#i wish the psychometry went somewhere

[phoenixkaptain]

Can’t stop thinking about Star Wars…

The Original Trilogy is about forgiveness and love. How love can help people who everyone thinks are too far gone. How you can choose to be good at any point, even if you’ve done terrible things. You can make the choice to change your behaviour and become maybe not a good person and definitely not a perfect person, but a better person than you were just a moment ago.

Thinking about how the Prequel Trilogy feeds into this. Anakin makes choices throughout, and he feels unmoored. He feels like he has to hide. He does hide. He hides from the people who can help him, the Jedi, because he can only see how he’s imperfect and they’re perfect, he can’t see their flaws. He loves Padme and Obi-Wan but that love tears him apart and he stops feeling safe anywhere. He loses everything he loved, from his home to his mother to his Master to his wife, and that makes his final choice in the Original Trilogy, his choice to do something good, all the more meaningful because we know him. We know he isn’t perfect and we know he’s capable of committing atrocities, but he chose not to. He chose to sacrifice himself for someone, instead of wishing someone would sacrifice themself for him.

The Sequel Trilogy had so much potential. But, there was no plan. And that’s the most diappointing part. The original and prequel trilogies have flow, they make sense, they connect intrinsically to each other and they only strengthen each other. The sequels just don’t flow, they don’t connect, they feel disjointed.

If Rey had to be Palpatine’s granddaughter, I think it would have made more sense for her to be the Vader mirror instead of Ben Solo. If Rey had been raised and groomed as Palpatine’s next apprentice, if she had been taught that Jedi = bad and democracy = bad, but Palpatine ruling everything = good, if she was a Sith from the beginning, but she chose not to be? That would tie in to the first trilogy a lot better.

Especially because they could have used the psychometry they gave her. She could have found Anakin’s lightsaber and felt heart break. She could have seen all the terrible things that happened because of Anakin, because of Darth Vader, and she could have had a moment of realization that she can choose to be good. Especially if she didn’t find Anakin’s lightsaber, but Luke’s.

Rey could have been powerful because she was trained her whole life to be powerful. She could have been masculine because she was trained her whole life to be masculine. She could have been such a better antagonist than Kylo Ren was. And it’s all because of the choices the characters would make and the intention behind them.

When Ben Solo leaves everything behind, he lost everything, but it was his choice to do so. If Rey was in a situation where she was raised by Palpatine but decided to give up that life, her fear of losing everything hits a bit harder.

They could even have made the same story! Like, Rey leaves as a teenager and goes to Jakku to hide because nobody will look for her there, only to stumble on a droid from the Resistance and realize that this is her chance to do good. She could seek out Luke Skywalker, hoping that he’ll teach her how to be good instead of bad. She could kill Palpatine by throwing him down another reactor core.

You wouldn’t even have to change the other characters all that much, honestly. You could still have Kylo Ren, his bond with Rey would just be a bit different. Maybe they were groomed together for a period, maybe he was to be her replacement, either way, you could still have that, if you really wanted to.

You could have anything you want, because the sequel trilogy is the way it is and it’s not going to change just because I have opinions. I wish it was different. I wish the people who made it were allowed to care about it, to see it through to the end, all three movies, to make a plan at the start then follow it through to the end. I wish they’d been allowed time to revise and edit and do things better. I wish, I wish, I wish, but it’s not that way. And I just have to make my peace with that.

[kcrabb88]

Narrative backflips I’ve been doing to make Ahsoka’s psychometry make sense:

1. It’s latent in more Jedi than we know and some sort of traumatic brain injury triggered it in Ahsoka

2. She killed Quinlan and absorbed his power (dun dun DUNNNNN)

3. Ahsoka always had it but after seeing the trauma it put Quinlan through at times, Obi-Wan went out of his way to cover it up. Always fun to give the man some more stress.

4. She always had it but kept it to herself bc she didn’t realize it was weird. Like a kid who needs glasses but doesn’t KNOW they need glasses until someone sees them walk into a wall

5. Some nightsister bullshit.

6. She’s been dead now two (three?) times so something something connected to the past or ghosts of feelings/experiences or some sort of fit idk man I’m trying to do backflips in a sand pit

OMG anon you thought about this more that Dave Filoni did! I'm partial to 3 for the angst of it all, I admit! Given Ahsoka has died like, three times though, 6 is also feasible :D

(Not 2 though noooooo Quin is alive somewhere, I hope! What happened to him after 10 BBY and the OWK show? I sure wish someone would say!! Let him help Luke train new Jedi or something).

[awake-not-today]

NamKook The Gifted Hands / Psychometry AU:

Detective Kim Namjoon is investigating the case of a child disappearance. When the child's body is found, Namjoon finds himself trailing a murderer.

During his investigation he remembers a run in he'd had with a graffiti artist one night, and the artwork he'd done depicting the scene in which the child's body was found.

The graffiti which had been painted a month before the discovery of the child's body.

Jeon Jungkook is a small time graffiti artist with a secret, the power to see the memories of any living thing he touches. He hides himself away from the world, ashamed of who he is, that is until he's thrown head first into a murder investigation and becomes the prime suspect.

Part 10 of ?

Chapter masterlist

Fic begins under the cut

Tag list: @yoongi-bearr @triheartedhero @doriadoo @rosybabytae @spookidema

“Joon-ah, please let me come with you.”

The bile rose in Namjoon's throat, burning as he stumbled through the streets. He slapped a hand over his mouth, tripping over himself as he tried to make it home. He threw up in an alleyway near his apartment, his heavy sobs causing his body to lurch and making him retch. Unsteadily he walked back as soon as his heaving turned dry and sank down to his knees, trying to calm himself down.

The voice, the cries of Geun that day, echoed in his mind over and over. Haunting him like the ghosts of his past he'd tried to run from. He couldn’t regain control, no matter how hard he tried. His chest ached and his nails dug crescents into his palms as he clenched his fists to steady his breathing. It was useless, of course. The door in his mind that he’d kept locked for so long being opened again.

Eventually he gathered himself and got to his feet, using the wall to brace his hand against as he made his way home. He wanted to be alone, wanted to sleep. Wanted to forget. God, how he wished he could forget. Finally he reached his apartment, clumsily fumbling with his keys to get the door open. The second the lock clicked he collapsed to his knees again, crawling inside to curl up on the floor. He felt weak. Exhausted. Completely drained.

“Namjoon, hyung?” Namjoon registered Taehyung’s voice, but didn’t move to acknowledge him, instead curling further in on himself. Warm hands cupped his face, thumbs swiping his cheeks gently. “Shit. Seokjin hyung! Hoseok!”

“What’s going on?” Seokjin called out as his footsteps approached, quickening at the sight of Namjoon on the floor. Suddenly he was there, pulling Namjoon up and into his arms to stroke soothing fingers through his hair as Namjoon shook against him pathetically. “Joonie? What happened?”

“I left him there, hyung.” Namjoon managed on a sob, clinging to Seokjin like a lifeline. “I left him. It was all my fault.”

“Who? Namjoon, I don’t understand?” Namjoon just cried harder, burying his face in Seokjin's shoulder. His sobs were violent, his whole body moving with the force of each one. Hoseok crouched, placing soft hands on Namjoon’s back.

“Hyung, let’s get him inside properly and calm him down.”

“I left him, hyungie.” Namjoon's hands scrabbled on the front of Seokjin's shirt as he was pulled up to his feet, being guided unsteadily to the front room.

It took a long while to calm Namjoon down, Seokjin rocking him gently until his sobs became hiccups and he slowly cried himself to slumber. Seokjin sighed, running a shaking hand through his hair as he turned to Hoseok and Taehyung across from him, keeping a reassuring hand combing through Namjoon's sweat damp hair.

“Can someone tell me what the fuck that was about?” Seokjin hissed, glancing between the two men. Taehyung shrugged, an utterly bewildered look on his face. Hoseok however got to his feet, moving over to the kitchen area so pour himself a Soju, downing it. The two other men watched him curiously, Hoseok sighed.

“I think I know.” He shook his head and closed his eyes for a brief moment, before grabbing the bottle and a couple more glasses and carrying them back to the living room. “But it isn’t my place to say. He told me something one night when we were wasted and I never brought it up again. I don’t think he remembers.”

“Tell me, Seokie. Right now.”

“I can’t.” Hoseok shook his head, making Seokjin huff. He gazed at Namjoon, the man who'd taken a chance on him and had turned his life around, with sad eyes. “Ask him when he wakes up. You'll understand why it’s not my place.”

One night a little after Hoseok had moved in, Namjoon and Hoseok had gotten wine drunk and had gotten to know each other a little more. Namjoon had asked Hoseok about his life and how he'd ended up on the path he was on, and in return Namjoon had spilled his guts, and his tears, talking about what led him to become a detective. They hadn’t talked about it again, and Hoseok wouldn’t pry. He had already witnessed how devastating it was for Namjoon to talk about.

Seokjin seemed to accept that Hoseok was respecting Namjoon’s boundaries, turning his body to run his fingers through Namjoon's hair again. He’d wait all night if he had to.

Blinking awake, Namjoon groaned. His mouth felt dry and tasted disgusting, the distinct taste of bile on his tongue. A soft hand clung to his own and he forced himself to sit up, ignoring the pounding in his head, to find Seokjin watching him carefully.

“Hyung?”

“How are you feeling, Joonie?” Seokjin's voice was gentle, as if Namjoon was fragile and he'd break at any second. He furrowed his brow, turning to see Hoseok and Taehyung watching him too.

“Like I got hit by a semi.”

“You scared me, Namjoon hyung.”

Everything suddenly came rushing back to Namjoon then, and he tore his hand from Seokjin's, gripping his stomach as he covered his mouth. He fought the urge to cry again, shaking his head and curling his legs under himself. Hoseok stood, crossing the small space between them to sit beside Namjoon and grip his knee.

“Joon-ah.” He sighed, making Namjoon turn his head to face him. “You need to tell them.”

“Tell them?” Namjoon glanced between Hoseok and Seokjin, shifting in his seat a little.

“About Geun.”

Just hearing the name was like a bullet point blank to Namjoon's brain, unleashing an outpouring of memories and pain he had worked so hard to bury over the years. He leaned back, his head resting against the back of the sofa as he remembered confessing to Hoseok when he was drunk and emotional.

“Do you remember when you told me about him?”

“Geun?” Seokjin raised an eyebrow, turning his body to fully face them. “Who’s Geun?”

“My brother.”

That day was the worst of Namjoon's life, changing his future forever. His entire world caved in around him and all he could do was watch, blaming himself for the domino effect causing his life to crumble to the ground.

Eight years old. That’s how old Namjoon was. Eight years old. His brother, Geun, was six. Namjoon had reached the age of trying to be one of the cooler kids in the neighbourhood, finding it difficult to achieve with his little brother clinging to him every second of the day.

It was a sort of hero worship, the way Geun would want to be apart of everything Namjoon did. He wanted to be just like Namjoon. To play the same games, have the same friends, following Namjoon around like a little loyal puppy dog. Namjoon wished he could go back, wished he could hold his brother's hand forever and take him wherever he went always. He wished he could change everything.

Some local boys had invited Namjoon to play basketball, and Namjoon had agreed happily, running down the road after them after telling his parents where he was going. He'd only made it about nine feet away from his home when he felt a tiny hand gripping his wrist, and Namjoon had snatched his arm away to face his brother.

“Go home, Geun.”

“Joon-ah, let me come!”

“No. Go home.”

“Joon-ah, please.” Geun had begun to cry, bottom lip wobbling miserably as he pleaded. “Joon-ah, please let me come.”

“Leave me alone.” Namjoon had snapped with his voice raised, turning on his heel and running after the boys again, leaving Geun to sob alone on the street.

Nine feet. Still visible from the front door of their home, and yet somewhere between where he left Geun standing and their front door, his baby brother disappeared into thin air.

Search parties gathered and hunted day and night, combing the streets and surrounding areas for any sign of the little boy. The town was in chaos, everybody gossiping and hunting for the small boy. Namjoon's parents had assured Namjoon that he wasn’t at fault, that he couldn’t be blamed for what had happened, but the sinking feeling in Namjoon's gut had told him they were wrong. It was all his fault. He was the one who had walked away and left the child alone.

Three days later, Geun was discovered.

Namjoon had heard it on a police radio in his kitchen, the officer there to inform his parents that there had been no progress in the case. Namjoon had taken off running, tiny feet pounding the pavement as he headed to the location that the radio had said. Nothing in the world could have prepared him for what he would see when he got there.

He can’t remember much about what happened that day, just the feeling of a detectives arms wrapping around his tiny body to hold him back as he tried to run to his baby brother. Geun lay face down, arms and legs bound together behind his back, angry purple and blue bruises around his neck as he lay face down in a pool of water. His skin was a sickening blue grey, blotched and cold. Namjoon was young but he knew that Geun was gone.

Namjoon remembered screaming, and then nothing at all. He had passed out in the arms of the detective. His next memory being when he awoke in his bed to his elderly neighbour pressing a cool cloth to his face as he listened to his mother's devastated wails. A little over two weeks later he was watching Geun's coffin being lowered into the ground.

Things were never the same after that. His father kept his distance from Namjoon, only speaking to him to reassure him when Namjoon broke down again. He didn’t touch him, though. He couldn’t, Namjoon supposed. It only served to convince a young Namjoon that the blame was in fact his own. A year later Namjoon was shipped off to live with his grandparents, only seeing his mother and father on holidays. He hadn’t seen them in over five years.

“Joonie.” Seokjin's voice quivered, his fingers coming up to wipe away the tears he'd cried as Namjoon told them of his secret. “Why didn't you ever tell me? I could have helped.”

“I didn’t want to hear from you what everyone else had already told me.” Namjoon sighed, leaning heavily on his hyung. “Everyone told me I became a detective for the wrong reasons. I couldn’t bear to hear that from you.”

“Why did you become a detective?” Taehyung piped up quietly from where he'd curled himself small into the armchair, clutching a throw pillow to his chest.

“I wanted to save people from the same fate that Geun suffered.” Namjoon laughed bitterly then, shaking his head. “I’ve done a pretty terrible fucking job of that so far. But I promised him, the day we buried him, I swore I would find his killer and stop it from happening to anyone else. A naive dream, I know.”

“Not naive. Understandable. Justified.” Seokjin smiled, leaning in to rest his chin on Namjoon's shoulder. “Any of us would have done the same. So what triggered the, umm, the attack you had earlier.”

Looking down at his hands, Namjoon wracked his brain for an excuse. He couldn’t exactly tell Seokjin the truth, he'd be admitting to working on the case. He looked to Hoseok, finding a knowing look in his eyes, and smiled weakly. Namjoon sighed, turning back to Seokjin.

“I guess this case just has a lot of similarities to Geun's and it just got to be too much to think about.” Seokjin accepted the answer with a nod, squeezing Namjoon's arm gently. He looked at his watch, before meeting Namjoon's eyes again.

“We should go.” He looked to Hoseok, “you make sure he rests.”

“Sir, yes sir!” Seokjin rolled his eyes, getting to his feet and heading for the door. Taehyung followed, Namjoon getting up to see them out.

“I'll call-“ Seokjin’s phone rang, stopping him mid sentence as he fished it from his pocket. He gave Namjoon an apologetic smile as he swiped his thumb across the screen and held it to his ear.

“Chief Seokjin.” Seokjin's face dropped as he listened to the caller, his hand reaching for the door handle to open it quickly. “Is there any evidence? Witnesses? I’m on my way.”

“What's going on, hyung?” Namjoon grabbed his wrist before Seokjin could leave, holding him in place. Seokjin looked conflicted for a moment and then sighed heavily.

“There's been another kidnapping.”

[undeadcourier]

cesario makes a deal wc: 1567

Cesario tapped the tarot deck against the tabletop to straighten it. Their fingers tingled where they touched the cards with the faint pins-and-needles sensation of blood rushing back into a limb that had fallen asleep. 

The feeling was as familiar to Cesario now as was the design on the backs of the cards. They traced a fingertip over the wings of the eagle painted in cerulean and turquoise over a golden sun and sighed.

Before the ache in their chest that always bloomed when they thought of home could grow to distraction, the bell on the door tinkled to announce the arrival of a customer and Cesario set the deck down.

The man who entered was surprisingly tall -- almost as tall as Cesario themself, though they shared little else in common. The stranger’s worn leather jacket and the layer of Mojave dust on his sturdy boots were a far cry from the flowing shawl and hand-tooled huaraches that Cesario wore. 

The man didn’t acknowledge Cesario right away but instead browsed the selection of candles, charms, oils, and other items that they had displayed for sale. He didn’t appear particularly interested in anything until he came to Cesario’s crystal ball, set on a stand by a selection of dried herbs. 

“I would appreciate if you didn’t touch that,” Cesario said. 

Apparently, that was precisely the wrong thing to say, because the man cocked his head slightly before he lifted the ball off its stand and held it up in one gloved hand. He turned it in the light and examined it in a detached sort of way, and Cesario knew at once that he wasn’t so much interested in the ball as in being contrary. They pursed their lips.

“Is there something I can help you with?” they prompted. 

“You have to ask?” he teased. His roguish grin was warped by the crystal ball as he held it up between them and looked through it at Cesario. “You didn’t foresee that I’d come?” 

Cesario resisted the impulse to roll their eyes. “It doesn’t work like that,” they explained. They kept their eyes on the ball, perched precariously in the man’s hand, and wished he’d just set it down already. “Perhaps you’d like a reading?”

The man scoffed. “I don’t need a witch to tell me my future,” he responded. “I intend to shape it.”

“Curious that you should choose to come here, then,” Cesario pointed out. When the man didn’t take that as his invitation to leave, they swallowed a sigh. “As it happens, I’m not in the position to entertain guests at the moment, so if you don’t intend to buy anything, I suggest that you be on your way.”

“I’m looking for someone who came in here,” the man said. “A friend of yours, I’m told.” His tone was casual enough, but there was something about the way he spoke that made the hairs on the back of Cesario’s neck stand up.

“I have many friends,” they replied. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched up at that.

 “The man I’m looking for is one of the Chairmen over at the Tops,” he said. As he spoke, he picked up one of the devotional candles with la Virgen de Guadalupe on it and his grin twisted down. “Es un pinche cabrón se llama Benny.”

When he said the name, his gold eyes flicked up to meet Cesario’s. It was a calculating stare, the look of a poker master sizing up the other players at the table, looking for a bluff.

He needn’t have bothered, really. Cesario never liked lying, nor had they ever been good at it.

“I wouldn’t call him a friend,” they answered. “He left the Strip a few days ago, I suppose he’s somewhere in the desert.” Ordinarily, they might have tried to get a few caps for that information, but at the moment, they were more preoccupied with getting this man to leave before he dropped that ball. He still hadn’t set it down, and it was beginning to make Cesario anxious. It wasn’t as though genuine crystal balls were easy to come by…

Only then did it occur to Cesario that the man had not taken it simply out of spite, but as a kind of hostage, to ensure that they answered his questions about Benny. They set their jaw and made a mental note to keep such valuables out of reach in the future, but the man was still turning the ball idly in his hands.

“He didn’t tell me where he was going,” Cesario said, “so if that was all you came to ask, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“No?” The man sounded amused. “I would have thought a private investigator would be precisely the person who could help me.”

A knot of unease twisted in Cesario’s stomach at that. They no longer advertised as an investigator. They hadn’t in years, not since the conflict between the NCR and the Legion had escalated to all-out war. It was too dangerous, and besides, with the troopers on the Strip, they got more than enough business with their tarot and palm readings to live comfortably behind the walls of New Vegas and avoid all that legwork. 

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“You haven’t even heard my offer yet,” the man argued, and he finally set down the crystal ball so that he could take something from an inner pocket on his jacket. “I went out of my way to get this for you, too.”

Cesario watched as he unwrapped several layers of crinkled crepe paper. Some cheap trinket, no doubt. Did he think wrapping it up like that would be enough to fool them? 

When the man folded back the last layer of paper, however, Cesario couldn’t help the soft gasp that escaped their throat.

They were gloves, and they were exquisite. Crafted of rich cobalt leather with pique stitching and embroidered with an intricate celestial design in silver thread. Cesario noticed, too, that they appeared to be exactly the right size to fit them.

“Do you like them?”

Cesario looked back at the man’s face and saw a glint of pride in his golden eyes. He already knew the answer to that question. He’d known before he’d even pulled out the gloves, no doubt.

“Found them in a department store in Utah,” he went on. “They’re brand new.”

The skin on Cesario’s arms prickled. There was too much weight to the man’s tone for that final statement to have been anything but a hint. He obviously knew why Cesario had a preference for items that were new, and why gloves, in particular, would be a tempting offer in exchange for their services.

Due to the nature of their work and their various gifts, they usually knew far more about their clients than any of them would ever know about Cesario, but clearly, this man had done some research.

The tension Cesario had felt when the man was waving the crystal ball around was nothing compared to the acute unease they felt then. As uncomfortable as it often was to learn what they did about the people who came into the shop, Cesario found it was even worse to be on the other end, to have someone digging up their past. 

Maybe it wasn’t so strange that this man would have learned about their former P.I. work, but they were far more careful to keep their talent for psychometry a secret. They had done a few such readings long ago, out of desperation during much leaner times, and they’d done everything they could since then to keep word getting around about it. They still would wake up drenched in sweat from nightmares wherein they relived the things they had seen from those readings. 

As Cesario met those gold eyes again, fear prickled in their limbs. Who was this man? How had he come to find out what he had about them? They couldn’t begin to guess, but they knew one thing for certain. This person would be nothing but trouble, and the less they had to do with him, the better off they would be.

Still, they hesitated, and their gaze flicked back to the gloves. They needed those. It wasn’t just that they were gorgeous, though they were. Gloves like that, new gloves, would be a reprieve Cesario couldn’t afford to pass up. They could hardly leave their rooms here at the Ultra-Luxe without accidentally touching something that would inevitably dredge up some horror or another. Everything here, even on the Strip, was tainted by the Great War, infused with tragedy. 

Gloves meant freedom from the constant assault of information that occurred whenever Cesario had to touch something that didn’t belong to them. They’d had a pair, once, when they’d first crossed into the New California Republic from Mexico, but years of use had worn holes in them until they could no longer serve their intended purpose. These cobalt gloves would last the rest of Cesario’s life, and since they were new, they wouldn’t come with memories already attached.

They were wrenched from their reverie when the man began to wrap up the gloves again, and Cesario flung out a hand to stop him.

“I’ll do it,” they said quickly. “I’ll help you find Benny.”

The man grinned. “Then it’s a deal.”