behind her, her every step graceful and unhurried. She didn’t see him, not yet, but he was watching—watching her as she healed, as she touched the broken bodies of those who had been torn apart by Gotham’s cruelty.

Her power was a strange and wondrous thing, and he could feel it even from a distance—the way she moved, the way she shifted the very essence of life within the bodies she touched. She wasn’t just a healer. No, that was too simple.

She was a keeper of souls, a silent guardian who traded her own strength to save others.

Damian’s fingers clenched at his sides. This city didn’t need another shadow in the night. But maybe, just maybe, it needed someone who could walk between the light and the darkness. And for the first time, he wondered if he was the one who had misunderstood her.

—————

The night wrapped itself tighter around Gotham as if the city itself were waiting for something. Damian perched silently atop a gargoyle overlooking a dim-lit alley, his eyes tracing the winding path below, where Sanguis had just appeared. The flicker of her silhouette was familiar by now, a shadow within shadows, and every time he saw her, the tension within him grew.

Tonight, he didn’t follow her immediately. He wanted to observe, to understand without moving, without the pressure of confrontation. For the first time, he wasn’t chasing her like prey, as he had done in the past. Instead, he was waiting for something—some crack in her armor that would reveal the truth. Her power was undeniable, and yet he couldn’t reconcile the idea of her as a threat, a mere villain in the shadows. No, there was something more to her.

She had to be more.

Damian leaned forward slightly, letting the cool breeze of Gotham wash over him, but his eyes never left her. The way she moved through the alley, that quiet grace, the fluidity of her steps—they didn’t belong in Gotham. They felt like they belonged to another time, another world, one where healing and pain weren’t bound by the same rules as the harsh city streets.

There’s something about her.

She stopped in front of an abandoned building, kneeling beside a man who lay prone, his face contorted in pain, blood staining the pavement. Damian could tell from here that the man had been injured in a violent attack—his body was broken, his breath labored.

But as always, Sanguis didn’t hesitate. She simply knelt beside him, her hands glowing faintly in the darkness. A soft hum seemed to vibrate in the air as her fingers moved over the man’s chest, his body slowly beginning to mend beneath her touch. She was absorbed in the work, oblivious to the world around her. The man’s breathing evened out as his injuries closed, his pulse stabilizing. It was like watching a miracle unfold, but as always, Damian’s sharp eyes saw the cost.

Her hands trembled slightly as the blood began to settle, as if it had taken something more than just the injury from the man. Her face, normally calm and unreadable, showed the faintest flicker of strain.

There it is again.

The odd sensation—the way she never seemed to just heal. She was taking something from the world around her. Absorbing it.

Damian could feel his pulse quicken. He wanted to rush down, confront her, demand answers, but he didn’t. Not yet. Something in him had changed over the past few weeks. This wasn’t the same cold pursuit, the same bitterness that had once fueled him. No, now he had questions—questions that were pushing him in directions he didn’t want to go.

As she finished with the man, standing slowly, she turned her face upward, as if sensing the eyes that were watching her. Her gaze swept over the rooftops, briefly settling on his position, but she didn’t react. No surprise. No fear.

She knows.

For the first time, Damian felt exposed. The battle wasn’t just about his identity anymore. It was about something much deeper, something tangled in the spaces between their secrets.

Her voice broke the silence, quiet, almost a whisper that was carried away by the wind. “You’re here again.”

Damian didn’t move. He stayed where he was, his gaze never leaving her. “You’re hard to track.”

“And you’re predictable,” she replied smoothly, the hint of a smirk in her voice. “Your shadows follow you too closely.”

He felt his lips tighten at her words, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “Why do you do it? Heal them. Take their wounds. What’s the point?”

Her eyes met his, dark as the night itself, but there was something new there—a flicker of something that Damian couldn’t quite place. Was it… pity? Or something softer? She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she turned her gaze back to the man at her feet, who was now stumbling away, looking dazed but unharmed.

“The point?” She repeated, almost as if the word were foreign to her. “You think I do this for a reason? Because I’m some kind of hero?”

“Are you?” Damian asked, his voice steady, but his mind was racing. He wanted to understand. Needed to.

Her lips parted, then pressed together as if the words were too sharp to speak. “I do it because I can. Because I have no other choice.”

There was a crack in her voice—barely perceptible, but there nonetheless. It unsettled him more than anything she had ever said.

“Choices…” Damian echoed, taking a step toward her. His feet moved of their own accord now, drawn to the vulnerability in her words, to the soft, aching truth that seemed to seep out when she least expected it. “What makes you think you don’t have one? You don’t have to—”

“I don’t have a choice,” she interrupted, her voice suddenly harsh. Her fists clenched by her sides as if her own words caused her physical pain. “This power—this curse, I can’t escape it. If I stop healing them, if I stop taking their injuries, I don’t know what will happen to me.”

Damian felt the breath catch in his chest. A curse?

The thought lingered between them like a thread, fragile and delicate, but no less real. Her face softened then, as if the anger had burned itself out, leaving only the exhaustion behind.

“I don’t do this for glory,” she continued, her voice quieter now, the weight of her words pressing down like a fog. “I do it because I have to. Because if I don’t, I don’t know who else will.”

Damian’s gaze softened. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way the shadows seemed to part around her, revealing the raw, aching truth she had been trying so hard to hide. Maybe it was the way she stood there, alone in the heart of Gotham, carrying the weight of others’ pain as her own.

For a moment, they stood in silence, the world around them seeming to hold its breath.

Damian’s voice was barely more than a whisper when he spoke again. “That doesn’t make you weak. You know that, right?”

Her eyes flickered toward him, the barest trace of something—hope?—in them before she looked away again, her gaze fixed firmly on the pavement below.

“I’m not looking for anyone’s approval,” she said softly. “I’m just trying to survive.”

Damian didn’t know what to say to that. How could he? He had spent his life surrounded by people who fought because they had to—because Gotham had demanded it. But this was different. She wasn’t just fighting the city; she was fighting herself.

A faint memory crossed his mind then—the first time he had encountered pain that wasn’t his own. The first time he had been forced to watch someone else bleed for a cause that was beyond him. It had felt like a betrayal. A mistake.

But as he watched Sanguis, standing there in the moonlight, her power both a gift and a curse, he began to understand. She had never had a choice.

And for the first time, Damian didn’t know if he wanted to stop her—or if he wanted to help her.

————

Bruce, Tim, and Alfred were in their usual positions, scanning through data, as they always did. But Damian’s eyes were distant. He couldn’t stop thinking about her—about the weight of her words, the way she had felt when she stood in front of him, the way her power had pulsed against him, as if there was something more to it than just healing.

But he wasn’t about to say anything—not yet. He wasn’t sure what it meant, what he was feeling. All he knew was that he had to keep watching her.

Because there was still so much she wasn’t telling him. Something that he had to know.

thank you!!!! any recommendations or ideas for this story is greatly appreciated, and i do take requests! 💕💕💕

sanguis is latin for life-blood and might

[dazachi]

Theory time on the whole "ADA member transfers to PM" deal and why I genuinely think this was part of Dazai's plan (loooong post):

Based on what we have, I actually think we can assume that Fukuzawa, Ranpo, Dazai, all of the higher ups in the PM, and the govt. are aware of the deal and that Dazai will go back. Here's why:

Prior to Fyodor's arrest, Dazai had been maintaining an essentially crimeless record (and if he does do something morally questionable, he either had government backing from Ango, or was done in a way that can't be pointed back to him).

However, before anything could progress in S4, Dazai purposely put himself out in public to get arrested. I'd even argue that he had Ango purposely release some of his old crimes rather than it being written on the ripped page of the book (and if it was actually written in the book, then Dazai must have anticipated it in the first place because he knows Fyodor would do that).

This idea is further cemented by the fact that Ango, Mori, and Chuuya are actually aware of what Dazai is doing (more than the ADA even). Dazai had contacts in and out of Mersault ready before his arrest.

To make these plans in the first place, Dazai had to have talked to (at least) Mori and Ango. This would have to be roughly around the same time as when Mori and Fukuzawa made a deal. What if all of this was just one meeting?

Because let's face it. Fukuzawa only saying "except Yosano" was such a red flag moment. If there was anyone Mori would have wanted back in his control, it would either be his angel of death or his demon prodigy. The conversation must not have ended there...

Also, why was this deal even created in the first place? I feel like there could have been a different agreement, and this just looks like an excuse to get Dazai to go back. Fukuzawa agreeing with this deal is weird because he knows what the PM is like. Why would he subject his employees to possibly experience working there?

Dazai may have actually purposely put himself up for the taking in preparation to a future enemy that needed him back in the PM- back in his hometurf with all the manpower he could command and to give soukoku the free reign they had once again (without the limitations of the law on Dazai).

So anyway, now we have Dazai with his crimes leaked, which would have been fine alone because it could be played off as part of what was written on the page, but then he kills some guards in Mersault and commits jailbreak, along with several other crimes in just 30 minutes. In addition, he is clearly shown to be working with Chuuya, a well-known criminal, who has also committed several crimes while there.

Say what you will about Mersault security (which is actually good but just couldn't keep the demons on hold lmao), but they would 100% have records of what Dazai had done there. Even if he could be considered crimeless before, he can no longer be called crimeless again now. His actions here are beyond the manipulations of the book. To have these crimes (in France) erased would require the government to have an agreement with another country and to have Dazai go into hiding for some time again (doable, but troublesome).

That leaves us to the fact that Dazai is back to willingly committing crimes and partnering up with Chuuya as Soukoku for an extended period of time. All of these acts are known to Mori and Ango.

This implies that the choice had been made prior to S4, and this is why Dazai could do all these crazy schemes.

This also clears up why Ranpo and Fukuzawa no longer consider Dazai in the ADA roster recently. Not because they don't care for him, but because he is secretly no longer part of the ADA in the first place, and Dazai's safety is now under the concern of the PM.

Scarily enough, this could also possibly set up Dazai as the next boss of the PM in preparation for the next big enemy. One thing some people in the fandom noticed was that Mori had mentioned before that Dazai would become the boss when he turns 23. This fits in the timeline well because Dazai is several months (or maybe even weeks) closer to his 23rd birthday (or he may already be 23 right now). All of this may have been pre-planned for longer than we think.

Also, as a personal opinion on the other possible transfer candidates, they actually have better hold on the ADA and would not function well in the PM.

The PM would clash with Kunikida's ideals (though it would be interesting to have the future leader of the ADA be put in the PM the same way the future leader of the PM was employed in the ADA)

Tanizaki would be a great candidate, especially for his skills (and it would be interesting to have another redhead in the PM hahaha), but I highly doubt Naomi would take his transfer sitting down (Naomi would probably even attempt to join the PM) and, in turn, Junichiro would hate to bring his sister in the PM as well. Tanizaki's entire shtick involves his care for his sister, and taking that away brings him back to having no motivation to go crazy.

Atsushi is actually my 2nd option. Moving Atsushi to the PM would make him learn more about how the PM functions, and this allows SSKK to spend more time building their relationship. Chuuya could watch over the two of them as an aide to Dazai's mentoring, and this could lead to more character growth for Atsushi. Unfortunately, this voids Atsushi's plans to learn how to fight under Kunikida's tutelage, and the "no killing" deal with Akutagawa slightly lessens its impact because they would now be in the criminal organization rather than the opposing one (I'd rather have Akutagawa join the ADA tbh. This would further cement the "no killing" idea that Atsushi demands of him and build the SSKK partnership.)

Kenji is also a good bet, but the PM already has Chuuya, which makes having Kenji redundant. Kyoka would not return without an all out brawl and would actually waste all the efforts from S2. Ranpo would be insufferable lmao, and he is not made for Mafia types of strategy (he's smart! But he is not here for the manipulation and long chess matches. He doesn't have the patience for that when he can get straight to the point), and I'm not sure who in the PM he would have synergy with yet...he works best as a detective.

NOW, I may be wrong, because who knows what Asagiri will pull on us, and all of this is based on what is shown (I'm not sure if we could trust it lol), but this is the theory I came up with based on my understanding of events. Dazai planned to go back, and the tripartite knows of it.

Before anyone says this is a waste of Dazai's character development, I'd argue that there may be a misconception as to what Dazai is actually here to learn.

Odasaku knows that good and evil does not matter to Dazai. Dazai choosing to save people is not Dazai's character growth because he has ALWAYS been capable of that despite his unconventional means. The real character growth that Dazai needed was that there was a world beyond the darkness that he insists on putting himself in, and that he is capable humanity. Mori realized this too by proving the humanity in Dazai by chasing him out with Odasaku's death. Dazai has also realized this, and is now ready to return to his hellhole as a new man touched by the light. He is ready to be a leader, not the tyrant that he would have been without this lesson. Mori just prevented another insane mafia boss from taking the throne.

In addition, the PM has repeatedly been defined as the organization that protects the city in the dark. Being in the PM does not hinder Dazai from saving people (again, they've done so before while there). This might actually give him more power to move around and defend Yokohama more efficiently.

I guess this is it for now. I may have missed some things, but these are my main arguments for now hehe

[dalishious]

My Five Biggest Fears for Dragon Age: Dreadwolf

Dragon Age: Dreadwolf is highly anticipated by BioWare fans. At one point, I would consider myself to be excited for it too, however, unfortunately the long wait with zero information about the game has only wrecked my personal anticipation. Will my hype return once we actually start to get some regular news about the game? Most likely. But until that time comes, all I find myself doing is just… worrying.

These are the five biggest things I worry about.

5. Big, beautiful maps of nothing

In both Dragon Age: Inquisition and Mass Effect: Andromeda, most of the open world maps are very… empty. Instead of creating an adventurous feeling of excitement to explore, it just makes travelling those maps a tedious task. Games like The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim or the new Baldur’s Gate 3 have open maps too, but those developers actually made use of their space with level designs. Skyrim is full of caves, ruins, etc. content to stumble upon. So is BG3, as well as introducing new dynamics to a fight depending on which direction you approach the encounter from. These games prove an understanding of how to best equip an open world concept that BioWare has only executed in a few maps across both their most recent RPGs. I do not want to see Dragon Age: Dreadwolf be yet another case of luscious forests where developers spent far too much time making look visually beautiful, and not enough time actually filling with game content.

4. Shoddy attempts at retcon

For those of you who don’t know what “retcon” means, it is short for “retroactive continuity”, and refers to the phenomenon of fiction introducing new information that is inconsistent with past information. The purpose is to revise old material. Dragon Age: Inquisition had more than one attempts at retcon that were terribly executed. For example, the player is told not once, not twice, but three different times—as if repeating it enough will erase all the extensive lore up to that point saying otherwise—that the Dalish get rid of their mages if they have “too many”. This is despite the previous games and extended materials showing that the Dalish practically revere their mages.

Now, not all retcons are bad. For example, in Marvel Comics, the superhero Karma’s real name was recently retconned to be Xuân Cao Mạnh, a real Vietnamese name, after spending years and years with the made-up Vietnamese name, Xi'an Coy Man. This is an example of how retons can be used for a good purpose, like fixing a long-lasting mistake. But what exactly is the mistake in saying the Dalish are good people who don’t hate mages like most of Thedas? That was just a cheap, transparent excuse to villainize both elves and mages further.

Cheap, transparent excuses like that make me lose faith in BioWare’s writing. It concerns me with what other lore they view as needing “correcting” in order to reinforce their idea of Grey Morality™ where it doesn’t belong.

3. Imposter characters

One of the biggest grievances I had with Dragon Age: Inquisition, was how the Hawke written in that game was in no way the same Hawke I played in Dragon Age II. I understand that it would be impossible to capture the exact customized character, but the Hawke in DA:I was placed into the game with an anti-blood magic agenda, and wouldn’t shut up about it. This is hilarious, considering how many players chose to make their Hawke a blood mage personally!

With this in mind, I am terrified that my Inquisitor, who will very likely make an appearance in Dragon Age: Dreadwolf, will be used for whatever new agenda needs to be pushed. I better not hear a single anti-Dalish comment from my Lavellan, is all I’m saying.

2. Whitewashing ahoy

For all the talk about #diversity values, BioWare has a very extensive criminal record when it comes to whitewashing their own characters. Almost every single one of their most prominent visibly non-white characters have had their skin lightened or completely washed out, as well as ethnic features erased, at some point or another. This is why I cannot share any excitement or desire for existing characters to make a return; the fear that we’ll have to see Zevran next looking like Chris Hemsworth next haunts me too much.

But this particular fear runs even deeper than individual characters. Why? Because we know that Dragon Age: Dreadwolf will be taking place in northern Thedas, which up to this point has been consistently depicted as having largely non-white demographics. I’m not saying there are no white people in Tevinter, Antiva, etc., but I am saying that if I see the same mix of 80% pale tones and 20% “everyone else” we’ve gotten from the last three games, I will absolutely flip shit. White characters should be in the minority for a change. Otherwise, what is the point of shifting focus away from the dominantly white countries in the first place?

1. This will end of the Dragon Age franchise

Is this the most likely to happen of all fears? No; it is probably the least. But after the pathetic failure that was Anthem and the lacklustre response to Mass Effect: Andromeda, I would not be surprised if BioWare is on thin ice in EA’s eyes. (Which is ironic, considering the demands made by EA to chase after multiplayer fads and micro-transactions are what got BioWare into such a mess in the first place.) Electronic Arts is a garbage company run by garbage people. That much has been proven time and again. The executives behind BioWare itself aren’t clean, either. Unfortunately it will be average employee that suffers the most punishment and blame if the game does not meet the likely very high standards set out for it. In some ways, they are almost set up to fail.

It’s not fair, and there’s not we can really do about it, because the gaming industry is run by selfish idiots. It’s because of this that if events come to pass that the Dragon Age franchise was put “on hold indefinitely” so BioWare can work on clunking out an Anthem sequel, I would be very upset, but not very surprised.

-----

Times are really tough for me, and all my patron supporters are greatly appreciated! If you like my work, please consider becoming one yourself, and I'll be forever grateful!

[simply-ivanka]

Suddenly Democrats Care About the Border

Biden and Schumer begin to see their political vulnerability.

By John Thune -- Wall Street Journal Opinion/ May 20, 2024

Trailing in the polls and desperate less than six months before Election Day, President Biden and Senate Democrats are trying something new: their best impersonations of Republicans.

The architects of the Biden border crisis—the worst in American history—suddenly want the American people to know they’re on the case. After three-plus years of mismanaging border security, resulting in more than nine million entries through the southern border, Majority Leader Chuck Schumer is telegraphing that he may force Senate floor votes related to the border.

That’s his prerogative as leader, but I don’t expect anyone to buy this political theater. For starters, Mr. Biden has authority to take action at the border and to do so today. It’s the same authority he used to issue a multitude of executive actions relaxing border security, including rescinding the national emergency at the southern border, halting border-wall construction, ending the Remain in Mexico policy, and discouraging Immigration and Customs Enforcement from apprehending illegal immigrants.

The president this month ordered the removal of criminals and potential terrorists. This is a switch from the policy he started shortly after his inauguration, and the new order was made only after hundreds of people on the terrorist watchlist were encountered in between ports of entry on his watch. Vote for me, and I’ll clean up the historic mess I made is hardly an effective campaign pitch, and a few meaningless Senate votes won’t erase my Democratic colleagues’ long records of enabling illegal immigration.

In this Congress alone, Senate Democrats have banded together to protect taxpayer-funded flights for illegal immigrants to different states in the U.S. and keep federal dollars flowing to sanctuary cities. Democrats blocked votes on a litany of common-sense border-security and enforcement measures, including a proposal from Sen. Marsha Blackburn (R., Tenn.) that would have let state and local law enforcement detain criminal illegal aliens until ICE can deport them. They even stopped legislation from Sen. Ted Budd (R., N.C.) that would deem assaulting a law-enforcement officer a deportable offense.

Not one Senate Democrat supported H.R. 2, House Republicans’ signature border bill, after Senate Republicans twice forced it to be considered.

But now Democrats need voters in Montana, Ohio, Nevada and Pennsylvania to believe they’re serious about the border. They aren’t motivated by national security. They’re concerned about their own political vulnerability. They’ve recognized, albeit too late, that the chaos of an open border is a political liability.

If Mr. Schumer devotes floor time to debating border legislation, he should expect some difficult conversations ahead—the same kinds of conversations we would have had in the Senate if every Democrat hadn’t voted to dismiss the impeachment of Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas without a trial.

It’s abundantly clear that the American people want an end to lawlessness at the southern border. They want the president to do his job and defend America’s borders. The bad political bet that Mr. Biden and Mr. Schumer are making is that voters will hire the arsonists to put out the fire.

Mr. Thune, a South Dakota Republican, is Senate minority whip.

[doveghost]

The fact that if a prisoner is successful they get to go home and have their criminal record erased yet Sebastian will never be able to have that fate despite being innocent is so fucking devastating

Your entire life ruined because someone blamed you for something you didn't even do.

[mighty-ant]

A Good Landing, chapter thirteen

first | previous

ao3

The Drake of three years ago never could’ve imagined that he’d be someone’s husband one day. 

To be fair, a wedding would be tough to plan when one didn’t technically exist. He had Drake Mallard erased from record nearly a decade ago, reduced him to less than a ghost, less than a footnote. It wasn’t particularly difficult to do, with as little impact as Drake Mallard had made on the world. A rejected son, a failed actor, a selfish, bitter, friendless loser. 

He fell into SHUSH by chance, by sheer, brilliant happenstance. 

As a former stuntman, he knew how to throw a punch. And a lot more than that. He wasn’t proud of it, but after the 8th pointless audition for a toothpaste commercial with no callback, he took to slipping out of his crummy basement apartment in a ski mask and whaling on petty criminals in his neighborhood, St. Canard’s East End. He tried not to punch above his weight, going after would-be muggers or your typical creeps, and every dawn, as sickly, gray sunlight spilled out over the city, he would trudge back home with sore muscles and a gaping chasm in his chest that no amount of violent retribution would be enough to fill. 

But he was getting pretty good at beating up crooks, to the point where regular people took notice. He started showing up in the news as ‘the dark masked duck’ more than Drake Mallard ever did, and even as the emptiness yawned within him, he liked it. The attention, indirect as it was. And he wanted more. 

Beating drug dealers bloody didn’t pay the bills unless he wanted to turn into some sort of hitman, so he kept up his stunt work during the day. His after hours activities kept him sharp, and there was no end to the mindless action flicks in need of nameless stuntmen. 

There was one flick, some old school vampire thing, that had him flying around on wires for Vampire Thrall #1-4 and the Vampire King. The costume department put him in a cape, a long, flowing thing that flared with his movement, made him look bigger than he really was. He startled more than a few techs with a perfectly timed swing of his cape, the snap of fabric especially jarring when all else was silent. 

And just like that, Drake knew what he had to do. 

As a former student of a theater department with a dwindling, near-nonexistent budget, he’d performed in every role, from lead actor to stagehand. And borrowing one of the vampire capes from set to use as reference, he made Darkwing Duck’s first costume. 

The gas guns and the catchphrases developed over time, through trial and error. He flubbed his lines more than once and set off his apartment’s fire alarm an embarrassing number of times. Until one night, when Darkwing Duck became fully realized. 

He started noticing a pattern with a certain number of thieves, most of them teens or kids barely out of high school. He followed them for about a week, not interfering since they never actually hurt anyone, before they led him to the warehouse where they were dropping everything off. 

Drake burst in, expecting to beatdown a few scary gang types who thought it a swell idea to recruit kids to do their dirty work, only to stumble headfirst into a smuggling ring that (he’d later learn) spanned the entirety of Calisota. With his cover blown and the exit blocked, Drake did the only thing he was good at. He fought. 

As he launched one of their own tear gas canisters back at the last of the goons, SHUSH agents came storming in. Apparently he’d interrupted what had been a multi-part sting five months in the making, but in doing so caught the gang so off guard that nearly all of the bosses were there to meet his fists, and the rest were caught when their business partners squealed on them. 

“We’ve been watching you,” the lead agent said. He held his hand out to Drake. “How would you like to continue your work somewhere other than a basement?”

He accepted, barely waiting for the agent to even finish speaking, and Drake Mallard disappeared into Darkwing Duck’s shadow, gleefully casting aside everything that made for a normal life in favor of casefiles and chemistry sets. Who needed friends or neighbors when Quackerjack was robbing the federal gold depository? Or Megavolt was stealing the city’s power, or Bushroot was turning everyone into vampire potatoes (you get the idea)?

Darkwing Duck had the tech, and the secret base, and the costume, and the fear. By design, the average citizen was meant to consider him a myth; the criminal underworld, they knew who he was all too well. 

The years went by, years of living out his secret, selfish fantasies, and…he felt nothing. That hollow, carved out space inside him didn’t go away, or heal at all. If anything it became a constant companion, a pain that festered into numbness. 

After the adrenaline high burned itself out, he felt the ache of his bruised, bleeding body, drowned in the yawning emptiness of the Tower. There was so much crime in St. Canard, not just supervillains but cruel, petty evils that made it feel as though he were battling the tide with a bat and a cardboard shield. 

But he couldn’t go back now. Back to small, sniveling Drake Mallard who nobody gave a damn about. Who would have him? Who would want him?

And then. 

A Darkwing-shaped hole in the roof of a plane hangar. A jet, presented as a gift. Smiles over coffee and warm hands holding his aching body close. 

Launchpad, who had far more reason to turn jaded and cruel than Drake ever did, but stayed good despite the way the world chewed him up and spat him back out. Launchpad, who offered his bruised heart with trembling smiles, trusting Drake even as he risked further pain. 

Launchpad, who made Drake want to try. 

Try to be good, too. Try to be whole. A worthy partner. 

And then. 

An orphan with boundless spirit. Lullabies, hugs that left him breathless, a blazing red portal and a tiny, fragile hand clasped in his own, trusting him when everyone else had failed her. 

He never saw Gosalyn coming. How could he? Fatherhood was a foreign concept, a cruel joke, his frame of reference poisonous and pointless. But then Gosalyn fit into their life like a missing puzzle piece, as if he’d been waiting for her all along and he’d only just glanced down and taken notice. Her happiness began to matter more than any number of stakeouts or foiled plots. To keep her safe, he would kill and die for her. 

Before his eyes, the empty numbness inside him transformed into a well of rage, of love, so powerful it made him wonder if he’d ever truly been alive before now. 

For them, his heroes, he had to do more than just try.

Then of course Launchpad just had to show him up by proposing first, but that was just par for the course. And Drake could admit that a moonlit flight in the Thunderquack was probably more romantic than anything he could’ve come up with. 

All that mattered was the end result was the same. A family, his family, unlike anything he would’ve been capable of imagining for himself. Just the thought of how he used to be shamed him, and on especially bad nights, he worried about regressing into that shell of a man, a cold, caustic version of himself and the bitter loneliness he enforced. 

But that fear seemed insignificant when they were flying to Des Moines for their wedding, and for Gosalyn to meet her new grandparents. When they went house hunting and found a two-story marvel with a lovely kitchen backsplash and a tree out front for Gosalyn to give him a heart attack by climbing. 

They still had their rough days, obviously. 

Something might remind Gosalyn of her grandpa, and the life that was stolen from her, and she would lash out over any little thing in dramatic teenager fashion. 

Launchpad’s nightmares about his old life could keep him from sleep for days at a time and in his exhaustion he would turn withdrawn in their own home, hesitating before every kiss, every hug or high five, staring at Drake and Gosalyn as if they might vanish if he were to dare reach out and touch them. 

Drake would get overwhelmed by the muchness of it all—fighting crime had nothing on back-to-school shopping, meal prepping, hockey meets, and the dreaded potlucks. PTA meetings made him want to give up on this whole ‘reenter society' schtick and lock himself back in the Tower for good. 

 The crime fighting part was no walk in the park either. For all that Gosalyn was growing into the role of Quiverwing, making it her own, with the help of the two best teachers she could’ve asked for, there was a lot she just still wasn’t ready to face. Things that Drake hadn’t been ready to face, and haunted him still. Demons, alternate dimensions, a monster carrying out evil while wearing his face, Bulba lumbering back from the dead, more machine than man.

Safe to say they saw their fair share of danger, and weirdness, in St. Canard. But sitting in the Thunderquack with Launchpad’s boss, his former SHUSH handler, and a fellow worried father was…something else. 

For almost two years, Launchpad’s job in Duckburg had been just that: a job. One that came at the request of SHUSH, and more specifically the buff Mary Puffins currently sitting in the copilot seat. The life of the richest duck in the world was apparently in danger, at risk by FOWL and their shadowy machinations, and everyone knew McDuck wasn’t the same man he was a decade ago.

Drake didn’t care about McDuck, much less whatever was going on in their perfect sister city of Duckburg. As great as a second income would be for Gos’ college fund, he wasn’t about to pressure Launchpad into accepting a SHUSH assignment now, after everything he’d told Drake, and all the worst bits that he’d probably left out. If Drake’s own SHUSH stipend as an independent contractor wasn’t enough to suit their needs, then Launchpad could open another garage in the city, or an online shop for his knitting, or even a damn lemonade stand. 

But no. As a favor to Beakley (who didn’t deserve Launchpad’s time of day, but that was just Drake’s opinion), he accepted the position as McDuck’s chauffeur. And it was…fine. 

Launchpad drove the old coot to and from his meetings, collected dry cleaning, the usual. He would pick up Gos from her hockey practice on the way home, nap with Drake for a while, and then they’d either suit up as a family or someone would stay behind to help Gos with her language arts homework. It was their routine, and amid various potentially life-altering catastrophes, it was nearly perfect. 

And then McDuck got it in his head to start adventuring again at the ripe old age of 800 years old, dragging an entire spontaneous gaggle of children and Launchpad along with him. Suddenly, Drake could go entire days without seeing his husband, or Gos her father, as he gallivanted off to parts unknown at the beck and call of an old man who’d never appreciated him in the first place. 

Now, Launchpad was the kindest soul Drake had ever met, open with his affection, and ready to make friends with everyone from derelict superheroes to business-minded witches. But Drake’s darling, beautiful husband was not the most forthright individual, and this was coming from the reigning champ of emotional stuntedness. 

Launchpad liked to feel useful. Scratch that. Launchpad needed to feel useful. It was a compulsion born from his years at SHUSH, where his skills were all that mattered to people. Even allies, friends (and some more-than-friends), would drop him as soon as the mission was complete, the day was saved. Launchpad would be left in the lurch, told to pack his things, move onto the next mission, and wonder why he hadn’t done enough for them to let him stay. 

So Drake, grudgingly, understood why Launchpad hadn’t just told McDuck to buzz off and find himself another pilot. He cared about the miserable old miser, and he cared about the kids, who sounded nearly as spirited as Gos from the way he described them. 

More than once, Launchpad actually floated the idea of holding some kind of get-together for all of them, but Drake had been…resistant. He didn’t like meeting new people at the best of times, and he was still so traumatized by the Muddlefoots that he would’ve forced them to move years ago if it wouldn’t mean earning ‘Worst Father of the Year Award’ for separating Gos from Honker. 

Of course, Launchpad’s disappearing act forced the dreaded introduction anyway, because Drake’s life was nothing if not a series of jokes played at his expense. At the very least, once he entered the coordinates into the Thunderquack’s navigation system and the cockpit sealed, none of the three other ducks on board had much interest in smalltalk. 

From the copilot’s seat, Beakley turned toward him sharply, expression tight and any indication of stress tucked away. Back to business then. 

“Who is this enemy of yours that you suspect to be responsible?” 

Beneath them, Duckburg blurred past in shades of ochre as the distant sun inched toward the bay. Drake stared straight ahead, gripping the yoke just to have something to do with his hands, as the autopilot took care of the actual flying. 

Technically he could only suspect who might be responsible. If based on a simple process of elimination it was almost a foregone conclusion, taking into account who wasn’t currently in jail but also had the cunning and/or intimidation factor to gain access to SHUSH systems. Not to mention a single-minded hatred of Drake that would motivate them to ignore every bit of actual highly sensitive and ultra-classified intelligence up for grabs.

For once, Drake desperately hoped he was wrong. He prayed they’d get to this SHUSH blacksite and find Lilliput lying in wait instead. But he could never be that lucky.

“Negaduck,” he muttered, the name escaping him on a breath. In his peripheral vision, he saw McDuck and Donald stiffen at his tone, more apprehensive that he would’ve liked. 

“He’s me,” Drake explained haltingly. “Sort of. At least, he’s a version of me from an alternate dimension.”

Behind him, Donald dropped his head into one hand. “Of course he is…” he despaired quietly. “Cuz being from this dimension would be too simple.”

“McDuck.” Drake turned his head slightly without facing the quadrillionaire directly. “Do you remember a scientist who worked for you three years ago? Thadeus Waddlemeyer. He was trying to create a machine to access other dimensions.” 

“A-aye,” McDuck said slowly. “But he…passed, and his device was deemed too unstable after it was stolen and nearly destroyed St. Canard.”

Drake scowled at the windshield. ‘Passed’ was a kinder way of saying murdered, and as much as the reminder burned him, he distantly appreciated McDuck’s tact if nothing else. “Yeah,” he grunted. “Our dimension’s Waddlemeyer wasn’t able to crack the code, but the Waddlemeyer of the Negaverse did.” 

“Negaverse?” Donald repeated. 

Drake thought for a moment of how Bellum and his kid had first explained it to him, reeling after his first and last disastrous visit. 

“Think of it like a mirror of our dimension, but the funhouse kind. Almost everyone, everything, is twisted so that they’re the opposite of who we are here, now. There, Waddlemeyer was a mad scientist, willing to sell the Ramrod to the highest bidder. There, SHUSH is trying to take over the world, while FOWL is a peacekeeping organization working to stop them, yadda yadda, you get the picture. 

“There, the Negaverse version of me terrorized St. Canard. He stole the Ramrod, plus Waddlemeyer’s granddaughter, and used it to cross over into our dimension to try and take over here too. I found where he was hiding his Ramrod about six months ago, and destroyed it, trapping him here. Which he, uh…extra hates me for.”

“What can we expect from him?” Beakley demanded. Drake had noticed her expectant silence up until now, and his aggravation had been building steadily For all that she was ‘retired’ from SHUSH, clearly she still had access to mission briefings—his and Launchpad’s in particular, seeing how she just couldn’t leave his husband alone. She could probably guess Negaduck’s MO, if she didn’t already have his full psych profile memorized. 

“Well he’s insane, for starters,” Drake said for the benefit of the ducks in the rear of the plane. “But don’t underestimate him—he’s dangerously smart, too, and just plain dangerous. He hides all kinds of weapons on his person: knives, guns, chainsaws, whatever you can think of that causes maximum pain.”

Donald’s breath wheezed out of him, and that got Drake to finally turn around. The duck was clutching a hand to his chest, looking ashen beneath his feathers. McDuck was reaching out to him but hesitantly, his hands hovering over his nephew’s shoulders without touching. 

“What about the kids?” Donald asked shakily, and Drake accepted a rare pang of guilt. 

He didn’t know Donald, had never cared to know him, but Launchpad always sang his praises as a father. How despite whatever nonsense McDuck dragged them into, Donald’s first priority was always his kids, whether that meant driving to every Junior Woodchuck troop meeting or fighting actual Greek gods to keep them safe. And now two of those kids were gone. Taken, purely through bad luck and worse timing. 

Drake didn’t know how Donald could possibly be holding himself together as well as he was. Knowing Launchpad’s life was at stake because of him had Drake’s leaden stomach turning on itself, his hands trembling around the yoke and terror swimming poisonously through his veins. He could see Launchpad’s bedhead and sleepy smile in his mind’s eye and wanted to scream. Knowing Gos was safe in that damn mansion was the only thing keeping him sane. He couldn’t well imagine how he’d feel if she’d been taken too. Just the thought was enough to pour red-hot rage into his bones, enough for him to tap into the darkness that Negaduck wholly embodied and rip and claw and tear until he got her back.

But here, now, at least he had an idea of what to expect. Donald was going in blind, and the uncertainty must’ve been eating him alive. 

“He won’t do anything to them, or to Launchpad, until we get there,” Drake tried to reassure, not sure if he was all that successful. This was usually more Launchpad’s wheelhouse. “Fortunately, he’s your typical megalomaniacal supervillain in at least one way: he likes an audience.” 

He didn’t mention that Negaduck’s hatred of him was borderline obsessive. Creating this whole convoluted scheme just to lure him out by way of kidnapping Launchpad probably spoke for itself. But Negaduck had gone after Gos before with bombs and a shark on her first night out as Quiverwing, and that was before he learned she was part of his team. And now after that hack, he had to know who she really was. 

Drake’s only guarantee was that Negaduck wouldn’t kill Launchpad or the two missing children (Dewey and Webby, he reminded himself), but he had no idea what state they would be in when he found them. At best, he hadn’t laid a finger on them, but Drake knew Launchpad, knew that beneath the surface of the gentle giant was Double-O-Duck, the spy, the bruiser, with all of his focus and skill. He wouldn’t have taken the kids’ capture lying down, so if anyone was already injured and especially at Negaduck’s mercy, it would have to be Drake’s husband.

Negaduck had no more love for Launchpad than he did for Drake, but this time he hoped to use it to his advantage. Once he knew Darkwing was in the building, he wouldn’t care about anyone else, beelining for his dimensional counterpart with fire and brimstone in his eyes and a chainsaw aimed for Drake’s neck. A brawl would be the perfect distraction while Beakley and the others searched for their kidnapees. 

Then, once Launchpad was safe in his arms, he would be taking a leave of absence from the McDuck family, effective immediately. Drake was taking him and Gos to their cabin out by Launchpad’s parents’ house and barring the door, because Drake had been missing his husband and Gos needed her Papá. For too long, he’d been letting Launchpad burn the candle at both ends, journeying back and forth between home and Duckburg, jungle adventures and night patrol, because he knew how much Launchpad loved both of his families. But Launchpad always had more love to give than there were hours in the day (or night), and Drake had to put his foot down before Launchpad gave all of himself away. 

And not to be petty, but Drake and Gos had first dibs.  

He watched the gray arches of the Audubon Bay Bridge rise into view through the windshield, painted in shades of gold that only deepened the shadows cast by the towers. Relief flooded Drake at the familiar sight. 

“Almost there,” he muttered aloud. The Thunderquack banked to the left, in the direction of the harbor. Launchpad’s last coordinates was leading them toward the spookier part of the docks that tended to have ‘MURDER’ written all over them, where the warehouses were crumbling and seemingly long-abandoned, but nearly all served as a front for some kind of smuggling ring or demon-worshiping cult or devout Quackerware salesmen. Just the place SHUSH would think to settle down in, for reputation’s sake if nothing else. But in the process of building their prison, they would’ve cleared out the surrounding riffraff too. Instead, neither had happened. 

Drake glanced at Beakley. “Do you know anything about why this place was shut down?”

“I believe it was something to do with the foundations of the pre-existing structure,” she explained unhappily. “The prison was decommissioned and left unfinished as further construction put the entire building at risk of collapse.” 

Drake grimaced. “Perfect. I think I’m gonna park on the warehouse next door.”

Just hold on, Launchpad. We’re coming. 

-

“Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!”

A voice that sounded like it belonged to someone who gargled razor blades dragged Launchpad back to aching consciousness. Even before he opened his eyes, he was struck by the overwhelming pressure in his head, as if someone had put his temples in a vice. His chest felt tight, like his lungs didn’t have room to expand, and his breaths were short and labored. 

When he managed to crack his eyes open, he found himself looking out into darkness. He thought he could see shapes moving amidst the black, formless and indistinct. But a spotlight switched on directly above him with a heavy clang, temporarily blinding him. He winced, jerking his hands up to shield his face, but all he managed was to make his body sway in place. Thick rope bound him from his arms up to his ankles and a latch of some sort on his back held him suspended several feet off the ground, upside down, like a worm on a hook. 

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Negaduck crooned, his voice preceding him into the circle of light spilling out on the ground around Launchpad’s head. The shadows clung to Negaduck like oil, reluctant to leave his already dingy feathers and unpleasant smile. 

Launchpad glared at him. At this height, they were nearly eye to eye. “Where are the kids?”

This dark reflection of his husband tsked, shaking his head. “Straight to business with you hero types, ain’t it?” 

Negaduck didn’t stop moving, instead pacing around him, slow and quiet, just on the edge of the circle of light. Launchpad tried to hide how he tensed when Negaduck stepped behind him, out of his peripheral vision. It gave Negaduck the perfect opportunity to attack him any way he wanted: a knife to the ribs, a blow to the head, take your pick. Launchpad was bound like a mummy, unable to defend himself unless Negaduck got close enough for a headbutt. 

But Negaduck leaned back into his line of sight without laying a finger on him, his smirk a mean, methodical thing. He knew exactly how rattled Launchpad had been. It was the intent. “No time to sit back and enjoy the moment?” he crooned. 

“I’m not playing, Negaduck,” Launchpad bit out, struggling to keep his cool. “I’m gonna ask one more time. Where. Are. The kids?”

Negaduck snorted, less than intimidated. “Eugh, touchy, touchy,” he said mockingly, and gave Launchpad a hard shove that sent him careening back on the rope he was hanging from. Fortunately, he’d been bound in the center of the room, and didn’t smack his head on any of the walls. This time. 

Launchpad swung forward with just as much momentum, and Negaduck smoothly stepped out of the way. “Fine then, if you’re gonna keep being a killjoy! The brats are fine. Still sittin’ pretty in their comfy cell waiting for rescue from old man McMoneybags.”

So Negaduck wasn’t so far gone as to hurt a member of the McDuck family. The relief that settled over him was short lived, but better than nothing. 

The last thing he remembered was checking Dewey for a concussion, and then nothing. Negaduck must’ve come back for him at some point during that missing time; maybe Launchpad should be tested for a concussion. All the crashing he did had given him a strong stomach and a skull like concrete, but with the blood rushing to his head and pounding behind his eyes, all this spinning wasn’t doing him any favors. 

He closed his eyes as his swaying slowed to a less extreme speed, trying to focus his scattered thoughts. Webby and Dewey were counting on him. They didn’t understand what was happening, what they were up against, because Launchpad never told them who he was, never warned them about the monsters that might follow him. Dewey didn’t even trust him anymore, and Webby couldn’t be far behind…

“What do you want?” Launchpad muttered, opening his eyes in a squint. 

Just in time too, as any trace of levity vanished from Negaduck’s weathered face. He lunged forward with a snarl, grabbing a handful of the ropes binding Launchpad and dragging him close, until Negaduck’s bloodshot eyes bored into his own from inches away.

“What do I want? What do I want? What I’ve always wanted since I set foot in this craphole,” he hissed, razor teeth flashing yellow in the harsh light of the spotlight above them. “I want to see your world burn. Consider it payback for locking me outta mine.”

Time worked funny sometimes when you crossed dimensions. A few hours in their reality amounted to a week in the Negaverse, but it might as well have been a year for all that he and Drake saw, what they were forced to do. Enemies wearing the faces of friends, a desolate world overcome by evil and defended by a dwindling few. The brilliant little light they had no choice but to leave behind. 

Launchpad sneered right back, thrashing uselessly against his restraints. “‘Your world’ is better off without you! Gosalyn is better off without—”

The glint of light reflecting off metal, and Launchpad became aware of the cut on his cheek at the same time he recognized Negaduck’s machete pressed against the tip of his beak. He had to admit, Negaduck had been quick about it. Launchpad hadn’t even seen him draw the blade. 

“Keep her name outta your mouth unless you wanna lose your tongue!” he growled, expression gone cold and still with rage except for his eyes, which contorted and flickered. His own madness, made worse by the dimensional shift? They still weren’t sure. “She’s my daughter. Mine.”

“She was terrified of you,” Launchpad snapped, never one to back down even while staring death in the face. Not when it came to Gosalyn. Any Gosalyn. “And with good reason! You killed Bulba right in front of her—”

“That pathetic, wannabe hero was trying to take her from me!” Negaduck threw his hands in the air, machete and all, thankfully without slicing Launchpad up further. The cut on his cheek had started to weep, a trail of blood moving worryingly close to his eye. “He got what was coming to him,” Negaduck grumbled as he turned around, storming into the darkness that continued to loom around the narrow triangle of light surrounding Launchpad. He lingered there, all but consumed in the shadows, the lurid yellow of his suit a scant outline and only his machete occasionally catching the light. 

Negaduck kept muttering to himself, but in the dark, Launchpad couldn’t be sure where he was, or what he was saying. Only that Negaduck was moving, circling Launchpad again, but more focused on talking to himself than actually intimidating him. 

“All those heroes…ruining my city…”

And for a brief, tiny, inconsequential half-second, Launchpad almost pitied him. 

He blamed the blood rushing to his head. 

This poor facsimile of his husband, a black hole masquerading as a person, who only knew how to take: money, lives, peace. A monster who hurt others for his own pleasure because violence was all he knew. It was as terrifying to experience as it was exhausting. 

Launchpad glared at a random spot in the dark, his head pounding and chest growing tight. If he stayed up here much longer, he was going to pass out. It was only a matter of when.

“What are you expecting to get out of this?” he asked plainly. “You know I can’t just give you the Solego Circuit, right?”

Negaduck came back to himself with a scoff, reentering the circle of light. He’d hidden the machete again at some point. 

“Piece of junk wouldn’t even do me any good. SHUSH and FOWL are sayin’ the same thing—can’t use the damn portal without destroying this trash heap and my world in the process,” he declared, waving his hands theatrically. “So, until I can find a scientist willing to put their back into it, I’m still stuck here. Watching you and that cheap copy play house.”

Launchpad glare met Negaduck’s baleful glower unflinchingly, but internally, a rush of guilt left him breathless as a knee to the gut. He knew he shouldn’t have followed that distress signal. But what else could he have done? Communications were down, and Launchpad had begged Drake time and time again to just call him when he needed him, Darkwing didn’t have to be alone anymore. And Launchpad, terrified of being abandoned again, just couldn’t risk it. 

He just wished that he hadn’t dragged Webby and Dewey into danger too. 

“You made a mistake taking the kids,” Launchpad said, fighting against a wave of dizziness. He tried to keep his tone steady, like Double-O-Duck used to, his gaze piercing and locked on the wet shine of Negaduck’s eyes, cast in the shadow of his hat brim. “Instead of just Darkwing coming after you, you’re getting Scrooge McDuck. This is a guy who fights gods on a regular basis. How do you think you’ll do against someone like that?”

And Negaduck…laughed. 

And not one of his long, rambling cackles that he followed up his evil monologues with. Negaduck snorted with laughter, expression one of mild amusement rather than incandescent rage or insult. 

“Ah, doesn’t really matter,” Negaduck breathed, a chuckle still trailing on his words. He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. “This was all more of an experiment.” He stepped forward, until they were eye to eye, and grabbed a handful of the ropes over Launchpad’s heart. He was too dazed to even try headbutting him now, and by the razor smirk that split his beak, Negaduck must’ve known it too. 

“The big, bad Double-O, scourge of SHUSH, turned into a pitiful little sidekick, and now completely at my mercy,” Negaduck murmured, shaking his head in exaggerated disappointment. “I could kill you so easily right now. But where’s the fun in that? It’s one and done, until I can jump into a dimension where I haven’t killed you yet and do it all over again. There’s slow and painful, quick but bloody…we could do a round where I only use my knives, the really little ones. You ever heard of death by a thousand cuts? Cuz we can make that happen!”

Launchpad’s skull pounded like a second heartbeat had taken residence in his brain, and the bright bulb above him scattered fractured stars across his vision, bright to the point of pain. Overwhelmed and dazed, he sputtered, “So what was the point of all this? Hacking SHUSH, kidnapping us—”

Negaduck pushed Launchpad, with just the one hand on his chest, walking forward at the same time. They moved out of the circle of light and into the surrounding darkness, Launchpad’s stomach lurched as Negaduck kept moving, until his back nearly touched the far off wall. Negaduck only stopped when the rope keeping Launchpad suspended pulled infinitesimally taut. 

He tilted his head to look at Launchpad then from under the brim of his hat, backlit by the lone, scorching lightbulb behind him. Negaduck didn’t smile as he spoke, all his twisted enthusiasm from earlier snuffed out between one blink and the next. His growl was quiet, a seething hatred beneath every word. 

“I might not kill you right now, but make no mistake, I will kill you. And until that glorious day, I want you to go about every day of your insipid little lives knowing that you’ll never be safe from me.”

Launchpad clung to consciousness with a racing heart and a flagging will, his horror tempered by delirium. 

“You’re insane,” he gasped. 

Negaduck shrugged. “We’ve all got our part to play in this crazy game called life.”

Launchpad’s vision was beginning to tunnel when the deafening blare of alarms startled him back to partial awareness. Outside the door to his cell, the hallway was ablaze with strobing crimson lights. The distant pounding of running feet heralded the organized departure of the Eggheads, converging on the threat. 

“There’s our hero,” Negaduck crowed. “Fashionably late, as usual.”

Before Launchpad could properly brace himself, Negaduck let go of him. Without the support pinning him against the wall, he swung forward in a graceless rush, letting out a yelp as bright spots burst across his sight. 

Even in the midst of his disorientation, Launchpad caught a different flash of light, reflecting off the silver edge of a serrated dagger in Negaduck’s grip.

With a flick, he threw it upwards at the apex of Launchpad’s swing, severing the rope holding him suspended from the ceiling. He had the barest second to brace himself, tuck his head and curve his back so he landed on his shoulders instead of his head. 

It still sent a painful jolt through Launchpad’s body, jarring every bruise and sprain at once, and the immediate drop of pressure on his skull left him lightheaded and woozy as his body set him to rights. 

He rolled onto his side with a groan, forcing his eyes open in a narrow squint, looking up at Negaduck from upside down. 

Making a show of straightening his suit, Negaduck reached inside and pulled out a shotgun. He grinned down at Launchpad with a mouthful of sharpened teeth as he loaded a round. 

“Make yourself comfortable now, sidekick. I’ve gotta go and welcome my new guests.”