#fifth place

[llamahearted]

two people will go through similar things & learn to cope in different ways

print ♥︎ song

[izzystizzys]

TW: discussion of something approximating suicidal tendencies but with the usual crack programming of this blog

“Ah, High General Windu”, says Fox, pleasantly. “So we meet again.”

High General Windu raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him, Fox thinks, though it’s getting hard to tell with all the blood rushing to his head. “If I let you go, will you try to throw yourself out of another window?”

Fox makes a vague shrugging motion - or tries to, anyways. It’s hard to tell where any of his limbs are going, hanging upside down in the air as he is. “I am willing to discuss terms.” A bridge will do just fine.

Impossibly, the High General’s eyebrows climb even further up his forehead. “A compromise, then, esteemed Commander.” And so, he righths Fox the head way up in the air, but leaves him floating just above the ground, at which point several painted shells come skidding around the corner followed by billowing robes and screeches.

“WHAT”, says Kote, calmly, “THE BANTHA-KARKED, FORCE-LOVING KRIFF, FOX.”

“You’ll short out your helmet mic”, Fox advises him, sagely. Fondly, he thinks back to decimating his own on only his second time in the newly-christened official Coruscant Guard Scream Closet. He’d just received the comm about the Zillo Beast being transported to 000, and made sure to take his bucket off thereafter to improve the quality of his closet time.

High General Windu’s face does something complicated between sympathy and constipation.

Because the Galaxy doesn’t hate Fox enough already and Cody wasn’t enough on his own, Wolffe elbows his way through their batch to plant himself in front of him, shoulders squared and shaking with repressed rage. “If you try that again, dickhead”, he begins, in a low growl that quite frankly sounds more cringe that intimidating, “I’m going to resurrect you and then kill you again.”

“Ah, Wolffe”, Plo Koon says, in his deep, shivery timbre, “Remember our conversations about effective conflict resolution and communication of needs?”

Wolffe’s eyes narrow at Fox, because all non-Guard are sweet summer children who walk around buckets off on 000 like absolute lunatics. Fox prays they never have to find out why that’s a bad idea. “I feel”, his ori’vod presses out between clenched teeth, “that if you make me watch you throw yourself out of another window, I’m going to jump after you and strangle you on the way down, you little bitch.”

“That’s fair”, says Fox, and watches High General Kenobi bury his face in his hands. Wolffe twitches in place and makes an aborted groaning noise, the hypocrite.

“Excuse me, High Marshall Commander Fox, but I fail to see what’s so dire about this situation that the Jedi High Council and your brothers cannot help you solve”, says Windu, the only sane one left on this Force-forsaken bloated corpse of a planet. Behind the gaggle of Jedi and ori’vode already gathered in front of Fox, the rest of them come veering around the corner in a commotion that’s quite frankly embarrassing. High General Yoda is mounted on Skywalker’s back like he’s a race-Eopie, which is Fox’ only consolation.

He got up this morning at 0300, bleary-eyed and with a pounding headache as always, and all was right in the world. And then Fox got called into the Jedi High Council’s chambers and was ceremoniously informed that in the wake of Chancellor Palpatine’s unfortunate demise (hah), and through the emergency state of the Senate, as well as several invented promotions foisted on Fox to make the delegation of any and all paperwork less shady, he was now next in the chain of command and-

Well, Fox is the acting Chancellor, in short.

Haha, he had said, and been meet with several seconds of silence, until it got both awkward and exceedingly painful. Wait, he’d said. You’re kriffing serious.

Kriffing serious, we are, had said High General Yoda, and thus Fox launched himself out the first best window with a maniacal cackle of, you’ll have to catch me first!

And catch him, High General Windu sure did.

“The will of the Force this is”, Yoda interrupts Fox’ train of thought. He scans him thoughtfully from beneath his wizened brow, and hems to himself. “Shake things up, this will. Determine the fate of the Galaxy, this shall. A feeling, I have, that a good Chancellor you will make. A better one, hmmm.”

“That’d be high praise, if not for the fact that a dead lemming would make for a better Chancellor than the last one”, says Fox, drawing and indignant gasp from Skywalker. He doesn’t bother with either that or the green goblin’s cackle, lost in the deep sense of resignation that settles over his shoulders like a suffocating blanket.

“Alright, then, get me Thorn on the comm. As my first act in office, I’m firing all the Jedi. No offense, but you’re kind of a disaster. Then, someone get me to the Chancellor’s office, I’m calling Dooku to let him know the war’s off. And please get me Judicial, they’ll be up all night working on my datafolders - I’m having the Senate arrested.”

“Who - is - arresting - “, Bly pants, hands on his knees from where he’s just come sprinting around the corner with his Jedi.

Underneath his bucket, Fox smiles a smile that’s all teeth. “The Senate”, he says, sweetly, wondering if he’s just imagined the shiver that’s gone through the room. “I’m suing the Senate, and taking them all into temporary custody for abuse of sentient rights.”

[gay-otlc]

Imagine if Chidi Anagonye was trans and had to pick a new name

[planet4546b]

transgender characters in sci fi are really good bc it’s like. how will future technology change our ideas about personhood and transition. transgender characters in fantasy are even better because they will be drinking hrt potion

[egophiliac]

I have a question about the jp server pickups, since I really want knight Sebek, but I’m trying to save gems for bloom malleus + the 3rd tsum event that’s gonna show up sooner or later. Iirc, after knight Sebek, the next story update’s pickup had all of the previous story cards (ie cerberus Ortho, general Lilia, and knight Sebek). Is this true, and if it is, did it include a token system like the dorm pickups where you can just do 100 pulls and then buy the specific card you want directly? Because if that is how it works, then I can wait until then and be sure I won’t have to go to 200 for him.

we did indeed get a second chance at those three when 7-7 came out! I'm pretty sure there was not a token system -- though admittedly I don't 100% remember, sorry! 🙇 I took a quick search through some past posts/videos from people who tend to include the gacha and news stuff, but I didn't see any mention of it, so I'm inclined to think there really wasn't one. :( they were all separate pickups with their own pull counts rather than a combined one, if that info helps at all.

speaking as a strict f2p who hoards keys/gems like the lovechild of a dragon and a magpie, given the choice between saving for a story card and a birthday card, I'd go for story -- it does require a lot of patience, but there are way more opportunities to get past birthday cards, both from the anniversary events and the rerun pickups! tsums is a bit harder to say anything on because Eng doesn't follow the same event schedule, but it's a longish event and those pickups let you have a free 10-roll, so I think they're also a bit easier to save up for.

(ALSO speaking of free rolls, starting with the fifth round of birthdays -- the kutsurogi my room ones -- the birthday boy/union jacket/bloom cards have had a separate pickup that you can get two free 10-pulls at by doing missions! I got a bloom Jade from it a couple weeks ago. :D meanwhile general Lilia is the only story card I've ever managed to pull, so...I'm probably kinda biased. whoops.)

[sunshine-zenith]

Can we just talk about the journey their faces go on during the Nemesis Scene

I’ve been dying to talk about the journey their faces go on during the Nemesis Scene

[corallapis]

DOCTOR: He'd see me dead tomorrow. MASTER: Gladly, Doctor. [looking to the Valeyard] But I'm not prepared to countenance a rival.

[pratchettquotes]

But trolls and dwarfs had been fighting for centuries. Ending that sort of thing took more than a handshake. It was just a symbol.

On the other hand...the world wasn't moved by heroes or villains or even by policemen. It might as well be moved by symbols. All he knew was that you couldn't hope to try for the big stuff, like world peace and happiness, but you might just about be able to achieve some tiny deed that'd make the world, in a small way, a better place.

Like shooting someone.

Terry Pratchett, The Fifth Elephant

[windsweptinred]

Delirium and Nuala 🌈🌸

And here's the original pen and ink 😊

[transingthoseformers]

Barn husbands actually hurts so much because in the pentology Optimus loses so much, and for all the good that Cade does for him we know that their lifespan difference is so massive that Optimus will lose him relatively soon.

And he'll remember, and mourn, Cade for the rest of his life. He'll remember the human who took precious time out of his life to love him, Optimus, who has done so much in the Cybertronian war.

[solasgf]

PETER GADIOT as JAMES VALDEZ

Season 2 of Queen of the South (2016-2021)

[zetadraconis11]

Seen this way, the Ministry of Magic and the school made the book and Professor Weasley just gave it to us.

Just think how Professor Fig would react to that.

or Mc's friends react to it. Mc runs past him and they ask what MC is doing

I could easily imagine Ominis jumping on Mc and would like an explanation from Mc why.

The Ministry of Magic is certainly a mixed bag of morals, imo. I wouldn't put it past them to actually include the Unforgiveables. Especially if they weren't as forbidden as they are during Harry Potter time.

With that said, I've heard some thoughts of Fig being a very chill guardian of MC, lol. Especially since he knows all about MC's Ancient Magic and "destiny". So...

Prof. Fig: So the book has the Unforgivables in it?

Prof. Weasley: Yes, I know it's concerning, but I hope MC won't do anything rash...

Fig: I trust MC. She'll be fine.

Weasley: What?

Fig, casually sipping tea: She's a responsible young adult. Once she is given a task, she completes it. I wouldn't worry.

*meanwhile*

Ominis: Your book says you need to learn WHAT?!

Garreth: Wow, I didn't think my aunt would be that hard-core...

MC: It's not that big of a deal...right?

Sebastian: No, I don't think-

Ominis: You lost your opinion privileges, Sebastian, you don't have a say in this!

Amit: But...why would the Field Guide require you to learn them? They're very frowned upon by the magic society.

Natty: Maybe it's to understand the spells most dark wizards use?

Poppy: I suppose that makes sense, but it seems rather dangerous to toe that line.

Sebastian: I mean, as long as you-

Ominis: *covers Sebastian’s mouth with his hand*

MC: Okay...I will literally get hives if I do not complete EVERYTHING I'm given, so I will learn these spells just to not be haunted by an incomplete task.

The group:

Poppy: ...at least you have a can-do attitude?

[bowtiesarecool11]

The 5th Doctor in Terminus

[love-3-crimes]

Day 7: Moss

...but everything you see isn't everything that is

-

The Storyteller, [unknown] Forest, year unknown, 9 ft height, granite

"The statue found in the [unintelligible] forest had been overtaken by Moss when it was found" said the lead archaeologist Dr.[unintelligible]. "Despite this, we can still read some of the engravings on its platform. All we know so far is that the person depicted on the statue could have been some type of writer. A storyteller."...

[jbdforspence]

You know what? It does.

[lyculuscaelus]

A Delicate Copy

(AU; a pretty old one-shot, finally got the time to upload it on tumblr)

Nobody greeted him “morning” this time.

He woke up on an unfamiliar beach. The sand felt different—coarser than the one he used to sit on in those last seven years. The air smelled misty, unlike the clear sky that used to embrace most parts of the island with her warm arms, a cycle lasting for seven years. He saw the trees growing in bloom, but they did not remind him of his homeland—for he didn’t find that forest anywhere, nor did he see his beloved Mount Neriton. There were only mists, mists that used to arise from the wine-dark sea, mists that used to hide the face of death where gods were lurking, mists that used to give way to the warmth of a cave, in the past seven years.

And that was when he finally realized he was lost. Again.

The tired mariner crumbled on the beach, and sobbed.

He didn’t check what his tears were made of, for he knew there was nothing but pain in them. Pain as found in the glimmering reflection, pain as found in himself. Twenty years of pain condensed into one single teardrop, and he held up his hands to wipe it from his face.

But he sobbed still.

He did not see the herd of sheep coming. He did not see the young man cloaked in a kingly air walking. He sobbed until he felt himself melting, and that was when he stopped, for his sorrow had brought him burning rage. Rage for an unjust promise.

“Where did the Phaeacians send me? What country have I come to this time?” he roared, clenching his fists. “Why did they leave me here—with all this treasure I cannot protect? Have those Phaeacians not promised me to send me home—to my homeland where I came into being? And now what foreign land is this? Those idiots…they did me wrong indeed. May Zeus, god of suppliants, grant them a punishment that is only too proper for them…but for now, let me just count these gifts, in case some of them happen to be missing.”

And so he counted. The tripods seemed untampered, and the cauldrons looked fine. Gold and silver, and all this splendid clothing—surprisingly, he found nothing missing. Then he rose to his feet, and again he wandered, on this unfamiliar beach, with a heart much-enduring he let out another wail of sorrow, another stream of tears.

And then, the young man came forward. A cloak across his shoulders, A spear in his hand—the tip seemed somewhat strange—the young shepherd stopped, and regarded him curiously.

“Friend,” he addressed the young shepherd quickly, wiping out his tears when his eyes were not coping. “You’re the first one I see here. Will you promise me no harm, if I greet you with open arms? For I’m entreating you, like I would a god, to save me, protect my goods, and keep me in good company. I’m begging you, as a friend on his knee. Now please tell me everything, so I can understand—what country have I come to? What people have I met? Is this a sunny isle, or a headland of the mainland reaching out to sea?”

“Stranger—are you a fool? Wait no, I don’t think you are, so you must be a traveler from a distant land,” the young man answered him, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “But I’m sure men from different places have all heard of this island—because of its fertility? Maybe. But it’s a rugged place not fit for herding horses. You can find crops and grapes here, though, but it’s not like they’re uncommon. So I suppose it’s because of its heroes—stranger, do you happen to know the great Argonaut Laërtes, or Odysseus the sacker of cities? This is where they come from—such a place well-known, for I’m sure even lands far as Troy would still recognize the name ‘Ithaca’.”

He twisted his head, searching for memories. Ithaca—a name he had whispered so many times, to the goddess waiting in her cave, to the king sitting on the Phaeacian throne, in the songs he had sung in his pleading. He felt his lips lifting as joy swarmed up in his chest, but something about this place seemed strange…it still felt foreign to him, for some reason.

So he answered carefully. “Ithaca—a famous name indeed. I’ve heard of it even in wide Crete, somewhere far across the sea. Ah, so I’m finally here in person, with all these goods of mine. But there is more that I left when I fled from my city, when a dear son of Idomeneus fell to my own hands, for that swift-footed Orsilochus wished to take away the spoils I had won at Troy, for which I had suffered so much already—in the devastating war and on the dangerous sea. We struck him when he was heading home—me and my companions, with my bronze-tipped spear I ended him. But then I ran off to a ship, paying some Phoenicians to get me to other lands—I’d hoped they would take me to either Pylos or Elis, but the winds did not heed our command. And then here I was, worn out by exhaustion, laid low by sleep. But when I woke up, I found them all gone—and now it’s just me, alone with all my goods, here on this foreign land, seeking help.”

The young man smiled, and replied with a hand reaching out to his left shoulder. “Surely, Odysseus, one’s cunningness must be so wily if he is to outwit you—even for a god.”

He felt a jerk in his heart. How would a young shepherd like him see through his disguise?

“Yes, I know who you are—that pair of eyes I have indeed seen and heard of,” the young man continued gleefully. “But come now, Odysseus, do you really think there will be a celebration party waiting for you here? No, you will find troubles in your home, and I fear even you cannot defeat them this time.”

“What trouble are we speaking of?” Odysseus asked tentatively. “Then again, something feels wrong about this place already. If it is indeed Ithaca you’re speaking of, I don’t find any evidence—”

“You’re always thinking like that, aren’t you?” the young shepherd giggled. “No wonder people call you polymetis. Anyone else would’ve rushed to meet his wife and children—but not Odysseus. No, he’d test everything with trickery first, then he’d observe his wife himself, seeing if she’s still the Penelope he knew of—the answer is yes, even if you’d like to see for yourself. She still remains your wife—though not for long. At this very moment there are one hundred and eight suitors reveling in your house, spending your wealth as they wait for your wife to reconsider her marriage—a proposal she’s been denying for three years straight.”

He felt delighted, somehow, knowing that Penelope remained his own, even when he didn’t belong to Penelope alone anymore. For days he had been wondering if Penelope would find comfort in the fact that she didn’t have to wait for him any longer, and now…he could finally find out for himself.

“As for this place,” the young shepherd continued, pointing to the west. “I bet you can’t recognize it because of all this fog—it’ll probably disperse any moment soon—see? Now it’s gone.”

And then Odysseus saw it—Mount Neriton, where the forest was verdant; Phorcys’s anchorage, with an olive tree standing at the harbor head; the Naiads’ cave beside it—where one would make sacrifices to the nymphs to grant their wishes. And as Odysseus beheld everything, he fell to his knees, kissing the fertile ground with great passion, and held out his hands towards the nymphs with an utterance of prayer. The young man watched him with interest. But when Odysseus finished his prayer, the young shepherd replied. “Now let’s not delay but put these goods in some hidden corner of this sacred cave. Then I’ll tell you all the details about the troubles in your house before you go.”

And they brought them all into the cave—the shining bronze and gold, the fine clothes and all other gifts—and then they worked together to move a rock in place to block the entrance. When they had finished their work, the young shepherd was the first to speak. “Now, Odysseus, you can begin to plan for the suitors’ demise. That is a task I cannot assist you—but know that you can always trust your swineherd and your own son. So, stop by his house before you head for the palace. You can learn about everything that transpires in your house there.”

Then the shepherd gestured to him to go.

And Odysseus nodded with gratitude, then walked away. He didn’t notice how the young shepherd stared at his back, how a smirk revealed itself on his lips, how he slowly walked up, a spear in his hand, and all of a sudden—

Odysseus found himself falling to his knees, his back bleeding. 

And then the pain suddenly struck.

He knelt down to the ground, gasping in surprise and anguish. He barely caught a glimpse of the young man pacing beside him, as the shepherd finally spoke. “Well done, Odysseus, you have left your back open.”

“Why…why are you doing this?” Odysseus growled, his voice failing. “Who…are you?”

“A son you never had,” the young man smiled ominously. 

“Te…Tele…?”

“No,” the young man cut him off, looking away in disgust. “No, you’re the farthest thing I have to a father.”

“But…but why?”

“Touch your wound, and you’ll find your answer.”

So he stretched out his right hand with effort, and found the wound he did. Strangely, he did not see any red stained on his fingers—for there was no blood at all. Instead, a drop of water dripped from the tip of the finger, falling towards the sands. “What is…happening to me?” he hissed.

The young shepherd pointed at him with the spear, letting slip his words with wings. “I see you’re a good lier…but not as good as him. I know what you are at first sight—a shadow, a counterfeit, a phantom made of cloud—”

“What?” he exclaimed, his eyes wide open.

“Yes, you’re no Odysseus of Ithaca…” the young shepherd crouched down, lowering his face of mockery. “You’re nothing but a mere eidolon—of the man who is supposed to be here. I see you’re sharing his memories, his wits—but the thing is, you lack his spirit. The heart of a man is built upon hardships he endured, not hardships he remembered. For him, it’s been nineteen years since he had seen his home; but for you, it’s been twenty-seven days only.”

“How could you possibly know?” he snarled, ignoring his pain. “Who are you to judge my memory? The things I recall—the things I feel—They’re so real to me. I can smell the scent of gore as faces of men were smashed against the walls in that Cyclops’s cave, see the rays of Helios diminish as we entered the realm of Hades, hear the war-cries as we clashed with the Trojans…I have felt the pain of losses. I have known fear. I have suffered and sailed through the toughest of hells…and now you’re telling me that all these memories are nothing but fancy?”

“First of all,” the young man rose to his full height. A cloud of gold suddenly enshrouded the shepherd. The next thing he saw, the one standing before him had become a tall woman, armed with a panoply, her spear blazing. Upon her helmet, the red crest seemed as if drenched in blood. On the face of her shield, the head of a Gorgon stood out menacingly.

“…Athena?”

“I am to judge as I say so.” the woman allowed a smirk on her lips. “Second, no, these memories aren’t your fancy—they’re just not yours to begin with. Third, you are far from the man you’re trying to impersonate. For that reason, I have no use for you to clean up the mess here in Ithaca. Now, look at my eyes and tell me—where is Odysseus?”

He gasped, and raised his head painfully. His strength was failing him. “But I am…Odysseus.”

“Don’t keep fooling yourself. What you bear with you is not yours, and I cannot let you take what he has from him—his form, his memories, his sufferings…and his wife, his son, his family. I cannot allow you to have your ‘revenge’ while the real Odysseus suffers still,” the goddess glared at him, her eyes gleaming with rage. “I’ll ask you again—where is he?”

The pain was working its way through his veins as he once again crumbled, this time breathing rapidly as he felt his life slipping away. He had never felt the brink of death so close to him…but then, what remedy could he possibly find to appease the rage of a goddess?

Goddess…

“I don’t know…I’m sorry…” the words sounded softer than a whisper. He knew that death had finally found him—a sacker of cities, a man of twists and turns…

…a shadow of this man, at least—

—he accepted his death like accepting his identity.

He did not see the fluttering waves, forming a near-smirk on the face of the sea.

He did not see the goddess of wisdom plunging her spear into the sands, calculating new wiles for her scheme.

He did not see the wife of Odysseus weeping by her loom, wherein a shroud had been woven, her time run out finally.

For at that moment, he had drawn his final breath already.

All of a sudden, the fallen body melted into a rising cloud, erasing any trace of recognition. A gist of steam rose up silently, taking away one last sign of its existence. Staring at the emptiness where a phantom of Odysseus had once laid, Athena already knew her answer.

“Calypso.”

…………………………………………………………………………………

(TW: implied SA)

He beheld the daylight blankly, trying to blink away the memories of the last five days. Or the last few years—the number had already lost its meaning here.

But he’d never thought the goddess would be cruel enough to lock him up in the cave for five days straight. Five days without sunlight, five days without fresh air, five days without mourning by the sea, whispering hopes of his homecoming.

The door was only opened when he was in need of food…or when the goddess was in need of him. 

Why don’t you just close the door forever, and trap myself in? Why don’t you just leave me here dying of hunger, or simply suffocating?

Is it really necessary to open the door again?

Odysseus shook his head, continuing his walk towards the shore. He didn’t turn to see if the goddess was following behind—he couldn’t care anymore. It wasn’t even the goddess herself who freed him—he just woke up finding the door open, and took his chance. And now he had finally come out, no goddess in sight.

I’d rather die than let you take possession of me. It’s a thought he had whispered on the first night, when he was asked into her cave. When he was forced into her cave. Only now had he realized, he had been so simple, so naïve. 

He did not die, but he had been her possession ever since.

Sometimes he would just hope that the goddess would be merciful enough to simply let him die an Ajax’s death. Sometimes he would think about casting himself into the neighing sea, wishing for an end to all this misery. But he would always restrain himself whenever he thought of Penelope. He just couldn’t leave her waiting forever.

“But you already did,” sometimes he could hear the goddess’s voice answering. “You failed your comrades already. What makes you think you won’t fail your family?”

Is that really her voice? Or is it just an illusion? He could no longer tell the difference. Reality had become the nightmare he woke up to, and he couldn’t find solace in his dreams either.

It’s as if I’m dead inside…

But deep down, he knew he was dead already. Dead to the mortal world he knew of, dead to the people he loved and cared for. If anything, at least he was not physically dead yet.

But after five days of that kind of treatment…he only hoped to be long dead before then.

What are those five days for?

He had no answer. Although…some trees did appear to be missing. He’d always notice it whenever there was a tree missing. It was like an instinct, something he had trained himself when he used to garden with his father. But that memory had seemed so distant as Ithaca itself—so hard to access now. 

He had just reached the shoreline when he noticed a spot on the sea. 

Is that…a raft?

A raft in full sail, steered by a person with an oar, three large sacks beside them…

But then he saw the goddess, waving at the person on board, a pleasant smile on her face, as the raft slowly sailed away. The person on board—a man, as he saw that now, his face seemed rather familiar. It was as if…

Wait.

Is that…me?

Odysseus almost called, and stopped himself in fear of the goddess. That man didn’t seem to notice him, but instead turned towards the brightening horizon, a brave new journey ahead…

What on top of Mount Neriton is going on here?

But then he found the goddess approaching. The smile on her face had somehow turned malicious, and Odysseus wasn’t sure if he’d want to find out why. The goddess walked up to him, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.

“Now that he’s gone,” the goddess looked beyond the wine-dark sea, beyond the lands and islands that had composed his wanderings, then whispered gently to his ears. “It’s like I promised, Odysseus of Ogygia: we shall have our eternity.”