#experiencing the agonies (self inflicted)

[istherewifiinhell]

[Feeling so many emotions] okay. Okay. Okay. I have. Found some mkv files of season 1. And they have hardcode subs???? Maybe.... they can be extracted. Thats a thing ppl can do yes?

[fortjester]

WHO let me open gtn and htn pdf’s side by side i am finding parallels that are tearing me asunder!!!!

[triangularz]

ZORO- FORGIVENESS

sfw- last line nsfw, maybe 700 words, soft zoro, est. relationship, wisely waiting to be forgiven, reader envisioned as blk/f, enjoy and imagine your thing! many of my fics are really "dense fanfictional narrative character studies" or something like that. Working on including more dialogue

Zoro's apologies are total like his sweet, unyielding love, seeping from his bone marrow, from every red blood cell- earnest, absolute, lived. Never burning or suffocating, each moves like convection heat from him to you- always warm, always healing. He has no need to search for you when he's caused distance, or use haki to sense your aura- instead, he draws on what he deeply and so accurately understands about you, and drains every drop from his stores of intuition to see beyond your rough exterior, passed your strained smile- notice your rigid movements or one too many blinks to hold back hot tears you hope he won't witness.

To fix and fuck the feelings away- shit that's all he wants; he hates it, hates it, but these are his consequences, to wait and refrain and respect, to fight his will, to conceal his impatience while pensive and in pain.

He refuses to weigh you down, won't allow you to become the comforter because of his own self-pity, scrambling to assure him you won't leave, that you do love him, that he isn't a horrible man. He'll own and absorb his mistakes, bow and honor you. So he makes no promises to placate you, doesn't bargain with you or swear on his life he won't do it again. To do those things would be to erase or medicate your pain without healing the wounds he's caused, and the promise would be a lie; perfection doesn't exist. He might- he will speak too harshly, ignore your needs, act selfishly... apologize again. But the coin's other side pisses you off and is hard for him: He won't take your upper-handed shit while he waits, allow you to be manipulative or lash out in ways he knows you'll regret; he gently pushes back. Later, you can't thank him enough for it- having calmly stood his ground with such love.

When you forgive him, he recognizes that hurt or anger or sadness may not dissipate right away, and he'll gladly wait longer, quietly processing how best... to be better. He stands on the edge of your universe, making his way towards your galaxy, then your solar system, then your planet and eventually back to you when you signal readiness for it. It feels like an age to him, but it's never long before you extend your hand and walk him home to your heart.

This perspective, this agony- he's stumbled to learn it in ways grievous to you both, after raging, fists through the side of the crow's nest, blame and defense, bewilderment. Shit you've also inflicted heinous wounds- but what happens in it (he, with a smidge of advice from Sanji and Nami) really is as beautiful as it is messy, your roots together growing deeper and stronger, better handling drought.

▪️

This morning, he scribbles a note on torn cartography paper before joining Jinbe at the helm: I know you'll have a good day. Don't let me spoil it. I'll miss you. Challenging for him to write, but a small thing you can choose to throw away, maybe smile about. Instead you cry, experiencing every little word and recalling a moment yesterday- his sorrowful eyes, his restraint and clenched fists when full of anger you left to wander the ship:

"Heading out."

"Okay. Whatever you need." Not me. I know.

*

The bed dips now with his weight; he'd first hovered near the bedroom while you showered and changed, giving you space before you sleep.

"This ok?" His hand rests tentatively on your hip.

"Yeah." You struggle with ambivalence- an urge to punish him and your own desperate need to reconcile.

"Thanks... I'm so sorry. I mean it," he whispers. Gratefulness to touch you again and a precious few words he always means; they melt away the last of your angst. You gently grab his hand and nestle it on your chest, interlacing his fingers with yours, and he cautiously plants a kiss on your shoulder- you aren't delicate, but he recognizes the kiss should be. It's automatic after a few minutes, to cuddle closer to you when he thinks you're asleep. His soul relaxes, but he doesn't, every muscle flexing to keep you close, aroused and fine with it, expecting nothing. You're wide awake, and just as he's found contentment, your back melts into his chest and your ass presses against his cock, heart pounding. You're repaired. He fucks you through tears, both relieved, and roots stretching longer into nutrient-rich earth.

▪️

[chvoswxtch]

hi! could i request a fic where frank is helping reader with urges to relapse in s3lf h@rm? or maybe they already relapsed? if this is not something you’re comfortable writing please feel free to just ignore this :) i’m struggling w/ this lately so it’s just self indulgent for me lmao and your writing is ADDICTIVE. you have such a talent and i hope you’re doing well!! x

my sweet sweet sweet nonnie. I am sending you all the love I possibly can. I am so sorry that you are struggling. I know what it's like to struggle with this, and I promise you it does get better. I know everyone says that and sometimes those words can sound so hollow, but I mean it from the bottom of my heart. it can't rain all the time darling 🖤

I hope you are doing well today, and I hope this brings you the comfort that you need. thank you for trusting me with this, and know that I love you and am so proud of you

just a quick psa to everyone on my frank taglist, because this is such a sensitive topic, i'm not tagging anyone in this one. if you are not comfortable with this topic or if it could be triggering for you, please sit this one out. you will not hurt my feelings, I promise.

warning: mentions of depression & self harm word count: 775

let it out.

Frank noticed everything. He was trained to look for subtle clues of threats everywhere, to anticipate them and quickly conjure a counterattack, or eliminate them before they even got a chance to strike. After that tragic day in Central Park, his sense of hypervigilance only became even more extreme. 

Which is why he knew that things were getting bad for you again.

He could see it. That bright sparkle in your eyes that could put the stars to shame grew more and more dim until it was nothing more than achromatic ash. The heaviness weighing down on your chest that turned the subconscious act of breathing into a relentless struggle and made your movements lethargic was like an astral presence only his eyes could detect. He could hear it in your voice, the melodic warmth replaced by an echoing numbness. It seemed as though each day another of your vibrant petals withered and fell until you were rendered a bare and hollow stem.

It killed Frank to see you like this. He wanted so badly to help, he just didn’t know how. You wouldn’t talk to him about it, wouldn’t tell him what you needed. But he didn’t get upset with you, because he figured you might not even know what you needed. He was growing increasingly worried because nothing he was doing seemed to help at all. Fear was an emotion Frank very rarely experienced, but he was terrified that he’d lose you to your own cruel mind. 

Things were bad right now, but it would pass. You’d fallen from the clouds of progression, backsliding until the cold hard impact of relapse bruised and rattled your bones, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t find your way back up again. It didn’t erase all the breakthroughs in your recovery. And if you couldn’t make it back up on your own, Frank would carry you himself.

Frank sat with you in the bath, enveloping you in the comfort of his body and the hot water, hoping it would soothe you. Taking care of yourself had become as hard as getting out of bed, but it was okay. He could help you with that. He’d washed your hair, taking his time to massage your scalp before gently rinsing the shampoo out completely. His large and calloused hands slowly and tenderly lathered your skin in the suds of your body wash, not missing a single inch of you. 

Your face was as blank as a pure canvas, but there was raw sorrow in your eyes and agony building up along your lash line. Frank held onto you tightly, tracing your self-inflicted scars with the pad of his thumb, applying pressure with each stroke while he spoke quietly in your ear.

“I know it hurts, baby. But you ain’t gotta let it out that way. You can get the hurt out without hurtin’ yourself. You gotta feel it, sweetheart. I know you don’t wanna, I know it feels like it’s too much, but you can’t distract yourself with a different kinda pain. It ain’t gonna make this one go away.”

Frank knew you were listening. He could see the saltwater slipping down your cheeks, your expressionless face slowly morphing into a portrait of unrefined grief. He pressed his lips softly to each of your scars, holding you even tighter in a protective embrace.

“It’s gotta heal from the inside, baby. I know it’s hard, but you ain’t gotta do this alone. I’m right here, sweetheart. Just let go, I got you.”

He could tell that you were fighting it. That you were scared once you opened that door, a tidal wave of misery would devour you entirely and trap you beneath the current until you drowned, but he wasn’t going to let that happen. His deep voice was laced with sincerity and promise as he spoke into your ear again.

“I got you.”

The choked sob that caught in your throat broke his heart. The wail that tore from the depth of your soul was the worst sound he’d ever heard. Your shoulders shook from the impact of your overwhelming emotions, but when you shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, Frank was there to collect them all. He’d patiently help you put them all back together, no matter how long it took. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, gently rocking you as he soothingly ran his fingers through your hair, pressing a reverent kiss to the crown of your head.

“There ya go, that’s it. Let it all out, sweetheart. Take as long as ya need, I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Just let it all out.”

[marcelwrites]

Sore from overwork, well paid but under-rested, a seething mass of lean, taut aggression. Give it a couple of hours until the sun's out and we get a taste of that late spring warmth. Need the sun to burn away some of this vitriol. I've taken a step back from writing because I know whatever I do write will be targeted and vicious. Self-awareness is a curse and the single greatest impediment to tapping into that deep, secret pool where our real art percolates and roils like some underwater current that feeds on the bodies of seafarers and monstrous, ugly fish. Living blobs of compressed meat that thrives on the smaller lifeforms adapted to the crushing depths and pressure. It makes you think of the OceanGate submersible and the briefest blink that ended five lives, quicker than our neurons fire and our senses take to snap process the biological information. I remember reading some comment that essentially said the five people that died in the Titan submersible ceased being biology so suddenly that they became physics instead. The pressure, 400 atmospheres, equals about 2500kgs/5500lbs of force digging into every square inch of space. The death would have been instantaneous. A cessation of life so sudden your brain doesn't even have the time to register what's happening to it, before it is disintegrated. Is it luck to die without pain? A blessing? Or is it better to slowly whittle away and watch yourself fall to pieces with age and decay? The swift forces of pressure offer a mercy seldom few ever have the privilege of experiencing. The slow life rot that begins the day we're born offers no mercy but in its own way it is beautiful, a natural process that offers grief, misery, and pain, until the broad spectrum of those sensations becomes the focused, diamond tipped agony of age and seniority. I am sore right now, it's self-inflicted, but it's done in the name of strength and personal satisfaction, a self-satisfaction, that makes this life of feeling and sensation tolerable. You watch, and feel, as your body adapts and changes to the rigors of hard work. Increased size, volume, and definition of our musculature, the flood of happy hormones that offset the inevitable rot, and the entirely self-found sense of accomplishment, of not being lazy, of not merely giving in to that ever-present human urge to eat, fuck, shoot, and smoke ourselves into a stupor of pure ignorance.

[bts-trans]

230805 RM's Instagram Stories

(https://instagram.com/stories/rkive/3162055826955650046) (https://instagram.com/stories/rkive/3162059962447181570)

(T/N: The photos show excerpts from The Agony of Eros by Han Byung-Chul.)

Picture Translations:

...constitutes an essential element of experiencing Eros. Heterogeneity is what dictates the essense of an entity that is not one's own self. And the reason one tries to find this quality in a strictly primitive relationship belonging to Eros - that is, a relationship that cannot be translated with one's existing abilities - lies here. The absoluteness of what one can do is what destroys another person. A successful relationship with someone else is regarded as a sort of failure. This is due to the other person being able to reveal themselves solely through the fact that they can't. "Can we really specify this kind of relationship of Eros related to the other person as a failure?" and once more the answer is "yes, we can" if we were to accept the terms commonly exercised in the description of Eros just as they are. This is so when you try to define Eros with words such as 'to grasp', 'to possess', 'to know'. Those concepts do not exist within the sphere of Eros. From time to time, Eros causes these concepts to fall. In a scenario where we were able to own, grasp and know the other person, it would no longer be someone separate from us. 'To possess', 'to know', 'to grasp' - these are all synonymous to being able to do something.

Today, love has become something positive and has, consequently, transformed into Sexualität: sexual love that falls under a system that awards individuals on their abilities. Being sexually attractive is an asset that needs to continue to grow. A body that is valuable in the way it presents itself will be different from...

...it is neither an abnormality, plot or drama; it is simply an insignificant emotion and the feeling of being aroused. Now, love is unfamiliar with the negativity that comes with wounds, ambush and loss. Even the mere act of falling in love is already too negative as it is. However, it is exactly this negativity that forms the essence of love. "Love isn't just a single possibility. It isn't created depending on our initiative. Without prior warning, love ambushes us and inflicts wounds upon us." A society that is governed by meritocracy, a society where everything is possible and a society where initiative and projects are everything is unable to access love characterised by wounds and agonised passion. Sexual love and romantic love also cannot escape the principle of achievement that dictates every aspect of life in this age…

흘러가버린 작품들의 경우, 지금 우리에게 들려줄 이야기가 있는지가 가장 중요하지 않을까. 마치 우리 네 옛 어른들처럼. 여기 퍽 좋아하는 말을 첨부해본다. 모든 영화는 현재형으로 다가온다. (https://instagram.com/stories/rkive/3162353181257045551)

With pieces of work being lost, isn't the question of whether there are stories we can now tell of the utmost importance? It's as if we're aged-up adults. I tried to add in phrases that I'm quite fond of here.

Every masterpiece draws forward towards the present.

Trans cr; Eisha Typeset cr; XPXOXD @ bts-trans © TAKE OUT WITH FULL CREDITS

[beanibon]

I really appreciate the self harm comfort fics you've written and I was wondering if you could do one with Wolfwood too.

Of course! I'd be happy to, gotta do the full circle of everyone's favourite trigun boys.

TW: self-harm, mentions of self-harm, reader going a little too deep, endless angst but when a relatively happy end

Wolfwood x Selfharm!Reader

Wolfwood wasn't a stranger to pain or suffering, yes most injuries of his weren't self-inflicted, but it was the ideology behind it. Allowing people to shoot him, body filled with lead while he chugged down that awful vial of self-preservation. Perhaps he did hate himself, giving in to the pain piercing his flesh like tendrils from a thorn bush.

Yet nothing could compare to the agony of seeing your hunched form on the bathroom floor, skin sickly pale as your hand clutched at your wrist. It was as if Wolfwood was experiencing a nightmare, forced to watch his most cherished bleed out before his very eyes, frozen unable to save them. Only this wasn't a cruel, twisted dream and Nicholas surged forward, knees collapsing onto those hard tiles as he frantically grabbed hold of your weeping wrists.

Your voice choked out cracked vocal response, cheeks wet with tears as you shamefully watched your boyfriend examine the damage. The fear in his eyes had your heart sinking, worried the moment he realised it wasn't as deep as the blood made it look he would start angrily screaming.

Wolfwood's shoulders relaxed, reapplying pressure to stop the bleeding. Anger was the last thing he could feel, instead all that consumed the Undertaker was the suffocating weight of guilt. Guilt that he had turned a blind eye to your suffering, unaware that someone as bright as you could have their flame extinguished.

You startled at the gruff sob, finally looking to the man that hid every emotion under a cocky retort, taken aback by the way his shoulders shook with his cries.

"Why? Why didn't you come to me?" Wolfwood whispered, that familiar agony of helplessness rearing it's ugly head. "You know I'd never be angry with you, even if you and Vash do the most dumbest shit together." The remarked earned a sullen chuckle from you, quickly replaced with concern as Nicholas lurched forward, head buried into the crook of your neck.

His glasses were long discarded, your skin fully aware of the tears soaking it. Rough, strong arms encased you in a tight embrace, as if scared that if he'd open his eyes you too were a cruel mirage of this nightmare.

"I. . . I'm sorry," Your voice cracked, your own mind consumed with guilt. You had completely disregarded Wolfwood's feelings, forgetting he was the man that promised to always protect you, to keep you safe. Upon seeing you bloodied and white as a ghost, he probably thought he had failed you. "I'm so sorry Nico, please, please forgive me."

As the two cried on that bathroom floor, both wrapped around each other as fear caused them to believe the other would vanish. They sat there, weeping as one begged for forgiveness, while the other begged for them to stay.

Hours seemed to have passed before both of your tears had dried, though in reality it was only a mere forty minutes. Wolfwood stirred, repositioning himself so his rough, calloused hands could hold onto your face.

"Promise me angel, that you won't resort to dealing with such pain alone, promise me please." Wolfwood pleaded, forehead resting upon yours.

Soft hands held onto his as you leaned into his touch, sniffling as you hastily wiped your fresh tears away. "I promise, I promise I'll try, I really do Nico." Your voice sounded so strained, but you couldn't allow Wolfwood to watch you suffer any longer. Just seeing him collapsed onto you, crying for your sake all while pleading for you to remain by his side was enough to try. If not for your sake, for the man you loved dearly you would sacrifice the world for.

"That's all I ask, I don't want to lose you as I've lost myself. So please, come to me whenever you feel pained, I promise I'll make you feel better." Nicholas placed a kiss firmly to your forehead, before kissing your dried lips. A lasting promise that he would never leave you, even after seeing you at your lowest.

"Unfortunately for you sweetheart, your stuck with this sinner until God smites him for all the shit I've done." Nicholas smiled, the sweet sounds of your laughter already burning away the worry of losing you.

"Let's pray that day never comes," recovering from the pain and sorrow, eyes tiredly watching as Nicholas slowly began bandaging your fresh cuts, heart swelling with love. "I'd hate to lose you so soon, you're the reason I'm still kicking, so I guess in a way you're stuck with me too."

Nicholas chuckled, finishing cleaning and wrapping your wounds, hands holding yours firmly as he placed a kiss to each one.

"Guess I'm the luckiest guy around them."

[dazaisimpletmereadfanficspls]

A bloody goodbye

A/N Hi this is my first time posting on tumblr, I wrote something right after my daily mental breakdown from chapter 109 so I was in the mood to write something sad<3 ALSO MANGA SPOILERS AHEAD

The room felt cold to Chuuya, like he was suddenly embraced by the ghost of a dead friend. Perhaps that really is what happened just now. Four bullet wounds could be seen on his old friend and ex partner's body, two to his shoulders, one to his kidney and a finishing blow to his head.

The same Dazai who just wouldn't die, even after all those suicide attempts was killed by the hands of his dear friend. What a sight, any normal person would think that he'd be happy. He has expressed his disgust and hate for Dazai many times.

"Congratulations Chuuya"

A voice rings in his head, his head filled with questions when he stares at the pistol in his hand. Nothing can compare to the immense guilt and horror he felt. He didn't need to ask, he knew exactly what happened. Dazai's lifeless body laying limp right in front of him, the voice of a Russian man ringing in his head and a horrible ache penetrating his skull.

He hated it, all of it. He was in horrible pain, every inch of his body hurt. But that could never even compare to the pain he inflicted on his ex partner. He wanted to throw up, he wanted to die, he wanted to kill the Russian, so many things were happening in his head he felt it was his only option.

"Granters of dark disgrace.."

As he muttered the words feared by all those who faces him on the battefield, he realized this would be his last time using Corruption. After all, no one can save him anymore.

"You need not wake me again"

Red marks appeared on his arms and his face, as his consciousness once again slipped away. The burning sensation of pure rage fading into pure agony from the form. He screamed in pain, but he could feel the power flowing through his veins.

"Chuuya? What are you doing?! This prison can withstand you abilities, you can't just break out with brute force!"

He could hear the Russian's voice fading, this would be his last kill. He could end a war right then and there, but he didn't do it because he had anyone to protect. He didn't care anymore. A small hint of regret flashed in his eyes before the god within him unleashed itself and everything went dark.

Dostoevksy didn't panic, after all why would he? He had completed his goal, and there was no way Chuuya could get to him. He had taken measurements, although he had not thought about the possibility that Chuuya would use Corruption. It was a terrible idea, and he knew it very well.

He would take his final breath in the prison, by the hands of his bishop. This was the end of the terrorrist Fyodor Dostoevsky. And he was ready, he had many things to say. But he'd get another chance the next time he manifests. And he'd do it all over again.

The door to the control room swings open, and a short male flew in throwing a wild punch at the Russian. In an uncontrollable rage, he tore the man's skin off his bones, he punched the anemics face over and over until it was so dismorphed he didn't look human anymore. It hurt, but he never screamed. He had experienced far worse, he felt his own death draw near as the light slipped from his fingertips. He no longer had a reason to hide his true self. He was no man of god, he was a devil, a demon born in the flesh. There was not an ounce of humanity left in his wretched mind.

He never took a final breath, his lungs were ripped out of his body at the hands of the raging man. His death was not a grand moment, no one could see the look in his eyes as he said his goodbyes to the world. He died in pure agony, by the hands of a man he made his servant.

It had been too long, there was no second chance for Chuuya anymore. He had passed the point of no return. In the brief moment where his consciousness returned to him, he could see a man with long white hair in a braid. The man's face was blurry, but he knew exactly who it was. This man was there to witness both their deaths.

"'Till death do we part, Chuuya"

"What kind of sappy crap are you making up now?"

"Y'know, one day I'm gonna succeed."

"Succeed in what, exactly?"

"I'll finally get to die."

"When that happens I'll open a bottle of my finest wine and drink it with everyone from the Port Mafia by my side."

He never planned on celebrating Dazai's death, that would be far too much for his heart to handle.

What did he feel in his last moments? The man who witnessed his death would know. A beatiful, bloody goodbye to his friend, his enemy and his suffering.

[fangsforhire]

Anonymous bared their pretty throat : Would you ever forgive those who have persecuted you along your timeline?

‘Forgive?’

Forgiveness was the intricate process of consciously releasing the weight of negative emotions and the bitterness that clung to the heart like a stubborn shadow. ( But could he truly transcend that burden? ) A tidal wave of feelings surged within him, ignited by the very question, and he fought to maintain his composure as memories spiralled chaotically through his mind.

To Yahweh - the divine being who had seemingly cast him into existence without a second thought. He felt like discarded refuse hurled onto a treacherous Earth still in its infancy, each impact fracturing his very essence. ( For countless days, he had crumpled under the weight of despair, face pressed against the unforgiving ground, utterly defenceless. ) Eventually, he had mustered the strength to drag his battered body into the dark embrace of a cave, a sanctuary that became both his refuge and prison for centuries. There, he had existed in a primal state, far removed from humanity's touch, his spirit twisted and feral.

He had known nothing of kindness, never experienced the warmth of a father's loving embrace. ( Loneliness enveloped him like a suffocating shroud, and the profound isolation often left him paralysed, haunted by the absence of companionship and understanding. ) And then, as the years unfurled in silence, what transpired afterwards remained cloaked in darkness, a distant echo of a life he barely recognised.

Mephistopheles had initially appeared as a beacon of hope, a saviour in a world of nothingness. He welcomed him with open arms, offering the warmth of a home and the allure of new beginnings. ( But beneath that façade of generosity, there lurked a cunning predator, eager to exploit his trust from the very first moment. ) It wasn’t long before it became clear that the sanctuary he had sought had transformed into a trap where every gesture of mercy concealed ulterior motives. The cold metallic bars of a cage, the intense sensation of a blade, the taste of blood on his tongue. 

Mephistopheles had stripped him down to flesh and bone, and then some, he’d toyed and taunted. He had skillfully manoeuvred him into a state where he was practically pleading to be hurt, desperately yearning for … forgiveness. ( Perhaps that was why the word lingered on his tongue like a bitter poison and struck him with such force. The very mention of it clawed at the edges of his heart, a reminder of the pain and vulnerability that he had been forced to confront. ) He’d been tortured, humiliated. Made to feel lesser than. The demon had taken great pleasure in seeing him twitch and hearing his screams pierce the air. He could still remember the feeling of his breath on the back of his neck, his words crooning in his ear.

Fuck. His eyes shut tightly, as if he were trying to block out not just the light, but the swirling anguish within his mind. He felt the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him, a heavy fog that made it a struggle to maintain his sanity. Each breath felt laboured as he fought to stay on the rickety train of his own musings. ( Who was it that haunted him next? Was it the very essence of humanity? The insidious grip of HYDRA? Or perhaps it was himself—his own reflection twisted in dark introspection? ) After all, had he not inflicted the same torment upon his own soul countless times?

He’d lost track of how many times he had traced the jagged lines of his scars, reopening the festering wounds of his past and reliving the agony he believed he deserved. ( The thought struck him with a chilling clarity: he was worthy of the suffering that clung to him like an old, tattered cloak. ) Yahweh, in all his omnipotent wisdom, must have known he was irredeemably flawed, knew he had been made, a broken mould. Was it any wonder that this vicious cycle throbbed unendingly in his veins?

It was a truth he had internalised—self-destruction felt safer, more familiar than the glimmers of hope that occasionally sparkled in the darkness. ( He craved dominance, not out of pride, but as a twisted form of control over a life that had spiralled out of reach. ) He was an easy target, a walking disaster, lost in a storm of his own making, where chaos and despair were his sole companions.

He shouldn’t exist.

‘Sure. Why not?’

[vicoya]

when: the night before the Legionnaires leave for Aventia (assuming they leave that morning, so a few hours after this takes place) with: @haelimthewatcher where: coya's bedroom notes: assuming she shares a wall with Haelim's room bc of course their rooms are next to each other

Yet another night plagued with nightmares. Every Legionnaire experienced nightmares of some sort - it was an all too familiar topic amongst them that they hardly talked about, just another one of the consequences they had all grown to accept. Even though they had grown used to it, it didn't mean there nights passed by any smoother. Between the blight flowing through her veins and the horrors she'd watch the blight inflict upon the world, her mind had no shortage of material when it came to creating twisted dreams.

Tonight, it had chosen for her to relive the worst day of her life, because of course it had. The death of her family was something she spoke of very little, and even her closest friends couldn't guess how much it weighed upon her given her sunny disposition. It was easy to act as such during the day, when she was living life out in the sunshine. But at night, the darkness always crept back in. Even she wasn't strong enough to keep it out, not then, and not now.

She twisted and turned as she watched her mother usher her under the floor yet again, her mind knowing what happened next but her younger self too unknowing and unpracticed in magic to do anything about it. Her magic only felt like a curse at that age, for she could sense her parents' souls leaving their body but couldn't quite bring them back. She listened through covered ears as her parents screamed in agony whilst the blighted creatures tore through them, and watched with tearful eyes as their blood seeped through the cracks in the floorboards. The blood began to flow endlessly, incessantly, until it was up to her knees, then her chest, then her shoulders. Yet another pang of helplessness and fear rushed through her - if only she'd been a few years wiser, she could get out, she could escape. She lets out a terrified scream just as her head sinks under. The scream echoed throughout her bedroom as she struggled to breathe, her world now engulfed in crimson.

[landwriter]

Hi! Hi Death of Translation has me just kinda still and continuously thinking about it in the background of my brain while going about my day basically since I read it. I love it so much. I have a two part question for you:

a) Would you be alright with fanbindings of this work? I would love to be able to hug it to my chest physically while crying about it.

b) (potentially related to a above) If yes, do you have any further thoughts on the details of what Hob's journal looks like besides what's written in the story?

Anyway yeah, going back now to being SOOO normal about the thoughts on idiolect and identity and Hob experiencing so much time relative to other people that he relates to estrangement through it the way other people relate to estrangement through space except that there's only one direction of travel in time. And also just generally my feelings about the concept of being ALL of yourself when we are always presenting and performing aspects of ourselves, and the way language seeps into everything from how we distinguish colors to how we understand relationships.

Yeah I lied I am not normal about it imma go read it again. Anyway. Hope you are having a fantastic day!

a) So here's my blanket stance on fanbindings of my fics:

As the incredible @violetequus8 and @chubsonthemoon can probably both attest I'm afraid to say I am extremely not normal about having my words made into physical books. As long as you're alright with my slathering enthusiasm and potential loving photoshoots and essays about your creative choices, fanbindings are 'alright'. In the same way that, like, receiving a love letter, a basket of fresh citrus, warm soup, and a kiss on the forehead is 'alright'.

b) [heavy breathing] I mean just a few

I am once again so stoked to have inflicted some things I'm also very not normal about onto others <3 Language and the self! Language and knowing the world! Language and home! Forgetting as mercy! Forgetting as annihilation! The distorting touch of memory! The necessity of trying to remember anyway! Loving living so much that the crushing force of it creates this tiny seed of agony for everything left behind! Being seen by others in whole! Beholding yourself! Being HELD!

I'm definitely having a more fantastic day after this lovely ask, so thank you <3

[moved-accounts-btw]

break for wolcott and midnight for theo pls

Interesting, Interesting. [Wolcott: Break.

Insolation within her amulet triggered a complete loss of her sanity, primarily exacerbating her claustrophobia. Among the siblings, William stood out as one of the more resilient and cunning ones, adept at evading punishments and outmaneuvering Adam during their upbringing. However, this prowess led Adam to forcefully confine her in the attic for an agonizing two-week period, especially when Mikael wasn't around to intervene. Her fear of being trapped in a confined space and forgotten haunted her, though fortune favored her when the twins were born, requiring her services as a babysitter.

Previously, William grappled with a toxic mindset: any failure she encountered brewed the belief that she would face retribution. The source of this punishment could emanate from Adam, Mikael, the council, or often, from her own self-inflicted standards. The uncertainty of when or how the retribution would manifest perpetually tormented her.

Pre-transformation, William would retreat to the farthest corner of a room, anxiously bouncing her foot. Known for experiencing silent panic attacks and shutdowns, it became imperative to monitor her closely to prevent self-endangerment. Initially, she engaged in self-destructive behavior as a means to feel alive, to garner attention, or as a form of self-punishment, which gradually ceased after a near-fatal encounter with an anomaly.

Post-transformation, her anxiety and meltdowns led to stress eating, an act that eventually shifted her mindset, granting control to the insects within her. They began consuming anything in their path—trash, decayed items, even corpses left behind by rampages or anomalies. Consequently, her insect companions grew increasingly hostile, perceiving her breakdowns as threats to their nest.

During quieter moments of breakdown, she sought solace in the company of her teammates, including Iceberg, viewing them as a surrogate family during lengthy missions. Although instances of these breakdowns were witnessed by others, William endeavored to conceal them, aware of the lack of pride associated with such episodes and unsure of how to seek assistance. Their coping mechanisms remained unhealthy, having been previously met with dismissive attitudes or indifference from teammates. Presently, William finds comfort in the company of individuals like Kondraki, Clef, or Gear, content with merely sitting alongside them during these vulnerable moments.

[Theo: Midnight

His depression often keeps him awake during the quiet hours of the night, contemplating the twists of fate that led him to be a mere tool, enduring the relentless agony of each passing day. His existence seemed to be marred by unending suffering, inflicted by the kind of pain that could drive a person to the brink of madness. It's a life robbed by his father's selfish desires, stripping away any semblance of a normal existence or the chance to pursue a career in teaching.

In the midst of these nocturnal ruminations, he finds himself daydreaming about the prospect of marriage and fatherhood, only to be haunted by the fear that any child he might have could inherit some form of anomaly, perpetuating the cycle of suffering.

During these trying times, he reaches out to Talloran for advice or resorts to consuming copious amounts of weed to attain a mellow enough state to finally find sleep. Talloran and Draven stand as Theo's pillars of support, yet sometimes, they're either occupied or asleep, leaving him to grapple with his struggles alone. Unapologetic about his use of weed as a medicinal remedy, he vehemently defends its therapeutic benefits, even going as far as pleading to consume edibles. However, this often results in intense cravings, leading him to consume substantial amounts of snacks, devouring ten bags of chips before finally succumbing to slumber.

When these remedies fail, he reluctantly seeks refuge in his sister's or sibling's quarters, knowing that one of them might be awake or willing to offer him their bed for the night. Despite lacking shame in this matter, unlike his sister William, he feels a tinge of guilt, understanding that seeking comfort in their beds should be a last resort.

[mahayanapilgrim]

Understanding the Inner Battle: Milarepa's Insight on Conquering Negative Emotions

As Milarepa said: The enemy within us is our negative emotions. No matter how long it has been, no matter how much I have been deserving this, I have suffered the consequences and have been tortured continuously for no good reason.

Milarepa, the Tibetan yogi and poet, imparted profound wisdom when he stated, "The enemy within us is our negative emotions." This timeless observation serves as a poignant reminder of the internal struggles many face. Regardless of the duration or perceived deservingness, the enduring consequences and torment inflicted by negative emotions can be relentless. In this article, we will delve into the significance of Milarepa's words, exploring the nature of these internal adversaries and the path to overcoming them.

Negative Emotions as Internal Foes:

Milarepa's insight prompts reflection on the profound impact of negative emotions on our well-being. These internal adversaries manifest in various forms—anger, fear, jealousy, and more—creating a turbulent landscape within our minds. Understanding that these emotions can be our own worst enemies is the first step toward addressing the root of our suffering.

The Endurance of Consequences:

Milarepa's acknowledgment of suffering's endurance emphasizes the persistence of consequences tied to negative emotions. Whether the consequences stem from past actions or are self-imposed through relentless self-criticism, the enduring nature of suffering raises questions about the cyclical patterns that trap individuals in the clutches of their emotional turmoil.

Torture Without Reason:

The notion of being tortured without reason speaks to the irrationality of self-inflicted suffering. Milarepa suggests that the internal torment experienced may lack a justifiable cause, leading us to question the validity of our prolonged agony. This perspective encourages an exploration of the origins of our negative emotions and the necessity of challenging their irrational hold on our mental well-being.

The Path to Liberation:

Milarepa's teachings also offer a beacon of hope by implying that liberation from internal strife is attainable. To embark on this transformative journey, one must engage in introspection, identifying the sources of negative emotions and understanding their underlying roots. Practices such as mindfulness, meditation, and self-compassion can pave the way for breaking free from the chains of destructive emotions.

Conclusion:

Milarepa's profound statement serves as a timeless guide for those grappling with the internal turmoil of negative emotions. By recognizing these emotions as formidable adversaries, understanding the endurance of their consequences, and questioning the rationality of self-inflicted torture, individuals can embark on a path towards liberation. The journey involves cultivating self-awareness, embracing mindfulness practices, and fostering self-compassion—a transformative process that aligns with Milarepa's wisdom and offers the promise of inner peace.

[ode-12-20-23]

Broken sunsets a song made for the days I yearned you most but had to pretend to be ok.

I had many broken sunsets and rise for over 100days your distance hurt like a Iv injecting scheduled doses of anguish on purpose reminding me how much I’d really fallen in love with you, I hate yearning idk any pain great then that , that I’ve personally experienced .

Loving you the way I do should be a crime in its self .Premeditated murder ..inflicting such pain just cause you aren’t around but yet even not far that it’s embarrassing knowing your just in arms reach any who…

Little did you my ode know was that everyday passing down to the seconds I always wondered, was that you that just drove by did you see me did you think I was beautiful that day were you concerned …ect

Not one day one moment passed that I didn’t wake up and go to sleep with out you on my mind I’m sorry to be so stubborn but fighting for you was always on my agenda!

My soul was instantly drawn to you as though I known you my whole life knowing we never met ,yet so comfortably you pulled me in …me stuck like honey spilt on my new Sunday church dress on a hot summer day so sweet I thought ?…

I’m madly in love with you I can’t live this life with out you by my side I suffered everyday in agony just wanting to see your cheeky eyes and one of kind smile that can make the darkest of taverns glow white bright light I always said,you are so alluring ..your the flower to my bee the pollen that helps make my honey ,baby I admire you and love you in all the ways God made you perfect ..for me, I am just not quite ready to be yours. I know it’s me who needs to grow up to be the match to this flame waiting to burn for eternity you are my one and I will come where ever you go cause with out oxygen my fire goes out and it’s winter I need and want you to be warm with me you belong with me i suck at math but my heart always adds those numbers over and over again and you are always the final answer…

[spacecadetspe]

A snippet from last year...

May 4, 2023

I started making rounds gently with Vassilios.  There are a few things that I can do in my limited state, and it's kind of nice to not feel completely useless.  He still needs the heads of the departments to sign off on the code of conduct that I wrote, as well as approval on the dreamlings' rotations and active duty.

Cure was working with training some of the dreamlings, and decided she wanted to show off for me.  Silly girl.  She's still having trouble trying to control Aphrodite's powers, but she has this stubborn streak going...  Anyway, she decided she wanted to challenge Alecto.

Alecto was a good sport about it, but is definitely the more experienced of the two fighters.  I can't say I didn't warn Cure.

Alecto used blood magic to inflict the Agony of Tartarus on Cure, which was so painful that her magic reacted.  So Cure could no longer hide behind Benzaiten's training.

A foundational teaching of Benzaiten's training is the avoidance of struggle.  That means emotional struggle and investment, as well.  It's been very difficult for Cure to suppress those extreme emotions and keep her conscious self out of the battle.

As much as I don't like it, I think Benten was wrong.  And the foundation of her worst fears is the reason.  She's the one who taught Cure not to take herself too seriously, and to suppress all that magic; magic that makes her who she is.

So when Alecto cast that magic spell on her, Cure went absolutely haywire.  She was in so much pain that her defenses automatically activated.  And Dark Aphrodite came forth.  Alecto, of course, used this to her advantage, and won the match using the Chthonic magic of Tartarus.  Thankfully she was a good sparring partner, and didn't kick Cure when she was down, but the younger goddess was still pretty bummed about it.

When asked about the magic, I informed Cure as gently as I could that Alecto had several millennia on her, as well as loads more experience.  A year's training with Benten, while impressive, was definitely not enough to cut it.  So I made the suggestion that she meet her birth mother, at long last.

I knew in advance that it would be an emotional reunion.  Cure did as much research on her own as she could, and then fortuitously ran into Hermes, who regaled her with her mother's exploits and gave her a girdle with dove feathers; an artifact with which she could invoke Aphrodite.  Not that she needed it.

Once Cure was ready, I called my sister to my quarters.  She was appropriately humbled, after being laid low by my hand and then remanded into the custody of Asteria, her star.  She was also really fucking awkward.  Which, I suppose, is also appropriate.

She told Cure that the Agony of Tartarus drew upon the pain being suffered by each soul currently under the spell.  And if Cure wanted to understand how to counter it, she would be forced to stop suppressing the extreme side of herself.

Cure was naturally very confused; extreme was not something she ever wanted for herself.  She'd wanted a community and a family, and her extreme nature made that very difficult.

Aphrodite made me an example of how powerful extremes can be, but Cure was convinced that I had more control over it.  Which is true, but I've also had to practice.  I've broken Hades' nose at least once, and lashed out at many different gods.  Tempering my own extremes is a lesson in pain, all by itself.

It's disconcerting to think I may have to soon deliver that lesson.

[startreklogicoftheforce]

Star Trek: Logic of the Force - Chapter Ten

Darth Chaos disembarked from the Galileo, surveying the desolate landscape of Talos IV. He traversed a dilapidated megaopolis, walking among the remnants of structures long abandoned and destroyed. "So, this is Coruscant," he quipped with a disdainful tone. "Such pitiful fools." Amidst his thoughts, a voice echoed in his mind.

"SONAL…"

"There is no Sonal," Chaos retorted within his thoughts.

"IT IS THE NAME OF YOUR TRUE SELF. DON'T LET YOUR MOTHER'S KILLER CORRUPT YOU THE SAME WAY HE DID MY FATHER."

"Your father?" Chaos responded, somewhat irritated. "And what do you know of my mother?"

Subsequently, the voice's ethereal form transformed into that of a man, dressed in a gold and white ensemble and a golden robe. "At least you had the chance to know your mother. I never knew mine, Son of Suns."

In response, Chaos experienced a vision of a grand space station's bridge, serving as an observation deck during an expansive intergalactic battle. Single-pilot spacecraft were pitted against vessels larger than a thousand Enterprises combined. The man he saw earlier now clothed in black engaged in a fierce duel with a larger individual clad in black armor and a menacing helmet that amplified the voice concealed within.

"YOUR FEELINGS FOR THEM ARE STRONG. ESPECIALLY FOR…SISTER…"

A surge of passion overcame the man, and he attacked the armor-clad adversary with unmatched fervor, ultimately striking him down by severing his hand.

"NOW FULFILL YOUR DESTINY, AND TAKE YOUR FATHER'S PLACE AT MY SIDE."

Chaos recognized the voice: Palpatine. The young man then observed his counterpart discard his weapon.

"I AM A JEDI, LIKE MY FATHER BEFORE ME."

These events plunged Chaos into inner turmoil. He heard the words of Palpatine, and they resonated deeply within him.

"EVEN IF YOU STRIKE ME DOWN, I SHALL RETURN. I ALWAYS RETURN. I FORESEE A YOUNG MAN MILLIONS OF YEARS FROM NOW. HE SHALL DO MY BIDDING. I SHALL HAVE HIM LEAD ME TO HIS OWN PARENTS, STRONG IN THE FORCE. AND I SHALL STRIKE THEM DOWN, MAKING HIM BELIEVE HE DID IT."

Abruptly, Chaos was back on Talos IV, overwhelmed by sadness. "Mother…" he murmured, his heart breaking. Collapsing onto the barren ground, his Vulcan exterior couldn't suppress the surge of human and Romulan emotions any longer, and he cried out in sorrow for the first time in years. "Mother, please forgive me." In that moment, he embraced his Sonal identity once more.

The ethereal spirit approached and tenderly enveloped Sonal. "I understand your pain, Son of Suns. It's not your fault. It's the Dark Side of the Force, the Sith. They corrupt and corrupt utterly. The vision you witnessed was my own struggle. I delved into the Dark Side to combat my father, but when I glimpsed the abyss I was about to plummet into, I rejected Palpatine." A pause followed. "The Force's strength courses through my lineage. My father wielded it, as did I. And...so will my descendant."

"Descendant?" Sonal queried with a blend of certainty and uncertainty.

"Sonal, I am Luke Skywalker. Millennia ago, I stood where you stand now, torn by uncertainty. Yet with guidance from my mentors Yoda and Obi-Wan Kenobi, I overcame the conflict. They aided my friends and me in liberating the galaxy from Palpatine's grasp.

"How – how am I connected to you?" Sonal asked with uncertainty.

"Your grandfather Sarek was guided by the Force to step through the portal of the Guardian of Time. There, he encountered a female slave, fell in love, and from that union, my father Anakin was born. Palpatine manipulated the Force, orchestrating the Tusken Raiders' abduction and torture of Anakin's mother Shmi, ensnaring my father within his grasp. The Dark Side invaded Anakin's dreams, showing him harrowing visions of my mother Padme's childbirth death. Palpatine sowed disharmony in Anakin, inflicting agony across the galaxy. But in the moment Palpatine sought to annihilate me with the power of the Dark Side, my father broke free, sacrificing his life to save not just me, but his descendants as well – including your grandfather Sarek, your father Spock, and -"

"Me," Sonal calmly affirmed. Gazing towards the horizon, Sonal added, "Thank you, Anakin Skywalker." A spectral form took shape beside Luke, whose countenance exuded a mix of pride and concern.

"You stand at a crossroad pivotal for not only yourself but the galaxy's destiny," Anakin's voice resounded. "Remember, it wasn't you who ended your mother's life. It was Palpatine. His spirit commandeered your body, reclaiming physical form. He alone bears responsibility for Saavik's demise. And now -"

"He aims to do the same to Spock," Luke interjected. "Palpatine senses your deviation from the Dark Side. He assembles the Dark Side's might to forge a weapon capable of obliterating a planet. That planet, as you know, is Romulus."

"He intends to kill my father," Sonal concluded.

"Faltering will bring his victory," Luke imparted, "he'll reinstate his Empire, and the galaxy will succumb to tyranny. The Jedi spirit resides within you, always." Luke gestured to Sonal's comrades. "Observe your friends, Sonal. They're aware you've been exploited as a pawn, a vessel."

"Yet fret not, young padawan," a raspy voice, morphing into a small, green-skinned creature, chimed in. "Heir to the Jedi, you are. Jedi and Vulcan, a glorious destiny you shall herald. Now, onward, go, you must. Abandoned Jedi temple, seek. Descendants of Yoda's species, meet."

"The Talosians," Sonal clarified.

"Talosians, yes."

"Proceed, Sonal," Luke urged. "Only their collective Force potency can grant you the clarity to vanquish Palpatine, restoring equilibrium to the Force."

"I shall," Sonal responded in his composed Vulcan tone. "Balance shall transcend the Force and the entire galaxy." Offering a Vulcan salute to the spirits of Luke, Anakin, and... "Yoda. That's your name." The diminutive spirit nodded approvingly. "Live long and prosper."

In a surprising turn, the three apparitions reciprocated with a Vulcan salute and harmonized, "May the Force be with you."

Departing the site, the group advanced to a rocky alcove, revealing a door evidently blasted open by phaser fire. "Captain, this aligns with Captain Christopher Pike's description upon his initial encounter with the Talosians," Sonal remarked as he tentatively approached the entrance. He closed his eyes momentarily. "A formidable Force presence emanates here, suggesting the Talosians' abode."

Worf stepped forward, voice laced with disapproval. "I...am wary of this."

"Your anger is understood, Worf," Sonal acknowledged. Raising his gaze to Worf, he added, "Yet anger, fear, and hatred are weapons harnessed by the Sith to manipulate and taint. Palpatine exploited my loathing of the Borg, and he exploited Picard's resentment toward the Borg to allow me to tamper with history." Sonal paused briefly. "I regret venturing into the Forbidden Temple and unearthing a past that should've remained buried."

Abruptly, Worf's anger thawed, replaced by sympathy for the Vulcan who once attempted to end his life aboard the Enterprise. "Perhaps… it was your destiny to reawaken the past. Now I recognize you bore no ill intent. I...forgive you."

"Thank you, Worf," Sonal acknowledged. Then, an elevator platform ascended and paused at the damaged entrance. "Let us proceed." Sonal, the crew, and Worf entered the elevator, and it transported them downwards.

Once they reached a lower chamber, they proceeded until they stumbled upon what appeared to be an old Earth-style cottage. Sonal knocked on the door, but there was no response. He knocked again, and once more, there was silence. "Seems like nobody's home," remarked Sonal. They started to move away from the cottage when suddenly the door creaked open, revealing a man dressed in an old Federation uniform.

Picard immediately recognized him. "Captain Christopher Pike," the present-day captain introduced himself. "Captain Pike, I am Jean-Luc Picard, the commanding officer of the Federation starship Enterprise."

"Enterprise? Is it still operational?" Pike looked at Picard with a mixture of surprise and confusion.

"Actually, Captain Pike," Sonal interjected, "your Enterprise was decommissioned many years ago during Captain James T. Kirk's tenure. It met its end in the Mutaru Nebula. However, everyone survived except for the mutineers who had taken control of the ship. Since then, there have been five subsequent starships named Enterprise." Sonal turned his attention to Pike. "But that's not why we're here. We're here to warn the Talosians that they are in grave danger."

"Danger from whom?" Pike inquired. "Is it the Federation? Or perhaps from—" Pike's form suddenly transformed into the ominous figure that had haunted Sonal's thoughts since he first encountered him in the Forbidden Temple on Vulcan. The figure in the black hooded robe, with sunken eyes, wrinkled skin, and those hauntingly yellow eyes. "—yourself?" Palpatine's voice resonated, and in an instant, he unleashed lightning bolts from his fingers, brutally attacking Sonal.

"NOOOOOOOOO!" Picard's horrified shout echoed as Sonal writhed on the floor, subjected to Palpatine's torturous lightning assault.

"I offered you purpose!" Palpatine ceased his assault, his voice quivering. "I offered you the galaxy to rule alongside me. And you responded with scorn and betrayal."

Struggling to catch his breath, Sonal retorted, "You were the one who betrayed me. You killed my mother!" He let out a scream of agony as another surge of lightning struck him. "AND YOU PLAN TO KILL MY FATHER!"

"And that is why you—" Palpatine's words were cut off as he transformed again, this time into a short, large-headed humanoid. "—have passed the test." Picard's sigh of relief was palpable as the Talosian appeared, crouching down to gently place his palm on Sonal's forehead. "My child, you have endured much in your life. But now I sense your strength. You shall seek vengeance for the Jedi against the deeds of the Sith."

"Vengeance…" Sonal murmured. "Vengeance is illogical. The Jedi and the Sith… they are essentially one. This is why Surak buried the ancient Jedi artifacts in the Forbidden Temple." He turned to the Talosian. "I will confront Palpatine, but remember this. I am Vulcan, just like my father before me, and his father before him. We embrace logic, not absolutes. And that's why... both the Jedi and the Sith must be eradicated."

Soon, Sonal, Picard, Riker, Troi, and Worf found themselves back on the Enterprise's bridge. Picard inquired, "So, Sonal, how can you eliminate both the Jedi and Sith at once?" Just as he spoke, Q made his entrance.

"Ah, greetings, mon capitan," Q exclaimed. "There's only one way to vanquish the Jedi and Sith simultaneously." Q turned his attention to Sonal. "Sonal, you must face Palpatine in a duel of lightsabers. You must destroy him with both lightsabers."

"But isn't Palpatine unbeatable in lightsaber combat?" Sonal questioned.

"Indeed he is," Q responded, "but you, Sonal, are capable of achieving it. After vanquishing Palpatine, you must journey to Vulcan and cast the lightsabers into Mount Surak, the last active volcano. Thus, both Jedi and Sith will be no more, but at a price."

"What price?" Sonal inquired.

"The cost will be the final traces of the Force. The Talosians' extrasensory abilities will cease. Betazoid empathic powers will vanish. Even the Force's Whills will fade away."

"Does that mean you'll die?" Picard asked.

"Mon capitan," Q interjected, "I don't see it as death. I view it as a necessity. For ages, my species has wreaked havoc on you primitive humans, and not just me." Q looked at Sonal. "Think of the trouble Trelane put Captain Kirk and your father, Spock, through…" Q chuckled, pleased to hear a hint of laughter from Sonal. "Sonal, you must extend beyond the boundaries of Vulcan logic to defeat Palpatine. While logic benefits a Vulcan, it won't suffice in this case. You must embrace your emotions." Sonal nodded. "Yet, remember to suppress feelings of fear, anger, and hatred. These emotions lead to the Dark Side. Once you step onto that path, it consumes your destiny."

Sonal stared coldly at Q. "I won't ever be a pawn of Palpatine again."

"Excellent," Q remarked as he walked away. After Sonal left, Q approached Picard. "I'm concerned, Jean-Luc. What if he… succumbs to the Dark Side and—"

"Destroys Palpatine," Picard finished softly. "In that case, we would be compelled to eliminate Sonal."

"And the ancient Sith powers would endure, seeking another vessel," Q noted. "A cycle that would repeat." Q looked at Picard sternly. "That's why it's crucial to eliminate the lightsabers." Suddenly, the ship's klaxons blared. A voice came over Picard's com-badge. "Captain, Worf here. Long-range scanners have detected a circular ship orbiting Romulus."

"That sounds like a Borg transwarp conduit," Picard speculated. "But didn't Sonal eliminate all the Borg?"

Worf's voice sounded over the com-badge. "Sir, the ship's markings don't match any Borg vessel. Additionally, there are no records of such a craft in the Federation database!"

"I'm heading to the Bridge," Picard announced as he hurried to the turbolift. Upon reaching the bridge, he took his seat in the captain's chair. "Display it on screen." The main viewscreen showcased Romulus, featuring an unexpected addition—a moon-sized metallic object in orbit. It possessed a trench-like structure along its equator, with a round depression resembling a crater on Earth's moon, Luna.

"Captain," Data reported, "I've detected a ship departing the planet's surface. I'm also detecting life signs aboard the vessel." Data paused, inputting commands into his terminal. "Furthermore, Ambassador Spock is among the passengers." At that moment, Sonal stood up from his station.

"Data," Sonal instructed, "establish communication with the ship." Data swiftly operated the controls, shifting the viewscreen to display the interior of the Romulan vessel. The image presented a tall, slender humanoid figure clad in a black hooded robe, whose hood he pulled back, raising his Vulcan eyebrows upon seeing his son. "It is...most pleasing to see you, Father."

"As it is to see you, my son," Spock responded, his expression pensive. "Sonal, I perceive the anguish you've endured and the sacrifice you're prepared to make to set things right. I… I am not my father. I recognize the potential for good in emotions and sentiments. This is why…" - The transmission abruptly terminated.

"Restore contact," Picard ordered.

"Unable to comply, sir," Data reported. "The unidentified vessel is blocking our transmissions." In a sudden turn of events, green lights emanated from the depression on the alien ship, merging into a single, concentrated laser blast that streaked toward the Romulan vessel. Within an instant, the craft erupted in a fiery explosion of metal and debris.

"Father…" Sonal's voice trembled as he dropped to his knees, his eyes locked onto the heart-wrenching spectacle of his father's ship succumbing to destruction. Overwhelmed by the loss of his final surviving family member, he grieved openly. His sorrow was abruptly interrupted as the Enterprise began to shake uncontrollably.

A voice thundered through the shipwide intercom, declaring, "There is no escape, traitor. The Dark Side of the Force cannot be defeated, for its power endures eternally. Now...if you wish your feeble and pitiable companions to survive, you will return to your rightful place...AT...MY...SIDE."

Moving toward Picard, Sonal spoke with determination. "I understand what I must undertake. Yet, I cannot voice it openly. My thoughts will link with yours." Placing his hand on Picard's forehead, Sonal initiated a mind meld with the captain. "This is my path, Jean-Luc. I must confront him. I must vanquish him. And should I falter, you must end both Palpatine and me. Take the lightsabers to Mount Surak and destroy them." Sonal concluded the meld. "You've won, Palpatine. I will...return to you."