#i guess this is a little lose interpretation of the prompt

[theellipelli]

I have always imagined what heaven might look like; brilliant and shining ivory, a place where peace is tangible and rest is eternal. Maybe, if the scriptures were right, I’d face the pearly gates, surely intricate in make and gorgeous, and be told of my kindness and good heart. I never thought much of angels, but company seems like it would be expected. Maybe another soul, dressed in comfortable whites, with a gentle voice welcoming me to my final home. 

What heaven turns out to be, once my mind wakes, is a run-down shack with gaps of sunlight peeking through both the uneven roof and gaps in the wooden walls. A peasant home, judging by the clothes folded over the back of a chair, the hand-carved bowls, the simple kitchen. Sprinkles of dust shine in the gaps of sunlight, a poor man's imitation of fickle snowfall. If not for the warmth and knowing summer to be right around the corner, I might have assumed it was. 

The shack only contains a square single room, generous in size for being a peasants house, but cramped for someone to comfortably live with another. Houses like this are unfamiliar to me, and the bleakness of it momentarily takes me so far away that I make no note of the bed pushed up against the corner behind me.

“Hideous, isn’t it?” 

The bed, strangely fine amongst the rest of a house, is occupied by layers upon layers of felts and pillows, and a single frail-looking woman. Her hair is cut short, like a man's, and her skin is almost transparent. Her cheeks are gaunt, and the circles under her eyes are so dark it could be mistaken for coal or dirt. 

Despite her wretched appearance, her eyes are brilliant and vibrantly green. 

“It’s…” I begin, choosing carefully what to say, “...quaint.”

The woman looks slightly older than I, but it’s hard to tell due to her seeming poor health. She smiles at my words, leaning back into the large bulk of pillows and closing her eyes. “Flattery has no place here,” she says, voice faint. The way she speaks makes it seem like she’s fighting to keep herself from coughing. “You look like a fine woman. I’m sure this place is as quaint as a cave to you.”

She’s correct, although admitting to it feels rude. I would rather not begin my afterlife with arrogance, no matter how much my husband would have encouraged it. 

“Where am I?” I ask, awkwardly wringing my fingers behind my back. 

The woman hums. “Would you like to sit? Grab one of the chairs, and come here. I can’t see you well over there.” She opens her eyes and waves towards one of the chairs tucked into the sides of the dining table. “My husband won't be back for another hour. Come, come.”

I contemplate my options but eventually decide there is no harm in resting, too. I grab the chair with no clothes slung over it and drag it over towards the bed, tucking my dress between my knees and sitting down. 

The woman smiles at me, again, before turning back to her pillow and closing her eyes. “So, then,” she says. “Where might you be from?”

“The city,” I say. “My husband owns a store there.”

She hums. “What kind?”

My wedding ring is a comforting weight on my finger, even though I cannot recall ever putting it on this morning. It’s golden and simple, and surely enough to buy this house ten times over. “A hat shop at main square.”

The woman seems to think for a moment. “Might your husband be Arthur King?”

“Um,” I say, momentarily stunned. “I— yes. Do you know him?”

She shakes her head. “Not personally. You must be Mrs. King, then?”

“Shirley,” I say. “How do you know of my husband?”

She opens her eyes but does not stare at me. Gaze fastened on the wall in front of her, she says, “My daughter is a big fan of his work.” Her tone isn’t sombre, but distant. “Before I fell ill, I would take her to your shop and we would try out some of the hats together. Pretending to be nobles, and all that.”

I try to think back on all our customers throughout the years, but no face in my memory matches the woman. “Really?”

She laughs breathlessly. “Yes, but it was a long time ago. My daughter has long since moved away from here. Now it’s just my husband and I.”

I lean back in the chair and allow myself another inspection of the house. There’s a large, burly winter coat tossed over a chair and pushed away from the middle of the room, and an extra pair of winter shoes placed beside a smaller pair of worn sandals by the door.

“Is he not home?” I ask. 

The woman keeps smiling, but she gains an air of melancholy. “I’m sure you would know that better than I.”

I turn back towards her. “What do you mean?”

For the first time since I’d arrived, the woman turns to stare at me. She’s no longer smiling, and her vibrant eyes brim with pity. “It really is unfair,” she says, “to have to speak to me before the end. These days, my only company is the dead. I’m sorry.” 

The last part is spoken with such genuine grief that for a moment I think she might have been the one to kill me. But no, I remember him with clarity. Large and strong—this woman’s complete opposite. But grief and pity from an innocent and sickly woman is uncomfortable, so instead of anything wise, I only say “It’s alright. You mustn’t worry. This is just how things go.”

The woman scoffs, looking perturbed. “Have you no regard for your life, young lady? Someone so young should not have to die so pathetically, and then spend their final moments on Earth talking to this poor, sickly old woman. Your kindness is misplaced, let me tell you.”

“For what reason should I blame you?” I ask. This woman is pleasant, and kind, and reminds me a bit of my mother. I wouldn’t want her to worry over something worthless, like my demise. “I know who killed me, and it was certainly not you.”

“You don’t understand, my lady,” she says, brows furrowed in annoyance. “I also know who killed you.”

She opens her mouth to elaborate further but stops herself when the door to the shack swings wide open and another person enters. The summer day outside is blinding, and I cannot parse any landmark of note before the door shuts once again. In the entryway, removing his shoes with care I could never imagine from him, stands the large burly man who had ended my life, only a few hours prior. 

My mind recognises him as much as my body, and I feel the pain of his hands around my throat again. I can’t move. Has he come to end me again? Despite my body wanting nothing but, I stand and square my shoulders. My chair tips backwards and falls onto the floor. The man, despite the noise, does not react at all. 

The woman on the bed shares none of my urgency. With a tone the man is undeserving of, she says fondly, “My foolish husband.”

Her husband neatly places his shoes together beside the smaller sandals and then stands at his full height. He’s much taller than my husband, but his face is rounder and gentler. It surprises me—I do not remember him being neither round nor gentle. At the moment, he’d been sharper than my Arthur. This man looks nothing like the killer I know him to be.

His gaze travels across the shack and I stop breathing as it falls on me. Then, as though I were not there, his eyes continue trailing until they stop and rest on the bed. He breaks out into a smile that could rival the one my husband wears each morning, and my heart aches. 

He grabs the chair with the winter coat and places it beside the bed, in the space where I had just sat. My chair is no longer on the floor but has magically returned to the dinner table. He leans forward, hopping forward on the chair until his knees are pressed against the side of the bed. Then he gently clasps one of the woman's hands in his and presses it to his forehead.

“Eda,” he says, as fondly as the woman had called for him, “I’m sorry for being gone so long.”

The woman tuts. “You could have been gone a bit longer,” she says, but she smiles as she speaks. “Can’t you see I have company?”

The man does not react to her voice, lowering her hand to rest above the bed covers. “But I had good reason today,” he says, letting go of her hand and removing something from his pant pocket. He pulls out a small little thing that reflects the stray sunlight, and I have to lean forward to make out the shape of it. I recognise it like I had recognised him.

My wedding ring. My beautiful golden ring, from my beloved Arthur. The woman stares at it with untold grief. I stare at her with barely withheld rage. The man continues talking to his wife, but I spare little thought to his words. 

The woman’s entire body stills of breath and her shoulders slump. “My husband loves me very much,” she says, voice sullen. “And my health has left him confused and desperate. You are only one of many to have fallen for my sake, I’m afraid.”

I stare at her, clenching and unclenching my fists. I no longer feel the weight of my wedding ring around my finger. “And yet you turn a blind eye to his deeds?”

The woman sighs, eyes trained on her still-talking husband. “These days, I can barely stay awake long enough to eat, let alone talk to him. What am I to do? Forgive me my selfishness,” she says, glancing at me, “but I also want to live. I don’t know what else—” 

She falters, her words stopping short. Her gaze moves from me to the open palm of her hand lying in her lap. She splays out her fingers a little wider. Her husband keeps talking.

“Everyone wants to live,” she says. “I’m not unique in wanting that. And—I am sorry for the pain my foolish husband has caused you and your family. But…” Her gaze sharpens, and the vibrancy of her eyes make them almost shine. “These are our circumstances. I will live with these regrets until I die. And when I die, too, let your hatred go with it. If there comes a day when I can leave this bed, I swear I’ll make sure to let your husband know of everything.”

“Am I not allowed hatred for your husband?” I ask. I do not want to hate this woman.

The woman scoffs. “Allowed? Who cares about that? I’m asking you to hate me instead. I’ve put my husband through so much already. If your hatred is the one thing I can spare him, I will. Besides—” she tilts her head to the side, as though gazing out a window that isn’t there, “I’m sure someone else will come tomorrow, harbouring even more hatred. And I will ask them, too, to turn their wrath towards me. Not because I am deserving of it, but because I welcome it.”

She turns to me, eyes brilliantly green. “I wish for you to go quietly into the night. If that’s not something you’d like, forgive me. This is hard on all of us.”

“And yet, you live,” I scoff. 

“And yet,” the woman agrees, “I live. But not for long. If you have nothing else to say, the door is unlocked.”

Her husband stops his exhausting tirade, standing from his chair with glee. He pushes it back from the bed and staggers upward, crossing through the shack to the small makeshift kitchen, rooting through drawers. I stare, and I think.

I love my husband very much. I wonder if I will miss him in heaven. I wonder if he will miss me, stuck on Earth. Then, somewhat morbidly, I think: would he do all of this for me? 

Probably not. My husband is a dull man. Things pass through him like grains through a hand. If I were to fall ill, he would continue as always. Even now, I’m sure my passing won't be enough to deter him from living his life.

Momentarily, the thought angers me. Why not, I think. Why wouldn’t you do all of this for me? Do you not love me enough? But it is a foolish thought. I do not want my husband to fall apart for me. I would have liked to live a little bit longer, though, so he could have a portrait of me above the mantle. 

“Continue living,” I say, staring at her husband as though my words are for her. “And make sure my wedding ring sells for at least eight hundred sterlings. If your husband sells it for any lower, I’ll come back to haunt you until your final day.”

The woman laughs, fully from her chest. It rings clear and true, betraying her sickly appearance and scratchy voice. “That, at least, I can do. Thank you for your company, Shirley King.”

I know her name is Eda, but it does not feel right on my lips. Instead, I offer her a nod and then, without looking back, I walk across the room and open the door to the outside. 

It turns out when you die you don’t face your own God, but instead face the God of whomever or whatever killed you.

[puppy-phum]

Pit Babe Characters x Cartomancy ➣ Part 6: Pete & Way

King of Diamonds: A person with great wealth and power. Often skilled in various areas, a jack of all trades. Ten of Spades: A card of misfortune and tragic endings. Reveals secrets, obsessions, and lies.

for @pitbabeanniversary week 6 prompts: pete & way

(more thoughts under the cut!)

disclaimer: i am not an expert in either cartomancy or tarot reading. i did a lot of research on these two sites to come up with these cards for the characters. some of the meanings associated with the cards are still only my own interpretation, so they might not be completely accurate.

pete and way are the last pair in this series and i have to say that it feels fitting. they are the pair with no ending, the pair left the most incomplete in season 1. way dies for redemption (which is stupid imo) before he's able to ever open up to pete and his attempts to get closer to way. pete is only left with a grave, yet nothing seems to end. (pls s2 come quicker, i need way to have his glorious back from the dead -moment already!)

pete: just like alan, i think pete's card is very obvious and so, very cliché. he's the king of diamonds through and through, the person often associated with money and power. he's very proud of what he's accomplished in life, yet always thrives to be more, to be bigger, better, more powerful. he's in a war against his adoptive father in the only way he knows how, and so he must always be on the rise. he has no chance of letting loose, and i think we all can agree that he works way too much and rests too little. he is often stuck being not quite himself, lonely at the top. it must be hard when we can see that beneath the business persona, pete is horribly warm.

this is why king of diamonds is also described as charitable, generous, and reliable. once again, pete is a lot like alan, but where alan offers his heart, pete offers resources: money, connections, and his skills. he's tried his best to become invincible in every way just like his adoptive father seems to be. he's great in socializing, in doing business, even in combat and tactics. he's driven by his wish to help, and i guess that often ties to his compassion and understanding. that's why he hasn't given up on kenta and that's why he instantly reaches out for way, too. pete might not be able to provide a family in the way alan does, but pete is able to reach out a helping hand. he can offer a place to stay for those who have nowhere else to go and no one else to listen to them. he cares, and just like with work, it's sometimes too much. he does not get a break from it.

way: it was easy to decide that spades was way's suit; a little later, i decided on number ten. i was first thinking about ace of spades bc it's the death card of the deck, but i did not want to make way only about his death when it's the thing i dislike about his character so much. so, i decided on ten bc of the "tragic ending", which is not way's death, even if it kind of is. i think the true tragic ending comes for him earlier; with the reveal of his betrayal that causes him to lose everything he's ever had. he loses his pack, his family, his home; he loses himself, and all his self-worth, and worst of all, babe. bc he does love babe, even if it's in all the wrong ways. way has tried his best, has tried to do what he thought was right, and in the end, it is not enough to solve anything or save babe. (and so he must die, but let's ignore that.)

in a sense, the reveal of that betrayal is both the end and a beginning for way. after it's it's a way for him to be born again. he can give up on all the lies, all the acting and pretending. he's used so much time and effort keeping up his web of lies he must be exhausted by now. how many times did he almost trip? how many times did he forget what lies he'd told and had to come up with new ones, or had to use his powers to fix his mistakes? now, there's no longer need for any of that. he can finally breathe freely. no more lies, no more acting, no more being someone else. everything is out in the open and it must be terrifying bc the ppl who loved him before, would they reject this real version of him? even if they were not this hurt, didn't hate him, would they still not want way? what if tony is right and there's nothing to love about him? i don't know but i hate that the series never let way find out. but well, in season 2 we trust, i suppose. i have hopes and dreams about it <3

but based on these thoughts, it's easy to see why pete and way would work together. way is the master of deception, of lies and acting. pete is able to read people, literally and figuratively. there's no hiding from him and his touch, and i think in some ways, way needs exactly that. he needs someone to understand him without words, or to look into his head and put his thoughts into words for him. pete again needs someone he can trust with his softer side, which i also find interesting about him: he is so ready to offer his heart to way even after knowing who way is and what his powers can do. pete seems like a paradox in that sense, always keeping everyone and everything at a distance (or so i assume), yet being so ready to believe in ppl and offer them trust he's seen so easily broken.

there are also some other interesting connections to this pair i wanted to mention. the funniest coincidence imo is that babe's card is about new beginnings, while way's card is now about tragic or bad endings. also, charlie's card being the exact half of way's (5 and 10) seems to have some kind of story behind it. pete again has the same suit as kenta, both their cards in the royal family, and i think that's exactly why they work and don't work together. pete is exactly like the king, the one on top and in control, while kenta is the knight, the person who serves and follows. they're both calm in personality, tho am not sure if it's exactly who they are or if it's who they were forced to become. i wonder what could've been if kenta had left with pete – or if they'd never been taken by tony at all and had grown up like other kids.

this edit concludes my musings for all these characters. it's been a joy to make these and ponder on these boys, and honestly, i feel like i've found a completely new love and appreciation for all of them. thank you for all who have liked these edits and happy anniversary to the vroom vroom omegaverse bl, you've been stellar ♥ never thought i'd come back to you in a year but here we are, have my whole heart!

(idk if i'll make an edit for the last week, so also adding that i enjoyed the event a ton! it's been fun going to the tag and seeing everybody talk about the series again. looking forward to s2 and the anniversary stage live in less than two weeks ^^)

[the-insomniac-emporium]

random RL headcanons: game night edition

Mia is weirdly and inexplicably good at charades/any similar games. just anything to do with abstract communication. Poetry With Neanderthals is a personal favorite of hers.

(silly OC addition: Mia and Caldwell have a game they created for parties that's essentially just an alternate version of charades. Caldwell, who is cursed and cannot speak coherently, draws a prompt from a hat, and has to try to explain it. the audience is split into teams and attempts to guess the prompt. Mia, who is an expert at interpreting Caldwell's speech, is usually barred from playing (the exception being themed rounds where the theme is outside her specialties) and acts as a judge/curates the prompt list)

Angie is both very, very good and very, very bad at Monopoly Cheater's Edition. seems to get better the more she's had to drink, of course. gets caught cheating 90% of the time, but usually manages to pull off something insane near the end of the game.

Bela is surprisingly killer at games like Cards Against Humanity. nobody ever expects her to play the cards she does, no matter how many times they've played with her. equally an expert at games where having a good memory comes in handy.

Cassandra excels at games of deception, trickery, and mindfucks. playing a game like Werewolf with her is honestly insane. will attempt to "seduce" (i.e. distract) players she thinks are close to figuring her out. she's also decent at trivia games, but likes to narrow down the categories if the other players are cool with that.

Dani mostly likes chill, shorter games (the kind where you can play multiple rounds in one sitting), especially card games. I can see her enjoying Here To Slay, Muffin Time, and Happy Little Dinosaurs. on a semi-related note I think she low-key went through a magic trick/sleight of hand phase, but these days she doesn't usually do tricks unless she's had a couple drinks and someone brings it up.

Miranda prefers 1v1 games... on the rare occasion where someone (*cough* MC *cough*) convinces her to play. she's decent at actual chess, but is prone to starting out overconfident, only to end up getting flustered towards the end because she overthinks her moves. do not play checkers with her. she will win. you will lose. you will lose by an embarrassingly large margin.

Alcina is only slightly more interested in games than Miranda, and usually uses them as an excuse to socialize. likes big group games where there are opportunities to chat with other players while someone else makes their turn. probably plays the kinds of games that I've seen on TV a lot (classics like Mahjong) but don't personally have enough experience to talk about.

Donna kicks ass at pool, but almost never plays. you (and Angie) would have to talk her into it. totally worth it tho, because she'll have a lot of fun, especially if you're on her team and let her "show you the ropes". if you catch my drift ;) aka that thing where she'll lean a lot of her body against you, her arms alongside yours, helping move you into position. that thing tv shows/movies do to increase sexual tension between two characters.

Mia is also unfairly good at darts. it's honestly really attractive.

[thebibutterflyao3]

Day 8 - Prompt: Resist @pandalilymicrofics

February Daily Series - 674 words

<<<Previous Part OR Start Here

Pandora was startled when the hem of Lily’s long tweed coat brushed her shoulder. For the first time in the half hour since they met, Lily was close enough to touch. Granted, it was because she was pointing to a box on the opposite side of the table, but still.

It’s progress of some kind, right?

As humiliating as it was to lose control of her words (not once, but twice!) in front of this stunning woman, Pandora couldn’t be bothered to dwell on it. The moment when Lily said her name was permanently etched on her brain. It was entirely justified for her response to be nothing more than a breathless “hi” afterwards, she was only human.

“Yes, diolch. That’s all,” Lily said.

Pandora didn’t have to look up to know she was smiling because delight radiated in her voice. The urge to press a hand to the warm aura that surrounded Lily was overwhelming, but she forced herself to resist. It seemed disrespectful to interact with a stranger’s aura without their consent.

When she’d calmed a bit, she stood up and purchased two packets of the mixed fruit sweets. After spending a full five minutes digging through them, she couldn’t bring herself to admit that she didn’t want them. Regulus would like them, she was sure.

“So, is there anything else you’d like to see?” Lily asked. She was walking closer now, Pandora realised.

“You’re the local. What do you like about the Yule Festival?”

Lily bobbed her head side to side and pursed her lips. After a few moments of thought, she said, “Probably the dancing at the end.”

“Then why come so early?”

“Mary likes to shop at the stalls, Alice and Remus love the sweets.”

“Ah, your friends. I should have guessed,” Pandora replied.

No wonder she’s bored.

Lily hummed an acknowledgment as she matched Pandora’s stride. “It’s a tradition, that’s all.”

Now that they were side by side, Pandora couldn’t help noticing how perfectly their heights complimented each other. Lily was around four inches taller. She was just tall enough for Pandora to comfortably rest her head on Lily’s shoulder, or for giving Pandora forehead kisses like James gave to Regulus. The image her mind offered was so lovely, it made her heart ache.

That’s what I want, more than anything.

As they moved through the crowded path, Pandora searched the stalls for a distraction. Something, anything that she could point to, comment on, or ask about to break the tense silence they’d fallen into. Everything they passed was rather commonplace though.

She needed a plan. Shoving them together had clearly been the full extent of James’s attempt at matchmaking. Surely, Pandora could do better.

“Oh look, there’s Mary and Alice,” Lily said, waving at her friends. “Come on. Let’s catch up.”

Pandora sighed heavily as she watched the curvy redhead sprint after them. She’d squandered her chance to impress Lily and didn’t know when she would find another opportunity to chat her up one-on-one. Worst of all, she still hadn’t learned much about her. She likes to dance, her neighbors call her ‘Liliana,’ and she was the perfect height. It was a distinctly unimpressive list.

What is wrong with me? Why am I so flustered?

The short answer was simple: tight denim wrapped her thick thighs, gloss emphasized full lips, and her fingers itched to map the freckles dotting every square inch of skin that wasn’t covered.

The slightly longer answer was a little bit more co'mplicated: Lily was a fascinating conundrum that needed to be figured out. While she talked rather comfortably with people, Lily never gave much away. The words she offered were empty of substance, but couched in an earnest, straightforward tone. A tone that left no room for doubt or interpretation. Pandora adored her already and she had only seen the sweet as sugar coating. There was an intensity buried beneath it that Pandora wanted to see for herself.

Or better yet, I could sink my teeth into her and devour her whole.

Next Part>>>

[griseldabanks]

Okay, here goes. For my birthday I'd like 21 and 29 from Let Me Count the Ways, in one fic for Ed and Al in the foster family au. Make it angsty, but also lots of hugs please! (You know what I like.)

--Rain

Let Me Count the Ways ask game

Prompts: "I should have told you this a long time ago." and "It's not my fault."

Ed couldn't sleep. It was one of those warm, clear nights where the moon was full and so bright it lit up the room almost as bright as day, only with cool silvery light instead of the golden warmth of the sun. On nights like this back home, Mom would take them stargazing. She would point out all the constellations, and they would take turns looking through the telescope until Al was about to nod off, and then they'd go home and fall asleep over mugs of hot chocolate.

But now they lived in the suburbs. Roy and Riza were fast asleep, and it had probably never occurred to them to go stargazing, and you couldn't see many stars anyway because of the city lights.

A creak in the bed across the room made Ed roll over to look. Al sat on the edge of his bed, gazing out the open window with a wistful expression. The moonlight washed over his skin, turning it to ivory. He could have been a statue. The statue of a sad little boy whose mother would never take him stargazing again.

Ed sat up, drawing Al's attention. Sitting cross-legged on the edge of his bed and dangling his one foot over the edge, Ed said softly, “I miss it too. Looking at the stars.”

Hugging himself as if chilled by the warm breeze, Al looked mournfully across at him. It wouldn't be the same without Mom, his eyes said. He could always tell what Al meant to say, even though no sound passed his lips.

Ed swallowed hard. Al's grief was like a knife in his ribs, in a way harder to bear than his own. It wasn't fair that Al had to grow up like this. It wasn't fair that he had to live with foster parents instead of real ones. It wasn't fair that Ed had to interpret his words instead of listening to them.

The knife stabbed harder into his side. It had been there all along, ever since that awful day....

“Al...” he whispered. “There's...something I need to tell you. Something...I should've told you this a long time ago, but I was...I was scared, I guess, of what you might say.”

Al's brow furrowed and he tilted his head to one side in confusion.

Clearing his throat, Ed dropped his gaze to the floor, where the blinds made stripes of moonlight and shadow on the floorboards. He hesitated, heart hammering against his ribs. Then, just like the first time he'd jumped into the deep end of the pool, he took a deep breath and plunged in before he could lose his nerve.

“It's my fault Mom's dead.”

He didn't dare look up to see Al's expression, but he could easily hear the sharp intake of breath. “You didn't know where we were going that night, did you?”

He heard, more than saw, Al shake his head.

“We were going to meet...him.” Ed grimaced around the sour taste in his mouth at the hazy memory of their father. He only had one image of his father in his head: the day he walked out the door.

His hands curled into fists on his knees. “He'd been sending letters. For weeks. Asking Mom if he could see us. You know how it was always my job to go check the mailbox? Well, I saw his name, and so I...hid them. Each time one would come in, I wouldn't give it to Mom, I'd read it myself and then I'd hide it under my mattress. But I didn't think about him calling on the phone. So that night...you remember how she took that phone call into her room for like an hour, and then she came out and said we had to get in the car? That's why. Because she was taking us to see him.”

All he'd wanted was to protect Mom from that jerk who'd left them. He was a traitor to their family, so they shouldn't want anything to do with him. But Ed wasn't an idiot. He may have only been eleven, but he'd heard the way Mom would talk about him, the longing way she'd look at his photos in the hallway. If he ever showed his face around town again, Ed knew she'd go running to him in a heartbeat. And just end up heartbroken all over again.

“But...if I hadn't hidden the letters...if she'd been reading them all along...it wouldn't have been that night. They would've arranged a meeting some other time, when it wasn't raining, and then she wouldn't have been so...crying and distracted...and then it wouldn't...she wouldn't have....”

A warm arm around his shoulders brought him up short. He squeezed his eyes shut, and only when he felt tears dripping onto his knee did he realize he was crying.

He sat stiffly, not leaning into Al's embrace. He didn't deserve this sympathy. He didn't even deserve to cry. “It's...It's my fault,” he choked out. “It's my fault we're...like this.”

Al's hand covered his, but he said nothing. He never said anything. He was locked in a prison of silence, all because of his stupid, stupid brother....

“You should hate me,” he whispered. “I wouldn't blame you if you did.”

Al let go of his hand and cupped Ed's cheek, gently raising it so they could meet each other's gaze. Ed looked into his brother's eyes, turned silvery in the moonlight, and he knew what Al would have said if he could: I don't blame you, brother.

“Why not?” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to bear the forgiveness and gentle understanding anymore. “Why don't you hate me?”

A warm forehead nudged gently against his. Keeping one hand pressed to Ed's cheek, Al reached for Ed's and pressed his palm against his own cheek. It was wet too now.

“I know,” Ed murmured. “We're all we've got. But...that's my fault too.”

Pulling back just enough to look each other in the eye again, Al shook him slightly. Suddenly, he was all steel and stubbornness, despite the tears still trailing down his cheeks. He stabbed a finger at Ed's chest and shook his head emphatically.

“What?” Ed frowned. “You're saying it's not my fault?”

Al nodded.

“You don't blame me because it's not my fault?”

Nod.

Ed looked away, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “That's nice, Al. But I don't believe it.”

A sudden punch in the shoulder brought his attention back to Al. The glare sent his way said louder than any words, You should. Because it's true.

Scrubbing his hands over his cheeks to wipe away the tears, Ed shook his head. “Yeah, that's what all the shrinks tell me. But what do they know?”

Al leapt to his feet and smacked a hand on his chest. I know. I was there. Then he marched over to his dresser and grabbed the framed photo sitting there between piles of library books and the little collection of rocks and feathers he'd begun to accumulate. He stomped back over to Ed and shoved the picture right in front of Ed's face.

Their mother beamed back at him, her arms around a much younger Ed and Al. They all looked so happy. So content.

Ed glanced up at his brother, who insistently shoved the picture into Ed's hands. He looked down at his mother's smiling face, and for the first time, he tried to imagine what she would say if she were here. If he'd actually gotten a chance to apologize for what he'd done.

No, Ed. Don't blame yourself. It wasn't anyone's fault. The road was slick, and neither of us saw what was happening until it was too late. I'm so sorry that you and Al were hurt. But most of all, I'm sorry that I'm not there to tell you in person.

Maybe it was because he'd gotten so used to interpreting Al's silences and facial expressions, but Ed almost thought he could hear his mother's voice. A drop of moisture fell onto the glass in the frame, right over her smiling face, quickly followed by another and another.

“She'd say...sh-she'd say...it's n-not my fault....”

Al sat down on the bed beside Ed again, and when Ed blinked the tears away, he nodded with a sad little smile. Encouraging him to say it again.

“It's not my fault....” Once he said the words and really, truly believed them, Ed couldn't seem to stop saying them. “It's not my fault...it's not my fault....”

Crawling into Ed's bed, Al tugged at Ed's sleeve until he slid under the covers as well. Together, they sat and looked at the picture of their mother, resting their heads against each other.

Sometimes, Ed broke the silence by whispering, “So you don't hate me?” or “You sure it's not my fault?” And each time, Al shook his head and dried his brother's tears with a corner of the sheet. Slowly, slowly, the words settled in his heart and began to sound true.

The next morning, when Riza came in to wake the boys for breakfast, she found them slumped against the headboard, heads resting against each other and hands tightly clasped. With a smile, Riza softly backed out of the room and let them sleep a little longer.

[tarnishedxknight]

FFXII Week ~ Day 2 Prompt: Esper

{out of dalmasca} Disclaimer: This post may include canon-divergent interpretations of canon characters, info about OCs featured on this blog, and AUs that may not align with the canon plot/characters of FFXII and/or may contain triggering material.

- - - - - - - - - -

Alright, let's discuss Espers a bit, look at their origins and existences, and explore some interesting ideas for how they fit (or could have fit) into the overarching plot of FFXII...

Espers for me have always been a mixed bag of emotions. They're fun to summon and use in combat, they're visually incredible, and they're certainly helpful, but I can't help but wonder... do they like their existence? Are they... okay? Has anybody ever asked them? It seems like slavery to me. But then, I guess that was the point, to punish them for their hubris. The Occuria made the Espers, but when they grew to be too arrogant, their answer was to bind their souls to magical glyphs and to essentially doom them to eternal slavery. That seems... a bit harsh. Maybe just some good parenting would have helped the situation? A little discipline and instruction? A nice sit-down talk? Nope, let's just take all these amazing creatures we created and enslave them, that seems like the best thing to do.

Does anyone else feel really badly for them? I know they're super powerful beings, some of them borderline evil if not simply outright destructive, but... to be imprisoned for eternity, only to be freed to do the bidding of others... it seems really cruel. And whenever they are summoned to do the bidding of others, it's usually to battle someone or something. So they get let out, they get beat up and hurt and might be in a lot of pain, and then... whether they win or lose, they just get dismissed. It's enough to make me want to advocate for Esper rights or something, haha.

Nevertheless, I always did find them interesting. The designs for each of them were nothing short of artistic, and their weapons and spells were always so interesting to watch as they played out. I wish that we had gotten to see a bit more of them in the actual game, though, regardless of whether you as a player chose to make a lot of use of them or not. I wish we would have had some character-Esper bonding moments, like Yuna with Valefor in FFX. That would've been kinda cool, but I do get that it wouldn't have lent much to the story.

It could have, though. I always thought, with the origin of the Espers being that they were created by the Occuria, that there was a bit of a lost opportunity there with regard to the overall plot of the game. We've got Occuria trying to control mankind, rogue "heretic" Occuria who want to help mankind achieve their own goals instead of being manipulated into keeping some overarching, abstract Balance... but what of other creatures that had been manipulated by the Occuria? Or at least, taken advantage of?

It might have been interesting to hear the Espers' thoughts on their Occurian creators, those that could communicate well enough to do so. And I think it would have been very interesting if maybe someone of them could somehow be freed (maybe Ashe with her special, superpowered, Dynast magic could do it? I dunno) and choose to join with mankind to end the age of the Occuria? This could also tie in with the choice Ashe has to make, between revenge and finding a peaceful way to end the war. The Espers would have to choose between helping mankind to be free of the Occuria, as they would also wish to be free, and wanting to get back at the Occuria in anger for imprisoning them.

Their redemption/maturation arc could then have coincided with Ashelia's in an interesting way. Maybe a subset of the Espers agree to help for the right reasons and are granted permanent freedom afterward because of it? At the very least, it could have been an interesting side quest, to have one of them somehow summon itself one time through sheer force of will and be like hey... I want to help. Like, genuinely help. For the right reasons. *shrugs* Maybe it works, mayeb it doesn't, but I think the Espers' connection to the Occuria was a real missed opportunity to add a non-human facet to the question... are the Occuria guardians gods, or are they manipulative beings with their own agenda?

I realize FFXII was already a really long game, and adding another subplot to it probably just wasn't feasible. However, with all the cyclic and recurring themes of identity, freedom, morality, being trapped by one's past, and having hope for a better future that exist in the game, the Espers' plights would fit in perfectly. To see some of them genuinely learn humility from their punishment and change their ways, lower themselves to work with humes and not only be forced to do their bidding, and recognize that their power could be used to help ivalice transition into a better future without the use of nethicite... that would have been a truly interesting endeavor, in my opinion.

And finally... shoutout to my favorite Esper: Zalera, The Death Seraph...

A badass, winged, armored skeleton/dark angel with a shamaness/necromancer chick attached to his shoulder? Um, yes please? My goth self loved that a little too much, heh. Just an awesome design, and so cool to watch in combat. =)

[ffxivaltaholic]

Prompt #14: Telling

#FFxivWrite2024

Tells? I suppose if anyone is to give advice on gambling... It could be me... I did get a entire ship and crew out of it. Alright, listen up then the Captain is speaking.

Firstly, everyone has them, and if you play cards and gamble as frequently as I do, you learn what the most common ones are, and if you play enough of the same people, you should eventually pick up on the even the most insignificant tells.

Perhaps it was due to my upbringing in the tribe, but reading another's body language is second nature to me, and such a skills has kept me alive this long. It is the little subconscious ticks each person displays without even realizing it, on display for my interpreting. Some are quite easy, a nervous twirl of a lock of hair, or a shaky leg, maybe tapping of nails, and others more subtle and subdued in an attempt to hide them from challengers. You wouldn't think such small movements could reveal so much about a person and their intentions, but it truly does. Having such knowledge and experience has helped me escape my fair share of trouble in the past as well...

It becomes particularly important when the stakes are higher, as your risk factor increases as well, so learning your opponent is crucial. Know how many drinks it takes to get them off their edge, learn what expressions they make right before they win or lose a hand; it is things such as this that become vital to winning the end game. Of course you could always cheat, but that comes with a slew of other risks that most are not comfortable taking. Heed my words carefully with this one. If you are to cheat, you must treat every match as one that could take your life instead of just your gil.

The most important bit of advice I can impart on you though... Know yourself first. Learn your own tells and how to control them, you do not want to be like a statue as it comes off suspicious and uncomfortable, but ensure you know yourself thoroughly so it cannot be used against you. If anything, once you have an understanding of yourself, it can be used to your advantage to trick others who have misread the tells.

I guess have a little fun too?

Just don't be stupid...

[gotjacobian]

AI art discourse has made me realize that my philosophical position on what makes art worth making and consuming, which I previously thought was pretty bog-standard, is actually kind of nuanced and weird. I see a lot of people complaining that AI art isn’t ‘real’ art, because it doesn’t take (enough) human labor to create. And I see other people responding with the history of technological tools replacing human labor in art, and calling the first group butthurt about being one-upped by a machine and losing their theoretical art-creating livelihoods. 

I am… somewhat sympathetic to both these positions, I guess, as both an artist and an AI researcher. I can see where they come from. But personally, I don’t see the distinction between art created by a human versus art created with an AI system to be primarily measured by the amount of labor involved, or by the quality of output. It doesn’t matter to me whether art made by AI took 10 years or 10 minutes to make, or looks human-like or not when I’m considering its ‘realness’. What matters to me more is the interpretive lens that comes with knowing something was created by an experiencing agent or not. 

I’ll try and untangle that - when I’m looking at art, I’m interpreting the choices the artist made in creating that piece - why they chose to do X, to use Y tools, to share it in Z context. The thing that impressed and scared me most when first seeing the art created by prompt-recreating diffusion models was the level of detail and consistency included across those ‘choices’ in a piece, the things that contribute to mood and style being replicated in a way that’s, sure, nigh-indistiguishable from what a human might pick. But that ‘might’ carries a lot of weight to me. What I find meaningful is where those choices are grounded in a specific human’s experience and worldview. My goal in consuming art, generally, is to be in communication with whoever created it - to receive something of what they’re sending into the world. 

This doesn’t just differentiate AI-created art and human-created art in my mind - it also differentiates art made by large corporate teams from that of independent artists, or pieces that are mass replicated versus pieces that are one-of-a-kind. Not that any of those things aren’t art. It’s just part of the context that informs how I experience it, and I don’t get much out of treating one kind of art like I’d treat another. I relate to humans differently than I do to systems.  From that position, I personally find analyzing AI art to be generally… uninteresting, I guess? You can’t meaningfully use the same tools you would to think about the piece if a human made it. You can do a sort of extreme formal analysis I guess where you say why it works without saying anything about how it came to be. But, I like having there be someone behind the art I consume to think about. When I see AI art, I’m thinking about the whole of human artistic output over a period of time, or about algorithmic curation, or about the nonconsensual use of the art, style, and choices of specific artists. I’m thinking about what differentiates problems we can solve with more data versus problems we can’t, and what makes a difference between something that looks like it was made by someone like me, versus something that actually was. 

I’m gonna amend my earlier statement, actually. These are things I find interesting. When you use an appropriate position to think about, examine, and critique AI art, I find it extremely interesting. But I think the “AI Art is real art” crowd, when they say that, are trying to say that AI art can be treated indistinguishably from real art in the marketplace of ideas (and art). And I don’t just disagree with that, it breaks my heart a little to think that what people want from art is to be able to ignore how it came into existence. It feels deliberately ignorant of a whole swath of human history and experience, and of the part of what art *is* that means the most to me. 

A side note: I’ve seen people argue that the act of prompting and curating the output of an AI model is enough to add this grounded perspective. I’m personally skeptical. I see it more as the work of someone scrolling through a database of images for a specific use. Based on my understanding of how the models work, this process reads to me more as the model reusing the choices other artists have made rather than “making” them based on the prompt, and I don’t find that comparable to the kind of reuse or referencing a human would do. This starts to get into some pretty messy philosophy-of-mind-or-whatever stuff that I’m not keen to dive too deeply in, but regardless,  I’ll admit this is where my position might start to seem particularly alien to an average person. I like art created by an agent - something with a limited, situated, and specific experience of the world, and a body of knowledge that’s updated by sensory experiences comparable to mine. I like the fact that agents are like me in that way, but don’t have my exact perspective. I learn things by communicating with them. I would (and this is the weird part) be much more open to art created by a robot, or other embodied agent that has some experience of the same world that I do informing the creation of that art, even if it’s not the exact same experience as me, or the exact kind of cognition creating that art. This is a big part of why I’m a roboticist, and not a general AI researcher - I think grounding is intellectually interesting and philosophically important. But I like, don’t actually expect anyone to agree with me on this off the bat. 

So in a human context, then: I’m interested in art as another person’s perspective, as translated through their skill, tools, culture, etc. Seeing what they can create by their specific hand is interesting to me. I would, 100% honestly, much rather consider even the least-practiced drawing by anyone than what they could create with an AI. I would also be a lot more sympathetic to the output of an AI model that better cited the artwork that contributed in training to a given piece. There are tools for these kinds of analysis in AI. They’re limited, but I think some of their perceived limitedness is deliberate obfuscation on the part of model’s evangelists, who want to avoid copyright issues and disown the labor in assembling a training dataset that might either implicate them or reveal the ways in which their model doesn’t ‘just work’. But that’s a topic for a different post. 

[fourcolour-ace]

The character limit in the ask box kinda kneecapped on this one, so I want to expand on this a little.

It took me over a decade to finish Z for a variety of reasons. For many years I only knew Gohan up to the end of the Cell Saga. I knew thanks to family who had seen the rest of Z that Gohan went on to become a superhero in high school(a fact that blew me away as a kid) but all my exposure to an older Gohan came from the fandom and from the Super anime. So when I finally picked up the manga chapters covering teenage Gohan(about two months ago now) I was surprised at the difference. I had built, in my mind, the image of Gohan at sixteen as an insecure and anxious young man, with a good heart and a desire to help others that conflicted with a deep fear of losing control. His canon characterization was a pleasant surprise!

That sort of prompted me to muse on how spending time in discourse over Gohan like this may have influenced my personal interpretation of his character. Fandom is an interesting thing.

I’ll admit I hadn’t really considered that Goku would still be dead if not for Buu; I guess that’s not much of a problem to me(sorry Goku). I was more thinking of how confident Gohan seems before Buu beats him, and how his character feels in Super.

Hmm. More ideas for the Gohan Essay.

The offer to engage in Gohan discourse is much appreciated. I recently finished the Z manga so have some Buu saga thoughts. Gohan’s characterization in the high school, budokai and Buu arcs is fascinating to me. It doesn’t mesh with the interpretation of teenage Gohan as a traumatized mess. At some point during the seven year skip he must have come to terms with all that, because he’s so confident? He seems really ready to engage with his power, maybe without Buu we would have a different Gohan.

I totally agree!!! The idea that gohan is super traumatized is mostly kinda based on the traumas themselves— he did live through very difficult experiences, after all— but fandom mostly is where the actual traumatized gohan headcanon comes from. He’s not actually canonically experiencing any PTSD or anything

I do wonder how gohan would be if buu hadn’t happened,,, probably more HS and saiyaman shenanigans ? <3

[ gohan discourse time doesn’t stop just because I sleep ! Send in gohan opinions ! ]

[nautilusopus]

okay FIIIIIINE i'll throw my hat into the Goncharov ring

Been a while i've done a proper movie breakdown, may as well be this one.

Rather surprisingly (but perhaps not too surprisingly given the unexpected renaissance of things like the original Dracula and Breaking Bad on this website out of seemingly nowhere and with very little prompting), I'm seeing a lot of new people suddenly interested in Martin Scorsese's seminal film classic Goncharov, originally released in 1973. Obviously a movie like that doesn't make it coming up on 50 years without generating a lot of discussion about the different ways the movie resonates and why, but coming into it in 2022 there's been so much cultural cruft that's collected around Goncharov that (similar to stories like Fight Club and Scarface) it's a little hard to parse what it's actually about with all the mythologising that's gone on around the characters.

Those movies, in one way or another, are about portraying the downfall of their protagonists -- Fight Club's after ironically creating another system of control and dehumanisation and becoming what he sought to destroy, Scarface's after being consumed by the wealth and power he's amassed. A lot of people assume it's that kind of story, because aren't most well-loved movies? However, I think this is ironically an assumption made because of the genre of film it is. All the people that aren't going, "OMG Goncharov is so cool and badass and fucks bitches," are going, "WOW I can't believe Goncharov is a cautionary tale about power corrupting," and in the process people miss that Goncharov is first and foremost about loss, in all its different forms.

I'm both kind of surprised and frustrated people miss this, given how utterly pervasive the movie is with its clock symbolism -- it's the one thing everyone remembers about it, it was in all the tie-ins. I dunno, maybe that got funneled back into the theory where they're meant to reinforce how Goncharov is just a mortal man at the end of the day, which is fine I guess, but the movie overall becomes a lot clearer when you interpret it through the lens of, "These things are gone and you can never get them back; clocks don't go backwards."

One of the most fascinating things about the movie is how every character embodies a different kind of loss. I'm gonna ease into this and start not with Goncharov but with:

Rybak, who is usually associated with loss as we typically think of it, i.e. the loss of loved ones via death. This comes up all the time, either in his trust issues (why he's being such a prick at the wedding), in the card game (he never bothers to bet much money, knowing he's bad at poker, and still loses all the same). Rybak is terrified of loss, cannot manage it, and ultimately is punished by losing what few people he had left and then being spared by Lorenzo who deems him punished enough, and is forced to survive, to grapple with what his life is now without them.

Goncharov's is actually more subtle, and it's loss of small, insignificant things as a result of the larger losses he believes he's processed. This is something that's frequently contrasted against Rybak. The pawn shop going under is actually a microcosm of this whole thing. Goncharov anticipates that this is obviously going to lead to financial issues for him, plans accordingly to deal with this, and... it works! He's saved! Except that means card games can't be hosted at his place anymore, given it's burned to the ground. Does this matter, in the grand scheme of his life? No, of course not. Poker night still gets had all the same. But it is different now, and always will be. Little things like this continue to add up, until something as insignificant as a towel -- a towel that never should have been in his room, but Sofia is no longer there to drop off his laundry and chat with him -- is ultimately the final nail in a coffin built of insignificant splinters, each one an imperceptible change underneath the much more larger, noticeable story beats of things like grief.

Otto is the big obvious one I'm not gonna linger on: loss of his youth, moments in the past that he wants to redo but can't. Most people at least seem to have gotten this one.

(This is also what the clocks get associated with a lot, which again, doesn't NOT make sense but also if it were just for this one character that, while thematically important, was honestly just a side character with limited screentime and only two scenes, would they really be all over the movie before Otto's name is even mentioned?)

Sofia's a bit abstract, and is the loss of self -- of the familiar anchors we have to who we are, what we think our core principles are, our place in society, who we want to be to our loved ones -- and by the time she dies she is rendered utterly unrecognisable to herself, and is horrified by it. She grieves herself the same way Rybak grieves his wife (even gets a direct visual callback via the way her face is lit when she's burning Lorenzo's check). You see echoes of this in Goncharov as well, but while Sofia is grieving the person she used to be, Goncharov is grieving the world around him (even though really, it's the same world it always was -- time keeps ticking on, one second per second, and neither one of them can ever un-fire that gun).

Lorenzo, tragically, gradually loses his freedom (and maybe in a parallel world would actually be the protagonist of a movie where he chokes on his own hubris like everyone seems to think Goncharov is GRUMBLE GRUMBLE). As he comes into his own more and more by his family's legacy, he is afforded fewer and fewer options about what decisions he can even make. Arguably he was doomed from the start, but the further he clings to power as a means to freedom, the more it drives him to destroying everything he ever (thought he) cared about. The tragedy of his character, and what makes him a good villain, is that he can clearly see what he is doing to himself and he absolutely hates it (his walking out early at the wedding is a tacit admission of this), but his absolute refusal to accept loss, to accept grief and pain and all the awful shit that comes with the human condition, is what causes him to toss aside every out he has because if he has enough CONTROL over his situation, surely he will never have to lose anything ever again. But, really, he already has.

I dunno. Goncharov is one of those movies that is great, and everyone seems to realise it's great, but nobody ever really puts into words why, and that's how you get Fight Club fans lmao. And it sucks because the actual discussion around the movie beyond "it's another hubris story but REALLY GOOD guys" is so much more fascinating and a much more earnest emotional truth that just never gets talked about.

[gar-trek]

please share what you have to say about food cubes!!

I was feeling a little apprehensive about releasing the TOS Food Document™ because it is so damn long…. But since you asked anon

DISCLAIMER:

This is focused solely on food as it appears in the original series. Whatever explanation of food synthesizer/replicator that may come in later series does to apply here. I am also not a Star Trek expert. I’m sure there is some super fan out there who knows everything there is to know about food in TOS, but that person is not me. This is just my thoughts as I’ve observed instances where food is shown or mentioned in TOS. If my thought process is flawed, or I make some claims that don’t really make sense, I am sorry. The food canon is very complicated and vague, so this is me just trying my best to make sense of it. I’d also like to mention I did not explicitly cover the meal scene in What Are Little Girls Made Of? Or the ice cream scene from And The Children Shall Lead, but I do make reference to them. I’m sure there are other food scenes I didn’t get to cover here, so if I’m missing a few pieces, I’m sorry.

Anyway… let’s get into it!

The original series, food, and other things that keep me up at night

I don’t care about continuity or plot holes in Star Trek: The Original Series, and if I did, I think the show would become rather unwatchable. It’s not about what happens to get us from plot point A to B, but more important that we do get there (ie, who cares how or why Spock’s brain has been removed from his body, it’s more important that we do get it back inside).

This being said, there is one aspect to TOS that baffles me to no end, and its something I just cannot overlook: the food. Food, the entire concept of it as it appears in TOS haunts me. Each time they show or mention food it makes less and less sense. It’s a never-ending nightmare and I spend every day trying to understand what goes on in the Enterprise Cafeteria. Today I would like to explore a couple food instances on TOS, and hopefully make a little sense of what is happening.

The first chilling incident: The Man Trap (S1E2) - Rand is a thief

In this episode, we see Yeoman Rand on her way to deliver Sulu his meal. She is carrying a tray of colored food cubes (which is what I will be referring to them as here, because there is no official name) and what we can assume to be some kind of alien variant of celery (earth celery with some red crap stuck on top). While waiting for the turbo lift, Rand eats one of the celery sticks intended for Sulu. My question is why. Like literally why does this happen. Sulu never mentions it (maybe he doesn’t notice). She never mentions it to him, which means we can assume she doesn’t want him to know. So why is Rand stealing food? Does she not get enough to eat? Is the limits for how much you get to eat on the Enterprise that strict you need to turn to thievery to get a proper meal? and if that the case, she’s shorting Sulu on his allotted food. In this same scene, we see Ensign Green (who is really a salt-sucking monster) make a grab for the tray as if he too is going to steal Sulu’d food. However, Rand slaps his hand away and asks “who do you think you are?”, a hypocritical statement considering Rand is also in the act of stealing food. So Rand, I must pose the same question to you. This scene has no resolution, so any interpretation is up to the viewer. Whether you think Rand's actions make her a girlboss or a thief, is up to you, however, one thing is undeniably true: Rand eats food off other people's plates.

Other food-related things of note in this episode is that Sulu sprinkles salt on the celery sticks. This means they are either bland or that's just his personal taste. Also, when Rand gives him his tray, he says “may the great bird of the galaxy bless your planet” and this has nothing really to do with food, I just thought it was kind of badass.

(Sulu’s food tray with 3 celery instead of 4 because Rand ate one)  

Incident two: Charlie X (S1E3) - synthetic meatloaf

In Charlie X, we see Captain Kirk make this comment in passing:

“Today on earth it is Thanksgiving, if the crew has to eat synthetic meatloaf I want it to look like turkey.”

This statement leaves us with a couple undeniable truths:

1. Meatloaf is a meal option on the Enterprise.

2. It is synthetic, meaning the meatloaf may not contain any meat at all.

3. It is not shaped like turkey, but it is possible to do so.

if the meatloaf served on the Enterprise is synthetic, then it very well could be made out of the same stuff the colored food cubes are made out of. Also, (and this is pure speculation so take it with a grain of salt) since we never hear anyone refer to the colored food cubes by name, they could literally be the “synthetic meatloaf” that Kirk is referring to here. In this case, the term synthetic meatloaf would not mean a synthetic version of the popular American dish meatloaf but instead loafs of synthetic meat. Since we do not know exactly what synthetic meat looks like, it very well could be brightly colored cubes.

In either case, Kirk is asking them to turn synthetic food from one shape to another. We understand this is possible through the food synthesizer, however, if all the food they eat on the Enterprise is synthetic anyway, then why did Kirk specifically mention synthetic meatloaf in the shape of turkey? would the turkey not instead be made out of synthetic turkey? why must the synthetic turkey be made specifically out of meatloaf? isn’t every single food that comes out of the food synthesizer made out of the same thing? It would have made more sense for Kirk to say “it's thanksgiving so can you made the food synthesizers produce turnkey?”. However, Kirk is like, a really cool guy, so it is possible that the meatloaf comment is just a fun joke. Either way, we know that synthetic meatloaf is a standard menu item on the enterprise, yet we have never seen anyone consume it.

Incident 3: The Corbomite Maneuver (S1E11) - Green leaves

In this episode, Kirk goes in for a physical, and Doctor McCoy reports that the captain is 2 pounds overweight. In response to this, the Doctor changes the captain's dietary card to help him lose a little wight (🙄). We later see the captain served a “dietary salad” in place of his usual meals. The existence of dietary salad is interesting for many reasons. Most importantly, we understand that dietary salad is somehow better for you than what is usually served on the Enterprise. It most likely has a lower caloric intake than say, colored food cubes. However, as discussed before, most if not all the food on the Enterprise is synthetic. If the food is created, and not naturally made, then one can assume its caloric value can be controlled. Would it not be possible to make a lower-calorie version of colored food cubes? one would assume that the cubes are made to have the perfect amount of nutrients to satisfy yet keep humans a healthy weight if they are in fact a form of synthetic man-made food. How would the captain overeat, if portions are pre-determined by dietary cards? Is Kirk somehow going rouge and consuming food that is not created by the food synthesizer (the captain's secret cookie stockpile??).

The existence of this salad also begs another question: is it synthetic as well, or are they growing fresh salad on the Enterprise? We do know that they are able to grow things on the ship, however, there has never been any discussion of growing crops specifically for consumption. If this is the case though, it may explain why we often see crew members eating celery sticks. Perhaps things like celery sticks and dietary salads are grown on the Enterprise, but all other food is synthetically created. In which case, who’s job is it to harvest food and prepare it for meals? Did Rand have to put that dietary salad together all on her own?

One more interesting point about the Salad: When Kirk first receives it, he asks

“what in the devil is this? Green leaves?”

which prompts Rand to explain that it’s a salad. It is very possible that Kirk genuinely has no idea what a salad is. He may have never had one, nor heard of the food in his entire life. Later we see him eat the salad with his hands, which further proves the point that captain kirk doesn't know what salad is. Why captain Kirk would somehow have no knowledge of salad is up to speculation.

Incident 4: The conscience of the king (S1E14) - Cry over spilled milk 

In this episode, Lieutenant Riley is served colored food cubes and a glass of what appears to be milk. There isn’t much of significance here, other than the fact we know it is possible to get a glass of milk with your meal on the Enterprise. Unlike Sulu, Riley doesn’t have any celery sticks but seems to have a larger serving of colored food cubes as compensation. We also learn that milk is served in a large glass, something that seems very impractical on a starship.

Riley proves my point moments later when he spills milk on a control panel and shatters the glass. This begs the question, who is going to clean that up?

Incident 5: Tomorrow is Yesterday (S1E20) - Chicken noodle soup

In this episode, the Enterprise accidentally beams a 60′s army man abroad their ship (for the second time). This random chad ensign asks the man if he’s hungry because he’s a troll I guess and he wanted to flex their cool future food machine. The army captain guy is like sure, I could go for some chicken soup right now (a very natural response to being beamed onto a spaceship for the first time). Chad ensign has like three cards in front of him, and I guess one of them just happens to be chicken soup because he puts it in the machine and the soup appears. Grant it, we never actually get to see the soup with out own eyes, but the army captain does seem to be pretty convinced that it is chicken soup just by the smell. This opens up a couple possibilities:

-The food synthesizer can make almost anything you want, and the card is maybe like a very broad category, like a dinner card, and when you put it in you can pick any dinner food you’d like.

or

-The food synthesizer can only make what is specific to each card, and the ensign just got extremely lucky and happened to have a card that was the exact food the army captain wanted.

More evidence, which we will go over later, points more towards the theory that one card is equal to one specific type of food. In this case, it is unclear how the synthesizer food cards are distributed, or how you get your pick of what food you would like. It is also more likely that options would be limited. This does make sense, however, it makes this scene very confusing, as, as I’ve pointed out, the ensign had a very limited number of cards, but exactly what the captain had asked for. Pure luck? what mind game was that Chad ensign trying to play with the poor man who was abducted from earth... we will never know.

One more very interesting thing is established here: The transporter room has a food synthesizer. Why this is is purely up to speculation. In my mind, having a food synthesizer in the transporter room would be like having a full kitchen where you park your car. Seems pretty useless, but maybe the guys in the transporter room requested easy access to snacks? Why the transporter room would get this special privilege is again, up to speculation.

Incident 6: Space Seed (S1E23) - Dinner with Khan

In Space Seed a special dinner is put together to welcome Khan onto the Enterprise. We see that they are being served colored food cubes and celery sticks. Doctor McCoy walks into the dining room and comments about how the display is “very impressive”. However, this seems like a very unusual comment considering we are shown the only food we have ever seen consumed on the Enterprise. What exactly makes this food “impressive” as compared to other celery sticks and colored food cubes? Is there some way to tell this particular food is better that we don’t know about, but is obvious to everyone on the Enterprise?

There is also a chance that Doctor McCoy is just very easily impressed with food, and upon seeing any food spread he is likely to comment in wonder. Note the way Scotty is looking at McCoy. His face is a mixture of confusion, judgment, and pity. Perhaps Scotty is thinking to himself “bruh, it’s literally just colored food cubes chill out man,”. There is no explanation as to why Scotty is giving McCoy such a look, so this very well could be the case. Even though it is a silly explanation, I don’t think it should be ruled out that one of McCoy’s personality traits is being overly excited about food of any kind.  

Incident 7: Journey to Babel (S2E10) Party food

Much like in Space Seed, in this episode, we get to see a meal put together for a special occasion. All the diplomates are getting down at a mixer where a spread of food has been provided. These snacks seem very similar to colored food cubes, however I do think they differ. They may be the same type of food, but different in some way. In which case colored food cubes is an overarching category of food, and here we see two different types. The smaller more brightly colored cubes can be put in drinks, though if this is what you are supposed to do with them, or just the preference of that one alien species I do not know. Though I must point out, we have seen colored food cubes served in brown sauce in What are Little Girls Made Of? (S1E8) so it is not completely unheard of to have your colored food cubes served soggy.

The other type of colored food cubes we see are a lot larger and more pair shaped (in reality, they probably were just skinned pairs dipped in food coloring, but for this essay, it’s important that we completely ignore the fact there is another life outside of Star Trek). Now to me, these are very interesting, because the dull color and apparent texture are a lit more similar to standard colored food cubes we have seen thus far. I would even go o far to say that this is the same exact food, just sans the cubed shape. So really, standard colored food cubes are just the cubed version of whatever this food is. This, again, is just speculation, but it does point us to the fact that colored food cubes are not naturally cubed (I’m going somewhere with this is promise)

Incident 8: The Trouble With Tribbles (S2E15) The trouble with Chicken sandwichs

Here we see Kirk attempting to order a chicken sandwich and coffee. What he gets instead is a plate full of tribbles,  hilarity ensues. I think this scene is interesting because we can add to our list of food items that are on the menu at the enterprise cafeteria: chicken sandwich. However, this is another food item we do not see. There is no way of knowing if the Enterprise's version of a chicken sandwich is what we would imagine a chicken sandwich to be. Much like the meatloaf and the soup, because we do not see it, there is no way of knowing if the food exists in the way that we as 21st-century people understand it. The events of TOS take place more than 200 years in our future, so to speculate that food could change a lot during that time isn’t a stretch. I don’t know, just some food for thought (lol)

Incident 9: By Any Other Name (S2E22) Living deliciously

In this episode, an alien taking the form of a human enjoys some colored food cubes. He makes a comment about how they are good they are while enthusiastically eating his food. This is a very important moment because it tells us that colored food cubes do taste good. In fact, they taste really good. Just before he eats, the alien comments on how humans could just take pills that give them all their nutrient needs and give up food completely (think the Jetsons cartoon). On the Enterprise, they do not eat just to live, but because they enjoy their food as well. This tells us that colored food cubes are at the very least, worth eating, and at the best, very delicious.

One more interesting thing: Spock is eating some kind of soup while everyone else enjoys colored food cubes. This could be a Vulcan preference, however, we know that Spock is vegetarian. This could be alluding to the fact that Colored Food Cubes are made out of meat.

Conclusion:

Yes, I asked a lot more questions than I answered. There are some things that make absolutely no sense to me, primarily, the food synthesizer and diet cards. Some evidence points to the fact that the food synthesizer can make practically anything (see Tomorrow is Yesterday, And the Children Shall Lead). However, one dietary card is equal to one specific food, which would mean they would have to produce a lot of these dietary cards if there is many meal options. How these cards are distributed, and what their limitations are, we do not know. And although we do not know the limits of what the food synthesizer can create, we do know these food have been served on the enterprise at least at one point:

-colored food cubes (variety)

-celery

-synthetic meatloaf

-synthetic turkey (Thanksgiving Special)

-Dietary Salad

-Milk

-Chicken Soup

-Chicken Sandwich

-Mystery Soup

-Ice cream (variety of flavors)

All of this food (except for maybe the dietary salad and celery) are synoptically created, so what they are actually made up of, I cannot say.

And finally, I would like to make a point about the colored food cubes. I think upon first inspection one would assume colored food cubes is a dish created specifically for space travel (think the food created for modern-day astronauts to consume in space). However, we learned that there is possibly a variety of colored food cube dishes. Since there is such a wide variety of food on the Enterprise, why would they also need to create a food specifically for space travel? I think that colored food cubes are actually a common dish, not intended specifically for space travel. Perhaps it was an alien food that got popular on earth, maybe it was a dish developed later in Earth's history by humans. I can only speculate, but I do think it is more than just boring space food. Everyone seems to have a preference for it, so I think it’s a dish you can eat over and over again and not get sick of. What colored food cubes taste like is completely up to speculation, but I would assume they are a savory food, considering we often see people enjoying them for their main meal.

I still have more to say, but for the sake of everyone, I’ll end it there. This was a lot of thought dumping, so if some of the things I said made no sense at all, I’m sorry. I’d love to hear some of your thoughts on TOS food! please share with me what you think colored food cubes would taste like :)

[katblu42]

The Need for Space

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt #157 Need More Space

It's been a while since I've written anything, so thanks FFF for the inspiration!

It's Thunderbirds fandom (possibly taking place just after the episode Eos) and clocks in at about 690 words.

(Not really proofread because I have run out of time!!)

Virgil sat stunned for a moment, watching his brother and wondering exactly when that phrase had come to have two meanings for this particular brother.

Of the five of them John had always been the most defensive of his personal space – something that could be hard to come by in a family like theirs.  Five rambunctious boys and later an adopted sister, lots of boisterous movement, almost constant noise, and a tendency towards hands-on shows of affection and tactile responses to emotional need.  So much could be expressed by just clasping another’s hand in yours, or a pat on the back, a reassuring arm around someone’s shoulders, fingers combing through a loved one’s hair, and of course the all encompassing love wrapped up in a hug.

John was no slouch when it came to dishing out such things, but receiving them could be a prickly experience for him.  Virgil, along with the rest of their family, had quickly learned that John needed to except people into his space on his own terms.  He needed warning – some kind of telegraphing of the contact that was to come.  A hand held out before him was likely to be taken, but if you took hold of his hand without notice he would pull it back in defence.  A hug would be welcomed if a loved one approached him with open arms and allowed him to lean into the embrace, but a surprise hug from behind, or from someone he didn’t know would feel more like an assault and illicit an unfavourable reaction.

It had been a long time since John had last needed to voice a desire for more space, the family having long since learnt to interpret the non-verbal signs that a little physical distance would be appreciated.  The phrase had been oft repeated when they were young – particularly to ward off little brothers who were too young to understand personal boundaries.

Virgil guessed the double meaning had snuck up slowly.  By the time John was 8 or 9 years old he was often burying his nose in books on astronomy.  Shortly after that he could often be found of an evening stargazing through Dad’s old telescope.  So when a teenaged John said he needed space sometimes that meant he was going to climb up to the attic nook, or onto the roof to spend some quality time with the space that lay beyond Earth’s atmosphere.

To his credit, John had worked hard to achieve his goal of travelling into space.  There had been hurdles to overcome, including breaking free of their father’s shadow.  And Virgil was proud of every achievement his space-case brother had to his name.  Not to mention the fact that all of them relied heavily on John’s knowledge and skill on every rescue, not just those that occurred in space.  They relied on Thunderbird Five and the difference that marvel of science made in aiding International Rescue’s day to day operation.  With John aboard his orbiting ‘bird the others could rest heavily in the confidence that John’s eyes and ears combined with Five’s processing power and automated systems – almost all of which were programmed or designed by John – were there to ensure the safety of rescuers and rescuees alike.

Now, looking at a man who somehow still looked like the kid brother with his head in the stars, Virgil found it hard to admit how much John’s request to return to Thunderbird Five had shaken him.

“No, John,” he said firmly, reaching out to gently place a heavy hand on a slender shoulder, “the last thing you need right now is more space.  Right now you need to be here, with us.  With the family who love you and would be devastated to lose you.  Space can wait.  We need you here.” 

Virgil’s free hand rested over his heart for a moment.  Under the scrutiny of a warm brown eyes full of excruciating concern, John’s expression softened and he allowed himself to be pulled close and enveloped by strong arms.  Maybe Virgil was right.  John was in no hurry to leave the comfort and safety of the embrace.

[littleaxebad]

To Submit; To Breath

For the 2nd week of the HOA Theme Month, and dedicated to @the-girl-who-flies

This was a prompt, that really went no further than “Eric and Dar”, or I ignored any further advice, and interpreted it my own way. Fairly easily, actually.

I apologise for the dialogue. I tried to look up Eric quotes but gave up after looking for far too long and finding nothing. So it’s all made up.

I hope you enjoy it, A <3

Eric regarded the man in front of him. He didn’t know the Iraqi’s name, only that he remembered thinking the soldier had caused Rachel’s death. He could have sworn he’d seen the man impaled in the fight they’d narrowly escaped from, but amidst the noise and chaos, what actually happened was anyone’s guess. As far as Eric could tell now, the man was standing, albeit bleeding profusely from a wound on his left shoulder. 

The last thing Eric remembered about the fight was Clarice. Clarice over him, pressing him down, snarling and screaming, grey skin slick with sweat as she leant over his neck, impossibly strong, and him unable to fight back. And then he opened his eyes, and he was alive, alone with the enemy.

“Did you save me?” Seemed like a good opener. He had no trust for this person, seemed barely able to see him as another human being, but there was no other possibility. The other man, for his part, shrugged, winced, and said something harsh in Arabic. OK, so, they could not understand each other with words. That wasn’t going to help. 

Eric looked around. They were in a small room with a single entrance. Intricate carvings lined the walls, and what seemed to be furniture looked as if it was growing organically from the floor. There was very little noise to be heard, far away and unrecognisable. Eric patted himself down. A few scrapes and bruises, some cuts administered by Clarice, and his right knee was beginning to ache, but he seemed mostly intact. He pointed to his own shoulder, then to his unlikely companion.

“We need to take care of that.”

More Arabic Eric didn’t understand, as the man fingered his wound and hissed in pain. He was wearing hideous eyeglasses from the 1980s, a green beret, and although he was unarmed Eric could tell he was the leader of the group that had interrupted their mission. Most of his mind told him he did not want to help this man, that he still had his gun, that he should shoot him and be done with it, but a small voice held his hand. Instead, he crossed the distance and began to inspect the wound. Despite spitting more harsh Arabic, the man seemed mostly content to let Eric do whatever he wanted. Understandable since they had both recently discovered demons existed. 

Eric unclipped and shouldered off his backpack, rifling through it for a small, mostly empty med-kit and his bottle of water.

“Sit on that,” he said, pointing to a stone rise. The man sat - his eyes and voice were the only things about him that carried any menace; his body betrayed his exhaustion and fear. American soldiers he could, probably gladly, handle. Demons were outside his wheelhouse. Eric wondered how religious the man was. While he worked, unbuttoning and slipping the shirt shoulder down, Eric pointed to himself like he was talking to Tarzan, and said “Eric”. After a very pregnant pause, the other man said “Dar”. 

The wound wasn’t as life-threatening as it first appeared; bloody, yes, but superficial. Eric could wash and bind it easily with what he had. It would definitely need stitches, and probably several tetanus shots… Would tetanus shots even help against demonic wounds? Eric tried not to think about it, his hand unconsciously going to the scratches on his neck. Dar tilted his head as Eric did up his shirt buttons and dusted off his collar. He pointed to his own neck and said something. Eric didn’t need to understand Arabic to know it was along the lines of ‘you should have shot her’.

“Yeah, well, you win some and you lose some. You shouldn’t have shot at me and my wife.” 

An uneasy image of Rachel kissing Nick surfaced in Eric’s mind. He tried to shut it out but that only made it more vivid. He shook his head. Whatever was going on, they’d deal with it later. He had to get out of here alive first. 

It took long moments for the unlikely duo to get moving. They both had a drink of water from Eric’s canteen but the difficulty of having to leave this little safe room was a weight that seemed too hard to carry. But the corridor was empty too, and as they made their way back to the chamber they met nothing and no one. Eric picked up the UV light that had been discarded on the floor. It needed some work but wouldn’t be too hard to fix. He felt his insides run cold as Dar located and reloaded his rifle, but the Iraqi merely shouldered it and looked around. When he gestured and started off, speaking to Eric even as he moved away, Eric knew his words were orders along the lines of “follow me, we need to move, we need to escape” and finding himself blindly following the Iraqi who had naturally taken the lead seemed equally natural to Eric. He never wanted to be in command anyway. He had just wanted to see Caelus work.

They were greeted by emptiness. Empty rooms, empty halls, empty cries from far away. Occasionally Eric would find a piece of paper written in the same manner as the recording he and Rachel had found. He would read them out to Dar who would watch him speak without actually understanding. The man was tired, Eric could see that, he’d experienced a paradigm shift in the worst way - charging into a battle he probably thought would win him glory only to discover a world within a world within the world he’d spent probably more than 40 years occupying with the same set of beliefs and morals and opinions. Eric felt the ground sway beneath him sometimes, but he tried not to dwell on it. Too fucking much had happened; he’d spiral out of fucking control if he didn’t hold on. So they kept going. Kept going until they reached what could only have been a jail, one single solitary skeleton, warped beyond the confines of humanity, pressed desperately against the bars of a cage. They both stood staring at it for longer than was safe - this is what happened to Clarice. She’d been with him, there for him, helping him, for months - and this is how she would end. A forgotten skeleton buried in Iraq’s Atlantis. 

“What a waste.” Said Eric.

“Hmm.” Said Dar.

There was an arrow drawn in the dirt at the far end of the prison. JK, NK, RK written out next to it in various levels of neat. Bent and broken bars allowed access further into hell, and Eric’s team was down there. Which meant there was only one way to go. Dar scrunched up his nose, understanding fully that there were only more dirty Americans this way, but dirty Americans were better than being eaten alive. Eric climbed through first, and then assisted Dar, who was still hurting, and physically larger than the svelte Colonel. 

“When we get topside, you need to see a doctor,” Eric tapped his own shoulder. 

“Something something medic something something.” Was all Eric got out of Dar’s reply. But he didn’t need a translator to know it probably meant ‘you shot our medic’.

Eric was surprised to come across not only a waterfall, but two thick blue ropes from the climbing gear they had brought. How far down had his team gone? How was this going to get them out? How was he going to get Dar down the rope? Probably out of spite. Eric tried not to enjoy the idea too much. He was still pretty sure that he wasn’t really sure about the guy.

“Looks like we need to go down,” he made a show of looking over the edge, “that might be hard for you, with your shoulder,” Eric gently touched the wound like a concerned parent, “but I’ll help you. If this is the way we have to go, well, we’ll just go slowly.”

The flat, over the glasses look Dar was giving him suggested to Eric that Dar was used to dealing with soldiers far younger than himself who took their roles less than seriously and that he was no stranger to being pandered to. But he did get down and shimmy to the bottom by himself, and smirk smugly at Eric who descended slower. Eric retaliated by showing Dar his prosthesis before realising they were acting like children and clearing his throat with no small amount of embarrassment. The language barrier and the fact that he almost caused Rachel to fall to her death aside, Dar was just a normal human being who took pride in his country. Eric could relate to that. 

“God, that’s a weird fucking concept.” Eric accidentally whispered to himself. Fortunately, Dar did not understand. 

It was only after they’d departed that the fact that they’d walked past an underground waterfall mostly without acknowledging it surfaced in Eric’s mind. He put that thought away immediately. 

They were both looking down into the spiralling green haze as an elevator lazily, and loudly, made its way back up to their level. Dar, in what Eric had decided was an uncharacteristic emotional pitch, let out approximately two minutes of verbal vomit as his fists clenched around the wooden barricade that prevented them from falling to their potential deaths. Eric didn’t have any words - all he could see was what his brain was telling him was a toxic cloud and all he could hear was Dar, the screech of chains, and the rapidly approaching scream of winged death. They had no choice but to descend. If they stayed here, surely they would die. But what would they find at the bottom of this shaft? The dead bodies of Eric’s team - a labyrinth they could not possibly hope to escape from - freedom? Someone had decided that going down was worth all this effort, maybe the same people who had been leaving behind diaries and dynamite.

The elevator ride was wildly unpleasant. 60 years had passed since its construction and while it worked, it made Eric and Dar uncomfortable enough to grip the sides of the compartment. Eric even considered praying. He wondered if that’s what Dar was doing. But it passed. The elevator hid the bottom gently, in a cave that opened up into a tunnel, with deep blue stone walls and illuminated patches of green lights. Bio-luminescent fungus, perhaps. As they walked along, Eric touched Dar’s arm, pointed to the fungus, and shook his head ‘do not touch that’ - Dar nodded, and then pointed to Eric’s right leg ‘don’t step on it either’. Eric felt the side of his lips crook up and he forced them back into a straight line. The mouth of the cave allowed some pale light in, coming closer and closer. Eric hoped to see a familiar face waiting for him. What he saw instead, he knew, would stay with him for the rest of his life.

“Oh Jesus… oh fuck…” Eric slipped to his knees as the great cavern screamed out in front of him. ‘I am a man of science’ he thought, but the thought slipped away. Not demons… not demons… not demons.

A ship. It could not be anything else, vast and gargantuan and unholy. A floating city meant for another place. Dar stood unmoving beside him and Eric’s hands grasped at nothing. This… this is what Caelus had found. Proof of life beyond earth - proof of life from the stars. How long had this city rested here, undisturbed? Why had those explorers decided to hide this place from the rest of the world. They could have bought an army here, brought this city to the surface, given this gift to all of humanity but they hid it away, allowed the monsters to fester and breed, made what should be heaven into hell. And Eric found it. Something from Eric’s heart and hands and mind found it - the world must know. He would tell everyone. It was a gift.

And then he felt Dar kneel beside him. Watched the older man lay down his rifle and pray. A man of science and man of faith, standing at the precipice of a new world. Something in Eric melted away then, the last vestiges of wry pride that failure had begun to strip away from him. He put his hand on Dar’s uninjured shoulder and began to speak.

“I am sorry. We thought there were weapons here. I thought there were weapons here. I brought soldiers when I should have brought scientists. This place, this is a part of your country’s history - that temple should be returned to your people. This city should be everyone’s to see and admire and learn from. I don’t regret coming here. But I do regret why I came.”

Eric took a deep breath.

“I didn’t need to, but… but a part of me didn’t just want to hand Caelus over. I guess I wanted  Rachel, my wife, to see what kind of man I was. To see me smart and strong and just… fall back into my arms. It’s been hard without her. I blamed her for the accident because she was driving but she was never really to blame. When we separated she said it was over, and when I came back she said nothing had changed. And I wouldn’t listen. I wouldn’t fucking listen. But it’s so small now, it seems so goddamn small. Look at this.” 

Eric looked at Dar and smiled, “look at this.”

Dar was quiet for a long moment. He seemed to be considering Eric, deciding whether or not he was a person worthy of life. A person worthy to sit here, in a country he didn’t belong in, and smile at the infinite meaningless of their tiny existence. And then he gave a short laugh, and took off his glasses. He felt around in his pockets but didn’t find what he was looking for, and then he laughed again. Eric couldn’t help it, he laughed too - it looked like the man had simply lost his wallet. But then Dar began to talk, and although Eric couldn’t understand him, he listened.

<I don’t regret what I am. What I have done, I have done for the good of my country. I believe in my country, and in the Glory of Allah, and in my people. But I feel… I know that I have been holding on for the wrong reasons. I go to battle for Iraq, but it is not Iraq in my heart when I hold my rifle. When I command my troops, or when I kill another man. My wife, Farah, she died. It has been years and her death has not left me. I have not moved on. Her ghost breathes inside my heart. I wish nothing more than for her spirit to find it’s place in divine paradise, but I hold her here, with me. There are so many other things to live for. I think… I think it is time I let her go…>

Eric watched as Dar prayed again, and then pulled the Iraqi to his feet. Everything was different now, everything felt lighter. But they had to push on, they had to find the others and escape. This miracle would never again be buried beyond the veil. Eric handed Dar his rifle, and they started off again, slowly, one leg and one arm not quite up to the task of climbing over rocks. But then they heard it, gunfire in the distance, and it spurned them on. Normally one tends to run away from gunfire but down here it could only mean one thing: humans. 

Eric saw Nick first, firing into the attacking aliens. Rachel was behind him, then Jason. They were running towards a rock face, disappearing into a crack at the base of the wall. Nick mock saluted Eric as he ran past, sparing a “sergeant” as he went. The noise was terrible, screeching and screaming and gunfire. But it dulled under the stone wall, as Eric pushed himself along with an ever stiffening right leg, checking over his shoulder to ensure Dar and Nick were behind him. Rachel pulled him up at the other end.

“Well, that was pleasant,” said Eric sarcastically, turning around to help Dar to his feet.

The exclamation of “Salim!” caught Eric off guard, and he turned, surprised to see Kolchek (of all people) hovering around the other Iraqi survivor. Dar and Salim seemed guarded around each other, speaking stiffly in Arabic as Eric tried not to eavesdrop (or as much as you can eavesdrop when you don’t understand the language). Instead he focussed on Nick and Rachel, both of whom looked worse for wear. 

“What happened?” Eric took in Rachel’s dishevelled appearance with more acute interest than he did Nick. It was easy to see the guy was wounded, no need for a thorough examination. And while he felt lighter in his heart, recovering from the perceived act of betrayal would take time. He wasn’t ready to welcome them both with open arms, but he was glad to see they were alive, and mostly unharmed. Rachel’s eyes shifted to the floor and back.

“Nick was thrown across the chamber, and one of those things came at me. I didn’t see where Nick went but I felt like I’d reached the end, that I was alone, and that the thing… the alien… was going to be the end of me. But I fought long enough for Clarice to save me…” “Clarice?” Dar pulling Eric away must have disoriented his former assistant. 

“Yeah - they went for each other. I’m not sure why. Maybe she wanted to save me, maybe she didn’t want to share. Whatever it was, it let me get away. You were gone, Nick was unconscious. It was a fucking mess.” “By the time I came to, Clarice and the thing had fucked off, god knows where. She ain’t dead, I’d put money on it. We’ll see her again.” Nick didn’t sound angry.

“You think she can be cured?”

“Sir I just found out aliens are real. Ain’t much I don’t believe in.”

They were interrupted by Kolchek asking for a provisions check, and it was pretty piss poor, apart from the dynamite and C4. Eric sat somewhere apart from the group and set to repairing the UV light, at least he could contribute something else to their meagre arsenal. Dar came and sat by him, rifle across his lap, watching Kolchek and Salim dance awkwardly around each other as Salim tried to read from a book. It was quiet again, almost peaceful, the chamber they were in could have been called beautiful, but there was no long peace down here. Very little hope strung the companions together, so when Salim began to fiddle with a large organic-looking machine in the centre of the chamber, despite the meditative music it produced, it only served to darken the minds of the soldiers. They had decided to take the initiative - to stop waiting for something to happen and make it happen. To take the dynamite and the C4 into the heart of hell and plant it, hoping not only to decimate the alien population, but hoping also that the confusion of the explosion would be distraction enough for them to escape. That was a lot of hoping, when there wasn’t much of it to go around. But Salim and Jason seemed tied to this plan, as though they were a single unit, and Eric found he could barely remember the bravado of the Americanised Marine as he was when they first met. So much had changed, in all of them. Eric felt in his heart, his heart of science and learning and curiosity, that this time - this time they’d get it right.

But when push came to shove, no one wanted to plant the dynamite. It was a suicide mission, death waited at the end. They had no straws to draw, and short of dealing up a game of rock-paper-scissors, there was no real fair way to decide who got to go, unless they volunteered. 

“I’ll do it,” he was the one who wanted the world to see this place after all, he should be the one to mark it with his life.

“Sir, with all due respect, what do you know about dynamite?”

“With zero respect, Nicholas, I know enough.”

“Uhuh, I’m coming with you.”

Both Eric and Rachel began to protest, Jason just telling Nick not to be such a fucking martyr, but Nick held up his hand.

“Shut up, all of you. I’m doing this. Just… watch my back.”

“I’m still coming,” Eric held up the UV light, “I can literally watch your back.”

With Jason on the radio, and Salim with a pair of binoculars, Rachel and Dar helped Eric and Nick drop down into the maze below. They moved as quickly and quietly as possible, and they had to be guided, but with the barest of luck, they met nothing. Nick found a spot to plant the first brick, and Eric kept watch. The lack of attention was nerve-wracking. What was going on? “First lot down,” Nick whispered to him, and they moved on. 

The air seemed to be moving around them. Not in the way a breeze might move it, but it pressed against them with is stale stench as though there wasn’t enough space for everything that was occupying it. Eric could feel his gut churning, watched a bead of sweat slip down Nick’s face as he planted the next brick. They both looked up to the sky, to the mountain of cocoons that had seemed so far away from the embankment where their friends were waiting. Eric could hear Jason in his ear, imploring them to turn back, but he and Nick needed only the swiftest of glances at each other to know that wasn’t an option. These fucking things - these monsters - that had waited down here in the darkness had to pay for what they had taken. An eye for an eye: for Clarice, for Joey, for Merwin, for all the soldiers that had died. For that poor skeleton who had wasted in the cell. For the explorers who killed themselves so that nothing buried here could reach the surface. They dropped low and made their way between two walls of rock, creeping ever closer to the nest of unhatched aliens. These things were flammable - dynamite at the base of this mound would create a pyre of screaming burning death. It had to be done. Eric had heard Jason say they were in the clear, but the air pressed tighter against his body and he knew. He put the UV light back in its holster and took out the flare, watching Nick with one eye, and dozens of descending aliens with the other. At least Rachel would get out. He knew Nick was thinking that too. 

They walked as far from the dynamite as the hissing, snapping aliens would allow, and then Eric popped the flare.

“Sorry about fucking your wife, man. She fucking healed me though. She made it worth something to be alive.” Eric nodded, unsure of what to say, but there wasn’t really anything to say anyway. He realised, belatedly, that he didn’t even know Dar’s last na-

*

Nick was talking. He shouldn’t be, but he was. They should be dead. He couldn’t hear what Nick was saying, his ears were ringing, but he could hear his voice, hear the stress, and see the fire above him. He had been right, a pyre was burning brightly, the cocoons turned to coffins. And then suddenly he was hoisted off his back and tossed aside like a rag-doll, hitting a wall with enough force to knock him momentarily unconscious again. When he opened his eyes, his vision was swimming, and something that should have been dead, but which was very much alive, was holding Nick high by the throat, squeezing the life out of him. Eric tried to stand but his limbs wouldn’t support him; tried to shout but he didn’t have enough air. Could only watch and wait, until the undead guardian was done with Nick, and his turn came… 

Gunfire and voices, Kolchek pulling him to his feet as Salim drove a metal rod through the dead-man, Kolchek pulling him along, urging speed when Eric could barely get his feet beneath him, more gunfire, more voices, yelling and pushing and pulling, utter confusion as Eric tried and failed to understand what was happening. Surely the devil had taken him? But no - Jason and Salim had come to their rescue. Eric fell in behind Rachel as they ran, the ground shaking as parts of the vast ceiling came crashing down, as aliens flew screaming for safety, as they tripped and stumbled away from the violent explosions of the nest. Up and over, up and over and Eric promised himself if they got out alive he wouldn’t move for a week. They climbed onto a circular plateau and looked back, Jason making a quick headcount, and snapping “where the fuck is Salim?”

Eric whipped his head around, alarm crawling up his spine, but there was Dar, bent double to catch his breath, fresh blood seeping from his wound. 

Jason tried his radio, the static whispering back. Nick and Rachel were ready to move - to run back to the elevator but Jason was livid. Salim was begging Jason to tell his son that he did everything possible to get back to him, and Jason spat venom at his team “Marine’s don’t leave a man behind. Semper Fucking Fi - you hear that Salim, you can tell your kid yourself, I’m coming to get you.”

He didn’t wait for any of them to so much as breath, jumping off the plateau and charging back the way they came. Eric’s head snapped to the right.

“Get to the elevator, make sure it’s ready to go.”

Nick looked like he wanted to argue, wanted to leave. But Rachel was the stronger. A smile danced about her lips and as she quipped out a ‘yes, sir’. Nick was left with no option but to follow her. Dar and Eric proceeded slower, Eric taking his time to try and inspect Dar’s wound while Dar tried to swat him away. He said something in Arabic, something about Salim, but Eric could only hope that reassuring him that Jason was a capable soldier was the answer he was looking for. He’d have to get Rachel to teach him at least some basic Arabic after this.

They reached the elevator where Rachel and Nick were waiting, Rachel standing in front of it like a ticket inspector at the fair. Nick had taken up a point position. Eric hustled Dar onto the elevator, pulled out his gun and mirrored Nick. The wait for Kolchek and Salim was painfully tense, the air was choked with dust and particles of god-only-knew-what, the ground was rumbling as though threatening the oncoming of a stampede, a hot breeze blew fetid wind in their faces and the ever present squeals of death plugged up their ears. Fear began to take a hold of Eric’s heart, pumping adrenaline, telling him to run, flee, hide. The sight of Kolchek and Salim running up to them almost pulled his legs out from underneath him. But nothing was chasing them, and nothing followed them up the elevator shaft. It had worked! 

Eric grinned along with him team - with his friends - as Jason praised them - “the best of the best!” He threw his fist up, yelling OORAH! He felt the adrenaline rush through his system, turning to exhilaration. When Jason prompted Salim to join their battlecry, he turned to Dar. But he didn’t need Rachel translating “in your dreams” because it was written all over the Iraqi’s face. But he was smiling, and so Eric clapped him on the shoulder. A friendly gesture to make him feel included. Even if he was the teacher surrounded by a group of school kids.

When they came to the climbing ropes, Eric and Dar went first. Salim and Rachel followed, but when Nick and Kolchek’s turn came, Eric looked over the side to see Jason starting into the waterfall. Now was not the time to be overcome by awe. He couldn’t hear their conversation, but he hoped Kay was encouraging his friend to move on. When Clarice leapt screaming from the water, Eric felt an involuntary cry rip from his throat. It came from a place of guilt and fear, and he heard Rachel yell out CLARICE next to him, but she neither heard not heeded them, going instead for Kolchek. But even as she was, she was no match for two Marine’s hyped up on adrenaline and a desperate need to survive. 

The run through the temple was treacherous. Stone fell from the ceiling as the ground moved constantly beneath them. Though nothing was following them, the threat of being crushed to death was ever present. But the massive shifting of the temple had yielded one excellent result that made Eric’s heart soar - a giant stone hand was raised to the sky, the hole above it close enough to reach with a rope - there was a way out - they were free! Eric pushed Dar up the giant arm - the other man was slowing down, the adrenaline wearing off and fatigue and blood loss replacing it. Nick had the rope, and watching him swing it up, Eric finally allowed himself to let go of some of the fear. To leave it behind in this place. He didn’t need it anymore, it wouldn’t help him in the sun - the sun the aliens could not survive in. As he climbed, he let it wash over his face, as he emerged into the fresh air and sunlight, a laugh bubbled up and burst from within him. An infectious laugh that passed between them, as they whooped and hollered and pretended to kiss the dirt. Kolchek had Salim in a crushing embrace. He could have sworn Kay was crying. Eric himself lay down flat next to Dar and just looked up. Breathed in. Watched as the sun…

…went dark.

Eclipse.

“RUN! Everybody to the huts!” Jason’s voice ripped through the fading light like a missile. Eric dragged Dar to his feet as they fled, sudden screaming pouring out of their escape, beating wings on their tails, the stench of death on their necks. Into the hut they ran, slamming the door, grabbing old furniture and barricading the windows. How many of them were armed? Kolchek, Kay and Dar had rifles, but Eric knew there were barely any bullets between them. A Glock in his own hands, and the UV light, Rachel had a pistol and Salim was left holding a stake - could they do this? “How long’s a fucking eclipse go for?” “Six minutes.” Why did he have to know that? “We don’t have six fuckin’ minutes!” “I CAN’T RUSH THE DAMN MOON!”

How they survived that fight, Eric could never remember. Whenever he tried to, red light would fill his mind, burning flesh would fill his nose, and his senses would be assaulted with the pain of trying to rip something out that the body begged to be forgetting. He remembered the first close screech, the echo of bullets, the sting of otherworldly blood. He remembered holding fire, and he remembered the sliver of yellow sunlight - and then opening his eyes, laying awkwardly on the floor, with Dar slumped next to him clenching and unclenching bloody fists. But try as he might he could pull nothing more from the recesses of his brain, and maybe that was for the best.

“They have to go.” Rachel’s voice. Eric looked up. She was talking to Jason but she was referring to both Salim and Dar. Ever the pragmatist - their new friends could not be here, had to be miles and miles away, before Evac showed up. Eric looked sideways at Dar, who looked back at him, nodded, and said something in Arabic. He looked to Rachel for translation.

“He said he better go and see a doctor.”

Eric felt a sick, sad chuckle tumble out of his mouth. He hoisted himself painfully to his feet and then, instead of dragging Dar as he’d become accustomed to doing, held out his hand. He got a raised eyebrow behind the plastic Prada knockoffs in return, but Dar took the pro-offered hand. Exiting the hut, Eric was just in time to see Salim knock away Jason’s awkward handshake and pull him into a hug. He looked at Dar, but a hug would have just caused the other man pain. Instead, they walked further away, to the edge of the circle of huts, and Eric offered his hand.

“You’re not so bad, as it turns out. Wish you’d minded your own damn business but then you’d have missed out on all of this.”

Dar dropped Eric’s hand, and squeezed his shoulder. He said something in Arabic which, when Eric tried to repeat it to Rachel later, was approximately translated to mean “if you are ever in Badra-Mandali, look me up. Quietly.”

They looked at each other for a moment, before Eric pointed to himself again. 

“King. Eric King.”

Dar’s eyes glinted behind the darkened shades in a way that suggested he knew the word king, and thought it an amusing last name. He reached up and took off his beret, placing it with little obvious care on Eric’s head.

“Dar Basri.”

Eric heard two sets of footsteps behind him as Jason and Salim approached. Salim and Dar exchanged words, before Salim turned to Jason one more time.

“Thank you, my friend.”

“You wish Zain a happy birthday from me.”

There was something unspoken between them, but Dar was already walking away. Salim didn’t hurry to catch up with him, simply walking at his own pace. Jason and Eric stood for a long while, watching them leave before Jason turned to walk away.

“You think maybe we’re on the wrong side of the war, Colonel.”

“I think…” said Eric, adjusting the beret to sit at a jaunty angle, “I think I’m done with the military. After this, I’m going to be a scientist.”

[professorspork]

If you're accepting non-superhell prompts, I'd love to see a conversation between Nora and Emerald! I've been REALLY loving these microfics, I've subscribed to you on Ao3, I'll read whatever else you write

[Gahhh that’s so nice you’re so nice!! thanks for being patient on this one, finding my Nora took some doing]

It’s occurring to Emerald that she’s never had a close female friend before.

You say that like you’ve ever had any friends before, the voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Mercury needles her, but she brushes it aside. Like—okay, yeah, she’ll concede the point when it comes to Cinder. In hindsight, whatever they’d had going on between them may have been... super intense... but it probably had never been friendship, in the usual definition. But she and Mercury were friends, no matter what the judgy little shitstain version of him who lives in her head has to say about it. They’d always gotten along. Told each other stuff. It’s not like there’s more to it than that, right?

It had always been like that. Been—instinctive somehow, with guys. Before Cinder, on the street, it was always the men who’d been easiest to manipulate; who would empty their pockets for a smile and a sob story. And then she and Merc had been two sides of the same coin for so long, and then... well, Hazel’d liked her enough to die for her, apparently. (Which—that’s a door that she keeps closed, thanks. She shuts it firmly again, now.) Oscar seems fond of her, in a sweet, uncomplicated sort of way that she really doesn’t know what to do with, seeing as he shares headspace with like a trillion year old man and the idea that anything to do with that kid could be “uncomplicated” is batshit. Ren vouched for her once, and then again, and now he keeps doing it, like it’s habit, like she should just be used to the fact that people are going to have her back, to ask her if she’s eaten, to turn to her with a raised eyebrow in conversation like her opinion would be constructive.

Anyway.

Now that she’s noticed the pattern, it seems like the kind of thing she should probably… work on, or whatever. And Nora seems like an obvious place for Emerald to start. They’ve been thrown in together a lot, lately, Emerald and Oscar expected to fill in the gaps of what’s left of the old JNPR by default. Not that they’ve ever really had a conversation about it—Emerald can’t think of the last time Nora said two words to her that weren’t combat warnings like “more Grimm coming” or “on your left,” but. That’s probably just because things have been tense. She remembers Nora being friendly, on the whole of it. Off-puttingly friendly, even, back at Beacon.

How hard could it be?

The answer, it turns out, is absurdly hard. Nora’s barely ever in the temporary barracks they’re all living out of, instead always checking on the refugees, going on supply runs over esoteric requests, volunteering for extra patrols. Emerald used to find that kind of dogged do-goodery gag-inducing, but now that she’s been the helping hand herself a few times, she’s starting to see the appeal. The way people look at you when you’ve been of service, it’s—nice. Really nice. But Nora works utterly thankless jobs, the kind most people don’t even notice, let alone appreciate. And when they have their insufferably long leadership meetings and they’re talking about distribution of resources or whatever, Nora’s a fierce debater—jumping in to advocate for the people from Mantle sometimes even before May can. As far as Emerald can tell, she does this stuff just because... she believes in it. Because it’s the right thing to do, and someone has to.

She can’t imagine what it would feel like, to have the attention of someone like that turned on her. She’s craved it from the wrong people for so long, but now that she has her pick of options... she’s letting herself actually want the right kind, for once. She thinks.

Which is all to say that largely through no fault of her own, Emerald unexpectedly finds herself sitting with a profound, fervent desire for Nora Valkyrie to think she’s cool.

She hates that.

-

Fighting with Nora is easy.

(—er. Alongside. Fighting alongside Nora is easy. Emerald’s done fighting with these people. Very done.)

It’s weird, because Emerald’s finding working with a full team to be a real adjustment. When battles get big enough to merit it, she’s used to keeping to the sidelines to use her Semblance for nefarious purposes, or, in a jam, used to having Mercury’s six—literally, because all the forward momentum from his feet-first style always left his back wide open. Figuring out where to put herself so that Oscar can use her shoulder as a fulcrum as he dodges, or trying to aim for the Grimm Ren isn’t already shooting (ugh)—it’s taking work.

But somehow, it’s not work for Nora. Nora seems to anticipate with perfect ease how Emerald will move or what she’ll be doing; Nora bobs and weaves around their ragtag little band with her war hammer like it’s breathing.

It doesn’t bother Emerald until it does, and she means to bring it up casually but there’s never a good time. So it just… stews, and stews, until she can’t keep it bottled up anymore.

Which means that instead of the earnest question she intends it to be, it comes out like this:

“Okay, seriously? It’s creepy how you do that.”

It’s just the two of them, plus the handful of dweeby Atlesian tech-types they’re escorting back from their foray installing some fancy hydro-filtration modules on the outskirts of the camp. And it’s not like Emerald had felt outmatched by the half-dozen Ravagers that had decided they looked like lunch—she can shoot Ravagers in her sleep, at this point—but still. The way Nora had moved around her, it was like they’d been fighting side by side for years.

Nora just cocks her head to the side. “Do what?” she asks, like she hadn’t just basically read Emerald’s mind in front of the water nerds.

Emerald does a complicated gesture with her hands, wrist over wrist, and then flicking two fingers—trying to evoke the way Nora had flipped over Emerald’s back and then kicked off, just trusting Emerald would reel her back in with a chain in midair before a Grimm could fly away with her sorry ass. “That.”

“Oh!” Nora laughs and rubs at the back of her neck, looking sheepish. “It’s nothing. I guess it’s just not a big deal for me? Like—I was there when Ren built StormFlower. The cables are newish, but we practiced so much back in Atlas… I dunno. It’s just reflex, when your weapons are so similar. Fighting with you, it’s almost like fighting with him. I don’t even have to think about it.”

Nora swallows, then, and makes a face Emerald can’t interpret—disappointed, maybe, or ashamed. Which: good. She probably should be, taking things for granted like that.

“Well—just—” Emerald’s not even sure what she wants to say. Ask, next time? Don’t? “You shouldn’t make assumptions. I’m not your boyfriend, okay?”

The venom she puts behind the word is directed more at herself than Nora—frustrated, again, that she’s put herself in the position of wanting so desperately to be liked.

Pathetic.

Nora just nods, looking glum.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, cheeks pulling in a bitter smile. “You’d think I’d be able to keep that one straight, huh?”

She says it with such pointed irony that for a second Emerald wonders if she’d gotten it wrong somehow, but like—Nora and Ren are a thing, right? That’s—everyone knows that.

“Hey, what���?”

“Let’s just go,” Nora says, and Emerald automatically falls into line behind her.

They make the rest of the walk back in silence.

-

Sometimes at night, when she can’t sleep, Emerald likes to climb up to the roof of the barracks and look out over the refugee camp.

It’s—peaceful, is all. A good reminder of where she is; how far she’s come. The night sky in Vacuo has more stars than she’s ever seen, and being able to watch over all these people who have somehow become her responsibility… well.

A part of her will always be standing on the rooftop at Beacon, looking down on pure chaos as a queasy, frightened sensation twists in her gut and its noxious voice whispers you did this, you did this, you did this. What did you think was going to happen, you stupid little girl? You don’t get to feel sorry for it now.

But she does.

Weird how the only thing that’s helped is actually doing something about it.

She hears a scuffling noise over her shoulder, and she’s got Thief’s Respite drawn and ready before she can even really register what she’s heard. She relaxes when she sees it’s Nora at the other end of the barrels, unarmed and hands raised—a funny little smile on her face, like yeah, fair enough, I should have known better than to try and sneak up.

“Just me,” she says, unnecessarily.

Emerald holsters her guns. “Can I help you?” she asks, and—what is it about her voice, that makes sentences that would be nice if any other human said them come out straight-up hostile?

Nora shrugs, hands dropping to her sides. “I was hoping we could talk; I figured you’d come up here if I waited long enough.”

Well, see—what kind of lesson is she supposed to take from that? She’s been hoping for Nora to talk to her for weeks, and acting like a bitch is the thing that gets her what she wants? Good guys are supposed to know better.

And there’s the way she said it, too. Like everyone knows Emerald comes up here to brood; like it’s a big open secret. The knowledge sits uncomfortably in her stomach, makes her feel watched. Even now, even here, she can’t get a moment alone. Not really.

“What, so you’re spying on me now?”

Nora’s eyes narrow. “I have a pretty bad track record when it comes to losing people. Makes a girl want to put in a little hustle when it comes to keeping tabs on her friends.”

And Emerald would snark at that, or maybe apologize, or something, only—

Nora thinks they’re friends?

“Well, take a seat, I guess,” she mumbles, scooching to the side as though she needs to make room on the massive, empty roof.

Nora walks over and joins Emerald on the asphalt, letting her legs dangle over the edge. Seemingly unsure of where to start, she stares at her hands. Emerald stares too, but her eyes can’t help but wander—tracing the way scars, silvery in the moonlight, spiderweb up Nora’s bare wrists and forearms to fetter her shoulders, clavicle, neck. Like cracks in a pane of glass, right before it shatters.

(Only that’s not it at all, is it? It’s not a sign of weakness, but a warning of strength. I care this much, her scars announce to the word. You wanna try me?

Hazel’s arms always looked like that.)

Emerald doesn’t want to be the one to break the silence, sure that whatever she’d say would be incredibly stupid.

Luckily, Nora has no such qualms, and opens with: “I really admire you, you know?”

Emerald stares, jaw slack, certain she’s heard wrong. “I—what?” She’d say something defensive, like yeah right or you don’t have to make fun of me, only Nora’s eyes are so wide and so guileless they don’t leave any room for argument.

“I mean it,” Nora adds. “I know we don’t know all that much about each other, but… here’s what I do know: I can’t remember a time I saw you without Mercury right behind. Just like me’n Ren. And the way you fought for Cinder…” Nora smiles a sad, private little smile. “You don’t fight like that unless it’s personal; unless someone means something to you. Just like me’n Ren. And now you’re here. All on your own. And you didn’t have to be. That’s—don’t you think that’s crazy brave? I sure do.”

Of course she fucking doesn’t. Crazy brave would have been walking away the first, tenth, hundredth time she had a flash of panic about what she was doing. Or, better yet, doing something about it. Crazy brave is taking thirty thousand volts to get to your friends; it’s flooding your veins with pure crystalline power and saying Go, I’m doing what Gretchen would have done, it’s—

She closes that door.

“It’s not like I really had a choice,” she sighs, dodging the question.

“Oh, you know that’s not true,” Nora scoffs dismissively, tilting sideways to nudge Emerald with her shoulder.

And Emerald jolts, because—look, it’s not like no one touches her. They have to manhandle each other all the time in battle, and… and Oscar gives her high fives sometimes, which makes her embarrassingly pleased. But what Nora’s offering now, that kind of buddy-buddy casual contact…

… it’s been a while, is all.

“So, why did you want to talk to me?” Emerald asks, overwhelmed and suddenly desperate to find a way to get this conversation over with. She feels like she’s sprinted five miles; like she’s had the crap kicked out of her and she has to go somewhere to lick her wounds. Too much, too fast.

Nora laughs—a chuffing, cynical noise that doesn’t sound at all like her. “Looking for pointers? See, I’m trying this thing where I do things on my own, but I just—I suck at it. Like today; you saw. Even when I’m not with Ren, all I do is… is act exactly the same way I do when I’m with Ren. Like I literally don’t know how to exist without him, whether he’s actually there or not. And I know that’s not fair to anyone; I didn’t mean to treat you like—” She shakes her head, biting her lip. “You’re not just some stand-in. It’s not you at all. I’m just—broken, or something. One trick pony.”

“No, hey—”

“But you figured it out,” she barrels on, which is good, because Emerald doesn’t actually have a clue what she would have said there. “You don’t have anyone and somehow you’re just, like—good to go!” Nora says it cheerily, like it’s a compliment, but has the grace to balk a little when she hears how it sounds. “…sorry. That’s—sorry.”

Emerald shrugs, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her chin there. She feels like an idiot; building it up for weeks like spending time with Nora would solve all her problems when, surprise surprise, Nora’s just as fucked up as she is.

“Hate to disappoint you, but I don’t have any hot tips,” she mutters into the crooks of her elbows. “I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. Like—you want to know the really sad part? I was just following your lead.”

“My…?” Nora can’t even finish repeating it, which: Emerald can’t blame her. It’s so dumb. “Huh?”

“Come on. You know.”

“I don’t,” Nora says, voice thick with exhaustion. Like she’s sick of herself. “Ask anyone—I’m not the brains of the operation.”

Hearing Nora talk about herself that way makes Emerald’s chest feel tight; like her ribs have locked in place so her lungs can’t expand. She doesn’t know how to explain it; not without sounding like a starry-eyed fangirl or a moron with a crush and that’s not what this—it’s only that—

She chooses to start a different way.

“You wanna know why I switched sides? Like, really why?”

Nora softens, and reaches out to touch the back of Emerald’s left hand, where it dangles over her knee. “Sure,” she says, but Emerald barely hears it; it’s taking all of her concentration not to clench her fist or pull away in response.

“I overheard Oscar—or, Ozpin, I guess, I don’t know—talking to Hazel about Salem, about her goals. And… listen. No one joins under Salem because they’re trying to kill the world, okay? I mean, no one but Tyrian, anyway. We were all just trying to… find ways to get by. And when Cinder found me, she—” Emerald swallows, hard. This cuts too deep, too close. It’s not something she can just say. “I wasn’t trying to be some big villain, or something. I was just—looking out for the people who were looking out for me. And why wouldn’t I? No one else ever seemed to think I was worth it.”

“Of course you are,” Nora cuts in, quiet but vehement. “Everyone is.”

“See, the worst part is that you mean that when you say it,” Emerald grumbles, scrubbing at her face until smears of color kaleidoscope behind her closed eyes. “I figured people like you didn’t exist, and then Cinder and Merc were glad to prove me right, and—I let them. You know? And maybe if I’d just held out a little longer…”

“You’re not the only one here who’s ashamed of her past. Harriet tried to blow up Mantle, like, a month ago.”

“That’s not—forget that. I’m talking about you. Nora.” It’s the first time she’s ever said her name like that—addressing her, in conversation. It feels… astonishingly intimate, for so small a thing. Emerald powers past it. “Every day, I see you do something ridiculous, like double back on a patrol because you forgot you promised some kid a candy bar, or something, and that—matters. To me. It’s so stupid, but it’s not, because… argh! I want—it’s—” She tries to get her mouth to form the words, that’s the kind of person I want to be, but they stop in her throat.

Still, Nora seems to get the message. Her eyes seem suspiciously shiny for a moment—but when she blinks, it’s gone. “I… thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Emerald grumbles. Saying it like she means it: seriously. Don’t mention it.

“I understand what you mean, though. For years, the only person who looked out for me was Ren. And if he’d said…” Nora trails off, then, cocking her head to the side as she works through something. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just. I remembered something. I was about to say that if Ren told me the only way for us to get by was a life of crime, or something, I would’ve taken his word for it, but—the opposite happened. We decided to enroll at Beacon. And that wasn’t his idea; it was mine. I always wanted to be a Huntress. To… to be the one strong enough to help people, instead of always needing the help. He wasn’t sure if we would make it, but I was. We were together, right? How could we lose?” She chuckles, a little, shaking her head at herself. “Get a load of that. He followed me.”

They smile at each other, then. Like they’ve figured out something profound. Maybe Nora has; Emerald hopes so.

“I’m glad you’re here, Emerald,” Nora says, and—there it is again. The frisson of electricity that comes with being referred to by name.

Of course, then Emerald ruins it by blurting out:

“Of course you are, all your other friends are dead.”

Which—“Fuck!” she sputters, because she didn’t mean to say that. What is wrong with her? “Sorry! Sorry.”

Nora only grins at her, feral and incisive. “Yeah, well. Yours are evil, so. Pick your poison. At least I’m proud of mine.”

Touché.

“Still glad I’m here?” Emerald jeers, because her first instinct is still to press on the bruise to see how much it hurts.

Nora laughs, and gets to her feet. “Believe it or not, yes. If putting your foot in your mouth was all it took to get booted from Hero Club, I’d have been kicked out a long time ago.” She reaches down to offer Emerald a hand; Emerald takes it, letting Nora pull her to standing. “Now go and get some rest, huh? None of us can ever sleep when you’re up here thinking so loud.”

“That an order?”

“Advice. Friends give it, from time to time.”

And—yeah. Maybe they do. 

[fairestwriting]

Octatrio pining for a singular S/O? Or maybe Jade gifting terrariums to people? I have a lot of Octavinelle ideas ha

pining octatrio scenario for the soul. love these morally dubious fish men. i hope you like my interpretation of this ksdjkskd

prompt: octavinelle pining for the same person.

word count: 1114

Mostro Lounge is as lively as usual, the clinking of glasses and silverware against plates echoing around you as you flip through your textbooks, the white noise helping you focus on the content at hand.

You’d been there for a while today, exams were coming up, and you really didn’t want to mess up this time. It turned out that the lounge was the place where it was easier for you to focus, so you’ve become quite the regular recently.

It wasn’t a place without its distractions, though -- They came every now and then, making you look up from your books and notes, losing your train of thought.

“Excuse me,” Coincidentally, it seemed to be the time for one of these distractions -- Jade Leech walks up to you gracefully, a couple menus in his arms. Was he working today? He hadn’t greeted you yet. “Would you perhaps like something to drink? You’ve been here for quite a while.”

“Ah, I’ve had one already.” You answer almost immediately. Jade and you didn’t really talk that much, but you saw him often, and whenever you did, he’d hover over you like this -- It’s sort of strange, you can never tell what he has going on in his head, unsettlingly. But he’s always so polite, it’s hard to deny that he could be really charming...

Jade chuckles lightly. “Yes, you did an hour and some ago. But that’s a bit too long, isn’t it? You shouldn’t go thirsty.” He speaks, and opens the menu in front of you. “Won’t you choose something for me to bring to you? I’ll give you a discount if it means you take care of yourself.”

A discount? Azul wouldn’t like that. Now that he said it, though, it’d been a while since you had anything to drink. He pushes the menu towards you a little.“W-Well, I guess it’s fine, then.” You mutter, always caught off guard by how he gives you attention. It’s hard to imagine that someone like Jade would, so suddenly, grow fond of you. You flip through the menu shortly before choosing a drink.

“Excellent choice.” Jade praises, still with that unflappable smile. “I’ll be back shortly. Be sure to take breaks.”

“R-Right! Thank you...”

Jade really was... a surprisingly nice guy.

With your evening just a little brightened, you’re about to go back to the books. Before that can happen, though, the second Leech brother rushes towards your table in a flash.

“Shrimpy!” Floyd sing-songs, hopping onto the plush seat in front of yours. “Hi there! I didn’t see you today!”

These Octavinelle students sure are energetic today, you think with a quiet laugh. “Hi, Floyd.” You greet back. “Sorry we can’t talk much, I really gotta study.”

“Eh, that’s so boring.” He whines, but the smile stays on his face as he tilts his head, mismatched eyes watching you closely. "Don't you wanna hang out with me? There's something outside the dorm I wanna show you!"

A tempting offer, really, but all your books glare at you -- You glance at them for a bit, genuinely considering it, but ultimately shake your head

"No, sorry. I'm screwed if I don't do well in these." You say, regrettably. Floyd pouts. "Maybe after the exams though?"

"I wanna hang out with Shrimpy now, though." He whines, cheek resting on one of his hands. Before you notice it, his free hand reaches forward, towards a lock of your hair, and he brushes your bangs off your face casually. Your shoulders stiffen, face heating up. "Pretty please? I promise you it'll be really fun!"

"U-Um." You stutter. Floyd was always touchy, but it never failed to catch you off guard. You have to avert your eyes from his, feeling way too close to just giving in. "S-Sorry, Floyd, I promise that later we'll--"

"Floyd!" Suddenly, Azul's exasperated voice fills the scenario, he marches towards your table. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be at the kitchen today!"

"I don't feel like it, though." He complains. His hand near you lingers just for a bit, sort of cold agaisnt your warm cheeks before it drops. "I worked every day this week already! I'm not doing it today."

"Frankly, you..." Azul sighs, pushing his glasses up with a defeated expression. There's no use arguing with Floyd, everyone knows that, he just does what he wants. "Fine. I expect you to make up for this whenever you're working again, though."

"Yeah, whatever." He giggles "I guess I'm gonna be by myself then, since Shrimpy can't come with me...so sad~"

He's getting up to leave when Azul seems to finally notice your presence, perking up at the sight.

"Oh, my apologies, I didn't see you there!" He says quickly, light pink dusted over his cheeks. "Has Floyd caused you any problems? He can be so troublesome when he wants to..."

"Don't worry about it, he just wanted to hang out." You shrug. Azul nods at that, patting down his jacket like he needed to make sure there were no wrinkles -- He acted so frantic sometimes.

"That may be troublesome, though, since you're studying right now, am I right?" He speaks, taking a step closer to inspect the books on your table. "Are you having a hard time with these? I'm able to tutor you, if you need to."

Being in debt to Azul is never a good idea. "Um, no, I don't really have anything to offer for that. Thank you, though." Somehow, this doesn't seem to discourage him much -- Though he averts his eyes, weirdly, as he adjusts the hat on his head.

"W-Well, it's a simple task, I wouldn't require any compensation for that." It comes out a little mumbly, contrasting Azul's usual poise. He won't look you in the eyes now. "I...If you don't believe me, I'll sign something for you!"

"Ah, well." You mutter, unsure of how to reply. "I mean, I'm doing okay with these, but if I need help later, then..."

His face lights up quickly. "Wonderful. I'll be happy to help." He almost beams at you, a small laugh leaving him after he speaks. "I'll leave you to it now, but if you need anything at all, don't hesitate to contact me!"

"Sure, thank you, Azul." It seems that you'd be able to get back to your studying soon. Hopeful, you pick up the textbook you were looking at before. "You're actually a kind person, huh."

"N-Naturally." And he averts his eyes again, cheeks pinker. "I'll...I suppose I'll leave now. I'll see you around."

"See you!"

You watch him leave for a moment. These Octavinelle students sure were strange, huh?

[thesoulesscollection]

Hello. New to Tumblr, and thought of a fun ask.

It might be a bit tricky, but might I request a story about any of the surviving Museum Staff after TK/T4L? Some of them feeling guilty for not stopping Henry ultimately leading to the Orbital Station going up and Henry effectively ruling the world? I feel there’s a good amount of angst potential there and it’s always fun seeing the hardly discussed characters get some attention.

Heya, it's nice to see a new face so I hope your stay here is great and that you have fun. Thank you for the prompt request. My ask box is always open for anyone to flood it with anything. Apologies if this took a while, one-shots take me a while to write. 

Tw/Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Supportive Friendship, Minor Violence, Mild Language, Mild Mature Content, Ambiguous Past Relationships & Ambiguous Ending (Maybe Hopeful?)

Character(s)

Kurt Dietrich 

Johnny Panzer (In my interpretation or at least, for this one-shot, he's still alive) 

In a run-down, dingy, local bar in town there were two men, friends since their mid teens, sitting together in a booth drinking their feelings, stresses, and overall anything they didn't want to experience down with rich alcohol.

"Can't believe that bastard went into space?" Kurt cursed, head laid on his palms, watching the TV and what's on screen nearly angered him to the boiling point. "Even the military couldn't stop him, it seems. That fucking blows" 

A recent raid done by the Toppats with another failed attempt by the Military to stop them which made Kurt lose faith in ever seeing an end to the madness on earth. 

"I know. But there's nothing we can do about it now. We should just leave it to the military. Hopefully they can handle that ordeal" Glancing at the taller man who was still in uniform he irritably huffs as the other continues in seemingly good spirits, "There has to be an end. You see the clan never had luck on their side for too long? More so especially with their leaders. One day their newest leader has to slip. Sooner than later, I believe" 

Tensing then relaxing it was hard to believe. Henry Stickmin, known for his luck, would ever slip up. It's near damn impossible. Kurt knew this from past experiences leaving a sour taste in his mouth worse than the cheap booze he drank. What he soon felt was regret though he'll never admit to it. 

"We could've. I should've at least. I had that stinken' chance and blew it. I could've lost my job, livelihood over this and he was right there so reckless in the museum" 

"It's not your fault though, Kurt. Nor was it anyone else who'd worked there either. It just happened. You did your job as you could've in that situation. That's all that anyone can hope for" Johnny went to explain, shrugging his shoulders, taking in a small hesitant sip then recoiling at the bitter taste. 

With his free hand, Kurt motioned over to the TV screen up above where it showed a quick shot of the Toppats' current leader, "I guess. But look at him. That Stickmin is a fucking smug ass dick thinking he owns the damn world" 

"He doesn't. One day he'll simply trip over it and maybe hopefully be caught. Even better he will get punished for all his crimes" 

"I can only hope. He could've seriously hurt someone. He's doing that anyways right at this very moment. He almost killed you by the way and I simply can't dare to forgive him for that neither" 

"But I'm fine now. A little scar on the forehead"  

"It could've been worse-" 

"I get it. Jeeze. That's all I hear, y'know. You're almost as bad as my dad. All that happened is I got knocked out by a ROCK while chasing him in the cruiser"  

Biting at his tongue Kurt gulped nothing then the musky air filling the constricting bar, looking down at his half empty glass contemplating something in his head. 

"I care about you as a friend. Sometimes I really wish things were different. If I acted differently. If I hadn't been so damn brash and rude like I didn't care about literally anything or anyone. Maybe he'll still be here. Mushy as that sounds, I get it" 

There was a slight painful understanding between them, they didn't intend to push too further on it as Johnny just shifted in his seat opposite to his friend. 

"He's out there somewhere. Doing better,  I hope. I know for sure that Dave doesn't truly hate you. Upset perhaps and another point he can't truly hate anyone" He calmly reassured. 

Nodding silently, Kurt finished his drink in one, large gulp, "Hm. He was such a nice guy even if he anxiously chatted a mile a minute. I felt like he was desperately trying to get close to me, like he needed a friend or something, however I pushed him away in annoyance. I bet that's why he left soon after that whole Stickmin incident among the obvious reasons of course"

"Again. Don't worry about it too much. You go into a downward spiral again. He's doing fine most likely then not and maybe you didn't act nice at the time but you've changed. You're doing better too" 

"Suppose so" 

"One day, Kurt. Everything will change for the better. There will be a time where you'll feel satisfied. Happy even" 

One day Kurt truly hopes. It may seem far fetched in his cynical eyes although he can still wish. Dream of a better life with the people he truly finds himself caring for, opening up entirely to without shame, and for once starting to live out a more fulfilling life. Though he tends to stay realistic, taking one baby step at a time. So he called it a night, not drinking away his issues when cracking an amused smile at his old friend. 

"Yeah. One day"