#he's joining the war on inflation on the side of inflation!

[rotzaprachim]

"i voted for him because MY groceries are expensive" says woman who voted for the man with the Adding Additional Prices to Goods Campaign

[straighttohellbuddy]

what you love you devour {c!Wilbur Soot}

Summary: As someone who is chronically honest and the self-appointed court jester of this world, your place in any conflict or situation had always been whichever place to be amused you the most; being on the side of the grown-ass man who put time and effort into waging war against smartass kids over discs? Of course. Immediately switching sides to join the child as he and someone you've never met before start a drug empire? Of course. Except said newcomer seems to know exactly how to keep you entertained; your place becomes by his side, and you quickly come to realise that no-one else will ever compare.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: She/They Reader. Villain!Reader. Past, toxic c!Quackity/Reader, established platonic c!Dream & Reader. Set during the DSMP timeline. 

A/N: 25,323 words. this has been about 2 years in the making, which is why i haven't tagged the few people on the taglist but anyways, i finally came back and reread what i had and was like.... this actually holds up pretty well as is. so yeah, i've added and subtracted a few things here and there in the last few hours to make it all make sense overall, but holy shit im so happy to have it out there. is it possibly the wankiest/dramatic thing ive posted in a while? yes. but its also 25k so eat up. and if you wanna talk to me about it! PLEASE DO!!

Warnings: VILLAIN!READER, discussions/implied suicidal ideation, violence & blood, implied and joked about smut, heavy psychological/emotional manipulation, romantic obsession, betrayal, murder, implied torture. it gets pretty dark at times, just take care.

Citrus Scale: 💚 LIME 💚

{ full playlist }

"You've created capitalism, good job," sarcasm dripped from your words as you leaned against the side of the Camarvan while Sapnap attempted to arrest Tommy and the most recent newcomer, a brunette with a way with words that you found yourself admiring.

"I didn't create capitalism," Wilbur automatically defends himself, turning on you like he had the words on the tip of his tongue, simply waiting for someone to bring it up. Though he was playing at being innocent, you could see he was holding back a smile.

"What do you mean?" Tommy, behind him, frowned, before spluttering, "you know what, who cares- Wilbur, buddy don't listen to her, she'll say anything to get a rise out of people," he grumbled, but you just talked over him, addressing the newcomer.

"I'm not implying that you, new boy -"

"Wilbur," he corrected you automatically.

"- you, Wilbur, were the theological creator of capitalism," you rolled your eyes, but couldn't help your own smile at the situation, "I'm saying that you're trying to have a monopoly on potions and the ability to brew them, so you can inflate the price to whatever you want with no competition that people would be able to buy from, all that artificial supply and demand bullshit."

"Don't know what you're on about," but Wilbur's back was to the others as he said it, lips twisting into a grin, "this is but a humble hotdog van."

"A humble hotdog van!" Tommy added resolutely for emphasis, which you yourself repeated, much quieter, turning the words over in your mind as you narrowed your eyes and looked over all of them, "oh get lost, go run back to Dream," Tommy huffed, before turning on Wilbur, "why are you even giving her the time of day? She's in his guard, she's probably here helping Sapnap."

And that's when your gaze finally flicked to the man himself in full diamond armour, who was glowering at you, bow half raised. He stays quiet.

"He doesn't seem too keen on her," Wilbur points out, looking over his shoulder, giving the faintest smile to the kitted-out guard.

"It could be a ruse!" Tommy insisted.

"I'm simply a court jester -" you tried, hands raised defensively, but Tommy cuts you off.

"You shot me!"

"What's a humble court jester doing at our humble hotdog van?" Wilbur asks, turning back to you. At this prompt, however, your whole face lit up and you stood up straight, frantically digging around your pockets, searching, until you offer a small stack of blaze rods, like it's an offering.

"Playing along," you tell him, eyes alight with mirth and mischief.

"Why?" But he takes the blaze rods and you give a shrug, shoving your hands into your pockets.

"It's the funniest option."

---

"It's not capitalism, it's a drug empire," Tommy grumbled under his breath the moment they bring you into the Camarvan and shut the door behind you, before he added, "and I still don't like that you're here."

"It's not my fault that the concept of a grown-ass man going to war with literal children over two discs is deeply funny," you raised your hands in mock surrender as you sat on the counter in the hotdog van.

"Then why were you on his side?" He demanded, and you schooled your grin into something seriously.

"Thomas, Thomas listen to me -"

"Do not call me Thomas," Tommy told you flatly, and for a moment you couldn't help your sharp smile.

"Listen, Tommy, my boy, I was on the side of the grown-ass man who was waging war over discs; you're a kid, dude, being on your side would make too much sense and would be far less funny."

"One, you're a terrible person," Tommy says flatly, and you can't help but laugh not exactly inclined to disagree with him, "two, I'm not your boy, and three, if it suddenly becomes fucking funny for you to turn on us, I will kill you a lot, okay?"

"Okay," you nod, conceding, and though he's still frowning at you, mistrustful, you can't help but follow it with, "but I think you underestimate how much I appreciate our new friend, whose first thought, after finding his way to us, was 'I'm going to build a drug empire and recruit Tommy-goddamn-Innit as my first ally'; very few things can top that, honestly."

Wilbur, who was kneeling by a chest a few feet away and had been quiet this whole time, snorts a laugh. Good.

"Does Dream trust you?" However, when he spoke, your bright mood evaporated. Then he stands, turns, and leans his hip against the chest he was just rifling through, cocking his head to one side as he regards you, "it's not bait, I'm not asking you if you're a double agent, I trust you -" though there was something behind his eyes that contradicted his words, "- just, does Dream trust you?"

"Dream and I have... an understanding," you said carefully, "I understand that he is incredibly powerful -" Tommy made a derisive noise in the back of his throat at that, "- and he understands that I am simply a court jester."

"I don't remember many jesters with enchanted netherite axes," Tommy mutters under his breath. For the barest moment, when he looks at you he sees you looking right back, something dangerous, something like a warning in your eyes that vanishes so fast he’s half concerned he imagined it. No-one else seemed to have seen it, judging by how Wilbur’s continuing on. You’ve already looked away.

"So he may expect you to turn on him?"

"Eventually," you agree, "but he also knows I'd turn back to his side with the right incentive," you knew no good could come of trying to hide your nature, especially since it could lead to others actively attempting to win your loyalty, which you couldn't deny was pretty nice. Tommy was actively glaring at you after this particular admission, however Wilbur hums thoughtfully, regarding you with an expression you can't quite read, one that makes you feel like he's evaluating you; you sit a little straighter.

"Would you steal his potion supplies for us if he had any?" And suddenly, Wilbur's tone was light, as if he were asking for you to run an errand rather than commit treason. While Tommy was flabbergasted at his bluntness, you nodded emphatically.

"Oh, absolutely."

----

"Could you be more subtle while robbing me?" Dream frowned the moment he saw you up to your elbows in a chest in what he considered to be his base of operations.

"Not my fault you're bad at hiding your stuff and good at finding me," you huffed in return, not even bothering to look up, even as Dream peered over your shoulder to see what he'd left behind that you were currently looting. Tortoise shells and empty bottles, not much, but it's something.

"I don't appreciate you stealing my shit for Tommy," Dream pointed out, and you snorted a laugh, beginning to pocket your findings. He sat beside the chest, watching you, "I'm going to stop him."

"You're going to try."

"I thought you were on my side," but even as he said it, he wore a grin that was all teeth; you both knew he was joking, "you'd tell me where the discs were if you knew, wouldn't you?"

"In a heartbeat," you agree without hesitation, sitting back on your heels and finally looking at your sort-of ally, "but we both know Tommy doesn't trust me as far as he can throw me."

"He's a smart kid," Dream's smile gets tight at the edges for just a moment, and when you look to him, he’s looking back at you with a shallow gaze - you ever take something from me like that again and I’ll fucking kill you; you hear your own voice in your head, and wonder if Dream’s thinking of that same moment, of your violent, possessiveness rearing it’s head, your axe pressed to his chest in the dead of night. Back in the present, his gaze clears and he looks at the chest you’re currently elbow deep in, pointedly, "you are robbing me." The memory passes from your mind.

"You weren't here and I'm not using actual force; this is looting at best," at your indignance, he rolls his eyes, looking away, and you open the chest again, taking the remaining items, despite their meagre value. "I'm not doing this for Tommy; Wilbur's the one who suggested it."

"The new guy?"

"The new guy," you confirmed with a nod, "the first thing he does after getting here is commit crimes; I think I'm in love," you tell Dream flatly, mostly joking.

"Sounds like a man after your own heart," Dream points out, not even trying to hide the teasing edge to his words; how deeply bizarre this interaction would be if anyone else were to walk in.

With all of the chest's contents safely in your pockets and satchel, you sit back, eyes narrowing as you give Dream and his mischievous smile a look as you finally try and figure out what this whole interaction means. However the teasing does well to hide the faint notes of apprehension in his voice.

"'s the reason I sided with you in the first place;" you said slowly, "you know how chaos gets me going," your tone was flat, clearly conveying that you hadn't deciphered the nature of this interaction, but your actual words were enough to have Dream himself laughing despite this, the air clearing. "You here to stop me?"

"Does anyone else know where my base is, and are you going to steal anything else from me?"

"No and yes," you answer bluntly; if you were anyone else that answer would be two death sentences, one right after the other, "blaze rods," you quickly elaborate, wilfully digging yourself deeper as Dream opens his mouth.

"You can't have my blaze rods," he says, though he's smiling faintly at your well-worn antics.

"Agree to disagree," you stood swiftly, trying to step over his legs to get to the next chest. Dream grabs your shin with one hand, stopping you in your track as he's sighing deeply.

"Go away, Y/N," he says firmly, letting go of you to get to his feet, beginning to push you to the entrance of the bunker, even as you whined; the fact that he let you take as much as you already had was not lost on you however, and you let yourself be nudged to the door, only putting on a show of protesting.

The timer that had started ticking the moment he'd found you in his bunker had finally run out.

"Get better security," you told him, and he gave you a wide, toothy smile.

"Love you too," he responded, "and keep me updated if you ever find those discs." At that, you give him a quick salute and head back in the general direction of the Camarvan.

----

"L'Manberg?" You said, not even trying to hide your scepticism.

"L'Manberg," both Tommy and Wilbur reiterated, sounding completely sincere in their dedication to the ridiculous name.

"L'-Man-Berg?" You said, slower, squinting at them, waiting for their sincerity to crack.

"But don't worry, Tommy himself said that 'even women can work here'," Wilbur said, corners of his mouth twitching at Tommy's various irritated exclamations, "like... in the hotdog van... with us; we're not implying that women have to work to be here, this isn't- this isn't communism -"

"You've made that abundantly clear," your scepticism broke in the face of his floundering, "I remember you brought capitalism to the Greater Dream SMP, Mr Soot," you were desperately trying not to laugh, though Tommy was fairing much worse than you at that.

"I mean- I mean- I mean-" Tommy spluttered through his laughter as it died down, trying to get himself back to being something resembling serious, "you also- you can't be on Dream's side if you're with us."

"I'm not," you answer honestly and easily.

"So you're on our side?" He clarified, though you had to hum at that.

"No..." you said carefully, before finally looking him in his eyes, "I'm on my side, I just happen to like," without breaking eye contact with Tommy or your serious facade, you pointed directly at Wilbur, to his left, "him." Tommy's outrage at your answer was predictably hilarious, hence the main reason as to why you gave it, and Wilbur's delighted 'that's good enough for me' and accompanying smile was enough to solidify your loyalty with them, at least for the time being.

----

"I knew it would be you," they've taken no chances with you when they started taking people prisoner; Tommy was the first to go, and you happened to show up right as Fundy was being lead away. Wilbur and Tommy had both sent you messages, letting you know people were being arrested, and while they probably meant for you to stay away, you had other ideas.

So now, here you were, with Sapnap's crossbow bolt between your shoulder blades as you were being unceremoniously shoved to the courthouse.

"Stop talking," he muttered, poking you probably harder than necessary, but it did little to dim your smile.

"I've barely said anything," you shrugged, the nonchalant movement only serving to remind you, as if you could forget, about the weapon at your back, "but I'm flattered, really; I knew it would be you."

"Stop. Talking."

"They've got several people escorting Tommy, and even Fundy has Eret and Tubbo," you kept chattering away, despite your guard's grumbling, "but we've fought together, you know what I'm like, and so does he," you gave a faint laugh, "they knew I'd listen to you; you're the only one besides Dream himself who could get me to go peacefully."

"Why then? If you're going to keep talking, can you explain why? Why are you going peacefully, why with me? Are you actually saying you would have put up a fight if I were anyone else?"

"Would you trust anyone else to bring me to jail on their own?" You asked simply.

"I think you overestimate how challenging you are -"

"So that's a yes, you'd trust... Tubbo to lead me to the courthouse alone?" Your tone was sly and heavy with implications, "or Ponk? Or what about Eret? I don't know him but he seems nice. I'd like to get to know him, if you're saying you'd like to swap -"

"I don't trust you," he cuts you off, words forced out through gritted teeth.

"But you trust you," you hum thoughtfully, "because you know you're the only one up for it. They're sweet kids, but they're still kids, aren't they? If the right person talked for long enough they'd believe anything. This is why I knew it'd be you taking me to court; you're better than that," you're better than them hangs in the air, unspoken but still so loud, and you're glad he can't see the way you're grinning.

Then, you give a self deprecating chuckle, shrugging again.

"Honestly I'm probably giving myself too much credit here, I'm unarmed and unarmoured, you're easily overkill as my escort, but again, I'm flattered," the pressure between your shoulder blades lessens until the sharp bolt is gone, and you hear Sapnap's footsteps fall silent. Intrigued, you turn, and you see him scowling.

"Don't do that, don't be cute, don't be coy;" he frowned at you, at how your expression had been schooled into something tamer than the delight you were feeling, "you won't trick me; I remember Dream in that warroom, you remember, we were all planning and he assured us that you were your most dangerous unarmed and unarmoured -"

"I can't believe you remember that," you huff a disbelieving laugh, hoping the delight in your eyes didn't give you away.

"Yeah, well I do; don't coy, don't be shitty, okay? I was sent here for you for a reason, me, alright Y/N? I'm the one with the crossbow," already your words were working their way into his psyche, the bestowing of compliments, building him up, only to undermine it all. Whether he realised it or not, the praise you hid amongst your teasing and self-aggrandizing felt good to hear; you're just glad he believed it.

And so you walked with a crossbow bolt nestled between your shoulders, in silence for the rest of the way, being shoved into a cell beside Tommy, who'd been sitting on the bed provided, chattering away loudly to the other guards.

"What took you so long?"

----

The jacket you're given doesn't fit quite right; it's close, but maybe the arms are a little too long, and it sits strangely when you button the front with more than one button, but you wear it with pride, grip tight on the lapels as you spin on your heel, waiting for an approval from the others.

"Looks good on you," Wilbur's voice is carefully neutral, though he nods, his slight smile betraying him.

"Now will you finally admit you're on our side?" Tommy asked, brow pinched as he looked you over.

"What do you mean? She's with us, of course she is," Tubbo voices his confusion, and you finally, finally relinquish.

"Yes, Tommy, I'm fighting for L'manburg," you inclined your head towards him, smiling faintly.

"Say it, say you're on my side," Tommy demanded, "because I wanna remember this moment when you inevitably double cross us."

"Tommy," you said carefully, trying not to show how amused you actually were.

"Don't patronise me," he warned.

"Tommy," you shifted your tone to something a touch more respectful, but the boy's mouth remained set in a firm line, "I'm on your side as long as you're on Wilbur's side."

"Of course," Tubbo pipes up brightly, "we're all on the same side, for L'manburg," and he so cheerfully misses the subtle nuance in your words that it seems to convince Tommy. Wilbur's smiling to himself, genuine, whole face scrunched up and pleased.

"Seems like an overreaction," Eret, who you were yet to get a proper read on, looked over the four of you with interest; he hadn't been here long either, "they robbed Dream for us, they got arrested too -"

"Y/N is a trickster spirit at the best of times," Tommy tells him, "you can never be too careful, trust me."

"I'm just a jester," you raised your hands in a placating gesture, gaze dipping if only to hide the spark of mischief that found its way to your eye every time you found yourself underplaying your abilities.

"A revolutionary jester," Wilbur corrects, and your gaze snaps to him, your smile growing a touch wider, a shade sharper.

"A revolutionary jester," you agreed.

----

"You should have a home here," you hear Wilbur musing as he's chopping wood with a distracted energy, "do you have a home?" He quickly follows it with, and you snort loudly.

"Christ dude, of course I have a house," though you take a moment to reconsider, "well I have a bed in the savannah," you paused, "near... near Dream's Mountain." You admitted. There's a hum, and when you look to Wilbur he's regarding you curiously.

"Still?"

"Dream doesn't operate out of there anymore," you told him candidly, "but I like it; lots of sand," you added, and Wilbur actually paused.

"Can I ask you something very frank?" He asked, leaning against the handle of his axe where it was pressing into the dirt. You nodded, "what incentive would it take for you to turn on us, and on L'manburg? If Dream offered any number of weapons or diamonds or armour, would you take it?"

"I have everything I need," you told him honestly, "and I don't think Dream could offer me enough incentive to turn against L'manburg the way it stands right now," you shrugged, but he tipped his head to the side, frowning.

"So what would it take you to turn on us individually?"

Your mouth fell open, unused to being properly listened to, properly understood.

"You listen too much," you muttered, unused to being caught out in the way you would twist words. Wilbur, seemingly surprised at your reaction, grins from ear to ear.

"You know, while you were all being arrested, I heard something; I heard someone say that you're at your most dangerous when you're unarmed and unassuming, and I think I'm starting to get it-"

"If I find Tommy's discs, I have an obligation to give them to Dream," you let the words fall from your lips in an effort to derail that train of thought, gaze on your hands as you pluck blades of grass from the ground, twisting them in your fingers. Wilbur carefully lowers himself to the ground, to your level.

"From what I understand, that seems perfectly reasonable, in your mind at least," he says with a half smile, looking to you, expression somewhat unreadable, his pause harbouring something quietly hungry; "and what about me?"

Mouth opening and closing at a sudden loss for words, you find yourself unable to look him in the eyes.

"I have no pre-existing reason to turn against you," your voice is quiet, is flat, but your forgetting fingers betray how antsy this particular shred of honesty made you.

"So, Tommy's the only one you'd throw under the bus?"

"Its up to you," you shrugged, "and I'd only steal Tommy's disc and hand them over, I wouldn't hurt him."

"Are you lying?"

"I don't lie;" your tone was harsh, looking to him with a fire in your eyes, "I will not betray them, or Tommy in any other way, so long as they are all... aligning... with... you." There's no pretty way to twist your words around it, and you can't help your faint, flustered embarrasent, "my word is my bond." Then, softer, heart in your throat, "stop looking at me, Wilbur."

"That's a lot of power you've given me there," he said with a faint laugh, "so if it's no longer in my best interest to align with them-"

"It depends on if you mean that they're no longer allies, or if they're actively hostile," you point out, "because the ways in which I would betray them if they are not my allies are... varied. If they're my active enemy, then that's more of a straightforward fight, you know?"

"And if I decided it's no longer beneficial to be allies with you?"

"You'd be smart," you tell him, knee-jerk reaction, which startles a laugh from him; you give a faint, self-conscious apology, "honestly I'd respect it, it'd be an incredibly funny move after the things I've said, you know?"

"But, no, if I betrayed you, what would you do?"

"Are you planning on betraying me?"

"Not currently," he shrugged easily, and you blinked slowly at him.

"I don't know what I'd do, not yet, but I can get planning," you said with an almost teasing air, while he splutters in protest, "yeah I know you just said you weren't planning on it, but I'm pretty sure you've lied to every single question I've asked since getting here," you paused, smile growing wider, and strangely fond, "actually I think you've lied more than you've told the truth in general since you arrived."

A second passes, then another, then finally he breaks out into laughter.

"And you accuse me of listening too much!" His expression was frankly delighted.

----

You follow them into the dark, down the stairs, listening to the way they were joking about Eret managing to come up with a nuke. The night is unassuming. Spirits are high. 

But they bring you all to a small room full of  chests. Something is wrong. You stay with Eret by the door, and he's got a hand on your shoulder - you can't run. 

"The chests are empty-" you hear Wilbur's confusion, right before Tommy asks what the button in the middle of the room does, and before he can even press it, his fingertips barely contacting the wood, you step forward -

"Easy now," Eret's voice is a gentle murmur, only for you, grip tight on your pauldron. When you look at her, a moment of silence amongst the others' confusion, his expression is… unreadable. Ice cold now, there's a sword through your chest, you can feel it where you shouldn't, followed by the searing heat of blood filling your lungs and windpipe -

"Y/N?!" Wilbur's eyes land on you as Tommy presses the button, you fall to your knees, choking on a mouthful of blood, and when your gaze locks with his, the reality of the betrayal sets in. There's horror in his eyes, and you see Tommy and Tubbo turning before you're suddenly gasping awake in your bed in L'manburg, shaking, eyes wide and goosebumps rising along your skin as you hear your comrades screaming and shouting for help, horrified at Eret's betrayal, all coming in tinny through the communicator still on your hip. You don't properly know what happened after the button was pushed, and you think that was a conscious decision.

Your first life is taken quietly, not with a bang but with a whimper.

There's something inevitable about it for you, at least in your mind, but the others didn't deserve this, didn't deserve that betrayal. You can still feel the sticky heat of the blood in your lungs, your throat, ice cold sword where it had pierced through your back, slipped between your ribs, and come out the other side. 

"It was never meant to be," Eret sounds like they’re smiling as they say it, as the others are yelling, and you realise that they're probably reviving in their own homes. You want to ask, want to demand answers, but your hands shake, and when you find your voice, all that comes out is a furious growl, low and full of venomous malice the likes of which the others had never heard from you, judging by how your voice cut through the chaotic mess of shouting.

"What the fuck did you do?" 

Eret leaves the communication channel. The silence rings in your ears.

"He betrayed us," Wilbur said, tone flat, thinly veiling his own fury at the situation, "she had us killed by Dream and his men," and then, "he killed you." Like it means something, like he's worried your apathy, or even your connection to Dream, could sway you from your anger. Like he knows betrayal of your nation means little; like he knows you well. Something about this catches in your mind; you knew it was only a matter of time before you were betrayed, but the rest of them cared - Wilbur cared enough about you to know you, and Eret had him killed too. 

Your communicator vibrates for a moment, and you look down to see a message from Wilbur himself; Where are you?

Your life was of little consequence, the same could not be said for your comrades.

"They killed me," you said softly, before you swallowed hard; home. Dig the ground by the corner of the walls near the river, you send back. "You died too; you all died. Who was there?"

"Who do you think?" Tommy cut in, loud and brimming with rage.

"It was all so fast, but I saw George, and Sap, and Dream," Tubbo cut in, voice a little shaky, bring Tommy's fury down somewhat.

"Punz was there too," Wilbur said carefully, "they have our things." And you stay quiet as they rage, as you sit in your bed, unable to get up, mind moving a thousand miles a minute as you try and figure out how to process all of this, what it all means. It doesn't take too long before there's sunlight streaming into your little, cosy hovel, followed by Wilbur climbing down the ladder provided, packing dirt into the hole he'd made to keep your location secret. 

When he gets to the bottom of the ladder, he takes a deep breath - Tommy and Tubbo are chattering away, audible over both your communicators. Making eye contact, finally, he doesn't quiet seem to know what to do, or where to go. You turn off your communicator. Everything tastes like iron. You don't move. He leans against the wall by the ladder, closing his eyes tightly for few moments, and slowly sliding down, sinking to the ground. 

"Wilb- mate are you alright? Where are you?" Tommy's voice rings out from the communicator still on Wilbur's hip, and he sighs deeply.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, just need a few moments, I'll be with you soon," and he turns off the communicator before getting a response. 

Silence. Deafening silence.

"I'm sorry," your voice is a whisper, but it's clearly audible in this little room. 

"What?" Tone immediately defensive and sharp, Wilbur's eyes snap open and he looks to you with a glare.

"No, I- I've had betrayal coming for a long time, but you- you all didn't deserve that," you clarified, hand on your chest, feeling the raised, tender scar tissue where the sword had come out - it had slid through your sternum like fucking butter, it had been so cold, even as the points where it had touched your clothes caught fire, even as it melted through the metal of your armour - your hand starts to shake. Everything tastes like iron. 

"What happened?"

"What did Eret say to you?" His question surprised you, and when you look to him, his gaze is hard and cold.

"Easy now," you remember, "held me back when I went to step forwards, and ran their sword through me before the button had even properly been pressed -"

"I saw," Wilbur's voice was softer.

"I'm sorry, I should have warned you -" your lip was trembling, shake in your words as you drew your knees up to your chest. 

"You didn't know, you couldn't have-"

"I could have done more, I could have done something -" the tears start to fall.

"Dream's guard were laying in wait, and the button was their cue to ambush us," Wilbur explained carefully, "but you…" he swallowed hard, "I watched you die." He sounded furious and disgusted, looking at his own hands, twisted into claw-like shapes, ruminating on his own helplessness at the situation.

"You're the only one who noticed," you said, barely audible, "I don't think you were meant to notice."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"I wasn't meant to see what happened, and it was meant to be assumed that I died in the skirmish," you said, tone flat and bitter, before your tone grows malicious, "because Dream is a coward."

"I wasn't meant to notice?" He asks, voice weak.

"No-one was; dying in the skirmish is less targeted, but if I had glimpsed any of their team killing -" You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze, "any," you push the word to hide that it's not exactly the truth, "of you… Dream knows I am more than capable of exacting revenge." There was a dark truth to your words that Wilbur couldn’t even begin to fathom, a history he was unaware of.

"I do notice you," Wilbur says, and you're brought from your bitterness momentarily, surprised by the earnestness of his words. He stands, "and I've never heard you speak like this before." 

"There are rules," you tell him, watching him cross the room to your bed, to sit by your side, "and I don't expect the same level of honesty that I give, but I expect- I expect- I-" but you can't find the words for what you're trying to say, sitting forward scowling at your hands.

"You would have let him betray us all still if you'd know, wouldn't you? You would have even let her kill you," Wilbur's tone is alight with realisation, and your mouth drops open with surprise; yes, yes of course you would, how did he put it into words like that? He doesn't even sound particularly hurt by that realisation, more fascinated.

"I absolutely would have," you answer.

"But you had no idea," its not accusatory in the slightest, his tone matching yours, alright with bright interest, "which is why- why- why you're so- why you're reacting like this," its like he's trying to piece together how he sees you out loud, "you need to know where all the chess pieces are, what moves are being made, you're not playing as much as you are a spectator delighting in the chaos of it all, with a front row seat." But he's grinning from ear to ear. Your whole body is alight with the instinct to reach out and touch him, to prove he's real and not something you're imagining, because no one else has even cared to figure you out like this, and no one would even come close to reacting so brightly about it. 

"I'm sorry I'm like this," you say with a momentary huff of disbelieving laughter, but he reaches out and puts a hand on your knee. The contact burns. You look down at his hand like you can't quite believe it, head swimming, trying to process this all. 

"Don't be; knowledge is power and you never lie," he pointed out, "you're a good ally to have." Your heart feels like it's beating out of your chest. Wilbur Soot I'd die for you; the words press against your teeth until it's almost painful, and his hand is still on your knee. You grab it - he's real, he's here, the things he's said are real too!

"I won't betray you," is what you say instead, and Wilbur's expression turns to surprise in the face of your earnestness, your seriousness. You never lie; the thing he's said is playing on both of your minds at this moment, of this you're sure.

"You shouldn't say things like that," he says very carefully.

"Then you understand the full extent of what I'm saying, don't you?" You take his hand now in a handshake, palm to palm, "Wilbur Soot, I will never betray you."

"You have never lied to me," he said, voice low and serious, demanding an answer. You meet his gaze.

"I have never lied to you," you affirm, before adding, "you know me." And you're fairly certain he doesn't quite understand the importance of that, that his understanding of you is the reason for your loyalty. "You don't have to extend the same sentiment, don't worry, like I said I don't expect the same lev of honesty -"

"I will not willingly betray you, Y/N," Wilbur says, matching your earnest seriousness, "and I will attempt to only be honest with you." 

----

“What is it about you?” There was a strange quality to Dream’s voice as he voices a question that had seemingly been weighing on him for a long while. Wilbur, where he was trying to fit all of his friends’ equipment on his person to carry back to them, snaps his attention to Dream, brow furrowed. 

"What?" 

"Loyalty is the one thing Y/N covets above all else, and yet for some reason they’ve given it freely to you -” Dream’s voice was smooth and thoughtful, like he’s not quite aware he’s speaking out loud. 

“Maybe it’s because I respect them -”

“I respected them, but still...” he trailed off; again the idea of a darker shared history between you and Dream makes itself known. Wilbur's scowl deepened, "I don’t think they genuinely respected me... or anyone, before you. They get possessive, like dangerously possessive, but you’re different." 

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know the thing they do, the way they can talk around people and topics without even lying, and make it look, you know, like it’s easy?” And the minute the words leave Dream's mouth, Wilbur's gaze drops; of course he'd noticed.

"They’ve got a way with words," Wilbur's agrees, slowly, eyes narrowed. At the defensive notes in Wilbur’s voice, the smile dropped from Dream’s face. He’s seen this loyalty before, but never before in someone you yourself were loyal to in turn. This is uncharted territory. This suddenly feels like a dangerous conversation to be having. 

“Everything they’ve done is to amuse themselves, so you make no sense to me; what about you is so compelling that they find entertainment in playing revolution?”

“Maybe,” Wilbur says, tone light but clearly well thought out, “someone who is used to listening to everyone else finds a certain novel charm in being heard.” His gaze is icy, but he’s not looking at Dream; he’s standing at the end of the room, gaze hard as he looks at the door, as if focusing intently on something in his mind as he spoke; “I think you assume everyone believes in the ideals that their side stands for, and I also think,” he narrows his eyes, still staring into space. Despite not being the target of his glare, Dream, for the first time in the conversation, feels a strangely familiar powerlessness, “that you underestimate an individual’s loyalty to another individual, rather than to a cause,” he paused, “or a nation.” 

“I’ll fight for you, of course, but I can’t kill any of those kids -” in Dream’s mind, he’s taken back to the moment he’d recruited you to his side after he’d stolen Tommy’s discs. You’re looking up at him from where you’re leaning over a grindstone, sharpening your axe. When he’d asked why, you blinked slowly at him, “I’ve barely spoken to them; I can’t discern if they deserve it.” There’s something cold in your eyes as you look at him, and he hears it clear as day without you needing to say it out loud; I don’t kill people I don’t know.

Something about Wilbur in this moment reminds Dream of you. He feels the faded scar on his collar bone ache faintly; the part of him that had wanted to somehow warn Wilbur of your true nature was quickly growing quiet in the back of his mind.

Then, Wilbur looks at his own hands for a moment, before digging through his bag, through the various belongings he was now carrying. He pulls out your axe, and looks back up at the space by the door. Then, to the button, before finally looking at Dream, your axe still in hand, but it rested by his side, nonthreatening. Dream can’t look away from the weapon.

“You were laying in wait for us in the name of your nation,” Wilbur says, tone strangely neutral; he looks back at the door; “you complain about a lack of respect but won’t warn them when they’re about to die.” This is where he’d watched you die; that, atop the various other insights Wilbur has shared here have Dream’s blood running cold. Dream wants to argue that you would have tipped them off, but his words die on his tongue; he at least knew you better than to interfere in a good plan, an entertaining plan, where you would be able to watch the effects of a major plot twist play out in real time, even if it meant you too had to be sacrified... And Wilbur knew this about you too.

“I see,” Dream muses, trying to hide how shaken he was by the moment that had just passed, “you’re starting to make more sense now.”

“And you know what,” Wilbur said, unsettling tension breaking as he grinned, “I think you’re making more sense too; Y/N’s willingness to still bring up their loyalty to you does at least.”

“Their loyalty to me?”

“They still look out for Tommy’s discs on your behalf,” he said candidly, “we all know, but they’re yet to find them so Tommy’s yet to have a proper go at them.”

“It’s always sunny in L’Manberg then,” Dream says, dryly. 

“It’s... amusing, to try and see the world the way you see it,” Wilbur’s chipper, but there’s something almost malicious in his bright tone, and Dream’s hair stands on end. His own words haunt him, your loyalty called into question; did you simply help him because you found him trivial and amusing? While it doesn’t exactly surprise him, it stings in a way he didn’t expect. Looking back at Wilbur, it’s clear that at least some of Dream’s feelings about this particular revelation showed on his face, despite his best efforts. Wilbur’s grin was cheshire-esque. Even his smugness somehow had an echo of yours. 

He leaves. Dream feels sick, alone in the final control room.

----

"Can I ask you something?" Wilbur asks tentatively, and you look away from the furnace you'd patiently been waiting to smelt your iron ore.

"Of course."

Another long pause; you approached him where he was sitting at the table, watching you with reservation. 

"What happened between you and Dream?"

Surprisingly, your expression dropped to something blank in an instant, gaze going glassy. 

“He’s my friend,” you say flatly, turning back to the furnace, but not before Wilbur caught a glimpse of your grimace.

“I think he was trying to warn me against you,” Wilbur huffs a faint laugh, but it’s more to test your reaction; when you turn back, your expression is wide and innocent, almost pleading.

“What did he say?”

“That I’m the first person you’ve shown actual respect to,” Wilbur says, tone light but words blunt; it surprises you, which he can read on your face, and you hesitate for a moment, not wanting to confirm or deny as much. His smile grows wider, grows endeared, “and he did say you tend to get possessive.” Your gentle, flustered nature turns into something colder at that, and you look to your hands.

“He says a lot of things,” you mutter, with an air of bitterness. It’s interesting interacting with you; half the time you still seem to try and put on an act around him, though the other half you seem to let yourself be as honest as you’re able, “he says a lot of things to the people I like, then they like me less.” Then, suddenly, you look to him, defiance in your eyes, “I don’t care what he said, I’m not using you, Wilb-”

“Hold on, he never said anything like that,” he holds up his hands, defensive, placating. Your eyes go wide and your mouth snaps shut; you can’t look at him, sitting down, hunching in on yourself. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, sighing deeply enough that your shoulders sag, “Dream is my friend, I know it doesn’t seem like it right now, but I thought... he’s taken things from me like this before, things I, well...” you can’t quite put it into words, but Wilbur sits back, watching you, when something in his mind clicks.

“Covet.” His voice was soft with understanding, gentle as he asks “who was it?”

You blink slowly; there was something visceral and feral burning through your veins. You’d spent so long intricately designing the way the world would see you, this single moment feels like you’re on the knife’s edge trying to figure out if having him understanding you is endearing and heartwarming, or cloying and dangerous. He promised he wouldn’t betray you, but he’s not as honest as you’ve trained yourself to be. 

But you promised not to betray him, and you’ve become someone defined by your word. All you can do is leave, if that’s what you want. You can’t lash out, you must let him live with the way he knows you, with no promise to keep it to himself. Self preservation is the way your fingers flex, aching for your axe.

“I’ve given you too much power over me,” you swallow hard, hands in fists. 

“You won’t hurt me, though.”

“We both know I couldn’t even if I wanted to.”

“And you do want to,” he says it like it’s a fact, all light and neutral. You keep your mouth shut; you can’t lie if you don’t speak, no matter how sweet you know it would taste to lie. “I have never felt fear or anger like I felt when I watched you die,” he breaks the silence. 

“I’m sorry,” you mutter through clenched teeth, staring intently at the floor.

“You’re not to blame,” he says easily, “none of us deserved that; you didn’t deserve that.” 

“You didn’t deserve to see that,” you corrected automatically. 

“I thought you wanted to hurt me.”

“Well I can’t.”

“You won’t,” he says, tone still light. You glance a look at him, only to see him resting his chin in his hand, regarding you with a gentle smile. The distinction stings in your mind, the way he clearly understands your internal conflict, it sets your teeth on edge, “you knew what you were getting into when you offered your loyalty; Dream was confused, you know, about why you’d given it so freely when you covet it -” that word again, your expression twists into something frustrated as you drop your gaze back to your hands, “- but he doesn’t really get you, does he?”

“He likes to think he’s like me,” you mutter, “but then he acts like he’s better, like he’s building a family from this war, but he’s going to be left with people filled with resentments. I was aquiring resources, but he didn’t like my methods...”

“Who?” Softer this time, Wilbur asks.

After a very, very long time, you look to him, gaze shallow.

“I thought Quackity was like you, I thought he’d understand.”

“Understand you?”

“Understand the world, the truth,” you wet your lips for a moment, “but he clung to pretty words without question; I could see he had potential, so I kept him around, and it was easy - it was so fuckin’ easy -” You recount how you’d set your sights on loud-mouthed, brash, desperate for recognition Quackity, and how you’d made him your whole world, bombing him with affection and attention, making him feel understood, like the place he belonged was by your side. Quackity had always looked for somewhere to belong, that hadn’t changed, though you muse that you may have made it harder for him to trust it when he finally found a place where he felt like he belonged. 

“Everything I fed him was a lie I’d laced with something that sounded close enough to love and sincerity that he’d believed it,” you looked down at where you were tracing shapes on the back of Wilbur’s hand as he listened intently, “I gave him nothing, but made him believe he had everything, until... until I wanted to see how far I could go. I wanted to see if he’d die for me... and he would have, until Dream decided to grow some morals.” You stood, sudden fury burning through your veins at the memory, “he had to sew the fuckin’ seeds of doubt in Q’s mind, had to pick holes in my lies -”

“You lied that much?” This seemed to genuinely shock Wilbur, and you stopped your pacing to look to him.

“It’s why I don’t lie; it’s harder to pick holes in the truth, harder to undermine me,” your lip curled, “Q lost faith in me, stopped trusting me, and there was fucking nothing I could do about it; it was my fault, honestly, so I don’t lie anymore. I’m upfront about who I am. I only keep people around if they’re useful, or they’re entertaining, because that’s the other fucking thing I learned; nothing fucking matters more than keeping me happy, because everyone gets too serious for their own good in the end. Dream was fun before he- he- he-”

“So am I useful or entertaining?” Wilbur asks, and you freeze. Then, slowly, you take a deep breath.

“It was novel to feel understood.”

“And now it’s bloody terrifying you,” he says gently, “because as much as you want to, you can’t trust anyone as much as you trust yourself.”

“I understand people, Wilbur, and no-one I’ve ever met has understood the inherent benefit to honesty the way I have.”

“But you still promised me your loyalty.” He says. You swallowed hard, nodding once. You meet his gaze, refusing to break it, refusing to back down, waiting for him to elaborate. “And I promised you mine, as best I could,” he pauses gives you an evaluative look over, “I can’t trust people, obviously, but I know I can trust you.”

“People don’t like me when they realise I can pick them apart, that I can rewire and reprogram them like I’m an engineer,” and Wilbur regards you curiously as you say this, like he’s going to try and counter it, but you square your shoulders, “even you, Wilbur; do you think, when we met, you’d still trust me if I was upfront about this?” And he closes his mouth, thoughtful, “I wanted so desperately to keep around the first person to halfway understand me, you’re impressed rather than fucking terrified like you should be. Because you know it’s true.”

“Are you trying to push me away?”

“We both know you won’t go,” you say with the faintest, self-deprecating smile, “a stalemate of respect, of our own design.” Then, your expression turned serious, “I have never felt fear or anger like I did when I realised you watched me die.”

Then, very slowly, his gaze meets yours, hard-edged and dark.

“Do you trust me as much as I trust you?” It’s a loaded question; he’s never been given any reason to doubt you, mostly thanks to your honesty and loyalty, but you’d never been afforded that same assurance. But in this instance, it didn’t matter, you knew your answer without a shred of doubt.

“Yes, absolutely.”

----

Its said a shark can smell blood in the water from a mile away, and you, you know there's a traitor living a peaceful life up in the castle. It irritates you, sets your teeth on edge; it's not that they killed you that bothers you, it's that they were careless about it, they let the one person you never wanted to hurt watch you die. The event had shaken Wilbur; the taking of your life was not the matter you cared about. 

"You okay?" Others had noticed how distracted you were; in your mind, all you could see was the shocked horror in Wilbur's eyes, and the feeling of the blade in your back. Blinking quickly, back to the present, you smiled brightly at Tubbo, or as brightly as you could manage.

"Of course." 

You watch the others sparring and training together and your hands ball into fists, as if aching for a fight. But you've got an image to keep up; you're not the brawn here, you're a jester, you're meant to keep those who you care about smiling. 

"You ever wanna hold a sword to my neck like that..." you tone is suggestive as you trail off, grinning at Wilbur, who's got his sword poised beneath a training dummy's chin, glaring at it with ferocity. The moment you call out, however, his focus break, and you see him fighting back a smile as a flush works its way up his cheeks.

"Come test your luck then," he calls back, and you blinked quickly.

"I don't want to fight you, Wilbur," you tell him, quieter, hoping it comes off as soft, as something endeared.

"You should know how to fight," he points out, lowering his sword, digging the tip into the dirt as he leans on the pommel a little.

"I know how to fight," you counter, and a long moment of silence follows as he considers that.

"How have I never seen you with a weapon then?"

"You have, you just haven’t seen me use it as a weapon." You tell him rather pointedly, voice low, and though you’re still smiling, there’s something sharp at the edge of your voice that’s unfamiliar to him. It takes him aback, and for a long moment he’s silent as he regards you with a newfound seriousness, “I’m just a jester; what’s a jester want with a sword anyways?” You half laugh, a little louder now, gaze flicking to the others milling around nearby. Nobody outwardly acknowledges you, nobody apart from Wilbur, who just frowns. His gaze is trained on a spot just past your head, where you know the hilt of your axe sits. 

You know you need to act soon, the idea of Eret living in the lap of luxury after everything that happened has your blood boiling. It's getting out of hand. It's getting distracting. 

"You're very observant," you note, tone fond as you come back to the moment. Wilbur surfaces from his memories too, his own smile turning all kinds of fond.

"Out of necessity," he points out, making his way over to you. There's something about his tone that is fond, is knowing, and it melts your heart a little, those hints of understanding that no-one else had bothered to afford you. The person who'd betrayed the only person to understand you had been crowned king; soon, your retribution would come soon. 

"What's bothering you?" Quiet enough that no-one else could hear, Wilbur reaches out, fingertips gentle on your cheek as he tips your face, has you look him in the eyes. You wonder what he sees when he looks in them, because for a brief second, for a flash, again you see the memory of silent horror as he'd watched you lose your first life. You swallow hard, and close your eyes, leaning into his touch for the briefest moment. 

"I keep thinking about what Eret did," your voice is barely more than a whisper, giving only the truth, no attempt made to obfuscate it, like you usually would. Wilbur was quiet. You didn't want to open your eyes, didn't want to witness his reaction, but he's quiet. 

You don’t tell him what you’re going to do, what you’re planning; there’s no need for him to worry unnecessarily. If you survive, you survive, and if you don’t, well you have another life to fall back on. If you wake up in bed with a new scar and one less life, that was your decision to make. No-one should worry on your behalf, but Eret needed to know that their actions would have consequences. 

So you choose a night where the moon is overshadowed by clouds, and take your axe with you. 

You’ve always been one to make an entrance, and even now you don’t disappoint, laying in wait for as long as it takes, hours spent dead silent and idle, simply waiting.

"You should be very careful if things don't go exactly to plan," finally your voice rings out through the throne room, and Eret, all dark hair and pale eyes, stops dead where they'd been passing through. Slowly, so slow its almost painful, they turn to look at you. You, draped in the throne like you own the place, axe leaning carefully against the arm of the seat. Your name escapes her mouth like a curse.

"It did go to plan," she hisses, tone guarded. 

"If it had gone to plan, I wouldn't be here," you say, shifting a little, sitting a little lower, "if your timing had been better," you paused with a shark-like smile, "I may have been the only person in L'manburg to have no issue with your betrayal," and finally you look at him, watching his face as he tries to piece together what you mean, why you're here, "on paper I admire you." You tell them callously. Their lip curls in derision.

"Dream said you'd see my side," they say carefully.

"Dream says a lot of things to a lot of people," for a moment, your expression darkens, "I'm sure he told you to kill me first."

"To avoid…" she trails off, frown deepening. Your smile returns, wide and dangerous.

"You broke something of mine, Eret," you tell him seriously, a mad glint in your eyes, "and part of your plan worked like a charm; I won't go after anyone else because I've got plausible deniability, I didn't see who killed who in that skirmish." 

"Then why the fuck are you here?"

"Because you killed me, and Wilbur watched; it's all he could do. It was a cruel thing that you did, making someone feel helpless like that."

"You're not here because I killed you?"

"Why would I be? I'm a court jester," you huffed a little laugh, smile turning cruel, "but you used me to make Wilbur sad, and someone's got to take the blame for upsetting the thing I like."

"If that's true, why spend all this time talking? Why not just kill me?"

"Because I like to make sure you get my message; Dream's heard my message, he tried to tell you," this is where you stand, finally, rising, gaze shallow, picking up your axe as you go. Slowly, you descend the steps of the throne, and Eret draws his sword. There's uncertainty in his eyes; he's close to where you want him.

"You're stalling."

"The more I talk, the more you try and remember what people have said about me, don't you? But they don't talk about how I fight, it's never been the most impressive thing about me," you give a low, guttural laugh, axe low in your tight grip, "I'm most dangerous when I'm unarmed and unarmoured, right? That's what they say, right? What do you think that means, really think about it?" 

Eret swallows hard.

"It means that you're all talk," he's trying to put up a confident front, but you watch him tighten his grip on his sword. You raise your axe.

"Not quite." 

There's nothing elegant about the way you attack, movement uncharacteristically blunt with speed that surprised the King before you. Teeth bared, you slash and duck and weave, playing dirty, tripping them up. You take hits and lash out, snarling and spitting with anger until there's no mirth, only malice, and you bring your boot down on their hand, knee pressed to their throat. There's fear behind their glasses. There's a cut above your brow, blood trickling down your face, slashes along your arms, certainly a few on your chest, but Eret's on her back on the cold floor of the throne room.

"You have no fucking idea of what I'm fully capable of," you snarl, leaning in close to their face, applying pressure until they drop their sword, hissing in pain, "this is your only warning; if you hurt- if you fucking touch my things again, I'll make it stick-" and leaning back, you use your axe to separate their head from their shoulders, taking their first life. 

And you're alone, breath coming out shakily, gasping as the adrenaline courses through you. Somewhere in the castle, Eret is waking up with your words echoing in their head. You should leave. Standing slowly, you cast a derisive look to the blood stain on the floor, the only proof of the altercation. Someone else's problem. 

You leave through the front doors, still carrying your bloodstained axe. Really, he should have better security. 

At the doors to the castle, you pause, casting a derisive look over your shoulder; this all could have been avoided. You pull out your communicator, flicking through your contacts.

[keep your things on a shorter leash] you send to Dream. He should have chosen more carefully, or been more insistent. But that was his problem; if he kept up like this, you may have to start questioning your friendship with him. 

But there's something cathartic that comes as the adrenaline is depleting. It's said that revenge doesn't provide the cathartic relief that one hopes for, but you weren't looking for revenge as much as you were looking to send a message. And you're fairly certain that message was thoroughly received. Eret had been afraid, deeply and truly afraid; you'd seen it in her eyes. It made up for the fear you had seen in Wilbur's. 

You breathe a deep sigh, letting your shoulders relax for a moment; you head home.

There's static in your ears as you travel back to L'manburg, and you don't quite register that you're back on your nation's soil until you hear shouts. Tommy, Tubbo; the children, they spot you covered in blood that's both yours and not, and they're full of concern. You smile. The wound on your head starts to ache a little, the adrenaline wearing off fully.

"Don't worry about me -" you try, unable to keep the fondness from your voice.

"Wilbur!" Tommy hollers, because he knows. Everyone knows. You've staked your claim enough that even your allies know where to turn when you're acting out of character. It has you laughing, quietly at first - Dream had tried to warn Eret, how stupid must they be to ignore that, to not follow his instructions to the letter? - but your laughter only gets louder as Tubbo takes off, also calling for Wilbur ad Tommy, genuinely concerned, asks what the fuck happened to you.

"I'm a jester," you laugh, eyes a little wild as you look to the child, "I'm just a fucking jester! A messenger! Can't kill the messenger," there's something wild, something feral about you, covered in blood with a grin that's all teeth, bloody and bruised and covering a bloodstained axe. Tommy takes a step back, wary and quiet. His eyes are wide as he looks to your axe. 

"I thought you used a bow," he says quietly. Your smile grows wider.

"I'm a bad shot with a bow," you tell him seriously. He blinks slowly, processes your words.

"You shot me," there's apprehension in his voice. He's getting it. Perhaps you should take more caution here; you don't want to break the illusion of you he sees.

"I didn't know you then," is what you say, and see the confusion and vague horror as he tries to figure out what you mean by that. But he's interrupted.

"What did you do?" Wilbur doesn't see the humour in your appearance, he seems like he's barely containing rage. When all you do is grin, giving a slight shrug, he turns to Tommy, tells him he'll take care of you, that the boy should join Tubbo. Tommy looks between the two of you; he tells Wilbur to be careful. You laugh again, bright and loud, and Tommy and Wilbur both frown at you, but at least Tommy follows Wilbur's directions.

With the kid gone, Wilbur turns on his heel, making a beeline for where he knows you've hidden your living area, and you follow him without question.

In your house, his voice turns softly malevolent;

"Who did this to you?" Oh. Your heart catches in your throat, and the surprise must read on your face; despite his furious expression he's gentle when he takes hold of your wrist, leading you to your basin.

"You don't need to worry about me," you tell him softly, though you obligingly sit on the edge of the basin. You lean your axe up behind you.

"You're covered in blood," he points out, gaze flicking for a moment to meet yours as the water runs, filling the basin up. 

"Only some of its mine," you try, endeared by the care he was showing, "I just had to deliver a message, that's all."

"You look like you had to go through hell for it," he muses.

"You don't need to worry about me, Wilbur," and you reach out to take his hand where he's dousing a washcloth in the water. He goes still. 

"What message?" He asks, finally conceding, tone finally soft. He flips your hand, carefully wiping the blood from it. 

"People need to be more careful who they use me against," you say idly, and Wilbur is quiet as he works diligently away, cleaning the blood from your hands, from your arms when you offer them. 

"I kept seeing the moment you saw me die," you tell him softly, voice barely more than a whisper as he's rinsing the blood from the cloth. He gives pause; you continue, "I expect betrayal, but I can't imagine how it must feel to have to watch that and be unable to do anything; I suppose that's why Dream told them to kill me first. If their timing wasn't perfect, I'd see one of you slaughtered - I could have seen you slaughtered," you muse, looking down at your hands, at the blood beneath your nails. Carefully, Wilbur finally lifts your chin so he can gently dab at the wound on your forehead, looking as though he was holding back a fond smile. "But I think what happened was worse; I never want to be the source of your unhappiness, on purpose or not," then finally, you look to his eyes, to how he's focusing, and your heart beats hard against your ribs, "I don't want you to worry about me." It's barely more than a whisper, far more honest than the candid way you'd said as much earlier. 

"What did you do?" It's fond now, much lighter than the situation at hand called for, and for a moment he meets your gaze, smiling ever so slightly, your face still in his hands.

His eyes are so dark, you never want him to stop looking at you like this; these feelings are already becoming dangerous, on the verge of swallowing you whole. You need him closer. It had been a blood sacrifice to atone for that look in his eyes.

You will never have the words to tell him all you’re willing to do for him. 

"The king is dead," you tell him, "long live the king." 

----

"Surprised you weren't optioned as their VP," Quackity's smile was all teeth as he slid into the booth, across from you. 

"Surprised you were," you fired back, glad for his company; the two of you don't talk like you once did, but you'd always held a fondness for him.

"POG2020 here to drown their sorrows at losing?" He asked, tone edging on something almost mean, but stopping just short.

"Those of them that can drink," you'd grinned, gaze turning to the bar where Wilbur was glaring into a half drunk pint, "he promised me a drink half an hour ago," but you're tone was fond. Quackity makes a noise of sudden understanding.

"That's why you weren't his VP," he says, sitting a little lower in his seat, expression smug, but eyes alight like a tiger with his interest piqued. You make a noise like you have no idea what he's talking about, "poor form, really, looks bad if he's sleeping with his VP."

"You dirty fuckin pervert," but your grin gets wider as your tone gets flustered, "we're not fucking!"

"But you want to," his grin gets wider, "late nights at the office, just the two of you, all alone, its stressful, it's a tough job you know-" his tone is low, teasing in a way that means you can't meet his eyes, but his tone shifts as he seems to hear what he's saying, "hey do you wanna come work with me?" It's mostly a joke, smile turning to something genuine with the way it crinkles by his eyes, and the tension from mere moments ago disappears, and you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand with a sly smile.

"Depends on the benefits," you match his earlier tone, teasing and low, and he mirrors your positioning, face now close to yours, close to the middle of the table.

"I'm sure I could talk Schlatt into something reasonable for the other benefits," he's still smiling, still mostly joking, as were you, though you couldn't deny the thought of being Quackity's assistant and part of the Jschlatt Administration was deeply amusing given your recent history.

"You really in the market for an assistant?" Your tone was brighter, far less joking, and for an instant, Quackity flushed an amusing shade of pink.

"I could be- this was meant to be a bit-" 

"You here to rub my nose in it, Quackity?" Wilbur's voice, when it joined the pair of you, was accusatory, and though you don't move from your surprisingly intimate moment, Quackity's eyes slide to the side, to watch Wilbur side effortlessly into the seat beside you. 

"Former President Soot," Quackity grinned, but instead of watching Wilbur's reaction, he looked back at you, raising a single, almost challenging eyebrow. Wilbur, at the very least, ignores the comment.

"You conspiring against me?" He asks, mostly directed at you, and while Quackity tries to snort and play it off, you can feel Wilbur's hand slide down the length of your back coming to rest at your hip, arm now around you, and you lean out of your moment with Quackity and into his touch.

Something in Quackity’s gaze turns cold, like he’s awash with memories long past, like he’s quietly mad at himself for losing himself in the moment with you, for forgetting any part of what you’d put him through. 

"Not in a technical sense, but I also hadn't agreed to anything," you tell him, finally looking at him. As you settle into the space beside him, his arm moves to wrap around your shoulders, fingers resting gently on your upper arm; it's a clearly possessive gesture. Something in your heart bursts with warmth.

Looking to him, you see he's looking back at you, expression burning, question in his eyes; was I interrupting? Your grin turns sharper. If he had been interrupting, you're more than capable of telling him to fuck off, but just having him around reminds you that this is better than any alternative. 

"Oh," Quackity's voice was alight with realisation, breaking the moment, and you turn to him as Wilbur leans into you a little more, "you would have made the worst VP," he practically crows, tone more mocking than it was light, "you wouldn't have made it a week."

"Don't be a prick," Wilbur scowled, "if they'd wanted the job they of course would have been more than welcome to it -"

"Good old fashioned nepotism," Quackity, sounding especially smug, did little to brighten Wilbur's mood, who was set to mumble something else snide before Quackity's eyes fixed on you, "wait, you didn't want to be VP? I was actually right, wasn't I? You knew exactly what would happen, yet somehow he doesn't?! Have you even seen yourselves? How does he not - Ow!" You kick him in the shins under the table. Hard. 

"What the fuck are you on about?" Wilbur asks, as Quackity brings his leg up to rub at his sore shin. He's still fucking grinning. Asshole.

"Keep your dirty little mouth closed, Q," you warned. 

"Don't worry, I know its not my dirty little mouth you're interested in- fucking ow, Y/N!"

"Good," Wilbur's voice in your ear is warm and pleased and he's leaning on you now, solid and tipsy with his forehead against the side of your head, "he's being a dick, you have terrible friends you know."

"You'd be the worst," you murmur back, voice syrupy and full of affection as Wilbur actually giggles, not even bothering to try and contradict you. Quackity, across from you and still rubbing his shins, mimes gagging. 

"Go be Vice President, Quackity," Wilbur sneers.

"Don't be a salty bitch, Mister Former President," Quackity's lip curls. 

"Kick him in the shins again, my love," the nickname alone, Wilbur in your ear, it has your heart in a vice-like grip, and Quackity must see it in your eyes how eager you are to follow through because he draws his knees up to his chest with gusto, flipping you both off. You laugh.

"Love you, Q," you tell him with sincerity, out of habit. When he tells you to shut up, there’s nothing joking in his tone in that moment, gaze avoiding yours as he’s shimmying from the booth.

"You're so generous with your words," Wilbur's voice is a gentle sigh, something wanting, something almost forlorn. For a moment your breath catches in your throat, but before you can respond, before you can even think of a response, he's already talking again, "what was he on about anyways? Talking shit about you like he has any right to, you would have made a great VP, I asked, you know I asked -" he sits up, as if worried that you think he thinks less of you, but his arm is still around you.

"Will your the only one who wanted me to be VP," which isn't a lie, but in your trademark fashion, it also wasn't the whole truth. 

"They don't trust you with a nation," he sounded so bitter, and for a moment your heart stutters in your chest. 

"They shouldn't," you tell him softly. 

"Do you like Quackity more than me?"

"I think I probably like him more than you like him, yes."

"That wasn't what I was asking and you knew that," then his voice drops, something in his eyes as serious as you've ever seen, "do you like Dream more than me?"

"Wilbur…"

"I know- I know you're close, I know, I just… I need to know, you know?"

"Will…" and as you say his name, voice a hesitant murmur, he cups your face.

"You don't have to- to be worried if you do, I just need to know, for me, it's selfish but I need to know for me; I'd understand, of course of course I'd understand, you two have history-" and his gaze is boring into you, eyes wide and dark and you can't find the words for how much you want him to hold you close, hold you tight and never let go. 

You hesitate. You drop his gaze.

"You do," he sounds heartbroken, his grip on you grows slack.

"I have never lied to you, Wilbur," your tone is nervous and hesitant, "but I'm afraid of answering, I'm afraid of what it means."

"You'd… you'd betray me for him?" Drunk and emotional, he sits back, but your hands are shaking. 

"Wilbur, I'm afraid of answering because… you're wrong. It's you. Over Big Q, over Dream, over everyone… Wilbur I-" your voice caught in your throat, words too honest by half, so you swallow them, choose safer ones, "will choose you," you let out a shaky sigh, "you have my loyalty." 

His eyes were wide as saucers, shiny and overwhelmed and emotional and then he's holding you so tight it's like a vice, face pressed into the crook of your neck.

"You've always had my vote," you tell him faintly, and he holds you tighter still. 

"You," he whispers incredulously, not even your name, just, "its you." And your mind hears them said like a mirror, like he himself can't quite believe your honestly. 

----

“They’re exiling you,” you hear Quackity before you see him; they’ve got you locked away, and probably for good reason, but also probably at his insistence.

“It’s better than the death penalty,” you say, huffing a laugh.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” his tone is gentle but reserved, and when you finally look up from your hands, elbows braced on your knees, you see him leaning on the bars of your cage. It’s too dark to read his expression, but you can tell from his voice, “just play nice with Schlatt and you can stay a citizen.”

“Play nice?” You asked with the faintest of smirks, “what does that entail exactly?”

This is where he grows quiet, crouching down and looking at the floor, mouth in a thin line.

“You’re good at playing nice, it shouldn’t be hard,” you can’t mistake the bitterness in his voice, and you give pause, “just say it was an act, your loyalty to that dictator, Wilbur.”

“Lie, so I can swap out one perceived dictator for another?” You asked softly.

“Helping run a campaign for the former president only to admit that you don’t actually give a shit, and stay loyal to the man who won by forming a coalition with the two losing parties, that sounds exactly like something you’d do,” he pointed out, and there’s something in his voice you can’t identify, something akin to faint desperation, though you can’t quite understand why. But still, something catches in your throat. 

“Isn’t it funnier to stay loyal to the former president who lost after the two losing parties formed a secret coalition? To the point of exile?”

“Can’t you just play nice? Can’t you just lie?”

“You wanna keep me around that bad?” You asked, faintly teasing edge to your words, but as soon as he stands, as soon as he speaks, you can hear him growing defensive.

“I’m the Vice President trying to offer an olive branch to a potentially skilled ally,” he sniped, “don’t get it twisted.”

“I’m not going to lie to try and play nice with the dictator who stole the nation from the person I’m loyal to,” you tell him, blunt. Quackity is quiet for a very long moment. 

“Dream ‘ll be heartbroken,” his voice is suddenly strangely rough, “someone’s knocked him out as top fuckin’ dog in your little, black heart -”

“Q,” it’s finally clicked, and you don’t know what else to say. 

----

“I want you to know what I’m capable of,” you say softly, looking up at the stars. Then, slowly, you look at Wilbur, who’s regarding you with interest, “everyone ends up afraid of me,” you tell him, “and it might be self sabotage, but I want you to fear me too. I’m not used to love, I’m not used to understanding.” 

“More honest than usual tonight,” he muses with a gentle smile.

“If I’m not feared I feel like I’m being underestimated.”

“It sounds like self sabotage.”

“I feel violent today,” then, looking up at the stars you take a deep breath, “I love you. I don’t think I’ve said that before; I love you, Wilbur.”

“You love me and you want me to fear you,” he says slowly. His gaze follows the tense set of your shoulders, “not used to loving someone?” You shake your head. 

“I want to cut off your head, just so you know I could,” you tell him, hands behind your back, gaze skyward, “I think I want to fuck you, but I’m not sure, I’m really not used to loving someone, not genuinely. I don’t think I know how to love you in a way that makes sense.” 

Finally, you turn to him, expression neutral, while inside you were alight with nerves. He’s watching you, dark eyes thoughtful. You swallow hard.

“I’m trying to push you away,” you tell him without hesitation, “because I’ve given you too much power over me, and I-” you voice catches, your façade cracking, and finally you drop your gaze, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m like this.”

Even your honesty was it’s own kind of dishonest mask, and there was nothing more fear inducing than genuinely letting it slip. Your image is a house of cards and you keep handing Wilbur fucking fans. 

“You know at some point I am just going to leave; I don’t want to, but if you keep pushing -” he pauses, as if expecting a rebuttal, but your mouth remains firmly closed, which causes him to frown, “- I’m going to end up leaving. Do you want me to go? I’m just going to ask, because you keep pushing, you keep doing this, I’d rather you were just honest with me.”

“I’m always honest with you.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t want you to stay around me out of some sort of moral obligation,” you tell him.

“That’s not an answer.” 

“And I can’t answer because you can’t guarantee you won’t end up fucking fearing me like everyone else! I can’t answer because I am not going to be responsible for someone else’s feelings; if you stop caring about me I don’t want you to feel like you should still be around me, and just go on to resent me!”

Squeezing your eyes closed, face scrunched up, you force the words through your lips, “I would give you the fucking world, Wilbur, but I don’t expect- I don’t want to expect anything in return,” your jaw clenches for a moment, but you relax your face, eyes still closed, “obsession,” you sigh gently, “is safer if I am sure it is not reciprocated. Especially obsession like this...”

“Like this?”

“The things I obsess over... they’re just that; things. And I want to keep them safe, but I don’t... I don’t actually love them like I love you,” your lip curls, and you look at the ground, slowly sinking into a squat as you contemplate, “it’s fucking obscene,” you spit, as if disgusted at yourself. “Love makes me feel fucking filthy; it’s always funnier when I’m the object of desire.”

“You’re still trying to push me away!”

“And yet you’re still here, so who’s the real idiot!?” You snapped, lip curled in a sneer as you shot him a venomous look; the shock of it all was plain as day on his face, but you don’t let the faint guilt you feel show on your face as you look at your hands.

“I love you,” he says faintly, still sounding surprised, like he can’t quite realise what he’s saying, “and I’m just tired to trying to fight you on that, I don’t know how to prove that what I say to you is the truth; you don’t have a patent on honesty, and I just don’t know what to do to get you to believe me.” And then, coming back to himself, anger returning, “it’s not filthy to be in love!”

“It is when it’s obsession,” your answer comes out more like a growl.

“Y/N, my drug empire turned into a nation, I think more people should be obsessed with me,” he says with surprising levity. Something protective, something jealous flares up at that suggestion, but you keep your reaction to yourself, looking up at him as something close to hope flares bright in your chest. “You act like you’re the only one here, like you’re the only one allowed to worry about me, like you’re the only one willing to- to die. You killed the King for me, you have Dream’s respect, if I was going to be afraid of you it would have settled in by now,” then, “the only reason I haven’t killed Eret for what he did to you is because you got there first yourself. Do you believe me when I tell you that I love you?”

The question hangs in the air between you both; you think you can almost see it there, catching starlight. You look at your hands instead.

“I believe there’s something wrong with the type of people who fall in love with me,” you admit, barely louder than a whisper, “and part of me believes you’re better than that.” 

“Listen to yourself,” he gives an exasperated chuckle, “there’s something wrong with you.”

“I know that,” you say almost immediately. Silence lapses out between you, and finally Wilbur sighs, stepping in close and wrapping his arms around you.

“I think it might be why I love you.” 

There’s never been a more dangerous feeling in your chest than in this moment, in his arms. You want to tell him you’d kill for him, you’d die for him, but it’s more than that, more than you could explain or do justice with words alone, so you hug him back, and never want this moment to end.

“There’s something wrong with you, too.”

----

He is silent; cold and unmoving and your hands start to shake. 

"You did what you had to," your tone is flat, no distress, nothing, just flat. Phil is quiet. Neither of you move. You can hear your heart beat in your ears. "We should move his body."

"Yeah…" and then, softer, "actually, no, it won't be around for long… but we can set up a gravestone."

"What do you mean?"

"Bodies here don't stay, they move on-" and as Phil speaks, as you step towards the body on the ground, hand outstretched, it begins to fade to ash, to dust. Only his things were left behind. Your fingers curl into a fist and you lower your hand, "are you okay?" His voice has the barest shake, like he still can't believe what just happened.

"It was never meant to be," you tell him instead of answering truthfully, forcing yourself to smile as you finally look up to the father of your best friend, your- "are you okay, Phil? I'm sorry you had to do that, I'm sorry-"

"You're okay." He sounded deeply concerned by what he'd perceived to be your response. Looking out from the room to the crater, you see Withers flying overhead, and hear shouting and confusion.

"I should go," you say softly, "I'm the only one left who could take the fall for that," you muse, jaw tightening for a moment, though noone can see your expression. When you move past Phil, you pause, and tell him quietly, reassuringly, that he did what had to be done, and that you were sorry. 

"Was he just a means to an end for you, just another joke? You'd gotten better, you'd gotten kinder-" his voice finally betrayed his distress; his son was dead by his own hand and you'd just watched, "what happened?"

It takes you a long time to formulate your response, terrified of letting yourself be vulnerable; you'd been the villain too many times to not expect an opportunist to use your vulnerability against you. Phil may not be that opportunist, but you know better than anyone what dangers may lurk behind a kind face and sincere veneer.

"Whatever I may have felt is no longer relevant, to you, me, or anyone; he's gone, as is L'manburg."

"Did you even care about him?" Phil asks gently, "don't talk your way around me, please, Y/N." Your breath catches for a moment; he's giving you an imploring look, holding your wrist carefully; outside, someone, possibly Tommy, is hollering both yours and Wilbur's names with fury. 

"Care is a very weak word for how I may have felt," you tell him softly, holding his gaze. Your tone is flat, but you see it in his eyes when he catches your meaning, how you can't bring yourself to admit out loud that you loved Wilbur, "not that it matters now… not that anyone would believe you if you told them." You said, tone dismissive. Phil lets you go.

----

"Oh hello, Quackity!" You hear Ghostbur cheerfully greeting someone as he peers out the window, leaning far enough out on the sill, pushed up on his toes, that you're half worried he'll fall. You hear violently loud shushing outside your house and your blood runs cold. Why was he trying to sneak up on your house?

You’re intrigued by it all, and don’t try and put up a fight.

"I suppose the kangaroo court is now in session," you mused, peering up at the precarious contraption above you, "can you at least tell me why you're dropping an anvil on my head?"

"Because you're a threat to society," Quackity grumbles, though he can't bring himself to look at you.

"Because you drove my father to madness, helped him blow up half the land, then you killed him once he'd outlived his purpose," Fundy was unflinching as he levelled a glare at you.

“They didn’t kill me,” it’s Ghostbur’s voice that joins the foray, amid the shouting, while you’re hopping from one foot to the other, looking up at the anvil, the gentle reverb that accompanies his soft speech cuts through the din.

And suddenly the madness stops; all eyes on the Ghost.

“Don’t kill her over me, if that’s your reasoning;” he paused, nervous, “or just don’t kill them…” he trailed off.

“Don’t you get that they’ve already made up their mind?” Quackity’s rolling his eyes, standing by the lever that decides your fate, “if they wanted someone to release them, they could have convinced one of us by now-” and he looks to you, eyes dark and cold, and the moment you’d shared back at Wilbur’s grave surfaces in your mind ‘you’re getting better at hearing the truth’.

"Quackity-" you breathed, alight with intrigue at this development, unable to help yourself. There's an old, familiar flicker of misguided desire, for lack of a better word.

"Keep my fucking name out of your mouth," he muttered, only loud enough for you to hear, "and quit it with that tone." He can't look at you; you delicately wrap press your hands to the glass of your cage.

"Q, what tone, I don't-" but even you could hear the giddy notes that bleed through in your words.

"You're about to die; I'm about to kill you, but you're hear acting- talking like you did when you pretended to care about me-"

"I have cared about you from the moment I met you," you fired back defensively, "I have always cared about you, Quackity."

“God I really fuckin’ preferred it when you lied, then I didn’t have to try and figure out what the fuck you mean when you talk like that,” he snapped, before making his way from the podium, “I’m sick of them, someone else pull the lever.” He called out; he’s taking a stand, trying to block you out, keep your words out of his head. This was the Quackity you’d been so captivated by when you’d met him, the man who intrigued you, who you thought could challenge you, whose very nature excited you. Heart beating in your ears, you press your hands to the glass of the cage, looking out past him, to the others.

“I was not responsible for what happened to Wilbur,” you called, looking to Fundy, who you’re pleased to see looked conflicted, “what happened to L’Manberg wasn’t my fault- I fought with you. I fought with you all,” there’s the faintest notes of desperation in your voice. You had already made peace with your fate, now you were simply intrigued as to whose hands your blood would be on.

“Fine, Fundy if you’re conflicted because they didn’t kill your dad, you can stay out of it,” Quackity’s got his hands shoved in his pockets, but you can see the hard, tense line of his shoulders.

“It feels like our actual execution reasons... aren’t there anymore,” Tubbo points out, “and as a leader, I feel bad killing someone for being a nuisance, and not even a nuisance to me or anyone else.”

“This feels kinda personal,” Ranboo adds, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “which is fine, but they don’t seem like a threat to the country.”

“Did you fucking forget she became Wilbur Soot’s right hand?!” Quackity demanded from them, stepping forward again, “ she may not have been responsible for pressing the button, but she had ample opportunity to stop him; hell, she had ample opportunity to not be a dick. How can we even believe what she says?!”

“People do some fucked up things for love,” Ranboo gives a simple shrug.

“And Y/N doesn’t lie,” Tubbo pointed out, looking to you. In this moment, time freezes; his words buzz in the back of your mind as you look to Quackity, trying to decipher how he’s reacting when you can’t see his face. Because he can’t give it away, can’t bring himself to admit the power you once had over him, the sliver of power you still have, can’t make himself look weak, and it’s killing him.

They’ve only known you to be honest, and for that you’re glad... but Quackity knew you before.

Perhaps your begging, your desperation, had worked too well.

----

“You gonna give the people a show?” Your heart is beating in your throat as you find yourself waiting in your cell, hands restrained behind your back as Dream himself paces in irate silence outside your cell.

“I gave you the option to come back, to join me to not go down this road,” he’s seething, hands balling into white-knuckled fists and unballing again and again, “I don’t understand you, I don’t fucking understand you, Y/N,” and he stops, pulls off his mask to run his hand through his hair in irritation. Then he looks to you, and you’re looking back, expression thoughtful, or at least, you hopes it comes across as thoughtful, rather than betraying the way you’re heart is hammering against your ribs.

“It’s not your fault it’s more amusing to be on the side of revolution,” you told him, lips quirking into the faintest smile, “they called it L’manberg,” your smile widens, unable to help your own laugh, and his distress becomes more evident. Then, smile slowly fading, you meet Dream’s gaze, giving a slight frown.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you tell him seriously, “you could have picked anyone else to do this, you didn’t have to volunteer.”

“If I had picked anyone else,” he swallows hard, looking at the ground and taking a deep breath, “you would have talked your way out, and it would have made them look weak, but there would be a target still on your head and you’d be hunted.”

“And you?”

“You’ve never done that thing you do with me, talk circles, trying to get me on your side -”

“You’re already on my side,” you say gently, but his expression turns pained.

“They know - everyone knows I’m the only person on the side of Pogtopia you haven’t attempted to talk your way around, but I’m also the only person who could convince you to go into exile, to not fucking let yourself be killed, and have the others not hunt you furiously when they find out.”

“Dream the Great and Powerful,” you smile, tone fond and frankly adoring, he winces again.

“You’re a pain,” he mutters, mostly to himself, before he lowers himself into a squat, as if to centre himself, gaze lifting to you finally, “you can go; join Tommy in exile, you don’t have to… to… you don’t have to die, dude.”

“If I die, in their eyes I’ve atoned for my crimes,” you try to sit back, settling in a little against the wall, “you and Tommy will never see eye to eye, but like you said, that thing I do, the way I talk my way around people, that has affected more than just you,” you took a deep breath, “the only person I really respected apart from you died, Dream, the only person who truly vouched for me apart from you is dead, Dream.” Your smile grows tight, and suddenly you can’t look him in the eyes; respect, it was so much more than that. Your heart grows warm at his memory, the mere thought of his smile, before growing cold and sad as he demanded that Phil kill him. It must show on your face.

“Wilbur protected you,” Dream said, tone knowing, but you couldn’t help but bark a laugh at that.

“Wilbur was my limiter,” you corrected, and Dream’s eyebrows rose, momentarily broken from his distress, “I respected him, I… anyways, so if he asked me not to fuck with one of our allies, I wouldn’t - except to give you Tommy’s discs,” you clarified, and for the barest moment, Dream’s lips twitched into something almost resembling a smile.

“You’re kind of awful,” he says gently, “you’d fuck with your allies? Just change sides, don’t mess with the people who trust you and expect them to keep trusting you as such.”

“My ally was Wilbur, the rest of them were on his side,” you explained, “I’m on my own side before anyone else's,” you reminded, and he nodded seriously, looking to the floor, bouncing on his toes.

----

"I- I mean I'm not sorry," Quackity muses. You don't look up, but you hear him sit on the other side of Wilbur's Tombstone. 

"I don't know why you would be; you're not responsible for what happened to me."

“Oh,” Quackity frowns, giving pause, “no, I meant about him,” and he slaps the side of the tombstone with one hand.

“Not your fault either,” you shrugged.

"He did it to himself," which is right, but not in the way Quackity means it. He thinks Wilbur blew up. He doesn't know what was asked of Phil. You're quiet, and finally Quackity speaks; "did you actually love him or was it another one of your stunts?"

"Love is a strong word," you respond, tone devoid of inflection. He can't hear how badly you want to confirm, you want to holler how fucking wide the sky has gotten in Wilbur's absence. 

"Can you just teach me how to not fucking care? Because how is it so easy for you? How do you wake up and decide you're going to ruin lives and stand by while the world goes up in flames?" 

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“It’s just a side effect of who you are as a person,” he says derisively. 

"You find what you love and let it kill you," you tell him, voice quiet. 

"You find who you love and let them kill you," he says, knowingly, "you followed Eret into the control room because of Wilbur," he said knowingly, "and we all saw who gave you that mark on your neck," he laughs humourlessly. "But you can't even entertain the idea that I could hurt you, can you?" He asks.

"Find who you love and let them kill you."

"What then?" 

"Hope your love for them dies too; severing attachments takes great personal sacrifice." 

"You sound like Dream."

"I've known him the longest, you know?"

"He's your best friend, I remember," he tells you derisively, "so did your love die?"

"My attachment to him is situational at best." 

“But does it die?” He asked quietly, “you severed the attachment, but does the love die?” His tone is hollow, and you swallowed hard. 

“You’re getting better at hearing the truth.” You give a humourless laugh, and he responds with a non-committal hum

“I liked you better when you lied," he says quietly.

"I almost got you killed," you tell him flatly, and he huffs a faint laugh.

"Correction, I almost died for you."

"What's the difference?"

"Intention," you can hear his faint smile, "find what you love and let it kill you, after all." Then, quieter, "you should finish the job."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Give me that kind of power over you," you tell him flatly. 

"You should finish what you started," he scoffs, the mood shifting more and more with each word, "you're the one who wanted me to die for you; if you're learning to be all honourable and noble and shit, you should learn to take accountability -" he huffed in frustration, "can I be perfectly fucking honest with you for a moment?"

"I'd appreciate it," you tell him. There's a few moments of silence that follow, and finally you shift, peering at him over your shoulder to where he's leaning against the headstone, legs kicked out in front of him. He looks at you, eyes dark and tired.

"I'm so tired of giving a shit about you."

You know there's something selfish in how you miss seeing his smile in this moment. But then again, did you miss his smile, or did you miss what it represented; his love and loyalty. 

----

"You're getting rained on," Ghostbur said quietly, looking at you with his wide, cloudy eyes as you held an umbrella open and aloft above him.

"I'll live," you said pointedly, and at Ghostbur's smile became faintly strained, but he accept the umbrella. You, however, didn't move, sitting beside him on the log that you'd found him on.

"What are you doing out here?" He asked, shuffling a little closer, if only to try and shield you too with the little umbrella. Instead of looking to him, you look at the grey, drizzling clouds looming overhead.

"I saw it was clouding over," you told him, "and no-one I spoke to had seen you for a while..." you trailed off, shrugging, as if that was enough.

"You've always been a lovely friend, I remember that, I remember..." but his own voice trails off, dies in his throat; you look at him with interest, and after a beat he looks back at you, "I remember the good times, the happy times, and you, in the beginning you were a wonderful friend, but I don't... they say I blew up a nation, you know, and I don't remember that, but I don't remember a lot leading up to that either. It -" he hesitates before backtracking, choosing his words carefully, "did something bad happen between us?"

Your understanding of the word, of the time you spent with Wilbur, it was all shattering in your mind at once. His eyes were wide and full of concern when you look back at him, and he reaches out gently, wiping away a tear you hadn't realised had fallen; you hear the hiss of the water against his thumb and move out of his touch.

"Sorry," he says softly, genuine apology in his voice, "was it because of what I did to L'Manberg?" He asks gently. Around you, the rain was getting heavier.

"I thought we were happy," it came out barely louder than a whisper, and you quickly wiped your eyes, despite the rain now coming down hard enough to hide your tears, "I should have... I know I should have said something, but I thought we both just knew, you know? I should have..." and you turn, bottom lip trembling, "I'm sorry, Ghostbur, I know you're not him, you keep saying that, but I never got to tell Alive-You that I... you know," you swallowed hard, "that I love him. You? Him? I never actually got to tell him properly, in a way that makes sense. But I did. I do. And I thought... Fuck," the word comes out in a harsh breath, and you find yourself scowling and looking away, "probably for the best that I didn't say anything if he - you, I guess - weren't - wasn't? - happy."

"I know he cared about you, as much as I can remember, he never stopped caring," Ghostbur's voice is quiet, and finally, you look at him. His face is scrunched up with concentration, but there's small trails of steam -

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you cry," you're genuinely apologetic, and he looks shocked when you look up, as if he hadn't even noticed.

"Just because I don't remember doesn't mean... well a lot of things were not good memories towards the end, but that's because of everything going on up here," he was wiping at his eyes quickly to dispel the tears before he taps his temple with two fingers, "and if what you're saying is true, he wasn't unhappy because of you, he was just unhappy, and it... there are months missing for me, and that's no-one's fault."

Oh... well you supposed you could understand that, still, it was difficult to process this whole conversation and all it's implications.

"How is this the most amusing option, if you don't mind me asking?" He suddenly speaks up, and you look up with confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"You're upset, I don't think I've ever seen you upset -"

"Well it probably wouldn't be a good memory if you had," you reminded, to which he conceded.

"But I remember clear as day when we met, and you told me and Tommy that you simply did whatever amused you the most, this... this doesn't seem particularly amusing."

"I don't operate like that anymore," you told him frankly, staring at your hands.

"Oh," he muttered softly, before asking, voice tentatively, "why did you think to come find me?"

You take a moment to deliberate, to consider your own reasoning and motivations, still looking at your hands, fingers twisting and curling and locking into inconsistent shapes.

"You used to do this near the end," you said softly, "used to run off and sit near the button and think and think and think but never do anything," you paused, "and I never cared about the land like I cared about you, so I was all for blowing it all up, but it... I could see it was doing something to you. The election, everything that was happening, it did something to you; you were spiralling, and I knew if I didn't know where you were, you were by the button. Awful and fucking beautiful, and dude, I'm- I'm so sorry I didn't tell you but, Christ, I was so in love with you, Wilb-" looking sharply at him, your voice died in your throat, and you corrected yourself, "him. Not... you're different. Right. Ghostbur." He blinked at you, a little taken aback by the sudden passion of your outburst, of your explanation. You cleared your throat. "No-one else had the balls to acknowledge that the land no longer functioned by the ideals it was built for, and I loved your passion; I could listen to you talk down there for hours. Sometimes I did. It was like a prison and a safe space all at once, and I don't know if it made things better or worse, but when he couldn't stand to see what the world had become, we'd sit in that room with the button and talk."

Finally, you looked at him, seeing him and not the man he used to be.

"And today I couldn't find you, and I knew it was going to rain, and... I know rain hurts you. There's no button, but you don't spend time in town anymore, so I looked for Friend." You looked at the little, blue sheep who'd been happily munching on some grass during your conversation. Then a faint, cold pressure in your hands, and you look down to see Ghostbur pressing a vial of a thick, blue liquid into your hands.

"Have some blue," he said softly, "it'll make you feel better." And then, much softer, he thanks you for finding him, he takes your free hand and laces your fingers with his, "thank you for talking to me."

"Thank you for talking to me." You mumble, giving his hand a squeeze, feeling a touch guilty for unloading all of this on him. No-one else would listen, or if they would, they didn't care; people had gone from not trusting you because you refused to be completely loyal to any thing but yourself, now they hated you for staying loyal to what they deemed to be the wrong thing. Allies were few and far between, and Ghostbur may see himself as separate to Wilbur, but you weren't going to stop yourself from caring about him too.

----

"You're in here," Tommy's voice is quiet where he's thumbing through a notebook you half recognise. Making a noise of interest, you look a little closer at the notebook - What I Remember. Ghostbur's notes, you feel yourself growing tongue tied.

"I don't- you shouldn't be reading that."

"You suddenly decided to grow a conscience?"

"Shut up," your lip curled, "and I'm not in it."

"Who else would be the Favourite Jester?" He asked, turning the book around, but you covered your eyes. 

"Don't be a sook," he sneered.

"Does Ghostbur know you have it?" You asked, and he grew a little antsy at that, to which you simply growled at him to give it back. But still, you catch a glimpse of it;

“Its you.” - in the notebook, in Ghostbur's neat scrawl - you chose me when no-one else did.

----

"I think Tommy trusts me," you told Dream, frowning at your brewing stand. Dream, for his part, finds the humour in your statement where he's sitting at your table, leaning back, his feet on the table.

"Tommy, I've changed!" Your tone shifts to a mocking imitation of your earlier conversation with the boy, "death has changed me!" And you dropped the act with a snort, "getting a scar doesn't make me a different person," you rolled your eyes. Dream clears his throat.

"Sorry about that, again," he muttered.

"No hard feelings, dude, obviously," you grinned over your shoulder.

"So you- you're okay with my plan; the two of you fought side by side for your nation -"

"I'll be by your side until -"

"Until something better comes along," Dream nods in resignation.

----

“I’m sorr- Ghostbur I’m so sorry,” you sniffled, angrily rubbing at your eyes, frustrated that he had even seen you get so emotional, “I’m not- you shouldn’t have seen that, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, crying’s normal,” he said, voice a gentle echo of the one you loved, “do you want to talk about it?”

“Not with you, Ghostbur,” though you’re shooting for light, it doesn’t land, and instead, he looks to the floor, apologising. You wipe the tears that refuse to stop spilling from your eyes.

“You still miss him so much it moves you to tears?”

“You caught me in a moment of weakness.”

“I didn’t think you were capable of those,” he says with a faint laugh, and you look at him, see his quietly fond smile, and for a moment you see the memory of Wilbur himself, and your expression crumples. Immediately as you bury your face in your hands, you feel him by your side, apologising, trying to lay a comforting hand on your arm. The touch is cold but familiar, and you reach out instinctively and grab his hand.

“Ghostbur, my life is a fucking joke and I’m not laughing anym-” he kisses you quick when he gets the chance, his mouth on yours so close to being familiar, but not quite. It knocks the wind from you, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, grabbing his sweater and pulling him closer. 

“Does that help?” He asks a little breathless when you part, and you can’t look him in the eyes, only at your shaking hands balled up in his perfect, yellow sweater. 

“You’re not him,” your voice is a shaky whisper.

“I...” his words get caught in his throat, “I think right now I’m close enough. Does this,” and he holds your face with one hand like it’s porcelain, like he’s afraid you’re about to shatter, “does this help?”

“Why?” You can feel how weak you are in this moment, unable to let him go, knowing the truth of the whole situation. 

“I don’t like seeing you sad.”

“It’s not your job to make me happy, give me time and I’ll be alright,” but you don’t let him go, then, “tell me you don’t love me, please.”

“It seems dangerous to even entertain the idea; I’m not Wilbur,” he says gently, and finally you look at him, meeting his gaze, leaning into his touch. 

“Do you even want any of this?” Your voice is barely a whisper, “me, or anything like this moment?” Ghostbur visibly hesitated.

“I don’t want you to be sad,” he said with a surprising firmness, “I want to do whatever makes you happy,” then, his voice goes quiet, “even now, I forget sad things, people tell me sad things and the conversation ends, and I just... lose whatever they said,” he gives a faint smile, “but even in time that aren’t... aren’t the happiest, I haven’t forgotten you; something about being around you makes me happy, happy enough to remember you. All I want is for you to be happy too.”

“Did you lie to me?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, and you can’t look him in the eyes, so you watch his lips twist into something thin and unhappy, before stumbling over his words, trying to deny, “did you lie about not remembering me? About not remembering... not remembering how close we were?”

“I thought...” his expression reads apology, his hands coming to cover yours where you can’t bring yourself to let him go, still holding him close by his sweater, “it would be easier for you to let go, to move on, if you didn’t know.” 

“But you don’t care about me like he did.”

“I care about you,” his eyes go wide and concerned, “but I’m not him. You understood him better than anyone and- and- and- he needed you- uh, your company,” he correct, faint blush rising on his cheeks at his own implicit wording, “more than anything else. You’re the one who stayed.” 

You swallowed hard, huffing a humourless laugh.

“And he’s the one who got away.”

“Y/N...”

“This feels...” you look to your hands still holding him close, then to his mouth, then his eyes, taking a shakey breath, “self destructive, for us both,” and his expression reads shock, reads apology, but in that instance you cave to your need for contact, leaning into him, to find what comfort you could in him. A shiver runs down your spine as you make a snap decision, “I know you’re not him, but I still love you,” you lie; he’s not the one you promised to always be honest with, but for now he’s as close as you’ve got, and you can’t let him go, “please don’t go.” 

----

It’s been a long time, relatively since you’d seen Q when you run into him. You’re not looking for him, you’re merely roaming on an overcast day, but he looks like he’s on a mission. He seems surprised to see you, right before his expression turns dark.

“Figures I’d run into you out here sooner or later,” his words genuinely confuse you, which he seems to pick up on, because at least for a moment, he seems confused himself, before clarifying, “Dream’s in prison.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me.” His audible irritation makes your own smile grow just a touch wider, “you know you should be there too.”

“Cruel, Q, they’ve already killed me for my crimes once,” you practically sing, amused smile stretched from ear to ear, “haven’t I suffered enough?” His smile was thin and mean.

“Not even close.”

“You make me miss being a bad person,” you say with a hint of self deprecation.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Quackity snorted, “you’re still terrible.”

“I like you standing up for yourself; self confidence is a good look on you.”

“You like anyone who actually challenges you,” he rolled his eyes, “which makes me feel fucking stupid for ever caring about you like I did. You don’t give a shit about simps, I get it now.”

“You’re better than that,” you tell him, which is a metaphorical slippery-slope, a half truth, since you only half-believe it, but your tone is low, is sincere, and he blinks quickly, surprised. 

“I- yeah, I know,” he scowls, but turns away. 

“Good, it’s good you know your worth,” you tell him seriously, “you have...” and you huff a faint laugh, tone awed and gentle, “so much potential, Q.” And for the barest moment, his expression softens. Carefully, he steps up to you.

“This is how it started last time,” his tone is low as you feel the feather-light way his fingertips ghost up your arm. He’s in your space, gaze locked with yours, searching for something in you that you can’t begin to guess at, right before he grabs your chin hard enough that it hurts, “you try and  build me up so you can tear me down - I’m not doing this again.” 

God damn it, you can feel your heart beat against your ribs at the sight of the fury in his eyes. 

“Q-” you try, soft and a little helpless. For a moment, both his grip and his gaze softens, and you know that look, that faint gentleness, from a time long passed, “I never spoke poorly of you, you just lost faith in me.” 

The look in his eyes before he storms off gives him away; he hates that in a twisted way, it’s still the truth.

----

“I’ve always appreciated your honesty,” Ghostbur muses; night is falling over the snowy biome you’d decided to call home, the house Dream had built for himself that sat abandoned since he was taken prisoner. Ghostbur is sitting on a bench, looking around, ankles crossed wearing a sunny smile.

“It’s the only thing I’m consistent about,” gave a wry smile, not looking up from where you were crouched in front of you brewing stand; everything started because of these brewing stands, just look how far you’ve come. You try not to dwell on that.

“Consistently inconsistent,” his tone was bright and fond, but then he hums, “you’re consistent in a lot of ways; you’re loyal -” he points out, but you’re so quick to respond it doesn’t even register at first. 

“Only because I love you,” then, silence, and you scrunch up your whole face with regret, “him, Wilbur,” you sigh deeply, “don’t get me wrong, Ghostbur, I care about you, probably too much by my standards, but...” and you trail off, a touch apologetic.

“Everyone keeps telling me that I did, or well, he did, all these terrible things; I just... I just want to know why.”

“Why what? Why he did what he did?”

“Why you still loved him when he did all those things,” Ghostbur clarified. You freeze.

“You want me to be honest?” Your voice is soft, and when you look over, you see he’s drawn his legs up to sit cross-legged on the counter, tearing apart a loaf of bread for something to do with his hands. 

“You’re always honest,” his tone is earnest, but he can’t look at you, before you can speak, however, he goes on, tone softer, “I remember bits and pieces, more and more as time goes on. More of you is always coming back; more of us, and I thought not remembering would be the most painful part about being around you, making you sad because I can’t remember what happened to make you feel so close to me before... before I died, but I think remembering’s worse,” he looked up, “because I’m not him. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s memories even though they’re mine, because I don’t think like he did; I don’t think I understood you the way he does. I don’t...”

“Everyone’s so quick to tell me what terrible things I’ve done - my son, Fundy, I spoke to him, he’s- he’s- he’s not happy with me, you know? Nor is Tommy, I mean most people just need me to know how awful I was, but you... you speak his name with love and honey on your lips and I don’t know how or why, you make all the terrible things sound like miracles and I don’t know why.” 

Slowly, you get to your feet, stretching a little, as your words begin to fall from you and you make your way over to Ghostbur, his pale form golden in the candlelight.

“I don’t know how to put it, but I don’t... I never feel quite real, not - for lack of a better word, given the nature of everyone here - human enough, and I look around and I see Tommy and Tubbo and George and Puffy and -” you rest your hands on his knees, gently, as you watch his hands tearing apart the loaf of bread, “and they’re all effortlessly people, they’re good, they’ve got dirt beneath their nails and a sparkle in their eyes, and I tried being good and noble and honest, and the only part I liked was being honest but being too honest somehow made me the villain; no-one understood. Dream came the closest, he felt like another amalgamation of interactions pretending to be human, but he knew his power and his place and his role, and he didn’t understand that I had no interest in playing the same part over and over again; consistently inconsistent, apart from my honesty and my loyalty. He liked my honesty and loyalty, so he did his best to accept the rest of me that came with it.”

Looking him in the eyes, finally, you could see it dawning on Ghostbur. Your fingers tapped a gentle, inconsistent rhythm on his knees. 

“But Wilbur... you - he - he... he...”

“He loved you,” Ghostbur’s voice was gentle, but after all this time, the confirmation from his returning memories, it was enough for your voice to catch in your throat. Then, he nodded again like it was a confirmation, “he loved you.”

“He loved me,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper, “not despite who I was, but because of it, loved all of me, at least, that’s what it felt like... I’d never felt that before, and I... I never wanted to let it go,” he’s putting the bread to the side, slowly sliding off of the counter and into your space, “he was staying true to himself, and they hated him for it, but I never could, and I never will.” You murmur, as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly in the dimly lit room. 

“It’s you,” you whispered against the fabric of his sweater, echoing your words from what feels like a lifetime ago, “above everyone else, I choose you. You have my loyalty.”

A moment of silence; he swallows hard, presses his face into the crook of your neck.

“It’s you,” he whispers back, just as Wilbur had those months ago; at the time you though they were an incredulous echo of your own thoughts, but now you know it’s an admission, a return of affection, a declaration; you have my loyalty, he’d been trying to tell you. 

You can’t tell Ghostbur you love him, you can’t tell him you love him, you cannot tell him you love him, no matter how much you want to. He’s not Wilbur. He’s not the Wilbur you fell in love with. 

You tell him anyways. Whisper it like it’s a secret. 

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

His answer comes whispered with a kiss at your temple, a small token of comfort.

“I know.”

----

The world had fallen still in a way you had only felt before natural disasters. There was quiet. There was peace. Something was wrong. Your conversation with Dream played on repeat in your mind, over and over and over.

"You will owe me a life." You can't forget the gravitas with which he'd said it, eyes dark and eerie as he sat cross-legged on the floor of his prison; you will owe me a life.

The phrasing had caught you off guard, because what in the hell did that even mean? It could mean anything, hell he could claim your first child if he wanted to, but you'd been desperate enough to not question, to just accept.

"You really do love him, don't you?" He'd said softly as you'd sat opposite him, when he'd jokingly asked if you'd take his place in the prison in exchange for Wilbur back.

"Of course," had been your serious answer to both questions. Dream had laughed, equal parts fond and weary, his gaze drifting up to the impossibly high ceiling.

"Its a nice thought, though I doubt Sam would simply let you switch with me," he mused, adding, "you know Ghostbur won't be around anymore."

"But Wilbur will be alive," you insisted, and finally he looks at you.

"You trust me," its not a question.

"I've always trusted you," its not a lie. Dream blinks at you, surprised by your honesty. He should be, somehow everyone overlooks your defining trait being brutal honestly. Moments like this remind you why you need Wilbur back so desperately; he understood you in a way no-one else did, not even Dream.

"I killed you," he says, almost to himself, like he's just remembered that fact.

"I know," you nodded, "and I trusted you then, and I trust you now. Everything happens-"

"Don't say for a reason," Dream gritted his teeth with irritation at the phrase, but you gave a faint smile.

"No, I was just going to say that everything happens. We live, we die," you shrugged.

"Then why are you asking me to bring him back?"

"I didn't realise your book of necromancy was purely for decoration," there's a slight edge to your words, lip curling in knee-jerk defensiveness. Dream looked back at you suddenly, eyebrows rising at your tone.

"Is that why you trust me?" There's something betrayed in his voice, and he sits back, away from you, something dangerous in his eyes.

"That's..." you tried to find a way to talk your way out of the situation, but your inability to lie was more of a hindrance now than anything else, "so reductive," you settle on. But you're fidgeting.

"Then complicate it for me," he's practically ordering, and if he weren't the only way to bring back Wilbur, you wouldn't be complying so easily. Then, like a bolt of lighting it hits you; you look up, gaze unwaivering as you meet his.

"Kill me."

"What?"

"Kill me. Don't bring me back," you yourself are almost ordering, tone leaving little room for argument.

"What the fuck; why?" He hissed in confusion, and you knew, in that instance, that your point would be clear.

"Why not?" Something amused and sinister curled at the edge of your lips as you regained the upper hand in the conversation, "if you'd prefer, I could kill myself; walk straight into the lava until my lives run out," and with that, you carefully get to your feet as he frowns at you. Sauntering over to the flowing, molten walls, you stick your hands in your pockets, looking pensively at the liquid rock.

"Wouldn't it kill two birds with one stone? If I'm dead, maybe I'll find my way back to Will, and you won't have to revive him. That's what the kids call a win-win, right? I won't ask you for anything, but, you know, I won't owe you anything either."

When you look to him, you get to watch in real time as it dawns on him. The way his face contorts with bitter anger makes your own, imposing, gloating stance soften, even as he looks away, refusing to look at you.

"I don't..." you sighed deeply, "I don't trust you because I know you can revive me, I trust you because you're a pragmatist, Dream, and as long as I'm useful to you, well..." you trail off, coming back to him.

"I don't understand you," he said, finally, voice terse, "you've fucking commodified your existence and sold your allegiance to the highest bidder; how do you stand it? I get it, you think I'm controlling, fucking news flash, so was Wilbur, so was fucking Techno, so is everyone. We're a bunch of cruel, self-canalising, power-hungry assholes masquerading as heroes and villains trying to make ourselves feel better for the atrocities we commit."

"And what currency am I selling myself for?" You snort, despite his serious tone; when he looks at you, as if he can't believe you're laughing at his rant, you tip your head and regard him thoughtfully, "while I appreciate that that seemed to have been weighing on you for a while, I'd advise you to not project your shit onto me; have I ever cared about having power for myself?"

That's actually a good point, he seems to realise, and finally, his expression softens, and he gets to his feet.

"Do you care about anyone other than yourself?" Surprisingly, it's not judgemental, it's intrigued, like he has a sudden understand of you that makes everything else make sense. Your smile is so soft and unguarded as you gently cup his cheek with one hand, fondly rubbing your thumb across his cheek.

"You know, you might be my best friend," you told him instead of answering, "and I trust you." He takes a deep breath, expression going serious as you can almost see the cogs turning in his mind.

"Despite... fucking everything, and who you are as a person," he said with the faintest smile, "I actually trust you too," but he hesitates, the slightest crease forming above his brow, "but I don't think I can still say that if Wilbur comes back -"

"Dude -" you're surprised by Dream's honesty in turn, but you do respect it as he clarifies himself.

"He's the one you care about, the only one besides yourself, I know, I've seen it," he gives a faint smirk, "we're still friends, of course, there's no doubt about that, but if I asked you to kill someone that Wilbur would rather have alive, or if I asked you to, say, join me on an adventure with a low survival rate, if Wilbur asked, you'd choose him, wouldn't you? You'd do whatever it takes to make him happy."

"Dream... I -"

"Your loyalty is absolute, but selective; you put yourself first, then Wilbur, and maybe I'm overestimating my place in your life, but I think I may be below him, but above most others..."

"What are you saying? What do you want?" You asked carefully.

"I'll bring back Wilbur, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but I'll bring him back, but you'll owe me a life," and you can't even begin to properly process what he's saying, "not his," Dream clarifies, "I wouldn't do that to you, but in one way or another, you will owe me a life, and when I ask for it, however that may be, you need to uphold your end of the bargain, or I'll send him right back to where he is now."

I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. I'll bring Wilbur back. That's the four words he'd said that you're fixating on, that're playing through your mind on repeat, and you practically crush Dream in a hug as you agree, breathlessly thanking him. He hugs you back, and you can feel his smile against your shoulder, laughing somewhat fondly at the notes of relief in your voice as you mutter that he's your favourite.

"For now," he snorts when you step back, and you give a sheepish smile, ducking your gaze.

"For now," you agree.

----

"Who let you- does Sam know you're in here?" Quackity's voice is dangerously quiet, a strange smile on his face, like having you here is a boon rather than a terrible mistake.

"Q, what the fuck?" You rubbed at your eyes, forcing the sleep from them. Dream is already scrambling as far as he can from the newcomer, anger and fear in his eyes. He tells Quackity to fuck off.

"What are you doing here? You planning an escape for my favourite little war criminal?" He paused, "have you moved on now that your favourite little war criminal is dead?" Everything about him seems sharp, seems cruel and threatening; something about it is thrilling, like a challenge, and you find yourself standing to your full height, refusing to drop his gaze.

“Big Q,” you take some small pride in the fact that your voice doesn’t shake, “you’re looking markedly more malicious today.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve been coming here for a while, looking for one simple thing, and your buddy there really hasn’t exactly been helpful,” there’s a faintly manic gleam in his eye, but your blood is hissing and spitting in your veins, conflicted and delighted in equal measure -

“He was your friend you fucking asshole!” The words burst from you, disgusted as you wear a manic grin. 

“I was your friend, you fucking piece of shit!” He hollers back, “I was more than your fr-” but his mouth snaps shut, expression one of seething rage, “don’t fucking talk like you still trust him, like you care about him;” the curl of Quackity’s lip is cruel, the look in his eyes cold as he shifts his grip on his sword; a humourless laugh escapes him, “except, of course it’s you who still cares; first Dream, then Wilbur, the only people you actually care about are just like you,” and there’s so much derision in his voice that it almost stings, almost, if he wasn’t right. How can he not see the way his cruel tone delight you? How can he not see the irony in his words in this very moment; “now fuck off, you’re in my way.” He sneers.

“I’m not letting you hurt him,” you refused to move, and his eyes widened, disbelieving laugh escaping him.

“Look at that! Did the wizard finally give you a fucking heart?” 

“Look at that!” You mirror his tone, though your own is acidic, pushing, you’re pushing him now, the way you know best, “did you finally get over your pathetic feelings? You finally getting smart enough to see me as a real threat?” And you’re in his space, in his face, refusing to back down, waiting for the moment he snaps.

“I never cared about you, I cared about the fact that you paid me attention; note the difference,” he snarled; it’s a lie, you know it’s a lie, can remember the way he’d looked at you, how he’d almost died for you, and it’s fucking intoxicating.

“You’re so good at hearing the truth, but you’re fucking shit at obfuscating it,” you tell him with a cool confidence, “I hung the stars in your sky, Quackity,” his jaw clenched tightly at your change in tone, the look in your eye, “but tell me again about how it was all an act for you, say it in a way I’ll believe this time.” It’s designed to cut him, and you can see it in his eyes when it does. Fight back, damn it! 

“Maybe I’ll give Dream the day off, kill you instead,” he tries, but you can tell his heart’s not in it. 

“This isn’t fun for him like it is for you,” Dream pipes up, and Quackity shoots him a surprisingly confused look, while your look over your shoulder, faint disappointment in your eyes. Dream, however, exhausted and paranoid with Quackity in his cell, still has enough wherewithal to understand you better than almost anyone else.  

“I wish you would,” you don’t look away from Quackity. Your voice is cold in the wake of Dream’s revelation, and when he looks back at you, Quackity looks... uncertain. A dangerous state to be in considering his opposition.

“You’re down to your last life, don’t fucking test me,” Quackity warned, but his heart’s not in it like before. As you approach him, he raises his weapon, but your confidence strides never falter, “Sam wouldn’t give a shit if I killed you, no-one would.” 

“You would,” you tell him snidely, finding yourself growing sick of the sound of his half-baked cruelty. 

“Are you just here to let what you love kill you?��� He gives a mean, humourless smile. 

“Bold to assume I love you, Q.”

“Well, seeing as the only bastard you ever knew how to love was so eager to off himself, I figured I might be all you have left to get back to him,” there’s faint triumph in his eyes when he can see his malicious words touched a nerve, but he wasn’t playing your game right, and you were tired of not having fun.

“It’s not my fucking fault you look for a home in everyone who’s halfway nice to you,” something in you snaps, and your tone is cold and unwaivering, “don’t blame me for your fragile sense of self; you were so ready to believe anything I told you, but when I did what people fucking do - when I let you down - you had to go and let it shatter you,” you sneered.

“You being a shitty person is my fault?” He scoffed, and you stepped up to him, emboldened. You barely even feel his sword at your throat.

“Before breaking your cheap, little heart, I hadn’t been honest a day in my life; everyone had told you as much, you chose to ignore them; did you think you could fix me?” You gave a harsh laugh, stepping forward, crowding him into taking a step back, expression irate, trying to keep up his strong front, “Actually, I guess, wow, you did; since you, I haven’t told a lie,” and you gave him a derisive look, “because fucking you up wasn’t a challenge, making you fall in love with me wasn’t a challenge, getting you to the point where you’d die for me? Not a fucking challenge, Quackity. You offered me your life and it fucking bored me.

Talking to me makes you want to be a worse person? Good luck with that; you will always be better than you fear, better than you fucking hope or wish you were, because you couldn’t fucking stomach killing me once, you couldn’t fucking stomach being a truly terrible person.

You want my blood on your hands? Your hands were mine, and I couldn’t have given less of a shit, so no, if I have any say, you’re not gonna hurt Dream, because you’re hurting him to get the thing that’s going to bring back the person I actually fucking fell in love with. I can’t believe I ever wasted my time on you when he was out there.

I’m tired of trying to be amicable with you when you’re still - fucking still - picking up the pieces and trying to figure out who the fuck you are; God, I fucking hope you kill me, I hope it brings you peace, I hope it brings you clarity, but you better make sure it counts, you better make sure it fucking sticks!” 

----

"You do things that hurt you because you don't know what else to do, even if you don't enjoy them," Ranboo's voice is flat, and your expression twists to something derisive, though you attempt to regain your composure.

"Incredibly presumptuous of you," you respond, still alive, if burned.

----

"How many more?" Ghostbur's touch was light on your forearm, tracing the shiny, healed scar of where you'd thrown your hands up to protect your face as Quackity had shoved you into the lava waterfall that surrounded Dream's cell. It hadn’t killed you; he hadn’t been able to go through with it, and the lava curtain parted as the bridge approached the cell at Sam’s command. But it had still left it’s mark.

"What?" You surfaced from your thoughts as his cool hand stilled against the memory of the burn.

"How many more until you see him again?" He asks, and he doesn't look sad often, but he can't look you in the eyes. Then, gently, his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb brushing against the scar that stands out on your neck, a perfect circle, a perfect reminder of what you’d lost the second time you’d died.  

And you meet his gaze, can see the nerves hidden just behind his eyes - is this why you do this? Am I… not enough? What a dangerous thought, dangerous territories; how cruel you were to let him fall for you, even a little, even when both of you knew it was a terrible idea. 

Dream's voice was in your head - Ghostbur won't be around anymore - and you'd answered without flinching - but Wilbur will be alive. 

"One," your voice came out hoarse, "one life and I'll see him again." You can't look him in the eyes, even as he holds your face; he has no idea what to say to that. It's the truth, but not the one he realises. 

"You don't love me, right?" You asked, clearing your throat, moving carefully out of his reach.

"You shouldn't kill yourself for him," Ghostbur tells you with uncompromising sincerity instead of answering, "you're worth more than that."

"I need you to tell me that you don't have feelings for me, Ghostbur -"

"Seems like a very worrying thing to be asking given the circumstances," again he tries to deflect, but there's something close to guilt eating you up inside, and you stand, moving out of his space, Dream's voice in your head.

"Do you love me or not, Ghost of Wilbur Soot?" You demanded, and his expression turned hard, so unlike his usual self.

"I'm not him," he said carefully, but his gaze dropped; he couldn't look you in the eyes, "and I don't think it should matter either way, because you've made it abundantly clear that he's the one you want; I'm not going to say I don't and let you kill yourself."

"I promise I'm not going to fucking kill myself!"

Ghostbur went very quiet. 

“Any answer is dangerous, really, so it doesn’t matter either way,” he’s pulling his sleeves down to cover his hands, to fiddle with, trying to distract himself, “I love Friend,” his tone was aiming for something light-hearted, an attempt to change the topic, and it did it’s job well enough; your lips twisted into a grin.

“First a Salmon, then a Sheep, your tastes are -” but he looks at you, giving a strangely amused little smile.

“Questionable?” He finishes your sentence, and you find yourself less amused with the situation; he brings up a good point, including you all the same, though you’d been meaning to say bestial, but fuck, what does that make you? For a moment, you find yourself in crisis, wondering if you were technically in a polyamorous relationship with a ghost and an actual sheep. But you push it to the side -

“It’s selfish,” you hear his voice in your head, see him looking at you with wide, shiny eyes in the dim light of a pub, but you can’t help but repeat the words that had been said to you, “but I need to know for me -”

Ghostbur could say anything, and you see the realisation dawning on his face; he knows what you’re asking. He could be silent, he could brush you off, he could say anything else -

“It’s you,” just the way you’d said it to Wilbur, confirming what you feared; Ghostbur drops his gaze when he says those words to you, when he means to say I love you, how can you not see that?

Those two words hang in the air between you, like they always have. You should leave. You should go before you develop a conscience. But you can’t... there’s something familiar, something intoxicating about this moment, his loyalty; you’ve seen this before, you’ve craved this before. 

You step up to him, and as if on instinct, he rests his hands on your hips, leaning into your touch when you hold his cheek gently. 

“I love you,” your murmur, and his eyes fall closed, breathing deeply, “I love you.” It’s easy, it’s too easy, to fall back into this, to let him rest his forehead against yours, your arms around his neck, knowing in your heart that his loyalty, his love, was a means to an end; “I love you.”

He trusts your words, even now. 

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, pulling you close now, moving to press his lips to the crook of your neck. So you stay. Your time with him is limited, though only you know that, so you will enjoy it while you can.

----

"This was your plan," Tommy muttered, horrified, as the realisation dawned on him, "you're the one who pointed out that killing Dream in the prison didn't break any of the prison's rules," he whispered, before turning on you, eyes wide, Friend's leash still looped around his wrist, "you're the one who suggested using Ghostbur as a decoy, because no-one would suspect him."

"You set him up," Ranboo was horrified. One by one they were turning on you.

"You knew Ghostbur didn't- he didn't want to be revived!" Tubbo exclaimed, hurt and betrayed, "I thought - Y/N I thought you loved him, how could you -?!"

"Wilbur and Ghostbur are not the same person! How do you all keep forgetting that?!" You snarled in response, expression contorting to one of rage; that was enough to shock them into silence, taking a step back as they regarded you with a new kind of fear.

"We were happier with Wilbur gone, we liked Ghostbur and he liked us!" Tommy exclaimed, before his voice dropped to something soft and betrayed, hurt in his eyes, "Ghostbur didn't fucking deserve that; you're a terrible person," and your expression dropped to a smirk that didn't reach your eyes.

"I'm sorry about Ghostbur, I am, but the ends justifies the means; do you remember what I told you when L'Manburg was first forming? I told you I'm not on Dream's side, but I'm also not on yours," and you paused for a moment, before looking to the heavy remains of the button room, through which you knew Wilbur himself would finally be returning any moments now, "I'm on Wilbur's."

----

Then you see him, and oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck this is real and you owe Dream a life and Wilbur is alive. You're frozen in place. He's talking to Tommy, who sounds frankly horrified that Wilbur is back, but you're frozen. Heart beating in your throat, the sunrise that’s coming brings with it a warmth, though to you it feels closer to vindication. 

And there’s yelling and horror from the others who’ve accompanied you, but you can’t hear them, approaching slowly, with measured, even steps.

Then, his eyes meet yours and something in his expression softens. When he smiles at you, every terrible thing you did was worth it for this moment. Having the others there is too much. You don't want an audience, you don't want anyone there to judge you and your choices, the things you've done to get to this moment.

"This," Tommy turns on you, "this is what you bloody well wanted; now you're acting all shy? " His lip curled, and your expression turned flat and unamused.

“Don’t mistake respect for shyness,” you tell him bluntly, with a cool confidence that was unrecognisable to the blonde, who hadn’t known you well enough before he’d begun starting conflict to know the depths to which you could sink. But he was beginning to learn. 

“She’s part of the reason I’m here at all,” Wilbur reprehends him, while Tommy physically recoils at his tone, "Dream himself said as much." And then he's offering you his hand; nothing else matters.

"I can't be here," there's disgust in Tommy's voice, but its enough that the others leave, giving you and Wilbur peace. Finally.

"You're a sight for sore eyes," you tell him, taking his hand with a sharp smile, which he mirrors.

"Thirteen years I was stuck in that train station, and you're just as stunning as when I last saw you," he muses, and you reaches out to run your fingers gently through the unfamiliar white strands of his hair. His eyes study your face, your expression, drinking you in; you'd missed how dark his eyes could be, and when you look back at him, meet his gaze, you see a hunger there.

"Don't leave me," escapes you, but it comes out as a demand, insistent, “don’t ever fucking leave me again,” and you see him swallow hard, then slowly, he smiles.

"Never again," and he's kissing you desperately, mouth on yours with an intensity you relish. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you - you can taste it on his tongue, sticky sweet and somehow sharp and you dig your nails into him, maybe trying to keep him here, keep you both in this moment. When the kiss breaks and you're breathing hard, you don't let him go, though he doesn't either.

"You lied for me," he muttered, something akin to delight on his face, which shocked you enough that you stepped back, or at least tried to, though he held you tight, "no, not-" he tried to clarify, "I won't leave, I don't plan on it, but- I love you." Your heart is beating in your throat, still not quite sure what he means, "I've loved you for a long time," he added, and reaching out, he cupped your face in his hand, "I remember this," he murmured, "Ghostbur - you're scared I didn't love you because he couldn't remember, but I loved you so much, for so long, I just knew... knew what I was going to do. I knew I was going to leave you, I loved you but I was so doomed, so he couldn't remember."

When had your vision gone cloudy, when had tears started to sting your eyes.

"Don't cry, my love," Wilbur murmured, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours as your breath stuttered from your chest as he soothed the biggest fear that had been plaguing you for months.

"Were you worried that I didn't love you because of him?" He asked, like he enjoyed hearing you bare your soul. Of course he did. You remember kissing Ghostbur, his cold lips and soft apologies when you'd pulled away, and you wonder if Wilbur had those memories too.

"He's not you, no point trying to fret about your feelings based on his actions," you huff a watery laugh, finally letting go of him with one hand to wipe at your tears, “he didn’t understand me like you did, but he...” you swallowed hard, “I’m glad to have had him around in the interim.” Wilbur’s lips twist into an amused smile, and his gaze clouds over for the barest moment; you wonder if he can see your resolve cracking in Ghostbur’s memories, taking comfort in his when he’s the closest thing to Wilbur himself that you can find, the lies you’d told to keep him by your side in your moments of selfish desperation.

“I think he loved you, in his own way,” Wilbur said gently. However, as you made a vaguely guilty noise in the back of your throat, he continues thoughtfully, "though, you know, when Dream came to pick me up on that train, when Ghostbur took my place, Dream made sure we both knew, you know; she's the reason you're here, Ghostbur, he'd said, and said that makes you part of the reason that I'm coming back at all," he muses, strange quality to his voice that you couldn't quite place, though when your eyes were dry, you looked at him definitely, challengingly.

"He's not you," you reiterated, firmer this time, "I cared for him for what he was, but he's not the one I want; I love you." You said without hesitation, before you realise what you've said, and you go still, before taking his face in your hands, making sure he's looking you in the eyes, "I think I’ve loved you from the moment I met you, Wilbur; I love you, I fucking love you -" and he's endeared by your declaration as you wrap your arms around him and bury your face against the crook of his neck, whispering the words like you're hoping they'll find a place on his skin forever.

"I didn't tell you before and I'm never making that mistake again,” you admitted faintly; “it’s you.”

“Above all others, I choose you,” his smile is warm, and something bright lights up in your chest. Grinning, elated in this moment that you’d worked so hard to finally get to.

“You have my loyalty, my love.”

[is-the-battlemech-cool-or-not]

If you don't mind, answer a few more for a curious Clanner? 🟠💰⛓️📚

Thanks kindly. - @mechwarrior-rose

🟠= Restoring the Star League. It was by no means the perfect society, but it did lead to centuries of effective peace and cooperation among humankind. It was the ultimate goal of the Great Father, and one we now can bring to reality - and I have been honored to begin the military side of the process. I am the new commanding officer of a revived Royal Black Watch, will be running the new Gunslinger program and the first new Martial Olympiad, and apparently am on track to become the first Commanding General of the SLDF since Hohiro Kurita in the 3060s. To eventually take on the same position as the Great Father held... is an honor I can barely believe may be in my future. 💰= By far, the worst purchase I have made was the giant inflatable bouncy castle version of a Dire Wolf I purchased for Damien Caruso's fifth birthday. He was the son of the leader of Fursona's Fusiliers, Savannah Caruso. I had thought the purchase would enliven the party. It did. To the tune of at least ten injuries when we adult mercenaries decided to partake as well. And it turns out talons do not mix well with what is essentially a thin, continuously pumped balloon. Making, and subsequently having to see, Damien cry... was perhaps the worst crime I have ever committed. He didn't speak to his "Aunt Mysty" for two weeks afterwards. I felt horrible. ⛓️= I have taken several. The best, the one I miss the most, was Victoria. Victoria Jade Falcon, formerly Victoria Espinosa of the Aurigan Directorate.

I met Victoria in the course of the Aurigan Civil War; her actions in that war would later see her to be known as the Butcher of Perdition. We defeated her several times in that campaign. The first few times she was in her Catapult-K2, until Savannah took it out with a point blank Thumper shot from her Bull Shark.

Victoria survived that Thumper shot, incredibly. She faced us one more on Coromodir, at the hands of a modified King Crab. We took her prisoner, after she came to her senses - once her 'Mech was disabled, and the rest of her lance were dead.

As I fired the shot which disabled her 'Mech, I was allowed to claim her as a bondswoman, though I had to wait until 3050, once her prison sentence in the Taurian Concordat was carried out.

She served well as a bondswoman, and I freed her in relatively short order, during the latter stages of the Invasion. She soon after passed her Trial of Position and became abthaka, joining a second-line unit.

I have been told that she died defending the civilians of São Paulo, during the final battles of the Jihad on Terra. Apparently her last words were expressing a hope she had redeemed herself for what she had done on Perdition, all those decades before, and taking a Manei Domini Heavy Level III with her in the process.

Considering she ended up saving nearly 30,000 people with her sacrifice, I would say she redeemed herself... The Butcher of Perdition died that day, and the Savior of São Paulo was born...

I do miss her. 📚= I am a direct descendant of Elizabeth Hazen (not in the usual sense of her passing on genes used by the next in line, but directly via the original genetic samples she provided) - and also of Turkina herself. I pride myself on that heritage, and try to live up to it. Having the sword that one of my genemothers gave to the other helps me remember. Furthermore, I am a fan of the Great Father (moreso than of his son, the Founder), and of his SLDF our Clans descend from. I try to uphold the Great Father's ideals every day of my life. Lastly, I have always identified with the Royal Black Watch, of which Elizabeth Hazen was a part. I was enamored with the tales of their last stand at Gorst Flats, their campaigns against Amaris, and how, even after being hit with thermonuclear ordnance, the Black Watch survived, and did not give up.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

by David Hume Kennerly

* * *

PLEASE DON’T THANK ME FOR MY SERVICE THIS VETERAN’S DAY

NOV 11, 2023

Please don't thank me for my "service." I was in the military, not the "Service." Service is doing something good. Service is what the person does who fixes your car. When the word "service" is applied to the military, it helps to justify violence as a method for conflict resolution. Like "defending our freedom," or "bringing democracy," the word "service" is used to lower the barriers of aggression. The military solution to conflict is death and destruction. That's not "service." Call it what it is - the military. If you have to hurt someone to solve a problem, you are the Problem. -- Arnold Stieber, US Army Veteran, 1970

I have absolutely no problem understanding exactly what Mr. Stieber wrote above, “back in the day,” with the white-hot heat of youth and the thorough pissed-offness of someone who had seen the side of life nobody ever wants to see. It’s the attitude I came home with from that same war, five years before he did.

I’ve never really gotten used to the new tradition of the past 30 years, for civilians - on discovering they are in the presence of someone who served in the military, - to say “Thank you for your service.” I have very mixed emotions about that. On the one hand, it’s nice that maybe a fourth of them have a clue why they’re saying what they are, that it isn’t merely the mouthing of polite words. On the other hand, I’m not sure why anyone would want to thank someone who served in the war I served in, or the ones that followed.

The war in Vietnam made everything in America worse. For just one thing, it harmed the economy when the government adopted a policy of both “guns” and “butter,” which led to the severe inflation of the 1970s, which gave companies looking for any way to reduce costs to start taking a hard line on employee compensation, which leaves us in the condition where the average American working stiff now makes less in terms of buying power than they did 50 years ago, I don’t know about you, but I’m not up to thanking anyone for that.

Of course, thinking further on this leads one to the obvious conclusion that it wasn’t the kids who got drafted who did any of that. They weren’t sitting in the halls of government thinking about how to distract the citizenry from the fact that this particular imperial war was going bad in all ways, and coming up with the idea of keeping taxes down in a period of increased government spending for things that go “BOOM!” while making sure they could get that new car every three years like they always did. Those decisions are the ones that led to the situation I mentioned above. Made by guys who mostly never got shot at, even in the war they did serve in.

In my experience during my time in the Navy and the years after knowing other vets and working with them, there were very few of us who “wanted” to go to war. Most of my fellow sailors were in the Navy because they figured joining the Navy and getting trained for a good job and “seeing the world” beat the daylights out of being in the Army, so much so it was worth a couple extra years over the two years a draftee served. Ditto the Air Force. Even the Marines were forced to start taking draftees after 1966, when they ran low on guys who believed what John Wayne told them in “Sands of Iwo Jima.”

As close as anyone got to “wanting” to go was when those of us who had joined before the war received the first orders sending us to the war. As my friend Phil Caputo wrote in “A Rumor of War” (a “Vietnam book” you should read), when he learned he and his fellow Marines were headed to DaNang in South Vietnam in 1965, “I thought to myself that when it was over and I went home, I’d be able to look my Tarawa-veteran father in the eye.” I know many others - including me, son of the guy who survived the Kamikazes - the sons of the “greatest generation” who had grown up with all the stories about our father’s “good war,” who “played war” with the cast-off gear from that war, who had similar thoughts.

Vietnam was the last war fought with draftees, and you can bet your bottom dollar today’s leaders will never go back to that system. The draft made everyone think about the war, whether they had to worry about getting drafted out of whatever working class job they had (or didn’t have); even the kids with student deferments had to think about the war when they didn’t work hard enough to keep their grades up and maintain their 2-S status. Mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles and brothers and sisters and friends all had to worry about someone they knew and loved going off to that war. Whether they “supported the president” or came to understand that the war wasn’t worth the loss of that life they knew and loved, they came in the middle of the night to hate the war. And eventually that made itself known in politics. The makers of war became constrained in the war they could make by the lack of support from those who gave them their jobs with their votes.

I’ll tell you something. After I came back, I did all I could to end that draft. But I would be very happy to see it brought back today.

No deferments. The sons and daughters of the rich serve right alongside the sons and daughters of the poor - like they did in World War II. It’ll make the entitled little shits into something better. And it really does unify - it’s hard to hate people you know by name.

But mostly I’m in favor of that because it makes it almost impossible for “They” to decide to fight a 20 year war in Afghanistan, or Iraq. They can’t do it because too many people will be paying attention. And getting pissed off at them. And voting.

But no, for exactly the reasons I am for the draft, the “all-volunteer” army is here to stay. You can’t fight 20-year wars in hellholes nobody knows without it. That way, only about 1-2 percent of the population ever has to think about the war - the kids who join up because they don’t have a future that looks better than what the military offers, their families, their friends - not a big enough group that if they got upset they could muster any political changes, unlike all those folks 50 years ago.

Most of all, if you’re going to thank me or any of us for our service, don’t try to honor us as “heroes.” For one thing, most of us aren’t, and for another, if you haven’t been in the military you really have no idea what being a hero in that context actually is.

It’s not what you think it is.

An old Navy Chief once explained “being a hero” to me: “When you’re so terrified that your brain is so frozen you can’t think, and you’ve pissed your pants and shit your drawers, and you just know you’re going to die, and you still do your job - THAT is being a hero.”

Not the definition too many in our society nowadays want to hear.

“But, Tom,” you say, “don’t you write all these best-selling books about wars and heroes? You must really love war to think about it so much.”

If you have gotten anything even remotely like that from reading any of my books, you really need to reconsider that decision not to take that remedial course in reading comprehension.

Yes, I do honor those out there in the mud and the blood and the ooze. And I appreciate knowing the ones who were out there in the mud and the blood and the ooze and survived to come back to the world of the living. That’s because their willingness to do that has a lot to do with why there is that world of the living to come back to.

Or at least that’s true in the World War II books. That’s the last war that could be divided into the Good Guys and the Bad Guys.

Except it kind of can’t. I’ve known too many guys who served on “the other side” who are just as nice - if not nicer - than anyone I have met from “the good side.”

In fact some of them must be better than anyone who served on this side. That’s a small list. But every guy who served in Vietnam and then had the opportunity to later meet the people they were trying to kill at the time, has met people who have been willing to forgive them for My Lai and Agent Orange and Rolling Thunder and all the rest of it, and offer friendship. And the ones on that side who I have been privileged to meet are definitely honorable men.

A late friend of mine who was a leading ace in “the good war” once told me when we were at a convention of those guys and the honored guests at the event were the guys who they’d been out to kill: “The secret nobody knows is, we always thought the guys we were fighting were the only ones who knew what we were going through. We actually thought we were closer to them than to the other people who were on our side.” I’ve heard similar sentiments from former infantrymen as well as former fliers, so it’s not some “guild of the elite” or “honorable brotherhood.”

Although it probably is an “honorable brotherhood.” The brotherhood of people who were willing to do what it took to defend what they loved - and believe it or not that even applies to the Germans; most of them knew as much about the “larger issues” going on, the terrible things, as any young guy in the US military did in the war I fought. And when they did find out, they were shocked too. The people who did the terrible things tried to keep them secret from everyone else, because they knew they were doing terrible things.

My friend Jim Wright, who’s become well-known in social media in recent years for some straight-shooting talk from a retired Chief Warrant Officer, wrote:

“Mostly we veterans are just people who came when called and did our best under terrible circumstances.”

I’ll end with a quote from a guy who did know what it took to do all that stuff:

“Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed. This world in arms is not spending money alone. It is spending the sweat of its laborers, the genius of its scientists, the hopes of its children. This is not a way of life at all in any true sense. Under the clouds of war, it is humanity hanging on a cross of iron.”

― Dwight D. Eisenhower, Soldier, General, President

[TCinLa :: Thats Another Fine Mess]

[cicidarkarts]

Joonam - Chapter 1: Stock Duty

Chapter List | Chapter 2 >

He had the cleanest hands of all the employees. Mostly because he obsessed over washing them with a gusto that would leave even the most ardent germophobes wincing. Idrees got a reminder of this whenever his boss sent him to restock shelves, where he had at least an hour to stare at his dried skin and gleaming fingernails. He kept them short so he wouldn't have to think about how they looked with dirt and blood caked under them. He refused offers of lotion from some of the women he worked with because, though it would alleviate the dryness, the sliminess of war-tainted mud made his skin crawl.

He lived in a big tourism area in India now. His workplace was just off the beaten path that they mostly saw locals. Sometimes, he saw a couple of the men he knew from his days in the Taliban; he always conveniently had to check the back whenever he noticed them. If the memories weren't enough to scare him off, their scowls toward him and shitty attitudes toward his female coworkers ensured his retreat. At least the back was quiet and the crappy lights were dim. He didn't have to stare at his hands that never seemed clean enough.

Cleaning duty was the easiest for him, because he had to wear threadbare gloves. The peace and quiet of the back shelves allowed the menial chores to take over the noise of his mind. Just wipe down the shelves and move the cans along, then go to the next shelf. Cans clinked together as he moved, sounds that ensured he could stay present, all while focusing fully on the steps of his task.

“Hey, Idrees,” said the shopkeep as she joined him. “Anush,” he greeted. “How are you doing after the rush?” He looked at her, focusing on that deep scar along her cheek, mustering up as much conviction as he could. “Fine.” “If you need to use my office again—” “I’m fine,” he said, a little snippier than he’d intended.

She went quiet. The perpetual scowl on her face hid a look of sympathy in her eyes Idrees had come to know unfortunately well. He gripped his mop handle and wiped the floors.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I wasn’t trying to—” “It’s okay, you’re gonna be mad at me anyway.” He gave her a defeated look, watching as she pushed down her hijab to slick back her hair once again. She said, “‘Cuz I’m about to put you on stock duty.”

A tension inflated in his chest—pushing against his lungs and sitting on his stomach. He released the building sigh.

“Wish I didn’t have to,” she continued. “But the girls have their hands full after that rush. And there’s a pretty big shipment that just came in, so I need someone on stock duty.”  “Yes, ma’am,” he capitulated.

Lead-legged and hands firmly by his sides, he trudged to the back and through its refrigerated chill. He needed to keep this job. It was just enough to afford the necessities and he couldn’t lose all of that now. Anush had been accommodating for many years and he owed her some amount of loyalty. She once let him bunker down in her office to sit in front of the fan, during a particularly busy shift no less. All the noise had made him think far too much…

As he ripped off his cleaning gloves, exposing his sweaty hands to frigid air, he thought too much once again; about how only the cool breeze and sounds of Anush’s office fan had stopped the racket from overtaking his mind. He grasped the faucet of the utility sink so hard that the skin beneath his nails changed color. He turned the faucet onto a warm setting and got to work scrubbing his hands.

Lathering up, he kept thinking about Anush’s office. She’d offered it to him several times, after once having witnessed him tear his nails across his palms as he cleansed them. The water had been steaming for so long that a thin layer of sweat had dotted his forehead. His stomach clenched when he remembered the look of horror on her stoic face upon seeing his raw, bleeding hands.

So he kept the sink low today, ensuring that Anush wouldn’t panic even if she saw him now. He didn’t want her wasting her sympathy on him anymore. She’d already done so much. Perhaps, though, that was because she didn't know the full story—just that he was forced to fight in a war. If she knew he'd once been a member of a totalitarian, misogynistic regime, he wondered if she'd treat him with less respect and sympathy.

His hand slammed against the faucet to turn it off; he needed to get it over with in as fast a motion as possible. If he didn’t, he feared he wouldn’t know when to stop. The cheap, rough paper towels felt like pumice on his dry skin.

He continued on to the warm air of the warehouse. The smell of fuel from the truck kept his mind off stock duty. Men called to each other, trying to coordinate stacking the dollies and sorting the boxes. A man in a thick, heavy turban dragged a few supplies in on a creaking three-legged dolly. He greeted Idrees with a smile and a wave.

“Anush got you working as stock boy again?” the man teased, scratching at his greyish beard. “Sadly.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead and sat heavily upon a box, which bent and deformed underneath him. “You'll have the back of a seventy year old before you retire.” “So will you.” “Ah, but you're too smart for all of this, eh, Idrees? This was the best I could do.” “That's not true, Nikan. You're not stupid.” “Hey!” called Nikan’s supervisor. “Less talking, more unloading!” “Right,” Nikan said to Idrees. “I'm so smart I'm slacking on the job while Mayur the Dictator is my supervisor.”

Idrees continued about his work as Nikan went to fetch more stock. He strained to transfer the crates onto the stocking cart, then wheeled them out into the store. He could've stayed to chat with Nikan all afternoon if it meant avoiding restock duty. But he did his rounds anyway. It kept him afloat in this city, as far away from his past as he could go.

Though he was content for the most part, he knew it wouldn’t last long. Not with stock duty. It made his mind wander far too much again—about his past and his present. The city offered cars that didn't plume smoke every time they sputtered to life, pristine buildings without graffiti or crumbling foundations, and people living free lives not confined to extremist dogma and laws. It had taken a while getting used to women uncovered, speaking and laughing loudly with their friends, and reading for leisure on dinner dates with themselves. The more he saw their happiness, the more his stomach churned when he remembered the women under Taliban rule.

He never wanted to go back to seeing a woman beaten all because she dared speak in the presence of one of his own. He never wanted to feel like he had to keep his mouth shut or suffer the same fate of the woman being whipped, child in her protective arms, because a Talib caught her in public without a mahram. He never—

His heart was pounding. He focused on a packet of food and read bits of the label. Microwaveable—both in Hindi and bold English letters. “Authentic”. Right. What kind of person who wanted to microwave their dinner cared about authenticity anyway? A tourist, most likely. At least it got him out of his thoughts.

“Excuse me?” someone asked.

He looked over to see a white woman. Not that it was a shock. Her accent gave it away.

“Can you help?” she asked, struggling a bit and overly-enunciating everything. “I speak English,” he said. Her tense posture relaxed instantly. “Oh, thank god. I was seriously gonna make a fool of myself if I kept trying. My Hindi is not up to par.”

Her cheeks turned pink and she readjusted her wire frame glasses. He noticed immediately that the entirety of her being screamed homebody. Tourists that came in often had their hair done and makeup applied (to varying degrees of success), and many had sun-kissed skin. But her unruly hair looked like it only ever saw a brush. Her strawberry blonde roots poked through the black dye, and a blemish here and slightly pocked cheek there showed she didn't spend time primping herself.

“Um, I have a list here.” She lifted up her half-empty hand basket. “Most of the things I’ve found. Could you show me where a few other things are?” “Yes, what do you need?”

She read off the first item on her list which was, funnily enough, the authentic tourist packet in his hand. He gave it to her. She cocked a brow at him until she read the packet. When the realization dawned on her and she giggled, the sound released several days worth of tension from his shoulders. They’d been up against his neck for so long, he’d only just remembered what it felt like to unclench his spine. After she quieted down, his muscles crept back up.

She put the packet in her cart, as well as another style of curry. Her next item was a little more complicated. The spices could be difficult to tell apart without knowing how to read Hindi so he took her to the spice aisle and helped her pick out the proper bottles.

“You trying to make curry?” he asked, putting some turmeric and garam masala in her basket. “Yeah, I am. Figured I'd try something authentic while I'm here.” “And that's why you bought a microwaveable alternative.” “That's for laziness.”

His lips twitched as he picked out a couple of items not on her list but would make her curry better—fenugreek, coriander.

She grinned. “Thank you, I'll give them a try!”

Her brown eyes lit up alongside her smile. She looked and dressed so young it was almost a shock to see her without her mama or baba. He supposed never seeing sunlight could do that to a person.

“Last thing,” she said, reading over her list. “I think I'm just dumb or blind but I can't find your jams.” “They are a bit hidden.”

He took her into the next aisle where an entire floor to top shelf selection of jams awaited her. She fiddled with her glasses, face turning red. 

“I thought you said it was hidden,” she said. “This is staring me right in the face. Look, this one is eye level and it says marmalade on it in English.”

She picked up a jar of orange marmalade just to glare at it. His lips twitched again, pulling back into a smile that felt so alien on his face. Another strange feeling crept up on him, too. Like a little bubble in his chest wanting so badly to break through. He cleared his throat and his lungs relaxed, banishing the oncoming laughter.

“Were you looking for a specific flavor?” he asked.  “Well, I like grape and cherry the most but I want to go outside my comfort zone. Is there something locals prefer?” “Ah, yes, so you can make authentic toast.” “Exactly!” “Can't go wrong with strawberry or apricot.” “Apricot sounds dope.” He paused and gave her a look. “And that's… good?” “Oh! Um, yeah. Sorry. Your English is really good so I just— am gonna shut up.” She looked away and ran a hand down her hair. “Apricot, please.”

He put an inexpensive but good jar of apricot marmalade in her basket. When their eyes met again, a little tickle of butterflies in his stomach hit him. She was cute, and the fact that she nearly made him break employee character several times was nothing short of a miracle. He wanted to ask her out to dinner, but… He frowned when he thought of how her pretty smile could be marred and dirtied by his filthy, disgusting hands.

“Thank you for the help,” she said. “My pleasure.” “Maybe I'll see you next week!” This made his heavy face lighten. “I hope so.”

They waved their goodbyes and she headed off to one of the cashiers. The cashier, a most annoyingly perceptive woman called Kanta, glanced to Idrees, back to the American, then to him again. She smirked and gave him a wink and a thumbs-up while the American unloaded her basket.

The American noticed Kanta’s gesture and turned back to look at him. Idrees’ face grew hot; hotter as he whipped around the corner and heard the faint sound of them giggling. Was that her flirting? He wasn’t sure. Maybe it was a pity giggle. 

He tried to continue his restocking duty as normal, which meant more thinking and overthinking. Particularly his interaction with that tourist. Despite her friendly attitude, Idrees knew that she was just being polite. He'd seen his fair share of attempted small talk. The weird part to him was how much he contributed. Typically—he pondered as he unloaded more of his cart—he would find nothing interesting to say back. Holding a conversation with that woman came out effortlessly, like he felt a strong need to keep up with her pace.

“Idrees!” called Anush from across the store. “Yeah?” he called back. “Got some baskets in the parking lot from the rush!” “On it.”

Anush had a way of doing that. She would put him on stock duty, then feel bad about putting him on stock duty and give him a different, menial job. Usually one that involved fresh air. Given the way his palms itched and crept, he welcomed the break.

Idrees headed to the sink and gave his hands another rough washing. His nails dug into his palms to relieve that horrible skittering across his flesh. The harder he pushed, the more he thought about that tourist. She smiled at him, thinking he was a kind and decent man. He couldn't bear the thought of having that smile warp into horror if she ever found out who he really was.

He slammed the faucet off once the steam spread a film of sweat across his upper lip. Then came those damn scratchy towels. Fresh air would indeed do him some good.

Outside in the hot Indian air, Idrees collected several of the store's black handcarts. Where all too many people left their cart out on the asphalt, that American tourist had put hers in the collection bin. He thought about her laugh again. How it made her pretty face light up. He could almost hear her voice. 

“No, really, it's just not a good time for me.”

He perked up his position hunched over a discarded basket. Okay, he really did hear her voice. 

“Ah, is just one night.” That sounded like a man. 

Idrees whirled around to see the tourist at the bus stop near the store. An older man loomed over her, looking at least twice her size. She gave him a grin he recognized instantly. That “I really wish you weren't talking to me but I'm being polite” grin his coworkers had used on many creepy men. The tourist took a step away but the man kept close. 

“I really don't think my boyfriend would like that much,” she said. “He doesn't have to know.” Idrees dropped the baskets and speed walked up to them. When he drew close enough, he demanded, “What's going on here?”

The American whipped around so fast it was a miracle she didn't drop her grocery bags. Her pleading eyes met his, twinkling as though she just found her salvation.

“Babe, you made it!” she said, hurrying up to him with an arm outstretched.

She tossed it around his shoulders and pulled him into a hug. He took her other bag and returned the one-armed embrace.

“I was so worried you wouldn’t get off work on time,” she said. “Sorry,” he apologized, trying to sound strong and confident. “I had to stay a little late. You know my boss is a hard-ass. Who’s your friend?” She stayed close to him as she faced the older man. “He was just talking with me, I don't really know him.”

The old man looked between her and Idrees. There were a few grey streaks in his beard but he was large and intimidating. Idrees stood his ground, staring him down, familiar muscles tensing and aching from sedentary use. The rush of memories that hit him made his palms creep and he dug his nails into them.

“Well,” said the man, taking a step back, “you guys have a good one.” “You, too,” said Idrees.

The man scurried off. Idrees kept his arm around her shoulders and he leaned closer to speak privately. 

“You okay?” “Yeah, thank you. That guy was so persistent, he was freaking me out. I told him I had a boyfriend and he just didn't care. Lucky you came along when you did.” “Need me to stay for a while?” She frowned. “I wouldn't want you to get in trouble at work.” He smiled to ease her sour face. “No, my boss is a very nice woman. She'll understand.”

They sat together on the bench. Idrees kept looking over to ensure the man wouldn’t return. 

“So” he said, trying to keep the subject off her encounter, “you're on vacation?” “It's my cousin's wedding. Her fiancée wanted to go back to his home country so I'm here for a few weeks helping to get everything ready. Can't really blame her for wanting to move here. My aunt is a bitch.” “And your boyfriend, is he back home or—?” “Oh, I don't have a boyfriend. I just said that to get that guy off my back. Didn't even work. To be fair, sometimes it doesn't work back home, either.” “Yes, it doesn’t work for my coworkers, either.” “Maybe if these guys tried a different method, women wouldn’t find them as creepy. I mean, that dude wasn’t even worth a date of microwavable curry.”

That finally broke him enough to let out a little chuckle with her. Maybe it was from the odd relief in his muscles, knowing that she didn’t have a boyfriend. Or maybe this liberation came from being out in the open air with no worries of coworkers teasing him. He could almost hear Kanta: “Idrees, I’ve never heard you laugh before!”. His laughter, so foreign in his ears, gave his heart a little jump.

As their mirth faded, she gazed down the street. “And there's my bus. Thanks again for having my back.” “It was no problem.”

He watched her gather her bags. He'd already failed at making a move before. But her earlier embrace still held onto him, warm and relaxing. Seeing her in the bright sun, how it illuminated her face and made her smile glow, loosened up his tongue.

“I'd like to see you again,” he said.

She paused. Her eyes scanned him and he became horribly aware all of his flaws: patchy mustache that he still couldn't grow out, rather long in the face, hair always a messy mop, unibrow that refused to go away even after plucking and shaving, and that chip in his tooth that made him want to hide his smile from her…

He might as well have been naked. He wanted to hide away and put his words back in his mouth. But then she smiled and bit her lip, and all of that withered away under the sun. Her cheeks turned that wonderful, cute shade of pink and she twirled a lock of her hair.

“Do you have a pen?” she asked.   He retrieved it from his vest pocket and she tore off a bit of her paper bag. She wrote something down on it then handed it to him. 

“Here's the number to my hotel room. You should call me sometime.”

She stood up and hailed the bus. When she turned to grab her bags, he wanted to say goodbye, but realized he didn't know her name.

“I'm Idrees,” he blurted out, feeling kind of stupid after he realized it was on his nametag (then stupider still when he remembered she couldn't read Hindi). “I'm Cece. It was nice meeting you, Idrees.”

She collected her bags and boarded the bus. A few others went in behind, none of them being the old man. She took a window seat near him and waved goodbye, her face bright and smiling, washing away his insecurities and leaving his mind hazy with bliss. He waved back—too stunned to do anything else—and watched as the bus took her away.

[woodsfae]

B5 s03e10 Severed Dreams table of contents - previous episode

Londo fully deserves all the inconvenience that an extremely pedantic Narn security force can muster against him. It's the least his genocidal, fascist ass deserves. I hope many more little miseries for him. 

"This never would have happened if the humans hadn't started fighting each other!"

This also would never have happened if Londo hadn't thrown the entire fucking galaxy under the bus in exchange for temporary political cred. 

Having moral qualms about firing on one's own people mid-civil-war does seem like the sort of emotions one would have as a member of the military that's schisming against itself. 

Psst, while the opening is playing, I have a secret. I'm 100% going to count these words towards my NaNoWriMo count. Probably am not going to make it, since I didn't write at all from the 11th to the 26th. But I did write more than 14k words in the last two days so ya never know. I could whip out 11k a day for the final two days of November. No I'm not lingering over this paragraph to inflate my word count, how very dare?

General Hague's ship is coming to B5. It's called The Alexander, which is a pretty obvious allusion to Alexander the Great, although the Rangers haven't been conquering any vast tracts of land lately in B5.

I fucking LOVE G'Kar helping with the Rangers now! He's like "I AM A GOOD ALLY JUST LIKE I ALWAYS KNEW. Watch me carry this slender little Minbari as far as you'd like." 10/10, no notes. I think he might be my favorite character overall. I mean, Susan is the BEST, but I think G'Kar might be my favorite, yanno? There's a difference. 

"Our humanity got us into this. It's our humanity that's going to get us out again." 

I certainly do hope so, John Sheridan. Because as always, this show is eerily prescient about our present, when it was intended to be a social commentary on the socio-political state of the 90s. 

This side character Minbari is a kickass actor. He welled those tears up no problem. Also very lame that there's even more instability that'll inevitably benefit the Shadows. How much more bleak does it need to be for them to have a satisfying, underdog victory? They're already under, dawg! 

General Hague is dead.  Most of General Hague's fleet is destroyed. And Earthforce is bombing Mars. The plea from Mars not to fire, that there's women and children, is chilling. But the random Aflack commercials on Tubi are great about lightening my mood. /s 

It's so funny that Delenn makes sure to tell Lennier she will support any decisions he makes in her absence, because I just know she's about to go fuck shit up on the Grey Council. 

This journalist is so brave! The journalists were lying, spreading earthgov propaganda, but it didn't matter. The government still came to take them down in the coup because they weren't extreme enough. 

The Agrippa and the Roanoke are coming to seize command of B5....Agrippa was a general, but I don't recall what he is most known for. Roanoke is famous in the USA for being an early colony, which the colonists all disappeared from in a fabricated mystery, when it was obvious they had joined the nearby Roanoke tribe. I wonder if the Roanoke is going to switch sides at the last moment in this episode, or go fuck off to do their own thing or something. 

John giving his senior staff the same inspirational speech he uses for himself because it's 100% "Do it for Delenn!!!! And freedom. But mostly Delenn!" It's extremely cute. 

tHe CoUnCiL wIlL NoT sEe YoU. - useless Minbari dude

"Then I will see them!" 

Yes you will, Delenn. That whole speech is excellent. and wasted on that little pissant. But her speech to the Grey Council is even better! 

Mira Furlan delivers this speech, as all of her speeches, so powerfully. 

And she has such pointed things to say to each of them. Yessss be shamed!! Delenn you badass. Shattered that staff literally with her bare hands!! Was that the strength of prophecy, or her mad grip strength? She got five of them...are there nine on the Council at a time? I can't recall. 

It's very endearing that John called home to make sure to check in with the folks before he can't do it easily for awhile. 

"Where's Mom?" "Oh, she went to town....errands to run. You know how it is."

Actually, in this family, I do know how it is. Is Mom Sheridan in jail for protesting or agitating or something? 

I remember liking the design for B5's little fighter holds when the series started, but I like it even more now. It's just so smart. They're stored so there's easy access with the spin-gravity, and so they can't deploy accidentally. And then they get whooshed out to space when the pilot is in. I'm sure the new opening which highlights it in such crisp, remastered HD helps a lot with my newly arisen appreciation for their fighter deployment systems. 

It pleases me greatly seeing Sheridan using DraalPlanet's hologram! I'm a sucker for continuity. 

Susan Ivanova is right, damn it! One of them, her or Sheridan, does have to be out there, fighting with their people against the rest of EarthForce. And it does have to be Ivanova: Sheridan is the captain. He can't captain while he's starfighting. 

OK they're here! The Churchhill - authoritarian leader who speaks first and deploys their fighters first. Sheridan speaks eloquently. The Agrippa and Roanoke fall silently in line. I'm so curious to see how this plays out. Ivanova is engaging with the Churchill. The Alexander comes out as well! And there's a breaching pod on B5 - something for the B5 security forces to do so Garibaldi doesn't feel left out! 

It's horrible to see the Narn security forces going in without armor, ahead of the humans in armor. At least give them some protective gear, damn! So many of them went down, and idk if their blasters even have stun capability. I'm assuming they're all dead. Which, fuck. 

I think Hiroshi rammed the Roanoke? Ah, and the Roanoke is destroyed. I think all three of the attacking ships were straight up destroyed. I'm usually able to track the B5 battles, but this was the largest and most complicated one.  And I am also kinda crossfaded. 

"If you value your lives: be somewhere else." 

Delenn is getting all the best speeches this episode, as she deserves. Really, excellent Delenn episode all around! She is a badass. Love to see more aspects to her badassery highlighted. 

Zack Allen is now a paragon of helpfulness and loyalty. And Garibaldi got injured again. 

It suddenly sounds like the Churchill was on B5's side which...I definitely misunderstood part of that battle, if so. But at least B5's fighter crews are at full strength since they're taking the Churchill's survivors. 

John Sheridan has a good conversation with the Major whatshisface, and I am charmed again by his deciding not to wear his uniform till he can be proud of it again. Will he extend that decision to every personnel on board? Is everyone about to be running around in civvies? Soace fashion! Space business casual!  

Dang, Delenn's "Hello, John," was sultry. And her dress is much simpler and akin to a human wrap-dress than her usual, structured Minbari robes.

"I don't know how much this cost you personally, and I suspect I never will. But I want you to know that seeing your face is that moment was the finest moment of my life." 

cute, but I think Delenn heartily enjoyed ripping the council a new one.

I am glad Sheridan got applauded by all his B5ers at the end, and the pan over to the partially torn down Nightwatch poster was c h i l i n g

want another one?

[hitsmelikeasteamroller]

Family Road Trip

Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: short fic ab Eddie taking you and your friends in a road trip to the lake

a/n: hi everyone! this not proofread plz be kind lol! also i’d like to promote my other Eddie fic ‘Tis the Damn Season which won’t show up under any tags for some reason,,, Thanks :)

•

The van makes thudding noises as it hits potholes and cracks in the road. Dustin and Mike are in the backseat arguing over something involving Star Wars lore. You sit in the passenger seat as Eddie drives the van full of your friends to your aunts house for the weekend. Mike, Dustin, Gareth and Lucas rode in the backseat rows of Eddie’s van. It’s summer break and the underclassmen in the Hellfire club had been complaining about not having anything to do so you offered a road trip across the state to your aunt’s place on the lake.

Eddie has one hand on your thigh as you switch out the cassette that had been playing. The boys in the backseat shout music requests but you hardly listen, opting to play music you and Eddie enjoy.

Eddie smiles and glances over at you as one of his favorite songs starts playing.

“Nice pick babe.” he grins as he starts to bop his head and drum on the steering wheel.

“When are you gonna play music that anyone other than you guys likes?” Dustin shouts from the backseat. The other boys grumbled in agreement.

“As if Henderson. I’M driving your asses to HER family house, so WE are picking the music.” Eddie pushes back as you turn around to look at the four of them in a “yeah, fuck off.” kind of way.

That shuts the boys up and they go back to their conversations. You turn to Eddie, fixing a piece of his hair that has began to stick straight up “Thanks for driving us Eds.” you mumble as you mean back in your seat, staring out the windshield at the passing road.

“Course, babe. I’d do anything for those guys, plus I get a romantic lakeside getaway with you.” He makes a suggestive face as you laugh lightly in response.

“How much longer?” Mike whines. You and Eddie look at each other and roll your eyes.

Finally arriving at your aunt’s house, you take advantage of the boys and make them carry your suitcase into the house. Your aunt is gone for the weekend, leaving the six of you with the house to yourselves. Everyone chooses a room to sleep in, or the couch in the living room (Gareth doesn’t want to share.) You and Eddie share a bedroom in the back of the house, closest to the lake. As you begin to unpack your necessities, Eddie flops down on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes, seemingly ready to take a nap.

As you finish, you lay down next to him. He pulls you into his chest, one arm around your shoulders, the other one stretching across the bed like a starfish. He kisses the top of your head and you close your eyes, ready to pass out when there’s a knock at the door.

It’s Lucas, he asks if the two of you are going to come and swim in the lake with the other boys. Eddie groans and stands up, trading his nap for a swim. You follow, putting on your swimsuit, you take a moment to admire Eddie’s tattoos as he changes. He ties his hair up into a bun at the nape of his neck, taking you by the hand and dragging you out of the room and down to the lake outside of the house.

The boys are already in the lake enjoying themselves when Eddie runs down the small sandy beach jumps in. You slowly follow after, adjusting to the water temperature. You join him at his side.

Eddie puts his arm around your shoulders and squeezes where his hand rests. As you watch the boys swim, Eddie realizes he forgot towels inside, so he runs back in, returning with a hot pink inflatable chair.

“I found a throne for the queen.” he bows as he pushes the chair towards you, gliding over the water’s surface.

You grin and thank him, taking his hand as he helps you into the floating chair.

You lounge on the lake with the boys for hours until the sun is setting. You couldn’t be more grateful for your friends and Eddie.

Masterlist

[silversiren1101]

6. and 15 for mino x regill for the blossoming romance wp? 👀💕

6. asking them about their family

"What is Brastlewark like?" She asked suddenly, her face turning hot at her impulsiveness. Well, hotter than the whiskey had made it. They were huddled together beneath the single blanket she'd hastily grabbed from her chambers before they'd snuck out here to just... talk. It was kind of silly, really.

Two Hellknights old enough beyond their station to not need to feel any reason to 'sneak out' from their healers, but here they were, sitting on the inner battlements under the clear night sky, sharing a drink and enjoying each other's company.

She had no idea why she'd asked about his hometown so suddenly. It'd been quiet for sometime before.

"...It's been a long time since I've been there. I can't speak for how it is now", Regill responded, though she didn't miss the muted tone of his words.

Her heart sank a bit. She shouldn't have asked. He didn't speak of his blood family or his life before... but that was probably why she'd asked. He knew everything about her now and yet, she felt as if she hardly knew anything about him at all. All she knew was that he was from Brastlewark, like most Chelaxian gnomes. It was probably the only thing he had in common with his kinfolk, funny enough.

"It was loud", he continued, and she perked up, surprised he didn't let it fade to nothing. "Loud and exhausting. 'Things' happened, all the time..." He then sighed, and the sound of it squeezed like a vice about her chest. "A good half of it... burned. At the very start of the war."

Oh. Her eyes opened wide, and she turned to look down at where he was pressed against her side. He continued staring forward, and the melancholy in his eyes was undeniable.

"I haven't seen it since, nor spoken with anyone, since I left and joined the Hellknights."

To put an end to the madness.

Minovae didn't say or ask anything further. She merely pulled him in slightly closer and offered him the last of the whiskey.

15. finding excuses to be alone with each other

The frown on her face was palpable even across the meagre courtyard they were situated in - a little sphere of sanctuary here in Iz provided by her Banner. Regill watched her with a frown of his own, sharper than his usual dour glower. He quickly pieced together it was because of the man she was with, currently discussing things with her with a pomp and self-inflated pride.

The Prelate of Kenabres. Hulrun Shappok.

He hadn't even met the Prelate in person until recently, but he'd heard the stories- of the tales of viciousness and zealotry that had made people compare him to a Hellknight. Everything he'd learned since and from his experience with the man said that the comparison was unworthy - and that every true Hellknight should be insulted by it. Shappok was incompetency personified, nothing more than a cautionary tale about how paranoia can corrupt the champions of even the most virtuous gods.

Minovae, of course, maintained a face of practiced professionalism as Shappok continued speaking with her, pointing out places about the camp, but her tail betrayed her true feelings on the matter. It writhed and swished about, lashing out at any of the countless locusts and insects that'd managed to slip into the bubble. She undoubtedly despised the being in front of her, but knowing of his rank and history - and of course his heroism just earlier protecting the Banner while they could go after the Queen - made taking any immediate action against him difficult for her.

No matter, it would be dealt with later. She had more important things to worry about before then, and desperately needed a reprieve before they took on exactly one such of those matters: Deskari himself, entrenched deep into the center of Iz.

Regill strode confidently across that courtyard, all infallible purpose. He came to their 'conversation', one-sided as it was, and interrupted the Prelate without care.

"Commander, we have an urgent situation with the defenses toward the north bulwark. If you would co-"

Shappok responded exactly as expected: with a self-importance that suggested he thought himself above such interruption. "What?! Are you questioning how I've organized the defenses here? Who are-"

"Silence." Regill snapped sharply. Only then did he bother to turn and look up into the old inquisitor's face, who was looking at him in turn with insult and disgust, the bleaching gnome Hellknight. "This does not concern you, Prelate."

He said the title as if it were a grave insult.

"It doesn't!? And who are you, Hellknight?" Shappok scoffed, derision clear in his own tone. "As if you-"

"That is Knight Lieutenant Derenge, Hulrun." Minovae's own scathing tone split between them. Her expression had changed from that contained stoniness to outright narrow-eyed anger. "You would do well to remember, he is my second."

'He outranks you, you testament of obsolesce and inadequacy.' Though she was much too nice so say so in such terms, much less think of them to begin with.

"I-" Shappok sputtered, clearly taken aback. His gaze flicked rapidly between the two of them, in clear disbelief and then clear insult that this Hellknight had outranked him in the Mendevian Crusade. The one he himself used to lead in a sense, though two attempts back.

"Anyway, if there is an urgent matter, Derenge, please by all means, lead the way", she nodded towards him before returning the last of what attention she could bear to Shappok once more. "We can continue this later. If we must. Find Irabeth if I am not available. She has the authority to act in my place."

Because she outranks you now, too.

"...Understood, Commander." The Prelate responded with a shortness just before that of a growl.

With a dutiful nod and gesture for her to follow, Regill turned briskly on his heel and strode away, in a direction that could reasonably be construed as toward the "northern bulwark" - which was sufficient, by the way. Something she only grew suspicious of as he led her into one of the quieter, empty rooms just on the edge of the safe bubble provided by the Banner. She looked around, confused and exhausted, before those violet eyes locked with his, and he couldn't help but feel a twinge of concern at how weary she appeared.

"... Ah. I see now." Even tired as she was though, the smile that twisted those lips, cracked in places from the battle to get here, was nothing short of radiant. "You know you did actually have me wor--UFH!"

The wind knocked out of her as he grabbed her by the cloak, pulled her down and shoved her backward into the cracked stone wall. He pressed her into such a bruising kiss she couldn't help but moan into it, stopping him in surprise before he surged against her rougher. Even rough and cracked and chapped as her lips were - and certainly his were no better - they, she, was irresistible.

A short reprieve... though not as short as initially planned. Just enough to keep her reminded of what she was fighting for - of what she needed to live for.

[warsofasoiaf]

I have two sets of questions, one regarding the Russo-Ukrainian War and the other regarding Turkey.

The first is about sending main battle tanks to the Ukrainians. I'm sure you know the British are sending 14 Challenger II tanks and the Poles are poised to send several Leopard II's. One question I have is how impactful do you think these tanks will be? And as an extra question, do you agree with the Pentagon's assessment that sending M1 Abrams tanks is is not what the Ukrainian's need, and that they would be better off receiving other forms of materiel?

My second question is in regards to Erdoğan's stance on NATO and Russia as a whole. I'm sure you saw that Erdoğan said that Turkey will not grant Sweden NATO membership after right wingers in Sweden burned several copies of the Quran. Clearly Erdoğan is just using this as an excuse to deny Sweden NATO status. But why? Why deny Sweden NATO membership, what does he gain from doing that? And by other question regarding Erdoğan and Turkey is their relationship with Russia. The Turks plan to buy S-400 missiles from Russia are are interested in buying Su-57's, but at the same time the Turks have been fighting the Russians in Syria, supported Ukraine since Crimea was annexed, and supported opposing sides in the Libyan Civil War and in the Nagorno-Karabakh War. So why are they willing to do business with each other?

Sorry for the bombardment of questions.

If the Ukrainians can develop an armor unit with Leopard II's and IFV support such as Bradleys, it can become a frighteningly effective force against the Russians. As we've seen in the Russo-Ukrainian war, Russian artillery targeting moves at a slug's pace, so a mobile armor unit can hit hard and be on the move before taking battery fire. It would be quite useful in establishing a thrust toward Melitopol and severing the land bridge to Crimea and potentially severing the Russian forces in two.

The Abrams would have problems in being deployed - the Leopard is definitely more effective given the terrain. I wouldn't underestimate the Ukrainians in understanding and adapting the Abrams, but I do understand that most repair and refit facilities can't service an Abrams engine, whereas the Leopards can just be shunted over the border to Poland. But at the same time, we've got Abrams that we aren't using, even for training, so I'm okay with sending a few Abrams if it puts egg on Olaf Scholz's face and gets him to release the Leopards.

Erdogan is facing severe problems at home. His very stupid Fisherist economic policies have caused inflation in Turkey to skyrocket, and so he's trying to salvage the upcoming elections by picking fights and pandering to the nationalist base. Erdogan wants to pick fights with Kurds, with Greece, and with Sweden to tell the people back home that he's fighting for Turkey's place as a pre-eminent power, coupling that with selling the grain deal to say that he's no mindless bravo. Make no mistake, Erdogan's stance on Sweden joining NATO has absolutely nothing to do with Turkish strategy and everything to do with Erdogan preserving his political career. After all, given the release of the Su-57 data on Warthunder, it's obvious that the plane is comparable in stealth to 30-year old aircraft, any modern radar system is going to light up like a Christmas tree. It has 0.1-1m² RCS, no sensible strategist would want to purchase the Su-57 with that large of a radar cross-section. It isn't stealthy, so either buy an aircraft that is or buy a cheaper or more effective multirole platform without stealth. It does fit into Erdogan's strategy of painting itself as an interlocutor between Russia and the West, again to sell Turkey as a pre-eminent power capable of producing great geopolitical feat.

It won't work out in Erdogan's favor, but he's backed himself into a corner and would rather ruin Turkey than lose.

Thanks for the question, Bruin.

SomethingLikeALawyer, hand of the King

[newstfionline]

Wednesday, September 20, 2023

What to Expect When You’re Expecting the U.N. General Assembly (Foreign Policy) As world leaders descend on the United Nations headquarters in New York City, the international body is fighting to maintain its relevance in a world it wasn’t built for when it was established nearly 80 years ago. Global powers are increasingly circumventing the unwieldy U.N. system to conduct multilateral diplomacy, such as through the G-7, G-20, and BRICS (Brazil, Russia, India, China, and South Africa) blocs. Eight years ago, the U.N. outlined an ambitious batch of goals to tackle global poverty, gender equality, climate change, and other pressing global issues by 2030. But so far, the world is way off target in meeting those goals. The war in Ukraine has frontally challenged one of the U.N.’s most fundamental purposes, enshrined in its foundational charter, of averting major wars. The Western world’s laser focus on the conflict in Ukraine, meanwhile, has frustrated other countries in the global south as other dire humanitarian catastrophes—conflict in Sudan, coups across Africa, the migration crisis in Central America, and a lot of climate-related disasters—struggle for resources and high-level attention.

Canada’s surging food prices (Reuters) Canada’s plan to bring down food prices by tightening regulation could backfire and fail, raising the cost of doing business in the country without providing relief to consumers, lawyers and economists said. Canada’s weak competition law has been long blamed for allowing a few players to dominate industries ranging from banks to telecoms and groceries. Last week, Prime Minister Justin Trudeau promised to amend the Competition Act to help bring down prices. Trudeau’s move comes as many Canadians reel under an affordability crisis with food prices jumping 25% since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic in 2020. At the same time, the central bank’s efforts to bring down inflation by raising interest rates to a 22-year-high have pushed up mortgage costs for homeowners and made buying a home unaffordable for others.

U.S. National Debt Tops $33 Trillion for First Time (NYT) America’s gross national debt exceeded $33 trillion for the first time on Monday, providing a stark reminder of the country’s shaky fiscal trajectory at a moment when Washington faces the prospect of a government shutdown this month amid another fight over federal spending. It came as Congress appeared to be faltering in its efforts to fund the government ahead of a Sept. 30 deadline. Unless Congress can pass a dozen appropriations bills or agree to a short-term extension of federal funding at existing levels, the United States will face its first government shutdown since 2019. The debt is on track to top $50 trillion by the end of the decade, as interest on the debt mounts and the cost of the nation’s social safety net programs keeps growing.

Brazil’s Lula pitches his nation—and himself—as fresh leader for Global South (AP) “Brazil is back.” That has been Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva’s refrain for the better part of the last year, with the president deploying the snappy slogan to cast Brazil—and himself—as a leader of the Global South no longer content to abide the world’s outdated workings. During Lula’s travels, he has pushed for global governance that gives greater heft to the Global South and advocating diminishing the dollar’s dominance in trade. He has made clear that Brazil has no intention of siding with the United States or China, the world’s two largest economies and Brazil’s two biggest trading partners. And he has refused to join Washington and Western Europe in backing Ukraine’s fight against Russia’s invasion, instead calling for a club of nations to mediate peace talks. After the International Criminal Court issued a warrant for Russian President Vladimir Putin’s arrest, Lula said he would review Brazil’s membership in the court.

Germany’s economy struggles (AP) For most of this century, Germany racked up one economic success after another, dominating global markets for high-end products like luxury cars and industrial machinery, selling so much to the rest of the world that half the economy ran on exports. Jobs were plentiful, the government’s financial coffers grew as other European countries drowned in debt, and books were written about what other countries could learn from Germany. No longer. Now, Germany is the world’s worst-performing major developed economy, with both the International Monetary Fund and European Union expecting it to shrink this year. It follows Russia’s invasion of Ukraine and the loss of Moscow’s cheap natural gas—an unprecedented shock to Germany’s energy-intensive industries, long the manufacturing powerhouse of Europe. Germany risks “deindustrialization” as high energy costs and government inaction on other chronic problems threaten to send new factories and high-paying jobs elsewhere, said Christian Kullmann, CEO of major German chemical company Evonik Industries AG.

Evidence Suggests Ukrainian Missile Caused Market Tragedy (NYT) The Sept. 6 missile strike on Kostiantynivka in eastern Ukraine was one of the deadliest in the country in months, killing at least 15 civilians and injuring more than 30 others. The weapon’s payload of metal fragments struck a market, piercing windows and walls and wounding some victims beyond recognition. Less than two hours later, President Volodymyr Zelensky blamed Russian “terrorists” for the attack, and many media outlets followed suit. Throughout its invasion of Ukraine, Russia has repeatedly and systematically attacked civilians and struck schools, markets and residences as a deliberate tactic to instill fear in the populace. But evidence collected and analyzed by The New York Times, including missile fragments, satellite imagery, witness accounts and social media posts, strongly suggests the catastrophic strike was the result of an errant Ukrainian air defense missile fired by a Buk launch system. Air defense experts say missiles like the one that hit the market can go off course for a variety of reasons.

In Moscow, the War Is Background Noise, but Ever-Present (NYT) Metro trains are running smoothly in Moscow, as usual, but getting around the city center by car has become more complicated, and annoying, because anti-drone radar interferes with navigation apps. Almost 19 months after Russia invaded Ukraine, Muscovites are experiencing dual realities: The war has faded into background noise, causing few major disruptions, and yet it remains ever-present in their daily lives. There is little anxiety among residents over the drone strikes that have hit Moscow this summer. No alarm sirens to warn of a possible attack. The city continues to grow. Cranes dot the skyline, and there are high-rise buildings going up all over town. But for some, the effects of war are landing harder. Nina, 79, a pensioner who was shopping at an Auchan supermarket in northwestern Moscow, said that she had stopped buying red meat entirely, and that she could almost never afford to buy a whole fish. Nina said that sanctions and ubiquitous construction projects were some reasons for higher prices, but the main reason, she said, was “because a lot is spent on war.”

India, Canada expel diplomats over accusations Delhi killed Sikh separatist (Washington Post) India expelled a Canadian diplomat on Tuesday in a tit-for-tat move after Canadian officials accused Indian government operatives of gunning down a Sikh separatist leader, Hardeep Singh Nijjar, in British Columbia and threw out an Indian diplomat they identified as an intelligence officer. Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s allegation of assassination, made during an explosive speech before Parliament on Monday, sent relations between the two nations tumbling toward their lowest point but also held broader ramifications for ties between the U.S.-led alliance and India, which the Biden administration has assiduously courted as a strategic counterweight to China. The Indian government issued a statement Tuesday rejecting Trudeau’s accusation as “absurd and motivated.” India’s Foreign Ministry went on to say that the allegations “seek to shift the focus from Khalistani terrorists and extremists, who have been provided shelter in Canada and continue to threaten India’s sovereignty and territorial integrity. The inaction of the Canadian Government on this matter has been a long-standing and continuing concern.” (BBC) India has been increasing the pressure on countries with significant Sikh communities, like Canada, Australia and the UK, saying they are failing to tackle what it calls "Sikh extremism." Mr. Nijjar is the third prominent Sikh figure to have died unexpectedly in recent months.

Libya’s flood turmoil (Worldcrunch) Hundreds of protesters rallied in Libya’s Derna on Monday, setting fire to the house of the man who was the city’s mayor at the time of the flood, to demand accountability one week after a flood that killed thousands of residents. Meanwhile, the UN has warned that a disease outbreak could create “a second devastating crisis” as people are falling ill from contaminated water.

Crisis and Bailout: The Tortuous Cycle Stalking Nations in Debt (NYT) Emmanuel Cherry, the chief executive of an association of Ghanaian construction companies, sat in a cafe at the edge of Accra Children’s Park, near the derelict Ferris wheel and kiddie train, as he tallied up how much money government entities owe thousands of contractors. Before interest, he said, the back payments add up to 15 billion cedis, roughly $1.3 billion. “Most of the contractors are home,” Mr. Cherry said. Their workers have been laid off. Like many others in this West African country, the contractors have to wait in line for their money. Teacher trainees complain they are owed two months of back pay. Independent power producers that have warned of major blackouts are owed $1.58 billion. The government is essentially bankrupt. After defaulting on billions of dollars owed to foreign lenders in December, the administration of President Nana Akufo-Addo had no choice but to agree to a $3 billion loan from the lender of last resort, the International Monetary Fund. It was the 17th time Ghana has been compelled to turn to the fund since it gained independence in 1957. The tortuous cycle of crisis and bailout has plagued dozens of poor and middle-income countries throughout Africa, Latin America and Asia for decades.

Many of today’s unhealthy foods were brought to you by Big Tobacco (Washington Post) For decades, tobacco companies hooked people on cigarettes by making their products more addictive. Now, a new study suggests that tobacco companies may have used a similar strategy to hook people on processed foods. In the 1980s, tobacco giants Philip Morris and R.J. Reynolds acquired the major food companies Kraft, General Foods and Nabisco, allowing tobacco firms to dominate America’s food supply and reap billions in sales from popular brands such as Oreo cookies, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and Lunchables. By the 2000s, the tobacco giants spun off their food companies and largely exited the food industry—but not before leaving a lasting legacy on the foods that we eat. The new research, published in the journal Addiction, focuses on the rise of “hyper-palatable” foods, which contain potent combinations of fat, sodium, sugar and other additives that can drive people to crave and overeat them. The Addiction study found that in the decades when the tobacco giants owned the world’s leading food companies, the foods that they sold were far more likely to be hyper-palatable than similar foods not owned by tobacco companies. In the past 30 years, hyper-palatable foods have spread rapidly into the food supply, coinciding with a surge in obesity and diet-related diseases. In America, the steepest increase in the prevalence of hyper-palatable foods occurred between 1988 and 2001—the era when Philip Morris and R.J. Reynolds owned the world’s leading food companies.

Danish artist told to repay museum €67,000 after turning in blank canvasses (BBC) A Danish artist has been ordered to return nearly 500,000 kroner ($72,000; £58,000) to a museum after giving it two blank canvasses for a project he named Take the Money and Run. The Kunsten Museum in Aalborg had intended for Jens Haaning to embed the banknotes in two pieces of art in 2021. Instead, he gave it blank canvasses and then told Danish media: "The work is that I have taken their money." A court has now ordered him to return the cash, minus 8% for expenses.

[sublimenol]

Sonic Villain OCs!

So I've peddled about Deirdre a lot, but in her little AU world, I've got several villains that are her recurring baddies. I wrote up a few profiles on them for anyone interested for what bubbles at my headspace lately.

Gyre the Ibis

“My stratagems are sound. I simply need better soldiers.”

Gender: Male

Affiliation: Independent, Resistance(Formerly), Battle-Bird Armada(Formerly)

Description: Primary Color: White body. Orange-red masking around his eyes resembling goggles. Yellow beak. Fingertips are black feathers. Stylized take on an American White Ibis. Looks similar to Babylon Rogues. Lank, “Geek shaped”.

Wears a knee length, drab olive all weather coat buttoned up to his neck. Shoes are boot polish black. Attempts to look imposing and militaristic and serious.

Weapon of Choice: Gyre has a reprogrammed Valkeen that he brings out if he feels there is going to be a threat to his person. He prefers to keep it hidden to call it in should he need to escape.

Personality: Gyre is a legend in his own mind. He is a tactical genius. He is a clear headed, rational thinker who knows how to make the tough calls. In his mind, every decision is one of cruel calculus that no one but him seems to be willing to do. He is surrounded by a world of tools and fools, how he treats others is based on where he decides they fall. On a positive side, he can be cunning and prudent and his ego is not borne of overconfidence. He knows when to fold ‘em should the situation turn against him.

Background: Gyre’s background is simple. He grew in simple circumstances and found enjoyment in testing his mind against others; enjoying feeling superior and basking in adulation for his successes in education, games and glory. He did well in his small hamlet, and the taste of superiority led him to looking toward the Battle Bird Armada as his chance to become a figure of greatness. He learned quickly that he was a small fish in a very big pond. Unable to move upward, he stewed until Eggman’s conquest smashed through the Armada, GUN, and most of the world. Gyre took his chance and took leave of the Armada, cutting loose and escaping with his hide.

From there, he joined the resistance, inflating his military background for leverage. It did not take long for the Resistance to push back his influence. Much of his grand strategy was to expend as many resources as possible in order to secure any victory no matter how meaningless. He proved himself too willing to sacrifice others for the sake of scraps. He once again quickly found himself out of favor. Made worse when the war finally ended and the Resistance dissolved.

Gyre’s attention turned toward the scattered Eggman Empire. They could possibly use his intel, and his desire to get revenge on the Restoration for their slight to his ego. However, this plan was cut short by the Metal Virus. One of countless victims, in the aftermath Gyre determined the Eggman Empire to be just as much an enemy as every other power. He would not serve, he would command. He would finally work his way to becoming “General Gyre”. If he could only get good, loyal, proper soldiers as an army for his superior mind.

Boxcars the Badger

“Three rules in life; don’t apologize, don’t hold grudges, and always get while the getting’s good.”

Gender: Male

Affiliation: Gyre

Description: Tall and broad, little chunky. Upsized Sonic character model. Smithy or Tumble from IDW. Color pattern is the same as an American badger, though substitute the black for a very dark blue tone. Eyes are brown.

His wardrobe is minimal and standard for Sonic styled males. big simple brown boots and heavy cuffed gloves. Wears a newsie cap.

Weapon of Choice: Generally his hands. When he feels serious, he slips on a pair of narrow, thick knuckledusters.

Personality:  Boxcars is a genial, emotionally intelligent guy. Genuinely friendly and outgoing, he is loud, almost always presenting good humor and quick to laugh a deep belly laugh. This is no lie, nor a ruse. However, Boxcars is also a deeply self-interested person and a consummate survivor. He does what he wants, as he wants, and he’s quick to get out whenever things possibly present too much of a threat. He is an outlaw because it allows him a good fight and a degree of freedom that he craves. Particularly so because he can trust heroic types to always pull punches in ways that more murderous villains do not. Prone to using pet names(Sweetheart, Sunshine, etc) in lieu of names because he never really wants to get too close to people.

Background: Boxcars keeps a lot of his past close to his chest, so most of the detail is not well known. He is originally from Central City and while he didn’t have much to his name, he was always a little bigger and tougher than everyone around him. He learned young that he could leverage that into getting what he wanted through leveraging size and through learning to enjoy a good fight if his target had more mettle than he expected. At times he worked with others, other times he worked solo, but he was never much more than a pugnacious goon. And that was all well and good for him.

Crisis after crisis, Shattered Worlds and Eggman’s conquest, taught Boxcars how to survive while looking out for himself. He knew that groups like The Resistance would only be problems for him once the big threats went away, so he made it a point to keep a low profile and to live in the corners around the greater conflict. While he was a bruiser, he knew people liked you if you were friendly, which was easy for him to be. He never had anything against anyone, it was just that he enjoyed his lifestyle the way it was. He could live meager, and whenever things settled down, he would appear again.

Metal Virus was the same routine to Boxcars. When things went to hell, the badger went underground and out of the way. He maintains that he never once was in danger of being infected. Just another example of whenever the grave danger shows up, Boxcars’ puts his experience into making certain he can avoid having to deal with it as much as possible. Only in the aftermath did Gyre finally seek him out, looking to hire muscle for a robbery of some leftover Eggtech lab. Boxcars saw a predictable egotist, but not a threat. It would be a simple job to help the latest wannabe.

Cathode the Basenji

“. . .no.”

Gender: Female

Affiliation: Gyre

Description: A creamsicle orange canine with pointed ears and a tightly curled tail. Her eyes are a dark blue. She lacks any “head hair”, but has more fluff at the back of her neck to mimic longer ends.

Her outfit is overalls or a jumpsuit, usually tied at the waist, colored blue. 

Weapon of Choice: Homemade shock baton attached to a modified battery pack she carries at her hip.

Personality: Cathode is taciturn, focused, and curious. She consistently holds a high opinion of herself compared to others, primarily because of the high level of priority she places on things she considers “tangible”. Machines, mechanics, math, functional and provable skill are all things that she enjoys. Otherwise, she finds herself in insecure positions and insecure positions are, to her, to be avoided entirely. Other people, with their inconsistency and idiosyncrasies, are troublesome. Her desires are to get her hands on whatever kind of machinery or gear that the likes of Tails and Eggman have created so she can take them apart for her own study. 

Background: Born on a small, isolated island, Cathode’s interest in machines defined a lot of her formative years. She learned to fix and repair the shared equipment of her family and the few other families that shared their small rock of a home. With few other children, she spent most of her time with adults and functioned mostly as a set of hands to help out. Over time, she grew resentful despite her rapidly growing knowledge as the scarce resources and constant repair needs of the aging equipment meant that while she was invaluable, she wasn’t able to spread her wings and truly experiment and tinker.

The news of the great technological advances of Eggman astounded her. She craved getting her hands on those machines. She wanted nothing more than to dissect them, and to learn how they tick. But still she was kept from her desires by the short sighted, pragmatic minds of the others in her village. This bitter resentment was made all the worse when she heard about Tails and the young genius’ capabilities just reminded her of her own stolen opportunity. She blamed the others for needing her, demanding of her, and under the cover of night she slowly dismantled equipment around the island to cobble together a small boat in order to make her escape.

Unfortunately for Cathode, she arrived in Sunset City just in time for the Metal Virus to be dumped upon her.

In the aftermath, she has struggled to find footing. Her interests in getting ahold of Eggtech to dissect has required her to involve herself with shadier figures. When Gyre presented her with the opportunity to get ahold of the real deal, possibly without battle damage, Cathode could hardly pass that up.

Pierce the Wolf

“Every heart pleads for a “better world”, but no two minds can agree on a definition.”

Gender: Male

Affiliation: Eggman Empire

Description: A tall male wolf with leaner, pointier features than normal. Color is primarily a desaturated, pale blue, close to an off-white. He has a small scar on his right cheek underlining his eye Outfit is a standard red and black Eggman Empire uniform. He has an affectation of diamond stud cufflinks added to the uniform

Weapon of choice: Stiletto. One regular, a secondary spring assisted one hidden on his person. 

Personality: Broadly speaking, his personality and demeanor is malleable given the needs of the situation. He will be self effacing one moment, bragging the next. He will be cruel and calculating, or he will present the noblest of faces. Who he seems to be in a moment may not be the person he is in the next. The only truth is that Pierce cares only for himself and what furthers his own ambitions toward power. Everything else is a pawn or a player in the game of power. He is still an empathic person, however, that talent and honed skill is tuned primarily toward his enormous self-interest.

Background: Pierce is from a long standing family of leaders on a small, cold island chain. He was the latest to inherit the charge of his town, having taken over the unofficial but de facto role from his late parents. He found that town leadership was dull and ultimately limited, though he continued with it as was his duty. The global assault by Eggman, however, rocked the wolf’s world deep to the core. He saw in that moment just how small everything around him was. He saw that all he could accomplish was leading a tiny series of specks that were nothing more than crumbs for the real giants to clean up. And he wanted to be one of those giants.

Eggman’s swift success told him plainly that the Empire was the faction in which to throw his lot. It was not difficult to convince his people that it was the best idea. That they were small and not noticeable. Some he promised that they would be overlooked. Some he promised industrial potential in the new Empire. And soon he had followers behind his plan. A false show of support toward GUN. They were struck quickly and Pierce promised their small fishing villages would be safe for them to hide and recover from the devastation. Only to swiftly turn on them, envelop, and claim GUN materiel and hostages for himself. All a present to appease Eggman. His proposal worked well enough. Eggman wasn’t going to be impressed by GUN soldiers or technology, but the kind of social skills and cutthroat cunning could be useful for future endeavors. That said, Eggman also knew that Pierce needed to be separated from his home, and from easily manipulated flesh and blood soldiers as well. Pierce was made an offer, but it would cost him his people and home. Pierce only delayed responding as to not appear too eager.

Pierce found himself repositioned and given a small base of operations and a contingent of badniks. His goal would be to seed himself in the region in preparation for a new invasion. One that would be curtailed when the metal virus infected the world. And while he recovered, he knew then that Eggman was not going to be the one to lose this war in the end. The Doctor was simply too capable in an emergency to be counted on losing. If anything, it told Pierce that his decisions to become and remain an Egg Boss was the right one.

Once again he is returned to his base, still chafing under the provisions given to him by Eggman. He knows he is being watched and controlled. That he is a pawn in a greater game. But he has time. And he has patience. And when he looks out from the window of his quarters, he can see the sparkling lights of the city that is his prey.

[mariacallous]

There are ‘global issues that we both have on our plates’, US Secretary of State Anthony Blinken said, mysteriously, when he met with his Turkish counterpart last week. Foreign Minister Mevlut Cavusoglu, standing by Blinken’s side, thought the same. ‘We will focus on areas of partnership in bilateral and regional issues.’ Diplomacy as usual, then.

Behind the boring platitudes lies a serious rift between Turkey and the United States. In late December, Syrian and Turkish defence ministers met in Moscow in the first proper meeting between the two governments in a decade. There are plans for another meeting between foreign ministers that could lead to a direct meeting between Turkey’s leader Recep Tayyip Erdogan and Syrian president Bashar al-Assad. Rapprochement between Turkey and Syria would bring about the most significant reshaping of the war in Syria since Russia’s brutal bombing campaign tipped it in Assad’s favour in 2015.

It’s not only the fate of millions of Syrian civilians at stake. Three-and-a-half million Syrian refugees in Turkey could soon find themselves vulnerable to forced return if an agreement is struck between Turkey and Syria; ongoing operations against the Islamic State could be jeopardised – and the security of US forces in eastern Syria compromised. What happens in Syria rarely stays in Syria, either. A Turkish withdrawal and a resurgent Assad will trigger a wave of migration into nearby Turkey and Iraq, and perhaps into Europe as well. Northwest Syria today is home to millions of people who support the Syrian opposition. They understand all too well what awaits them if the regime and its dreaded intelligence agencies return.

Problems at home are behind Erdogan’s decision to improve relations with Assad. Even though Erdogan has centralised power, marginalised his opponents, and undermined democracy in Turkey, his position – which is at stake in May’s election – has never been so precarious. Two issues will decide Erdogan’s fate: the economy and refugees. Turkey’s economy is a shambles, with inflation at 135 per cent according to ENAG, an independent research centre in Turkey. And there is hostility towards Syrian refugees in Turkey. Not too long ago, these people were welcomed into the country by Erdogan’s government. But in more recent times, pro-Assad opposition parties have stoked nativist fears to cut into support for his AK party.

As a result, Erdogan turned to Syria to improve his domestic position. He focused his ire on the Syrian offshoot of a Kurdish irredentist group, the Kurdistan Workers’ Party (PKK), that Turkey, the US, and EU, all designate as a terrorist organisation. The PKK’s Syrian counterpart, the Democratic Union Party (PYD) is a key partner of the US in the fight against IS and a recipient of US military and financial support.

Close ties between the US and Kurdish forces in Syria have not deterred Erdogan from using his military to suppress what he says is a threat to Turkey’s national security. In 2016, Turkey launched Operation Euphrates Shield to prevent the PYD’s armed wing, the People’s Protection Units (YPG), from establishing a Kurdish ‘canton’, from the Iraqi border in the east to the town of Afrin in the west of Syria. Erdogan’s intervention was followed by occupation, and subsequent incursions expanded the area under Turkey’s control to more than 3,400 square miles, but Kurdish forces still dominate a large swath of Syria’s northeast, benefiting from US protection.

Erdogan had planned to launch a new offensive to finally break the stalemate with the Kurds, but possible rapprochement with Syria has put that on hold. Neither Russia nor America is willing to green light what they knew would be a deeply destabilising conflict. So senior Russian officials encouraged Erdogan to join a Russian-mediated negotiation to repair ties with Syria and with Assad, which, if successful, would return Syrian troops to positions along the Turkish border. This would offer a first line of defence against what Erdogan says are Kurdish attacks.

Erdogan recognised the political gains. Rapprochement with Assad would silence critics of his Syria policy, strengthen efforts to push back Syrian refugees, and give him the buffer he wanted against the Kurds, all at once. With just these aims in mind, Erdogan had floated the idea of a meeting with Assad as early as August 2022, but he was quickly rebuffed by the Syrian side. Erdogan and senior Turkish officials made more efforts to arrange a meeting with Assad throughout last autumn.

Assad dragged his heels because he was reluctant to reward an adversary and boost Erdogan’s electoral prospects. Under apparent pressure from Moscow, though, Assad eventually agreed to the cabinet level talks that began shortly before the new year. There’s talk of the Turkish, Syrian and Russian foreign ministers meeting in the next fortnight. Assad no longer seems to rule out the possibility of an eventual meeting with his Turkish counterpart – a meeting Erdogan would like to see happen as close to the date of elections as possible.

Even if Erdogan and Assad do meet, though, the issues dividing Turkey and Syria are formidable. Turkey has not yet shown any willingness to withdraw from the territory it occupies – a deal breaker for Assad. The US would prefer the status quo, too. At the beginning of January, the State Department issued its sternest warning yet against normalisation of the Assad regime. ‘We will not normalise and we do not support other countries normalising relations with the Assad regime’, spokesman Ned Price said.

Nonetheless, whether Erdogan and Assad consummate the renewal of Syrian-Turkish relations, even the possibility has sparked uncertainty and fear among civilians and opposition groups across northern Syria. It has also heightened US concern about the status of its campaign against Isis, and renewed EU fears that a new wave of refugees might be coming. Russia’s gambit is a potent reminder that, even if violence has lessened in Syria, the conflict is far from over. In an ideal world, western governments would push forward a proper political settlement, but we’ll probably just get ‘concern’. Diplomacy as usual, then.

[stumpyjoepete]

Really blackpilling on the issue of unemployment vs inflation; expect the next recession to get the 2009-2016 treatment instead of the 2020 one. Private burrito taxi will be cheap, but the only job will be driving a burrito taxi for cheap.

Seeing a lot of delusional takes on social media. "True deliverism has never been tried" sort of stuff.

Not sure who's more to blame on this--the media, the campaign, or the public--, but it is insane to me that the mad-at-grocery-prices voters broke decisively for the guy who is joining the war on inflation on the side of inflation. His top-line policies are raising the price of all imports by 20% and deporting all the farm workers!

American voters listening to Trump talk shit about them are like the garfield propaganda meme. Trump could shoot somebody on Fifth Avenue and not even lose the vote of the guy he shot.

I don't know. I'm reminded of the Mencken quote. Who am I to stand in the way of the people getting what they want.

Looks like a decisive victory for Diarrhea Forever.

[wellthebardsdead]

Reaper: I JOINED OVERWATCH TO CHANGE THE WORLD! MAKE IT A BETTER PLACE! OVERWATCH WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DIFFERENT TO THE POLICE! FREE FROM POLITICAL INFLUENCE AND CORRUPTION! BUT IT WAS JUST ONE HUGE FUCKING LIE! NOBODY LISTENED TO ME WHEN I TOLD THEM SOMETHING WAS UP AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED! LOOK AT HOW IT FELL APART! ALL I WANTED WAS TO HELP PEOPLE!

Cole: THEN WHY ARE YOU SIDING WITH THE ONES MURDERING THEM?!

Reaper: …

Cole: *gestures to the war zone they made of the city* IS THIS HELPING ANYONE EXCEPT YOUR FUCKING STUBBORN PRIDE?! WHO IS BENEFITING FROM THIS BESIDES YOUR INFLATED EGO DAD-

Reaper: …

Cole: …What would Martina think… what about your real son?…

Reaper: … *drops his guns walking to him slowly* …

Cole: *doesn’t move, doesn’t raise his weapon, just stands there looking tired and defeated* …

Reaper: *shadow steps right up to him pulling him into a hug* You were just as much my son as he was Cassie…

Cole: then come home, pl-

*BANG!!!*

Cole: *stands there in shock as Reapers body goes limp sliding off of him and collapsing into a puddle of his own blood, the knife he was seconds from stabbing into the cowboy clinking onto the broken pavement* dad?…

76: *pulse rifle still smoking as he runs to Cole hugging him tight* Cole? Cole talk to me are you hurt? Are you okay? Cole?

Cole: …no…

[hrtiu]

“I’ve finished re-calibrating the exhaust regulator,” Tech said, popping his head into the maintenance shaft where Echo was working. “How is the hyperdrive motivator coming along?”

“It’s fine. I’m still working on it,” Echo said, keeping his eyes on his work.

“You know I can’t start on the hyperdrive navigator until you’re finished with the motivator,” Tech said.

Echo’s jaw clenched, and he gave the support rod an extra vicious twist with his spanner. “I know.”

Tech fell silent, but he didn’t leave. He hovered over Echo’s shoulder, watching him work.

“…are you sure the support rod is what requires attention?” Tech asked. “The capacitor looks-“

“I know you’re smart, Tech, but I’m the one literally hooked in to the ship right now,” Echo snapped.

He turned the spanner one more time, then slapped the side of the motivator, making it hum in response. “See?”

“Ah,” Tech said, offering no apologies. “Excellent. Now I can finally get working on the navigator.”

Tech shimmied out of the maintenance shaft and Echo followed after him, his jaw tight with barely-contained frustration.

“Tech, Echo,” Hunter called from the cockpit. “I need you guys to go on recon and check out our rendezvous point. I don’t want any surprises.”

“-Affirmative,” Tech said.

“-Can’t I go with Wrecker?” Echo asked at the same time.

Tech’s head swung around to Echo, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Wrecker is not well-suited to reconnaissance missions,” he said.

“Fine,” Echo ground out. “Hunter, then.”

“I’m prepping the weapons with Wrecker,” Hunter said. He tilted his head to the side. “You got a problem with Tech, Echo?”

Yeah, actually, I do.” Echo said. “He’s condescending, he overexplains everything, he uses unnecessarily complex vocabulary, he nitpicks on every unimportant detail, he’s not like Fives at all-“

Echo shut his mouth. Tech and Hunter stared back at him, Tech shifting his weight from side to side in discomfort, and Echo wished that he could stuff the words back into his mouth.

“Echo,” Tech said, adjusting his goggles and avoiding Echo’s gaze, “If you no longer wish to work with me-“

“Look, just forget I said anything,” Echo said. He turned and made his way further into the ship. “I’ll be up in the gunner’s nest.”

He climbed up into Omega’s makeshift bedroom and pulled a thick blanket around his shoulders. He sat there for a good while, just listening to the dull hum of the ship and trying not to remember anything. His scomp link hand kept getting caught in the thick fabric of the blanket, though—a constant reminder that things weren’t like they used to be.

Eventually a tentative knock sounded against the durasteel by the ladder.

“Echo?” Tech said. “May I join you? It won’t be for long.”

Echo sighed. “Sure.” Might as well get this over with.

Tech climbed up into the nest and crouched next to Echo, not letting himself get so comfortable as to sit. “I know I am not the easiest person to work with,” he said. “I am very literal. I don’t always pick up on implicit signals. I have… an inflated sense of my own intelligence.”

“Look, Tech, I shouldn’t have said-“

“I’m glad you said it. Like I said, I’m not very good with people, and unless someone tells me what I’m doing wrong I don’t have any idea how to fix it. So… please inform me when I am being obnoxious. I will do my best to improve.”

Echo leaned his head to the side and scratched along one of the sockets protruding from his skull. “It’s not like… You’re really not so bad.”

“A ringing endorsement if I’ve ever heard one,” Tech said dryly.

“Don’t get me wrong, you can be a real pain in the ass sometimes. And I can tell you things you can do different if you want. But that’s not why I was mad.”

“Then… why?”

Echo stared up into the gunner’s window, his eyes not really processing the hazy clouds above. “It’s about my brother Fives.”

Tech waited for Echo to continue, but when he remained silent Tech spoke. “The clone you mentioned earlier?”

“Yeah.” The clouds above floated lazily across the purple sky, but all Echo could see was another time—another place. “We were cadets together. There were five of us—Cutup, Hevy, Droidbait, Fives, and me. We used to fight so much…” Echo chuckled. “We barely made it out of training together.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that the closer the relationship, sometimes, the more frequent the petty conflict.”

Echo nodded. “Yep, that was us. Domino squad. Anyway, we got off Kamino, then when we were still shiny three of us got taken out t commando droids. Then it was just me and Fives.

“And it was like that for most of the war. We were promoted to ARC trooper together, we made it through Umbara together, we went on mission after mission as a two-man team. I know we’re all brothers, but Fives… he was my brother.”

“I… see…” Tech said. “I haven’t developed that close of a personal bond with anyone before, but I can imagine how difficult that might be.”

“It was.” Echo took a deep breath. “And you’re very different from Fives. But it’s not your fault you’re not him.”

Tech sat down next to Echo and looked up through the window. “I’m not,” he agreed. “And I would never presume to try and replace him.”

“Thank you, brother.”

The Marauder hummed between them, the sound of the recently-repaired motivator joining its spirited buzz to the sound.

“I respect your intelligence immensely,” Tech said after a long pause. “I am blunt, so perhaps it doesn’t seem like it, but you are one of the only people I’ve met who I can talk to about my interests.”

“Yeah,” Echo said. “And you get what I can and can’t do with my prosthetics more than anyone else.”

“We’ve lost many brothers,” Tech said, pushing his goggles further up on his nose. “But at least we have each other.”

Echo smirked and shoved Tech with his shoulder, the unexpected push nearly bowling him over. It was just the kind of thing Fives would have done.

“That we do, brother. That we do.”

[ameliasstories]

Mars - Chapter 4

Their first deployment as a unit was on Christophsis.

The planet was beautiful, a cascade of bright blue stone with which the people of this planet built their homes. Obi-Wan remembered how excited Anakin had been to explore the galaxy as a youngster. And as he passed his men, he noted how many of them were looking up at the buildings, down at the tiled floor, sideways at the smatterings of well-tended greenery all around with awe. But Anakin was not focused on the beauties of this planet. No, the newly Knighted Jedi instead had his eyes trained on the horizon, on the dark plumes of smoking rising there.

Obi-Wan missed him already whenever he was away from his side. Perhaps that was why he had been so eager to request a new student. He only hoped he’d have the opportunity to explain his position to Anakin, who was sure to feel defensive and jealous before the new padawan arrived.

“Sir, our intelligence unit just reported back,” said Cody, who had come to stand beside him. His blaster, outfitted with the sniper extension, was held firmly in both hands across his chest. Throughout the first months, Obi-Wan had found himself deferring to his Commander’s judgment more often than not. Despite his past experiences, he discovered quickly that he was not practiced at all in leading a command. He tried not to linger on the loss he could have prevented back on Melidaan, had he known the basic maneuvers Cody and the 212th had been demonstrating already.

But he tore himself away from those thoughts now, gaze focusing again on his commander. “Thank you for letting me know, Cody.” The man in question inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment, something Obi-Wan noticed he did very often. “I’ll let Anakin know to meet us in the war room. If you could prepare the resources there I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Of course, sir,” Cody snapped a salute. Then he headed back off towards the building where they had set up their base of operations, for now, unaware of Obi-Wan’s lingering gaze on his back.

Captain Rex joined him on the way there. He and Anakin were both growing into their command together, guided by their mentors. It wasn’t hard to notice that Cody was something of an older brother figure for many of his troops. But it was clear that he doted on Rex specifically if one knew how to watch out for it. A pat on the back here, a recommendation for him there, and a promotion to ARC and Captain.

Cody was right to foster Rex’s abilities, for he had taken to his own command under Anakin like a fish to water. And Obi-Wan knew to spot it because any person looking closely enough would notice the behavior was shared between him and his former apprentice. As Cody made a case for assigning Rex as Anakin’s Captain, Obi-Wan was making the same case for Anakin’s knighthood in the Council chambers.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan hid his arms in the sleeves of his robes as he approached his former Padawan, who did not turn to greet him, his eyes still fixed on the horizon. “The intelligence is here. We’re requested for a strategy meeting.”

At that, Anakin turned to face him. He looked different now already than he had mere months ago. The clothes of a Jedi Master suited him better than those of a Padawan. His hair was also quite stylish, though Obi-Wan would not risk inflating his ego more than it already had been since he’d begun growing it out. All of the tabloid news was getting to his head, but Obi-Wan could only smile at the newly Knighted boy's excitement at all of the attention he was getting.

“Best not keep our boys waiting then,” he grinned at him, the earlier unease wiped from his face. Obi-Wan shook his head, though his lips quirked upwards into a smile. “Our boys” or “my boys” had become quite the common phrase from Anakin, who had readily accepted all of their troops into his growing family system. His troops seemed to happily accept this dynamic as well.

Anakin fed off of the growing bonds between the clones and him, as did most Jedi, from what Obi-Wan could tell. He did not look down on the urge. And if he did it would be quite hypocritical, considering how excited he’d secretly been when Waxer and Boil had invited him to have lunch with them in the Cafeteria. It felt like a barrier between him and his men had broken. They’d always admired and respected him, but taking meals with them opened up the path to relationships more similar to normal friendships.

“I don’t know if the men really preferred being called that,” Obi-Wan teased, and Anakin waved him off. Both of them set off in the direction of their base of operations, nodding in greeting towards the troopers they saw on the way there. Most of them were still unloading supplies into the warehouses they had established nearby. The blockade demanded their fighters return to the sky as soon as possible, so they wanted to be prepared for the potential of a long siege in this area.

Cody, ever diligent, had already set up their holoprojects with a variety of maps and outlines of their most recent intelligence. An array of red dots were placed around the buildings northeast of them, where the sun was setting outside. Luckily, there were only a few droid hideouts outside of that localized area, and their intelligence teams had proven their abilities thrice over. Though Obi-Wan was always anticipating some nasty surprise, he trusted their information.

There was no doubt in Obi-Wan’s mind that Cody had come up with a number of contingency plans as well. Based on the confidence with which he held himself straight and projected into the force, he had one in particular in mind for them to execute.

“Well,” Obi-Wan approached the table, drawing the attention of Cody and Rex. The Captain had removed his helmet already, but Cody had kept his on. “What’s the plan?”

-

many thanks to my amazing beta @cassie-isms