#it needs weight and gravitas!

[lizzybeeee]

Can't believe I waited ten years to learn that the Old Gods were elven horcruxes

[aberfaeth]

you people did not watch the movie even a little bit. and are dare i say perhaps making up guys to be mad at bc the concept of nuance escapes u

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the busted engine

lilac, chapter one

a/n: the plot of this series came to me like fucking lightning, essentially all at once with how quick it fell into place. sometimes it's like that, sometimes magic happens in your brain. I hope you all enjoy this ride as much as I am having writing it. get ready for everything, because I've got twenty chapters planned out and ready, and spoiler, they aren't all just gonna be insanely wholesome small town cuteness... we getting angsty... we getting the drama.... but most of all, we be getting slutty. strap in folks.

summary: “I, um,” your eyes briefly flickered to the bundles of firewood needly stacked in the back of the pickup, “my car broke down and my phone conveniently also decided to run out of battery, so, uh, could I perhaps borrow yours just a moment? I just need it to make one call, that’s it.”

warnings: lumberjack!frank castle x reader, lumberjack AU, pete castiglione era, past domestic violence, crazy ex trope, slow burn, car trouble, meet cute

word count: 2674

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Your vision couldn’t help but linger every time it drifted over your hands gripping the steering wheel. The immense weight the sight of your bare ring finger lifted off your shoulders was so overwhelming that you found yourself fighting tears from blurring the road before you. 

The sun was beginning to set as you had been driving all day long, not stopped for even a second to let the gravitas sink in of what you’d done at the crack of dawn. 

The fear of Preston stirring from his slumber and finding you in the midst of sneaking out still hadn’t settled within your gut. Your paranoid brain still compelled you to check the rear-view mirror every couple of seconds just in case the sleek sportscar of your former fiancé would appear.

You had finally done what he had drilled into your mind you weren’t capable of. You’d left him for good. 

Equipped with only a small backpack of your belongings, the last thing you’d done before sneaking out of the apartment had been to toss the ring he had so insistently forced upon your finger into the trash. 

Ripping you out of your cloudy thoughts, your car suddenly began to cough like a mythical monster that was dying. 

“Oh shit…” you felt the vehicle begin to slow as ominous smoke started to billow out from under the hood. Mindful of the bushy pine trees framing the road, you guided it to the edge just in time before it gave out. 

Stepping out with an exhausted sigh, you promptly cracked the front open to take a look, though what you saw within didn’t soothe your worries as all of the fumes oozing out only made the broken engine look like that much more of a mess. 

“Fucking great,” you mumbled heatedly, fiercely slamming the hood shut in an effort to relieve some of your abundant stress. Curving back around, you swung the passenger side open and rummaged for your phone, though when you located it, the only solution it flashed you was a blinking red battery icon before the screen went completely black, “seriously?” 

Not knowing if you were about to scream or burst into tears, you chucked it back inside before hurling your spine against the side of the car, leaning against it as you cursed up at the grey sky. 

Was this the universe showing its true bias? You’d hoped that was the one thing money couldn’t buy, but perhaps you were wrong, just like he always said you were. Perhaps it would be best if you went back to the city. His reaction towards a stunt like this couldn’t be that bad compared to what you had endured before, could it? 

The sound of another vehicle cresting the thicket on the rural road caught your ears and you turned your head to see a navy-blue truck appear.

Your hand shot up to wave it down before you could even ponder the action. Fearing that it was a lost cause by the speed the driver was going at, it caught you by surprise as it suddenly came to a halt a ways in front of you. 

“Are you alright, ma'am?” the driver asked as he slammed his door shut behind him. The tall man certainly looked like the type to call the area his home. Dark beard scraggly and hair in unkept waves long enough to tickle the furrow lines decorating his forehead, his wide palm traced the lines of the truck as he made his way towards you.

“I, um,” your eyes briefly flickered to the bundles of firewood needly stacked in the back of the pickup, “my car broke down and my phone conveniently also decided to run out of battery, so, uh, could I perhaps borrow yours just a moment? I just need it to make one call, that’s it.”

Eyeing your busted vehicle a moment, his low timbre then rumbled out once more, “sure,” as he reached into his pocket and fished out his telephone.

“Thank you so much,” seizing it, you swiftly clicked it to life, “you have no idea what a lifesaver you are–, oh fuck,” your vision zeroed in on the lack of bars in the uppermost corner, “of course there’s no fucking services out here,” your eyes briefly screwed shut and your jaw clenched in an effort not to scream, “it’s fine, it’s fine! I’ll just walk then!” you tried not the throw it as you handed the phone back to the helpful stranger, “I’m sorry that you had to stop for nothing, but thank you anyways.”

Swinging your door open to yank out your stuff, the stranger’s feet stayed fast, “what direction are you headed?” 

“Dunbrook,” you answered as your body folded to reach your tossed telephone.

“You wanna catch a ride?” he unexpectedly offered, causing you to bump your head on the roof of the car.

“Ow–, what?” you blinked back at him through the windshield as your hand shot up to rub the top of your now sore head, “no, I couldn’t… I–, uh, I kinda recognise this area, the town is not too far from here, so I can walk, it’s fine.”

“Yeah, but it’ll properly still take you all night. Please, it’s no bother, I’m headed in that direction anyways.” 

Gnawing at your bottom lip, you slowly retracted out of the vehicle, “you sure?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded, attempting a faint smile in order to soften his gruff and intimidating features. 

“Alright,” swinging your backpack on you slammed your busted car shut, “thank you.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, you clicked on the seatbelt and slotted your bag between your legs. Fiddling tensely with the straps for a moment, it dawned on you how your sleeves were still rolled all the way up to your elbows from when you had checked under the hood. Pulse instantly picking up and thumping in your ears, you hastily tugged them back down to cover the lavender bruises peaking out. 

Had he noticed?

Hearing the door slam to your left, being too caught up in your own mess, it only caused your form to jump in the seat.

Trying to play it off as nothing, you attempted a casual, “I’m Y/n by the way,” though your voice came out much more strangled than you’d intended. 

Catching your flickering eye a moment before turning the key, he likewise enlightened, “Pete.” 

Your bottom lip didn’t escape the prison of your teeth the entire ride, gnawing subconsciously at it as you purposely stare out at the wild flora you passed in order to not look at the advantageous stranger. 

Though after you passed the crooked sign welcoming you back to your small hometown, Pete’s gruff voice broke the silence.

“So, where can I drop you off?”

“The inn,” you turned your head to inform him, “the Lilac Inn, if you know where that is.”

“Yeah, I know it,” he nodded, sucking in a knowing breath as if he didn’t need any more information to figure you out, “so you’re a tourist? One of those nature people who come out here to hike or something?”

“Not exactly,” was all the explanation you offer as you watched the familiar scenery come into view. 

Dunbrook. To call it a town was very generous indeed as the whole population could properly fit under the same roof if they really wanted to, and they often did. The rolling fields of wildlife that surrounded the village also divided and broke up the infrastructure of the old settlement, causing most of the homes and businesses to not all the clustered together as you had grown accustomed to seeing after moving to a metropolis as vast as New York. 

Every familiar structure rolling by evoked memories long ago buried and forgotten. The corner where you fell learning how to ride a bike. The quaint general store where you once stole a lollipop, walked for all of 48 seconds before turning right back and apologising to the owner with tears in your eyes. But most of all, the large Victorian structure at the bottom of the tiny town by far held the fondest of memories in your heart. 

The dust puffed up around the truck as you rolled down the narrow dirt road, the bushy lilac trees that flourished all over the property haven not quite yet come into bloom, yet still forewarned your destination that already peaked over the tops. 

“Here it is,” Pete exhaled as the car came to a stop before the vast veranda, “the Lilac Inn.” 

Eyes glued to your childhood home, you stepped out of the truck, “thank you,” slamming the door shut, you turned to add awkwardly through the rolled down window, “and also thank you for not turning out to be an axe murderer or something,” a nervous laugh swiftly bubbling out at the notion.

Glancing back at your bumbling form, he simply flashed you a tight-lipped smile and said, “you have a good trip, ma'am.” 

“You too–, I mean, you have a good, uhm, rest of your life,” you fumbled as your feet slowly backed up, “it was nice meeting you, Pete.” 

“Yeah, you too,” he just managed to reply before you spun your mortified flush away from his stare and scurried up the steps of the porch. 

Pushing the creaky, stained glass adorn front door open, you tiptoed inside. 

The lighting dim and the atmosphere nothing short of comforting, a smile finally bloomed upon your lips as you let out the breath you’d been holding for who knows how long. 

Peeking around the corner into one of the sitting rooms, you only spotted one patron sitting by the small round table next to the crackling fireplace, working away at a puzzle. Either the others had gone to bed already or this fellow was the only one staying here. 

“Excuse me,” you gently interrupted from the archway, “would you happen to know where the owner, Harvey, is–”

Though before you managed to get out the remainder of the sentence, a bustle from the kitchen answered your question for you, “every time I forget to whisk long enough and every time I say it’s gonna be different, but this time I mean it!”

Sharing a knowing look with the guest, you chuckle, “never mind…” 

“This time I won't just stop when my arm feels like it’s gonna fall off,” even though it was clear he was talking to himself, his usual vibrato still carried, “oh no, no, you just wait and see how light and fluffy you turn out this time, cake!” 

Poking your head through the ajar door, you spotted the familiar greying man grumbling into the contents of the bowl he was furiously beating with a whisk. 

“Dad?”

Nearly jumping out of his skin, your father gasped, whisk jolting upright as he laid his eyes upon you, subsequently splattering some batter across the kitchen, back near the sink, “Y/n?” he exclaimed, his eyes growing to the size of saucers, “is that really you? Is my little baby girl really standing in my kitchen or is this a hallucination?”

“Hi,” your head tilted in a soft chuckle. 

Staring at you as if you were just a newborn puppy, “oh, come here, munchkin and give your pops a hug!” the moustachioed man’s arms went wide and pulled you in, dropping whisk still in his hand as he blubbered into your hair, “ah, I’ve missed you so much,” squeezing your form in the magical way that only parents could, “I haven’t heard from you in, well I don’t even know how long, that’s how long and if you ask me then that’s too long,” he pulled back, cupping your cheek as he gazed at you, “you don’t write, you don’t call.”

“Not true, I do write,” you corrected him light-heartedly, “and you don’t have a cellphone.” 

“Well, there’s the telephone out in reception, why would I need more?” he shrugged, lending you to then slip out of his grip, swiftly boosting your own form to hop onto one of the empty counters, “also, your last letter was 10 months ago.” 

“No, it wasn’t, was it?” you gasped, thinking back.

“You can check the date, they’re still in the cookie tin up there,” he gestured to one of the top shelves before reuniting the whisk in his grip with the large bowl on the table. 

Only briefly glancing up at the enamel box, you already knew that you didn’t wanna revisit them. However vague the letters were, which they always were, you were still certain that they’d have the power to send you right back there into Preston’s iron fist, even though you’d never even mentioned him once in all the years you’d been with him. They only ever really contained small talk and pleasantries, never about something so personal as to whom you were dating, but you also didn’t share at all as things took a turn for the worse, when you were in so deep that you felt like you couldn’t escape. Perhaps it was out of pride, perhaps it was to shield him from the truth, or maybe even in a way yourself, not admitting to the fiend you had welcomed into your own bed, creating some false reality as a coping mechanism. 

Averting your gaze, you then uttered softly, “I’m really sorry dad,” gliding your right thumb over the jagged edge of the counter as you gripped onto it with both fists.

“Ah, it’s fine,” he waved a hand, “you’re young, out there living your life. You shouldn’t have to check in with your father every few seconds. I am aware that you’re 29 after all. Although, you know I wouldn’t be a pose to just a little bit more…” he winked, playfully bumping the side of his hip against your shin before picking up the speed of the whisk once more, “so, did I forget it’s my birthday or did you just miss your old man?” his jovial glance flickered between you and the batter. 

“Can I stay here a while? I just need some place to,” lay low, “figure things out, you know?”

Whisk halting, his gaze upon you grew in concern, “of course you can, honey. Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”

“I’m okay, I just–, uh… needed a change,” not looking him in the eye, you spoke, “I don’t know to where or what I’m gonna do next, but I do know that I don’t wanna go back,” you felt a lump of emotion swell up in your throat, “and I won’t just stay here for free, I’ll pay you rent,” you tried to appease the stubborn sensation of being a nuance to everyone, even to your own kin, “though I don’t really have any money right now, so I’d have to get a job first, but that’s fine, I’ll figure something out–” 

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” your father cut you off, “you can stay here as long as you want, it never stopped being your home even when you moved away. Still keep your room exactly the same, just in case,” he offered you a warm smile, his silver moustache stretching wider, “how about you just give me a hand around here, huh?” 

“Alright,” you exhaled, “deal.”

His grin turning more mischievous, he then noted slyly, “you know I’ve always dreamed of you taking over this place one day, running the family business…” 

Rolling your eyes, you chuckled, “not this again…”

“Just think about, you could–”

“Dad, I’m not gonna take over the inn! Running a place like this isn’t what it used to be back when your parents opened it up. You might have always been dead set on taking over it, but I haven’t.”

“I know, I know,” he gracefully backed down again as he always did, “you want adventure, isn’t that what you called it when you went away for college?” 

Adventure… it was that kind of philosophy that had sent an innocent young girl into the arms of a devil…

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[valyrfia]

Why do so many F1 fans hate on Charles Leclerc? I, myself, am an "old time" so to say fan of the sport and while I appreciate the generations past, there is no denying his astounding talent and connection to the car. And yet when I started to get back into watching recently, I have seen nothing but distasteful jabs at his ability and his fans, along the lines of "he's just a model" and "only girls in love with him like him". Why is that, I really do not understand - not even as a fan of his, I'm just asking as an objective observer of motorsport

Thanks for your ask anon! I think there's two facets of it. There's the fact that Charles has a lot of expectations that haven't been fulfilled yet due to a variety of reasons and media that may already be skewed away from him doubling down on that, and quite frankly, there's a misogyny aspect due to the composition of his fanbase.

Focusing on the expectations aspect first, as I'm sure you'll probably know better than I will since I've only been watching F1 for a year or so, Charles came into Ferrari with an incredible weight to him already. Not only did he totally crush competition in junior categories but he was the youngest Ferrari driver in the 21st century (later to be usurped by none other than Ollie Bearman at the 2024 Jeddah GP) and he had quite frankly an incredible first season. He would have won Bahrain 2019 if not for the engine issue and he won Monza. This understandably gave Charles's name a gravitas and expectation unlike any non-WDC. I mean, his nickname is literally il predestinato, there is an expectation that Charles will bring the championship home to Ferrari.

Now, unfortunately, that hasn't happened yet. This has been due to a multitude of reasons, but mainly Mattia Binotto's terrible management, the effects of it we're still feeling years later.

An aspect of Mattia's management that people discuss less however, but I'm certain contributes to some groups having a strong dislike of Charles, is Mattia's complete inability to manage a strong driver line up. Ferrari has had an incredible line up, with Charles and Seb for Charles's first two years, and Charles and Carlos for the next three. A lot of the general population who dislike Charles are Seb supporters, feeling as if Seb was pushed out by this young upstart who hasn't even managed to bring the WDC and WCC home as promised. This is entirely due to Mattia losing control of the narrative. DTS encouraged this viewpoint, but media doubled down on it. Mattia also failed to manage each driver's expectations.

Similar is Mattia's signing and then subsequent management of Carlos. My dislike of the Carlos camp is well-documented, but Carlos is by no means a bad driver, in fact I think he's probably in the top six drivers currently on the grid. The issue is, he's not Charles. He doesn't have Charles's raw talent, nor any sort of similar mythos that the tifosi revere about Charles. Carlos on paper, is an excellent n2 to Charles's n1, and I think if Mattia had been honest about that in signing Carlos, I would like him a lot more. Instead, Mattia promised that Charles and Carlos were to be treated as equals, resulting in bizarre strategy calls like Silverstone 2022 where they sacrifice the race of their driver fighting for the WDC in order to gift the other driver a win, or having a championship car in early 2022 only to undevelop it because Carlos complained that he wasn't comfortable. It's frankly bad management, when Checo wasn't comfortable with the RB19 Red Bull didn't change their development direction, because the focus was on getting Max the championship. Ferrari needed Mattia to make a similar decision in 2022, but he instead chose to try and pander to all sides instead of enforcing a potentially difficult decision like a team principal sometimes needs to.

I've said that Sainz media is responsible for much of the traditional media smear campaign against Charles, whether that's them using links with Spanish media, or paying off various outlets, and now I'm putting that down to Mattia not managing Carlos's expectations correctly a couple of years ago, and now relationships have broken down to a point that they're pretty much irreperable, even if Fred is managing everyone's expectations correctly. Mattia's bad management from the car development perspective gives Sainz media an angle to smear Charles as well. 2022 was Charles's championship to lose, and he lost quite badly. It becomes quite easy for journalists to take the line of "oh well, is Charles REALLY a generational talent or is he all hype?", and then compare Charles and Carlos in frankly incomparable situations to make it seem like, at first glance, Carlos comes out on top (key example of this would be Bahrain 2024, where Charles had an insane brake imbalance and still managed to finish p4, but Carlos's camp were quick to point out that Carlos's brakes had cooling issues, which if you know anything about the sport you know that's comparing a mouse to an elephant, but a lot of people chose to ran with Charles and Carlos having the same issue, resulting in people applauding Carlos for a podium in a car that's undergoing normal race stress and decrying Charles for managing to finish P4 in a car that should've been undriveable).

The second aspect moves away from traditional media and to word-of-mouth and online perspective of Charles, although often the first point about Charles not yet living up to his il predestinato name is sometimes used as evidence. Charles's fanbase is female (at least outside of the countries of Italy and Monaco), and disproportionately so compared to other driver fanbases. And look, sure he's a conventionally attractive guy, we're not going to deny objective facts. But those who dislike Charles like to use the fact that he has an active female fanbase, along with the fact that he's conventionally very attractive, in order to mock Charles and his hype. "Leclerc is mid and people only like him because he's hot and women don't understand wheel knowledge" seems to be the current argument of MANY a Charles hater.

Ultimately, it boils down to thinking that his fanbase don't truly understand the sport, because we're majority women and CAN'T be in the sport because we enjoy it we MUST just be here for the hot man. Which is both untrue and fundamentally misogynistic. While Charles himself can't experience misogyny as a man, his fanbase of women certainly can and certainly does. Our voices are trivialised and counted out, and that in turn has an impact on Charles's public image, since people think that a majority of his fans don't have any actual knowledge of the sport (when in my experience, this is perhaps the furthest from the truth).

[renlyslittlerose]

Kinktober Day 7 - Touch-Starved

For ME because I wanted to write it~ 🥲

Little Bit of That Human Touch - 2,044 Rating: T Content: Established Relationship / Suited Darth Vader / Darth Vader Redemption / Redemption / Darth Vader Needs a Hug / Touch-Starved / Reconnecting

---

It was the sounds of the world no longer constrained by the press of his helmet that Vader first marvelled in.

He could hear the trill of a bird’s song and the rustle of wind through sun-bleached leaves, the tinkle of water against a porcelain dish and the creak of metal crates against one another. When allowed outside he could hear the worms in the dirt below his feet, the rumble of electrical current beneath stone steps and thick grasses, and feel the planet expand and contract with each deep breath it took.

Next, he enjoyed the feel of fresh air on his face. The recycled air of the Imperial cruisers had always been sharp and uncomfortable against his exposed body, sliding beneath the curled burns of his skin and the corners of his sensitive eyes. He had to exist within self-contained areas on the ship, such as oxygen chambers and bacta tanks, designed to make the ache in his chest hurt just a little less, but in turn further isolated him from the world.

At least this prison came with a view.

Taking in a deep breath, Vader listened to his mask as it sucked the air through his lungs and pushed it back out. This remained a constant: the mechanised breath of a body that struggled to exist outside the chains that had bound it to a brutal, torturous existence, alive only because the robotics that pumped his heart, breathed into his lungs, made his stomach churn and his guts twist, wouldn’t allow for him to slip away into nothingness.

This too was similar to a prison. He couldn’t make a decision to leave or stay; couldn’t tell those that controlled his fate to allow him to choose where and when he died. He was too valuable to the rebellion. A prize worth keeping, to parade around as a victory, even though he’d given himself up willingly.

Those in the Rebellion were pitiable. Contemptible even.

Save for one.

Taking in another breath Vader felt Obi-Wan before he heard him approach the door to his chamber. Vader wasn’t allowed to close off his bond to Obi-Wan; couldn’t retreat into the darker recesses of the Force where pain met despair and hatred, a soothing elixir that was so easy to fall into. Here he was made to lay in the pools of Obi-Wan’s consciousness, to touch the once familiar warmth that was his certainty and love, and bear the weight of a forgiveness given so willingly.

The door slid open with a series of clicks, the locks put in place both mechanical and mystical. Other Jedi who had survived the years of the Empire’s mindless hunting had come to aid Obi-Wan in Vader’s confinement, preventing him from attempting an escape that he didn’t even want.

He’d bowed his head for a reason, begged for mercy even though the words sliced and caught.

He wanted this.

Obi-Wan’s physical presence still hurt. The moment he stepped into the room Vader’s muscles seized around his ribs and his breath caught in his throat, making him cough into the mask. Blinking back the swell of tears, he kept his head ducked and turned from Obi-Wan as his boots came in to view.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your meditations,” Obi-Wan said gently.

“I was not meditating,” he replied, attention still trained on Obi-Wan’s boots. He still struggled to look Obi-Wan in the eye. “I was… contemplating.”

“You should be meditating more on your own,” Obi-Wan said. He stepped forward before kneeling in front of Vader. “You’ve come a long way in your recovery. Journeying into the Force alone is the next step.”

He couldn’t smell Obi-Wan but knew the perfumes he wore all the same, the leathers of his belt and boots mixing with the scent of fresh cotton that swaddled his form. He’d lost some of his gravitas in the ensuing years, the sandy shoals of Tatooine wearing away at him like they did all vibrant creations, until they too crumbled into dust and became a part of the planet itself. Soft eyes had hardened, the lines across his brow and around his eyes deep set and visceral to look at, muscle giving way to sinew that sucked tight around bone.

But he was still beautiful. He always would be.

“Not today,” Vader said. He knew he sounded dismissive and perhaps petulant, but he didn’t care.

“Is something troubling you?”

Vader finally looked up at Obi-Wan. He was dressed in blue today. He looked good in the colours, though Vader still wasn’t used to the sight. Stranger still were the white medical robes that swaddled his own body, the fabric made to lessen the irritation across his sensitive skin. Black and always been Vader’s colour. He still wasn’t sure he liked the white, so stark, so… pure.

At first Vader wanted to hide his uncertainty. It was a foolish thing to get caught up on. But he also knew Obi-Wan would sniff it out - pull on their bond and have Vader give him the answers. He wasn’t allowed to have secrets right now. He wasn’t allowed privacy. He wasn’t allowed to be just a man.

“This morning when one of the doctors came to change the feeding tubes… one of them… she smiled at me.”

Obi-Wan’s lips twitched. Vader glared but Obi-Wan’s smile remained.

“Smiled?”

“Yes.”

“And this troubles you?”

Vader sighed, the inorganic sound shuddering through quiet space. “I do not want their courtesy nor their pity. They should continue to treat me with distrust. I do not want their kindness.”

“Why is that?”

Gritting his teeth, Vader turned from Obi-Wan and stared out the narrow windows of his chamber. The leaves outside created a dappled light across the stone, flickering and difficult to follow. “I do not deserve it,” Vader finally said.

“Don’t deserve it, or don’t want the responsibility of having to live up to an image you don’t think yourself capable of fulfilling?”

Turning back to Obi-Wan, Vader flexed his mechno-hands that remained on his lap. “What do you mean?”

“When people show genuine interest in another person even through a simple smile, that can create a small bond between the two. Suddenly you have to live up to certain courtesies that perhaps you’re unwilling or unable to see to. It can be as basic as a return of the smile or an acknowledgment of some kind that you recognize their presence.” Obi-Wan tilted his head to the side, his eyes searching Vader’s own. “When the doctor smiled at you, she saw you as something other than a prisoner - as someone other than Darth Vader. She saw a part of that humanity that you’ve shut yourself off from for over a decade. And when she smiled at you, she reminded you that the piece of yourself you strove to hide for so long wasn’t as easily hidden as you’d once thought.”

Obi-Wan’s thoughts curled in Vader’s mind like they had all those years ago, patience mixing with wisdom. And a little arrogance for good measure.

Just a few months ago he’d have strained against Obi-Wan’s words. They dug too close to the truth, working their way between the layers of armour that Vader had built in order to survive; digging, digging, digging until he found the boy that lay beneath. A boy that Vader had tried so hard to kill.

But now he was expected to let Obi-Wan in, and allow him to push against the cracks until something gave way. Sometimes it was just a concession, other times a confession. More often than not, it was just allowing Obi-Wan to be present within his space, a painful and comforting reminder of Vader’s continued existence.

“Perhaps you are right,” he said after a while. “Maybe I… maybe I need to be willing to accept the grace shown to me.”

Even though he thought he might choke on it.

“Do you wish to meditate?” Obi-Wan asked.

Vader nodded, and the pair slipped into the Force together. The first time they’d done this Obi-Wan had been scared, and Vader had liked it. The licks of fear curled with his own excitement, slashing like the clash of their blades - red against blue, skittering and cutting. He’d chased Obi-Wan through the thickets of their bond, focused in on him as he hurried through the brambles like a hunted fawn, footsteps quick and eyes wide. Vader knew he shouldn’t have given chase and yet he couldn’t stop, madness and the drive to hurt overriding all other senses, the scent of Obi-Wan’s fear intoxicating.

But Obi-Wan learned how to push back. He’d turned and suddenly the fawn was a stag, horns sharp and nostrils flared. He’d beaten back Vader’s rage and chaos, pushing him further and further into the cool rapids of his Force signature, submerging him in the waters of the light side of the Force until Vader drowned in its simplicity.

It was there that they floated together now, the pair without form as they curled and swirled like tendrils in the Force. Obi-Wan guided them deeper in the pools, the darkness comforting, the warmth of the water soothing. It was there that they lingered.

Here Vader felt no pain, no ache, no need. The blood soaked maws of the darkside couldn’t press against the back of his neck and lock down, keeping him in place until he had no choice but to succumb to the raw ache. His limbs didn’t feel disconnected and separate from him, his lungs didn’t hurt, his skin didn’t catch and pull, his guts didn’t seize and twist, his mind didn’t cut and devour.

It was here that Obi-Wan found it.

A desire. Pure, simple, focused. That longing for human connection, unlocked by a simple smile as the early morning dew faded from the blades of grass.

A hand touched his cheek in the physical space.

Vader’s eyes flew open and he jerked away from the touch, eyes wide as his heart thundered beneath his chest. Obi-Wan remained as he’d been before, hand stuck out between them, fingers gently curled as he let the hurt of rejection slip away in an instant.

“What are you doing?” Vader asked, quick and sharp.

Obi-Wan kept his hand where it was, still reaching, still yearning. “Come, darling…”

Vader bit the inside of his cheek until blood gushed into his mouth, coppery and thick. Familiar. He hadn’t heard that expression in many years, hadn’t been swallowed up by the tone and the softness in which it was said. Hadn’t been comforted by the knowledge that he was someone’s darling.

He was his Master’s darling. A beautiful boy worthy of love and affection.

A boy worthy.

Fear rattled through his body, digging into his stomach like a blade. But just on the edge was Obi-Wan’s presence, like a light on the shores, patient and steady, guiding him back. With an unsteady breath he locked eyes with Obi-Wan, light-blue with dark blue that still held the presence of a fire-red storm.

Swallowing, he turned back into Obi-Wan’s touch. Without hesitation Obi-Wan cupped Vader’s cheek, fingertips sliding along his jaw before resting palm flat across his skin. Obi-Wan’s touch was soft, his skin hot, calluses rough and yet pleasurable all the same.

Vader had not felt human contact like this in…

He’d not felt. In so long. For so many years.

Sighing, Vader turned into the touch, nuzzling his mask into Obi-Wan’s palm, desperate for more. Needing more. Like a man parched for decades and finally given succour he fell into Obi-Wan’s embrace, his larger frame curling in as he demanded to be held. Obi-Wan opened himself up to Vader, his arms strong as they wrapped around him and held him close. His lap was familiar, his chest broad and steady, heartbeat thundering as Obi-Wan cradled Vader against his chest and held him.

Oh how quickly Darth Vader forgot what it was like to be loved.

And how easily Anakin was able to remember.

[cielettosa]

SEED OF DISCONTENT

Chapter 1: a burden unchosen

PAIRING: levi ackerman x fem!reader

RATING: explicit

FANDOM: shingeki no kyojin/attack on titan (canon verse, canon divergent)

SYNOPSIS:

The Ackerman clan needs to be expanded, and you are chosen to carry his child.

cw of the chapter: none

navigation

previous chapter - next chapter

Heavy air, thick enough to chew on. It sits on Levi lungs like a stale loaf of Dhalis' smug superiority.

Tick tock, tick tock. Clock mocks them all, counting down the precious minutes wasted in this shitty staring contest.

Polished table, a mirror reflecting the distorted faces of these pompous windbags. Zachary, the "General," a walking monument to paperwork erosion. His beard – a tragic map of battles fought with red tape, not Titans. His eyes, like a bloodhound sniffing out dissent, but too slow to catch the real monsters in this room.

Erwin Smith. The almighty, the strategic genius, the commander of the Survey Corps.

He sits there puffed up like a pigeon on a flagpole. Levi can practically hear his ribs creaking under the weight of his own titan sized ambitions and eyebrows. All bluster and dreams, that one.

He does not understand the grime under your fingernails, the blood that seeps into your soul after every mission. He talks about the "greater good," about humanity's "salvation."

Levi's fingers itch for the familiar weight of his blades. They would feel more comfortable here than this damn chair.

Erwin's icy blue eyes are probably doing calculus right now, strategizing the most soul crushing paperwork avalanche to unleash on Levi after this bureaucratic circus. Wonderful.

Just what Levi needs – another mountain of paper stacks to wade through, each one a monument to the utter cluelessness of these so called leaders.

Nile Dawk, perpetually looking like an offended toddler – ever the picture of simmering discontent. Tapping a rhythm on the table like a bored child, scowl permanently etched on his face. Military Police Brigade must be a real snooze fest if this qualifies as entertainment for him.

Dot Pixis. The Garrison commander with a smile sweeter than rotten fruit. Just the kind of saccharine charm that could probably disarm an abnormal Titan with a sugar high.

All sunshine and lollipops, that one. Probably thinks the biggest danger he faces is a paper cut.

And then there is Humanity's Strongest Soldier. Levi Ackerman. Years spent dodging death by Titan and defying gravity have turned his posture into a weapon itself.

His eyes, a stormy gray reflecting horrors most would not dare dream of, are a mask. A stoic facade forged in the fires of countless battles. Iron will, they call it. Yeah, well, sometimes even iron feels like it is about to snap under the weight of this never ending hell.

The air hangs thick, its intellectual density barely surpassing a sluggish potato. Dhalis slurs out his opening remarks, the weight of his words attempting, and failing, to mimic a momentous thunderclap.

"Esteemed Commanders and Captain," he declares, "we convene today on a matter of utmost importance." A dramatic pause follows, his pronouncement lingering in the air like an unwelcome houseguest. "The Ackerman bloodline."

The General utters the words with the gravitas one might reserve for announcing the cure for Titanism, a cure that would undoubtedly be more newsworthy than this current charade.

Here, in this room choked by the stench of bureaucratic ineptitude, the only true concern should be the ever present threat of humanity becoming Titan chum.

A tremor of unease ripples through the assembled commanders, a collective shiver down the spine of the room. Erwin, ever the opportunist, leans forward, transforming into the very image of rapt attention.

Nile, on the other hand, can not contain a scoff, a harsh sound that would likely send chills down the ever nervous Armin Arlert's spine.

His voice, dripping with disdain like a neglected mop, barks out, "The attack dogs utilized for combat by the Survey Corps and kept under their control - what bearing, if any, does this topic have on the current discourse?"

Dhalis counters Nile's scoff with a clipped retort, his tone as sharp as a drill sergeant addressing a trainee with the intellectual capacity of a sluggish spud. "With all due respect, Commander Dawk,," he emphasizes. "the Ackerman bloodline exhibits demonstrably abnormal combat capabilities. These capabilities demonstrably exceed even those of our most elite soldiers, if such a designation can be ascribed to the current standard."

Nile slams his fist down on the polished mahogany table, the resulting impact sending a tremor through the crystal glassware that evokes a startled flock of pigeons.

"The Ackermans are nothing more than volatile instruments of war! Their allegiances are fluid and dictated by whomever holds the reins of power! They are Smith's sword perpetually hanging over our heads, a festering danger to the very foundations of the Wall's Military!" He puffs out his chest, the very image of an outraged toddler whose favorite stuffed animal has been snatched away.

Predictably, the very mention of the Ackerman bloodline ignites a cacophony of idiocy within the room. Nile, bless his perpetually furrowed brow, predictably launches into a tirade about "the potential dangers," his voice laced with the kind of bluster one might expect from a petulant child.

Pixis drawls out a response, doing little to quell the simmering tension in the room. "While your concerns, Commander Dawk, are duly noted, perhaps a more measured approach is warranted.," he says, his voice dripping with a nonchalance that borders on mockery. "Captain Levi, appears content to fulfill his designated role. One might even argue he demonstrates a certain efficiency in battlefields And surely, their demonstrable utility in such endeavors cannot be entirely dismissed."

Dhalis clears his throat with a theatrical flourish, the universal signal for the assembled commanders to shut their yaps.

"Indeed, Commander Pixis," he concedes. "While I acknowledge Captain Levi's utility, Commander Pixis." He continues, his voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, as if he is about to drop a bombshell more explosive than a Titan spotting a juicy human morsel. "we must consider the entirety of the Ackerman bloodline. The private known as Mikasa Ackerman also warrants our attention in this discussion."

Nile growls, a bulldog with a stubborn bone lodged in its throat. "Private Mikasa Ackerman presents a potential complication," he spits out. "Her emotional attachment to the impulsive and reckless Private Eren Yeager, Humanity's Hope, could be a detriment to her objectivity. The military requires unwavering focus and strategic acumen, qualities potentially compromised by such sentimental entanglements."

Dhalis offers a curt nod, the gesture of a teacher indulging a slow student. "To be perfectly clear, Commander Dawk" he clarifies. "while Private Mikasa Ackerman's emotional attachments warrant observation, they are not the immediate cause for concern. Our primary focus must remain fixed upon Captain Levi, Humanity's Strongest Soldier. It is imperative that we establish, with absolute certainty, the nature of his allegiance. The military requires unwavering loyalty, a commitment that must be secured on a permanent basis"

They want to clip Levi's wings, transform him into a government sanctioned attack dog, a good little soldier following their every beck and call.

The irony is so thick, so suffocating, it could be slathered on burnt toast and passed off as a gourmet meal. Levi's loyalty, if they could even begin to understand it, lies solely with the singular objective of ending this bloody war.

And achieving that requires a hell of a lot more than empty promises and a patronizing pat on the head.

They dangle the Ackerman bloodline before him like a juicy carrot, all the while preparing to yank him in with a leash. Because, apparently, a goddamn Titan slaying machine, a man who has stared into the abyss and emerged unbroken, is a threat to their precious little power structure.

These self proclaimed leaders could not fight their way out of a paper bag, let alone navigate the treacherous political labyrinth they have constructed within these damned Walls.

The only true anomaly associated with the Ackerman bloodline is their complete and utter lack of tolerance for bureaucratic idiocy.

This s whole damn meeting is a pointless exercise in futility, a waste of valuable time that could be spent slicing Titans, not listening to them spout nonsense.

The only entertainment comes from watching these self important wind bags trip over their own inflated egos.

Maybe Levi should start a mental betting pool – Nile, with his perpetually constipated expression, or Pixis, with that oily salesman grin he can not seem to wipe off? Knowing their track record, it will be a nail biter of a finish.

Jaw clenches tighter, frustration a rising tide threatening to spill over. They have been droning on for an eternity, and not a single one of them has offered a decent cup of tea.

The lack of proper tea is a war crime in itself, and frankly, Levi is about to reach his breaking point.

Levi cuts through the tense air with his voice, a low monotone as sharp as a carving knife slicing through butter. "Loyalty," he declares, "is something that is earned, not something you bully into someone like a conscript force fed expired rations" His steely gaze sweeps across the room, taking each face in turn, a silent challenge. "If my lineage is such a delectable dish for your paranoid ruminations," he continues, leaning back slightly in his chair, "then by all means, let me demonstrate my value on the battlefield. It seems a far more productive use of time than this childish charade of bureaucratic musical chairs you've orchestrated here today."

A flicker of surprise, as fleeting as a gnat caught in a hurricane, crosses Dhalis' weathered face. Erwin, however, can not quite suppress a smirk playing on his lips.

The man understands Levi better than most, recognizes the unwavering dedication that burns within him like superheated Titan blood.

Pixis, the oily eel of a Garrison commander, leans back with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Perhaps, esteemed General," he drawls, his voice dripping with a false sincerity. "the Captain raises a salient observation. Indeed, why not allow him to take to the field? Let him spill his own crimson ichor in defense of humanity. In the crucible of combat, his loyalty can be forged anew, not through empty pronouncements, but through actions etched in the very blood he sheds for our collective survival."

Dhalis releases a sigh that ruffles the papers scattered across the table, the sound betraying the frustration simmering beneath his carefully constructed facade.

Dhalis reaches up to stroke his beard, an unhealthy habit that likely yanks out more hair than a pack of hungry Titans swarming a buffet. "Very well, Captain Levi," he concedes, his voice laced with a begrudging acceptance that strains to mask his underlying apprehension. "You have been granted this… opportunity to demonstrate your fealty. Consider this a reprieve, a chance to redeem the inherent suspicion that clings to your bloodline like a persistent miasma." he leans forward, his gaze hardening into steely glint, "But make no mistake, Captain" he adds, a cruel edge creeping into his voice, "the moment even the slightest tremor of disloyalty betrays your actions, the repercussions will be as swift and merciless as the blade you wield so effectively. And let me assure you swiftness will be a forgotten luxury in the face of your transgression. The full weight of the military will come crashing down upon you, a juggernaut of retribution that will leave you yearning for the sweet embrace of oblivion.

Levi meets his gaze head on, his expression an unreadable mask. "Understood, sir," he replies, his voice betraying none of the storm brewing within him.

"However," Dhalis continues, his voice taking on a sly tone, "as Commander Pixis eloquently articulated, mere pronouncements hold little sway in this esteemed chamber. Deeds, Captain Levi, deeds are what we demand. As alluded to in our prior deliberations, the undeniable admiration Private Eren Yeager, Humanity's Hope holds for you, Humanity's Strongest Soldier, is a matter of public record. His unyielding trust in your capabilities borders on the fanatical, would you not agree? The boy would not hesitate to follow you into the very maw of a Titan itself. Therefore, we require a… proof, shall we say? A public spectacle that unequivocally demonstrates that Humanity's Strongest Soldier is, without question, prepared to adhere to our directives, regardless of their perceived absurdity or apparent pointlessness. We require absolute, unwavering certainty that your allegiance remains firmly tethered to the military. Any hint of wavering, of a potential defection that could see you and Eren Yeager stray from the designated path, will not be tolerated. The consequences of such a betrayal would reverberate throughout humanity's fragile existence. Imagine the chaos, the erosion of trust that would follow in the wake of your disobedience. Think of the fragile hope you would shatter, the blood that would stain the ground due to your misplaced loyalties. No, Captain Levi, we cannot, will not, accept such a catastrophic scenario. Therefore, a public display of your obedience is paramount. We need the world, and more importantly, Eren Yeager himself, to witness your unwavering commitment to this cause. Only then can we move forward with a semblance of confidence, knowing that our strongest soldier stands firmly beside us, not against us."

Levi's voice cuts through the veiled threats, cold and sharp as a discarded blade. "How exactly do I prove this loyalty you are so desperate for?"

Dhalis leans forward, his belly straining against his uniform like a sausage casing about to burst. If Levi squinted real hard, maybe he could pretend it was sincerity wrinkling his brow.

"Ah, Captain," Dhalis Zachary drawls, a sickeningly theatrical tone creeping into his voice, "there in lies the crux of the matter, would you not concur? It would be a most unfortunate turn of events, a veritable tragedy of epic proportions, if…" Tragedy? More like a comedy act gone horribly wrong. "…something unforeseen… were to befall our invaluable asset…" Unfortunate for who, exactly? "…Humanity's Strongest Soldier, Levi Ackerman. The potential loss of such a potent genealogical lineage, the Ackerman bloodline, brimming with unparalleled combat prowess - an unconscionable waste, would you not agree? A crying shame that would echo through the annals of humanity's struggle for survival. Fear not, Captain, would never dream of placing you in an untenable situation. However, a strategically orchestrated public display of obedience, one that showcases your unwavering commitment to this very institution, would be most… reassuring. Think of it as a necessary formality, a safeguard against the unforeseen. After all, who amongst us can predict the capricious hand of fate? Imagine the public outcry, the despair that would grip humanity, if some… mishap… were to befall our most prized weapon in the fight against the Titan menace. Surely, Captain, a man of your esteemed stature would not want to be the cause of such widespread devastation, would you?" His gaze fixes on Levi, "The task I propose, Captain, is a mere formality, a carefully choreographed performance designed to quell any lingering anxieties. Think of it as an investment in the future, a testament to the enduring unity between yourself and the very military of the Walls. After all, the potential consequences of your… disobedience, shall we say, are a prospect that would leave us all trembling in the face of an uncertain future."

Unease flickers across Nile's face, a fly caught in a spiderweb. The man is a walking bad mood on a good day, but even he seems to recoil at the thought. Turning soldiers into government breeding stock? The very idea is enough to make a Titan reconsider its lunch options.

Nile growls, "Are you implying, General," he spits, disgusted "that we revisit that proposition tabled earlier, the one concocted in hushed tones between yourself, Commander Smith, Commander Pixis, and myself? The utterly repugnant notion of Captain Ackerman being transformed into some… government sanctioned stallion?" The word hangs in the air, vulgar and obscene, shattering any remaining pretense of decorum in the room. "The very notion is not only abhorrent but strategically unsound!"

Government sanctioned stud? Levi's blood runs cold, a primal fury clawing its way up his throat. The audacity of these men! Do they think Levi is some mindless beast to be bred in captivity? A weapon to be passed down through generations?

The General might acknowledge the validity of Nile's point, but government sanctioned stud? Even these pompous windbags have a limit on their tact, apparently.

Dhalis clears his throat, the sound like a clogged drain trying to cough up a hairball. "Commander Dawk, while your concerns regarding the… unorthodox proposition previously discussed are duly noted, perhaps a more nuanced approach might be warranted. We must consider the long game, do you not agree? Who can say what unforeseen threats lurk beyond the Walls, what monstrous adversaries may rise to challenge humanity's very existence? Therefore, would it not be prudent, some might even say a matter of humanity's security, to ensure the… continuation of the Ackerman bloodline? After all," he wheezes, strained like a man trying to swallow a rotten potato whole. "their demonstrably superior combat prowess is an asset too valuable to squander. Perhaps, a more… conventional arrangement could be facilitated. A suitable female candidate, carefully vetted for loyalty and robust health, could be identified. A union, orchestrated with the utmost discretion, could see the Ackerman lineage flourish, a safeguard against the potential horrors that the future may hold." He continues, the word dripping with self serving righteousness, "There is much to consider, do you not agree? But surely, the potential benefits outweigh any initial discomfort such a course of action might engender."

This attempt to sugarcoat their barbaric proposition with necessity is about as transparent as a window.

Erwin stays silent, a mask hiding any flicker of internal debate. Maybe he is strategizing, formulating an escape plan for this bureaucratic nightmare.

Who knows what goes on behind that calculating mind of his?

"Are you suggesting, that I become a government sanctioned sperm bank for the Walls?" Levi's voice cuts through the obfuscation, a blade slicing through their web of lies.

Dhalis, the oblivious buffoon, throws his head back and lets out a laugh that grates on Levi's nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. The amusement in his eyes is a stark contrast to the thundercloud that has formed above Nile's perpetually grumpy face.

Does this man find humor in reducing a soldier to nothing more than a stud?

Levi's urge to wipe that smug grin off his face with his bare fists is overwhelming.

"Now, now, Captain Levi," Dhalis wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes brought on by his amusement. "There is no need for such modesty! Consider this a paramount contribution to the very survival of humanity, your ultimate patriotic duty! Imagine the glorious possibilities! Why, with a little," He leans forward, his eyes gleaming with a manic glint that sends shivers down spines more accustomed to Titan chills. "Imagine the possibilities!" he crows. "… selective breeding, we could cultivate an entire goddamn army of Ackermans! An unstoppable legion, bred for war and impervious to Titan threats! Think of it, Captain Levi," he trails off, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we could engineer the ultimate weapon, humanity's salvation forged from your genes! Generations of Ackerman prodigies, each one a genetic marvel honed for combat! The very future of humanity rests upon your… cooperation, Captain." he continues, "Refusal to cooperate with this endeavor, however distasteful it may seem, could be misconstrued as… disloyalty. And disloyalty, Captain, as we have already established, has a very unpleasant cost. So Captain, what say you? Will you embrace your patriotic duty and become the progenitor of a Titan slaying army, or will you force us to consider… alternative solutions?"

Is he reading out some twisted fairytale? These are not puppies you can breed for good looks and tricks, these are lives, lives he has ready to gamble on like chips in a rigged game.

The sheer audacity of these self important buffoons leaves Levi momentarily speechless. An army of mindless Ackerman babies, bred like cattle to fight their battles?

The very notion is so ludicrous it borders on comical. Almost. Levi forces down the urge to laugh, instead opting for a slow, deliberate blink.

The icy glint in his eyes speaks volumes, a silent challenge that hangs heavy in the air.

Nile's question cuts through the idiocy like a blade through overcooked cabbage. "And who, pray tell, General, who would be the lucky lady tasked with… producing this Ackerman army of yours?" He drawls the words.

An army of Ackermans, bred like some twisted livestock? The image that flashes in Levi's mind is enough to make him clench his fists so hard his nails dig into his palms.

Who would be the sacrificial lamb in this grotesque breeding program?

Nile's question is seemingly ignored.

A flicker of interest crosses Erwin's face, a spark of intrigue igniting in his blue eyes. He strokes his chin thoughtfully, his gaze lingering on General Dhalis with a healthy dose of skepticism. "Intriguing," he finally concedes, his voice measured and devoid of emotion. "The potential for such a military force… an army specifically bred and trained to combat the Titan menace… it is a concept that warrants serious consideration. The Ackerman bloodline, with its demonstrably superior martial prowess, could indeed be the cornerstone of such a revolutionary endeavor." He leans back in his chair, his voice dropping to a low growl. "However," he continues, his gaze turning laser focused on Dhalis, "one must approach such a proposition with utmost caution. The ramifications of failure, of a genetic experiment gone awry, could be catastrophic. And frankly, General," he adds with a sardonic edge, "your sudden and fervent advocacy for Captain Ackerman's… reproductive contributions leaves much to be desired. I wonder what ulterior motives might lurk beneath the surface of your zealous enthusiasm." He fixes Dhalis with a stare that could crack stone. "Nevertheless," he concedes with a sigh, "the potential benefits are undeniable. Therefore, I am willing to entertain this proposition, on a trial basis. Captain Ackerman will be… monitored closely. The success or failure of this venture will hinge entirely upon his cooperation, and upon the viability of replicating the Ackerman lineage. Only time will tell," he concludes, his voice laced with a hint of grim determination, "if this gamble will reap the rewards we so desperately seek, or usher in a new era of unforeseen horrors."

Nile, bless his perpetually grumpy soul, erupts like a volcano spewing common sense. "Insane!" he bellows, a bulldog who has not only had his bone snatched, but stomped into oblivion by Dhalis' twisted amusement. "We can not trust these Ackermans!" He throws his hands up in exasperation. "Who knows what kind of pint sized killing machines they will churn out?

The image that explodes in my Levi's mind is terrifying – miniature versions of himself, miniature Levi's running amok, tearing through the streets with a bloodthirsty gleam in their tiny eyes.

"Indeed," Dhalis concedes, "there are intricate details that necessitate further refinement before we can proceed. However," he continues, his voice taking on a forceful tone, "the potential benefits for humanity's survival are undeniable. Captain Levi," he leans forward, his gaze turning into a predatory glint, "the choice before you is stark. Are you prepared to… contribute" – he emphasizes the word with a distasteful flourish – "to this endeavor, for the supposed good of humanity? Your compliance, of course, would be viewed most favorably." He pauses for a beat, allowing the weight of his words to settle. "However," he continues, his voice hardening into a dangerous growl, "should you choose the path of dissent, the consequences for your disloyalty will be swift and severe. We will not hesitate to leverage Private Mikasa Ackerman as a… necessary participant in this, ahem, breeding program. Furthermore," he adds with a cruel twist of his lips, "the currently planned operation to reclaim territory from the Titans, an operation you hold rather dear, Captain, if whispers are to be believed, would be indefinitely postponed. Let us be perfectly clear," he leans forward, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, "this is not a negotiation. This is a decree. The future of humanity hangs in the balance, Captain. Do you truly wish to be the one who stands in its way? Does such an outcome, fraught with personal sacrifice and the potential to doom mankind, truly appeal to you?" He leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowed, waiting for Levi's response, the air thick with unspoken threats and a palpable sense of distrust.

Punishment or breeding program? He may as well be asking Levi to choose between getting devoured by a Titan or becoming one himself. The veiled threat about Mikasa, about the mission – a desperate attempt to yank on his leash, a leash he never agreed to wear.

Now Levi understands Erwin's … acquiescence to this farce. The mission dangled in front of him, a carrot to a desperate horse, all to get his grubby little hands on Grisha Yeager's basement and whatever secrets lie buried there.

The audacity of these self serving buffoons is breathtaking. Do they truly believe Humanity's Strongest Soldier can be reduced to a mindless beast to be controlled, a cog in their eugenics scheme? Levi meets Dhalis' gaze head on, his own eyes as cold and unforgiving as a Titan's stare. His posture remains rigid, a silent testament to his unwavering defiance.

Dhalis, sensing Levi;s resistance, does something unexpected. A barely perceptible smile, devoid of warmth or humor, tugs at the corner of his lips.

It is not a smile of camaraderie, but something far more unsettling - a predator sizing up its prey.

Let them stew in their own uncertainty. The real question is, when the time comes, will they be the ones holding the leash, or will Levi be the one snapping it in half?

"We acknowledge, Captain Levi," General Dhalis begins, his voice dripping with a false sincerity, "your unwavering dedication to the Survey Corps. Indeed, such loyalty is a beacon of hope in these perilous times. However," he continues, his tone subtly shifting, "loyalty, much like any well forged bond, demands reciprocity. Can we, in good conscience," he asks, his voice laden with veiled doubt, "extend our trust to a man with your… unconventional background? A past shrouded in the criminal underbelly, a stain on your otherwise exemplary record." He leans forward, his gaze turning into a predatory glint. "If you choose to defy this directive, Captain," he warns, his voice hardening with barely concealed menace, "we will be compelled to revisit those unsavory legal entanglements that dogged your past existence in the Underground. Those little indiscretions, conveniently swept under the rug upon your enlistment with the Survey Corps, will be resurrected with ruthless efficiency. The pact of silence, a tacit agreement reliant upon your continued obedience, will be null and void." He throws his hands out in a theatrical gesture. "Disobeying an order, Captain," he continues, his voice laced with a chilling finality, "is tantamount to disobeying the very military that has shielded you from the consequences of your past transgressions. The consequences, I assure you, would be swift and merciless. You will find yourself stripped of your rank, stripped of your freedom, and cast back into the very depths you so desperately clawed your way out of. The Underground beckons, Captain, its cold embrace a fitting punishment for disobedience." He leans back in his chair, a cruel smile twisting his lips. "The choice is yours, Captain. Will you honor the unspoken pact that binds you to this institution, or will you risk a return to the abyss?"

Nile Dawk, that perpetually grumpy bulldog of a Garrison commander, can not quite suppress a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"My past, has absolutely no bearing on my current abilities." Levi's face is a blank slate, an unreadable mask that would not crack under a Titan's roar. Let them stew in their ignorance. Levi's past, those scrapes and scuffles in the Underground, those were like pebbles on a dirt road compared to the mountains he hass climbed since joining the Survey Corps.

Who cares about a few youthful indiscretions, or for that matter, overthrowing a corrupt monarchy? Water under the bridge, ancient history best left buried.

Dhalis lets out a chuckle, a dry, humorless sound that sends shivers skittering down Hange's spine despite the summer heat radiating from Pixis' ever present belly.

"Ah, Captain Levi," General Dhalis purrs, leaning forward in his chair with a predatory glint in his eye. "It appears you harbor a fundamental misunderstanding," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that could curdle the blood of a seasoned Titan researcher. "Your past, Captain," he emphasizes each word with deliberate weight, "is far more… nuanced than you might believe. It is a tapestry woven with threads of rebellion, a penchant for violence that borders on the barbaric, and a rather lengthy, shall we say, apprenticeship in the notoriously brutal underbelly known as the Underground." He leans back, a hint of a cruel smile playing on his lips. "A most… colorful background, do you not agree? One that raises a multitude of questions regarding your suitability for the critical role we envision for you." His gaze narrows, scrutinizing Levi with an intensity that could bore holes through steel. "The question, Captain, is not whether you are loyal to the Survey Corps – your dedication is undeniable. The true question lies in the depths of your allegiance. Can we, in good conscience, entrust the future of humanity to a man whose past reeks of defiance and whose very existence is steeped in the savagery of the Underground? Loyalty, Captain, is a double edged sword. It demands not only obedience but also unwavering trust. And in your case, Captain," he concludes with a chilling finality, "that trust is a most precarious commodity." The air in the room hangs heavy with suspicion, a silent battle of wills waged between a man haunted by his past and a ruthless leader determined to exploit it.

A flicker of something - annoyance, perhaps, or maybe a tightly leashed fury - crosses Levi's features for a fleeting moment before he slap it back down under the mask.

These self important buffoons would not know a colorful picture if it bit them in their oiled ass.

"Those… youthful transgressions," General Dhalis continues, drawing out the silence with practiced ease, like a skilled interrogator milking a suspect for information. "By the benevolence of the military, these incidents have been relegated to the dustbin of history… for the time being. Consider them a dark stain on an otherwise pristine record, Captain, a lapse in judgment shrouded in the merciful cloak of the military's discretion." He leans back in his chair, a predator savoring the discomfort of its prey. "However," he continues, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "let us not mince words, Captain. This amnesty, this act of extraordinary leniency, is a weapon. While it shields you from the harshest repercussions of your past, it also binds you to the military in a way most soldiers can only dream of. Your freedom, Captain," he emphasizes the word with a cruel twist of his lips, "is a conditional privilege, a gift bestowed with the expectation of unwavering loyalty." He fixes Levi with a cold stare.

This is about control.

They want to shackle Humanity's Strongest Soldier, a weapon of unparalleled skill honed in the fires of the Underground, to their will. Turn him into a loyal attack dog who only answers to their whistle.

The only thing they are overlooking is the fact that leashes can be chewed through, snapped, or used to strangle the very hand holding them.

'Well, General, you may think you have got me backed into a corner, but let me tell you something - corners have a nasty habit of disappearing when you know how to fight dirty. You do not even how much "former" criminal I can be.'

Levi's fists clench at his sides, the only outward sign of the tempest brewing within.

Years of meticulously crafting a life within the Survey Corps, the grudging respect he has earned through rivers of blood and mountains of Titan corpses, all teetering on the precipice of collapse at the whim of this power hungry peacock of a General.

Dhalis' self satisfied visage makes Levi want to wipe it off his face with the back of his hand, but the glint in his eyes, cold and calculating, warns against such impulsive actions.

Nile Dawk, that bulldog of a Military Police commander who perpetually looks like he is one bad nap away from spontaneous combustion, can not contain himself any longer.

A low, guttural chuckle erupts from him, the sound as pleasant as a Titan gnawing on a stubborn bone.

Dhalis leans back in his chair, the picture of smug satisfaction. The predatory glint in his eyes intensifies, and for a moment, Levi almost expects him to unsheathe a pair of claws from beneath his manicured fingernails.

"So, Captain Ackerman," he purrs, the word dripping with false sincerity, "are we in agreement? Do you continue to serve humanity, conveniently forgetting your little… indiscretions, under the banner of the Survey Corps, or do we take a stroll down memory lane and revisit those… misplaced documents?"

The seconds tick by, each one an agonizing hammer blow against the already suffocating atmosphere. Levi's jaw remains clenched, his face an impassive mask that would not crack even if a Titan decided to use it for target practice.

A battle rages behind Levi's icy gaze, a war between self preservation and the gnawing sense of being played like a cheap fiddle.

The weight of the decision presses down on him with the crushing force of a Titan's fist.

"You leave me with no options, General."

It is not an agreement, not truly. It is a surrender, a forced compliance in the face of an impossible situation.

"A wise decision, Captain Levi," General Dhalis purrs, his voice oozing with a cloying satisfaction that sends a shiver down spines in the room. "We had every confidence that reason would ultimately prevail." He directs a dismissive gesture towards Erwin Smith. "The details of this… accord," he continues, his voice laced with a subtle emphasis on the word, "will be meticulously overseen by Commander Erwin Smith, with myself, of course, maintaining a watchful eye on proceedings. He," he adds with a pointed look in Erwin's direction, "will ensure your… contribution to the perpetuation of humanity is both optimized and meticulously documented." The veiled threat hangs heavy in the air – cooperation will be rigorously monitored, any misstep scrutinized.

Contribution. Right. As if Levi has any say in the matter. More like ensure his continued usefulness as their personal Titan slaying attack dog.

The rhythmic tap tap tap of Levi's boots echoes through the sterile hallway, a chilling counterpoint to the silent scream building in his chest. This is not walking, it is a war march towards an enemy he can not quite punch.

Each step is a beat in the symphony of his simmering fury, punctuated only by the silence that hangs heavy in the air. This silence is a tangible entity, thick with the absurdity of the mission he has been strong armed into accepting.

Erwin's office door looms ahead, a stark slab of wood mocking Levi with its finality. The nameplate, "Erwin Smith, Commander, Survey Corps", bold and brassy, screams "authority" – the very thing they are trying to assert over Levi.

Levi takes deep breath, not to calm the inferno, but to fan it into a roaring blaze. This is not about calming down, it is about channeling the anger, using it as a weapon. Fist meets wood in a resounding boom, the impact echoing like a challenge through the hallway. The windows rattles, a surprised gasp from within the office the only response I crave.

A startled yell of "Come in!" pierces through the wood. Levi throws the door open with a flourish that would make a Titan flinch, entering Erwin's office in a whirlwind of barely contained rage. The room itself is a spartan reflection of its perpetually calculating occupant. Maps and battle plans dominate the walls, a grim tapestry chronicling humanity's losing struggle against the Titans. These plans, however, seem sterile and lifeless compared to the raw, simmering anger radiating off Levi.

Paperwork teeters like a drunken soldier on Erwin's desk, the only sign of life in this sterile office besides the furious scribbling of his quill. The quill looks like it wrestled an enthusiastic rodent for ink. Erwin glances up, that glint of amusement in his sapphire eyes like a taunting dare.

The door slams shut behind Levi, the sound a physical manifestation of the rage choking him. Each step towards the Commander's desk is a calculated move, a predator stalking its prey. Levi stops just a hair's breadth away, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, and lock eyes with him.

Levi's gaze is a thousand suns focused into a single, icy point, a silent scream before the real roar begins. The air itself seems to crackle under the pressure, a tangible tension that hangs heavy in the air like a storm about to break.

This "arrangement," this leash they have forced around Levi's neck – it twists with every beat of his heart, a constant reminder of the simmering fury boiling beneath the surface.

"Levi," Erwin greets, a hint of amusement flickering in the depths of his blue iris. "What brings you here in such a… dramatic state?"

"Let us talk about the little… surprise Dhalis dropped on me today," Levi demands, his voice laced with barely contained fury. The very notion of Dhalis' "surprise" leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Surprise? More like a thinly veiled threat masquerading as bureaucratic hell.

"Levi," Erwin begins, his voice even and steady, a stark contrast to the raw emotions swirling around the Captain. "About the Ackerman proposition," he inquires, his tone more curious than accusatory. "Yes, I was aware of it. In fact," he continues with a wry smile, "I spent the weeks leading up to this meeting locked in a rather tedious exchange of letters with Dhalis, arguing the finer points until I thought my head might explode."

Erwin lets out a sigh that sounds like the air escaping a punctured Titan tire. He leans back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to physically block out the sheer absurdity of the situation. The image paints a clear picture: Erwin, the brilliant strategist, forced to waste his time arguing with Dhalis, the buffoonish general, over a ludicrous proposition.

"Dhalis," Erwin mutters, the word dripping with contempt, "would clutch at any straw to keep the Survey Corps on a leash. Any leverage, no matter how ludicrous, seems fair game in his twisted little power grab."

"And that straw," Levi counters, his voice laced with enough bitterness to curdle milk, "happens to be my… reproductive system?"

The very concept is so absurd it takes Levi a moment to process it, and even then, the words come out sounding like he is choking on gravel. The image of him, humanity's strongest soldier reduced to glorified diaper duty, is enough to make him want to disinfect his brain with industrial grade disinfectant.

Erwin's sigh morphs into a long, weary groan that speaks volumes about the weight of his command. The man looks ten years older after his little meeting with Dhalis.

"Believe me, Levi," he says, his voice heavy with a sincerity that almost sounds genuine, "let me assure you, the last thing I want is to see you reduced to some stud for the military's benefit. And the thought of your hypothetical offspring being mere pawns in this twisted game? Frankly, it revolts me." he continues, leaning forward and locking eyes with Levi, "The Survey Corps, would never stand for such a blatant violation of your autonomy. We fight for humanity's freedom, not to become some twisted eugenics project. Besides" he adds, "the whole proposition is ridiculous on a practical level. Imagine the logistics involved! The paperwork alone would be a nightmare."

Levi's eyes narrow into slits, skepticism radiating off him like heat waves. "So why do you not shut this whole charade down, Commander Erwin?" he challenges. "Is that not your job, Commander? Making the tough calls, navigating the political labyrinth, and steering this damn ship through the storm? Or are you content to just shuffle paperwork while they dangle my balls over a fire?"

Erwin meets Levi's gaze head on, his blue eyes unwavering. "In an ideal world, Levi," he says, his voice firm, "of course I would put a stop to this nonsense. But the reality is far from ideal. Dhalis recognizes our potential, the potential of the Survey Corps, and he craves control. He wants to leash us, turn us into his own personal attack dogs."

Levi scoffs, a harsh rasp that echoes in the confines of the office. "Entrap our potential? You make it sound like some noble pursuit. They want a goddamn weapon, Erwin. An army of genetically modified super soldiers, all stamped with the convenient 'Ackerman' brand name."

The image that pops into his head again - miniature, murderous Levi Ackermans tearing through the streets - is both horrifying and oddly adorable.

Erwin shakes his head resolutely. "No, Levi. That is not what I want. And," he continues, his voice dropping, "I assure you, I will not allow them to use your children, or any potential offspring for that matter, as pawns in their twisted game."

A flicker of doubt dances in Levi's eyes, battling with the anger that still simmers beneath the surface. "What makes you think you have any say in the matter?" I ask, his voice laced with a challenge.

Erwin may be the Commander, but that does not mean he has complete control over Levi or his … superior reproductive capabilities.

"Levi," Erwin leans forward, his voice laced with a seriousness that brooks no argument, "let me get one thing perfectly clear. You, Levi Ackerman, are an indispensable asset to the Survey Corps. Perhaps our most indispensable, if I am being honest. Your skills, your unwavering dedication to purging the Titans from this world – these are qualities that cannot be easily replicated. We need you on the front lines, your blades flashing like a storm as you cut a bloody swathe through those grotesque monstrosities. The thought of you being relegated to some… government sanctioned breeding program," he lets out a snort of derision, "is frankly ludicrous." He fixes Levi with a steady gaze. "However," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we need a concession, Levi. Dhalis, that pompous windbag, requires a certain… optics play to secure approval for the operation we have been discussing. The idea of a potential Ackerman bloodline legacy, a new generation of Titan-slaying prodigies – it is a narrative they find palatable. So, yes," he acknowledges with a sigh, "fathering children may be a technical requirement to appease the bean counters. But there is the thing, Levi," he places a hand on the Captain's shoulder, his voice firm but friendly, "those children, your children, will not become pawns in this game. Their future is their own. The Survey Corps will ensure their safety and well being, but any choices they make, any paths they choose to walk, will be theirs alone. This is a necessary deception, Levi, a strategic maneuver to secure the resources we desperately need to achieve our true objective: to eradicate the Titans once and for all. We need you on the battlefield, Levi, and I assure you, I will fight tooth and nail to ensure your freedom and that of your future progeny. We are in this together, Captain. Now, let us go carve a bloody path through those Titan hordes and show the world what humanity is truly capable of." Erwin leans back in his chair, a determined glint in his eyes.

Levi's gaze drifts to the map plastered on the wall, a tangled web of humanity's despair. Walls that confines them, Titans that devour them – it is a suffocating cage. The weight of the situation, the impossible choices Erwin faces, presses down on Levi like a physical force.

Erwin may not be the enemy here, but he is certainly not the one calling all the shots.

"Alright, Levi," Erwin begins, a sardonic smile playing on his lips, "let's dissect this whole charade, shall we? Dhalis, bless his ambitious heart, has undoubtedly already identified a woman deemed genetically and physically suitable receptacles for your, ahem, Ackerman seed." He pauses for a moment, a twinkle of amusement dancing in his eyes. "But fear not," he continues, his voice laced with a dash of humor, "I have every confidence that this… candidate will not resemble… farm equipment." Erwin throws his head back and lets out a short, humorless laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally sinking in. "The good General may have a rather… agricultural approach to this whole thing," he adds with a wink, "but rest assured, Levi, I will not subject you to such a crass charade."

Levi raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Just keep the wide eyed, hero worshipping brats fresh out of the womb away from me," he retorts. The mere thought of babysitting some hormonal, hero worshipping brat is enough to make him yearn for the sweet embrace of a Titan's maw (Hange would find that amusing, to say the least). At least a Titan would not judge his social skills (or lack thereof).

Erwin throws his head back and lets out a genuine laugh, a full bodied sound that fills the office with an unexpected warmth. "The entire concept of this breeding program is absurd! Ludicrous, even," Erwin exclaims, his voice laced with a frustration that Levi clearly shares. "It is more ludicrous than the idea of a Titan trying to waltz in a tutu."

The mental image that springs to mind - a lumbering, naked Titan clumsily pirouetting in a ballet skirt - is enough to almost make Levi gag.

Levi raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement flickering in Levi's icy gaze despite the tense situation. "Ludicrous?" He echoes. "Erwin, we are talking about manipulating human genetics here. This is not some barnyard breeding experiment gone wrong. These buffoons are talking about creating a super soldier factory, and they want me as the star breeding stallion."

"Exactly my point, Levi, think of the logistical nightmare! Compatibility testing, mountains of paperwork, not to mention the potential for some truly… nightmarish sexually transmitted… anomalies." He shudders dramatically, the image clearly repugnant to him. "The whole thing is a bureaucratic minefield waiting to explode in Dhalis's face."

A grimace curls Levi's lip. Erwin's words conjure a mental image of some grotesque, Titan sized sexually transmitted diseases that will make even the most hardened Wall cultist reconsider their life choices.

"Now that is a horror story I would not want to read," he says.

"Indeed," Erwin agrees, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "Let me introduce you to the candidate selected."

"Now, to the specifics of this… arrangement," Erwin continues, his voice adopting a dryly official tone. "Dhalis has selected a candidate, a young woman named Letta Reader. She is, as of this year, twenty four years of age. Her background includes a stint with the Interior Military Police's Anti Personnel Control Squad." He pauses for a moment, consulting a document in his hand. "However," he adds, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "recent events have cast a shadow over Ms. Reader's otherwise exemplary record. Apparently, she expressed… misplaced loyalty towards a certain Kenny Ackerman, an individual whose activities have been deemed detrimental to public safety." Erwin sighs, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. "This lapse in judgment has resulted in her incarceration. The General proposes a… unique solution. If Ms. Reader agrees to participate in this endeavor, to contribute to the continuation of the Ackerman bloodline, as it were, her release from custody can be facilitated, with the full endorsement of the Survey Corps."

He leans forward, his gaze fixed on Levi. "It is important to note, Captain," he continues, "that Ms. Reader hails from Trost District, a region well within Wall Rose. She chose to dedicate herself to serving humanity by joining the military, and her record, prior to this unfortunate entanglement, was indeed unblemished. Furthermore," he adds, a hint of intrigue flickering in his eyes, "her ingenuity extends beyond the battlefield. Ms. Reader is credited with the design of the Anti-Personnel Vertical Maneuvering Gear, a significant contribution to the Military Police's arsenal." He steeples his fingers, his expression thoughtful. "Letta Reader, Captain, is a complex individual. A woman of unquestionable talent, but one whose judgment has been demonstrably flawed." Erwin sits back in his chair, leaving the weight of this unexpected information to settle upon Levi. The fate of a woman, the potential future of the Ackerman bloodline, all hinged on Levi's next move.

Kenny. The name explodes in Levi's head, a grenade lobbed into the fragile peace. Supporting Kenny Ackerman? Stupid girl. They are using you as a leverage, dangling you freedom in front of you. Carry Levi's child, support the Survey Corps, and maybe, just maybe, you walk free. Erwin continues, his voice monotone as he reads from the file, a litany of facts that blur together in Levi's anger. Trost born, military history, even designed the new ODM gear.

Levi's face remains an impassive mask, but a flicker of fury dances in his icy blue eyes. He keeps his voice low, controlled, but the anger is palpable. "What makes you think I'd even consider breeding with a criminal branded by Kenny's actions? This entire thing reeks of Dhalis' amusement, does it not?"

Erwin lets out a sigh, a weary sound that speaks volumes. "Amusement? For Dhalis, it is more than that. You know how twisted his mind is."

Levi clenches his fists, his jaw set tight. "Kenny is s still alive," he mutters, more to himself than to Erwin. "Out there somewhere…"

Erwin steeples his fingers and leans forward, consulting the document in his hand. "Now, Levi," he begins, his voice adopting a more neutral tone, "it appears there is more to Ms. Reader's profile. According to her records, she graduated with distinction from the 95th Cadet Corps, achieving the esteemed honor of ranking top of her class. Her instructors noted a tendency towards introversion and a reserved demeanor, with a social circle on the smaller side." He pauses for a moment, a hint of curiosity flickering in his gaze. "They further describe her as a staunch adherent to regulations, a 'by the book' individual who takes her duties with utmost seriousness. However," he continues, "these observations are counterbalanced by exceptional physical prowess. Her trainers consistently lauded her remarkable speed and fast reflexes. While raw strength may not be her most pronounced attribute," he acknowledges, "she possesses great level of stamina, allowing her to sustain peak performance during extended engagements. Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of Ms. Reader's profile," he continues, his voice dropping to a murmur, "is a certain… philosophical detachment. Her instructors noted a distinct apathy towards life and a somewhat unsettling acceptance of the ever present threat of death. This, coupled with her relentless pursuit of objectives, keen observational skills, and unwavering focus, are also nited." He takes a deep breath, his gaze meeting Levi's with unwavering intensity. "However," he adds, his voice hardening slightly, "the report also mentions a certain… inflated sense of self worth. While not overtly arrogant, Ms. Reader appears to possess a healthy dose of pride, perhaps even bordering on egotism. This, Captain, is a trait that may require careful management." A wry smile tugs at the corner of Erwin's lips as he continues, his voice regaining its formal tone. "The report concludes with a rather… unexpected observation. While Ms. Reader presents a demure and innocent facade, it appears her instructors harbored suspicions of a more… unconventional private life. Apparently, rumors circulated amongst her peers regarding a surprising number of casual sexual encounters. These suspicions, however, remain unsubstantiated." He leans back in his chair, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes.

Levi lets out a frustrated groan, his arm rising to shield his eyes as he leans back in the chair. "That last bit of information was entirely unnecessary," he mutters, the irritation evident in his voice. The woman's sexual history is the least of his concerns. The idea of being reduced to a mere breeding stallion, especially with a woman seemingly chosen for her 'reproductive capabilities', is enough to make him clench his fists in silent fury.

Erwin flips open a file, revealing a stark portrait. Charcoal against faded paper, it captures a woman Levi does recognize. Her features are fine, delicate even, but her eyes hold a story the sketch can not quite tell.

Short, dark hair frames a face devoid of the hero worship he expected. No doe eyed wonder, no simpering smile. Instead, a quiet resignation stares back at him, a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like… despair.

Levi studies the portrait. This woman is not what he pictured. None of this is. No wide eyed cadets, no government sanctioned brood mares.

Just this quiet woman, a portrait of quiet indifference that edges dangerously close to… despair.

"This is her?" He finally manages, hua voice low and even.

"Indeed, Captain," Erwin replies. "Meet Letta Reader."

More like meet your… procreation partner, courtesy of Dhalis' twisted machinations.

Levi's gaze remains fixed on the portrait, dissecting her features line by line. Soft cheeks contrasted by a defined jawline, a hint of defiance beneath the resignation. There is an undeniable beauty there, a quiet strength that seems at odds with the defeat in her eyes.

The thought of being strong armed into this… procreative charade with her leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. A branded criminal, no less. Especially when the whole charade seems orchestrated by the ever manipulative Dhalis. This feels like a cage, another way to leash him and control the strongest soldier humanity has.

But a different kind of cage. This one does not feel like bars and locks, but like obligations and expectations.

A different kind of burden, but a burden nonetheless.

Maybe Dhalis is not the only one playing games here. Erwin, with his secrets and desperation – is he the warden of this particular cage, or another prisoner himself?

"You'll be meeting with this… (F/N) (L/N) tomorrow," Erwin announces, flipping the file shut. "Dhalis will be there, of course, along with Pixis, Dawk, and myself. I'll also inform Hange, if you have no objections."

Levi scoffs, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "A meeting? This whole charade just keeps getting more bizarre with each passing minute. Are we expected to discuss baby names and nursery decor in front of a room full of overstuffed, lecherous swine?"

"The meeting is crucial," Erwin explains, a hint of exasperation tinging his voice. "You and (F/N) will have the opportunity to discuss boundaries, parental rights, and expectations. There will also be a contract to sign, outlining the terms of this… arrangement."

Clearly, the fate of humanity hinges on Levi's ability to… procreate according to a government sanctioned contract.

Contract. The word hangs heavy in the air, a physical manifestation of the absurdity of the situation. Being issued an official order to impregnate a woman feels like a new low, even for the Survey Corps.

The whole notion is barbaric, a far cry from the strategic brilliance and deadly maneuvers Levi is accustomed to employing.

Levi's whole life, his entire being, has been poured into this damn Survey Corps.

Even after Farlan and Isabel, even after that gaping wound in his soul, he kept pushing forward.

Grief, a relentless tide, he channeled it all into this fight, this desperate struggle for humanity's survival. Erwin, the embodiment of that fight, became his guiding star.

Backing down now, kowtowing to these bureaucratic leeches, would be the ultimate betrayal. A slap in the face to every fallen comrade who entrusted Levi with their sacrifice, their shredded dreams woven into the fabric of this cause.

This… breeding program. A sickening joke, a perversion of everything he stands for. But the alternative? Letting Erwin down, letting the ghosts of his squad haunt the halls with their unfulfilled futures – that is a path he refuses to walk.

This is just another indignity, another hurdle to clear, another grotesque Titan to slay. Fine.

This is about more than him. This is about honoring the fallen, their sacrifices a flickering torch he holds aloft in this suffocating world. They died believing in a dream, a dream he refuses to let die with them. So he will clench my teeth, swallow his disgust, and play this hand they have dealt him.

[k-she-rambles]

How do words

Just...using sensory details to move back and forth in time to do flashbacks without breaking the flow of your novel. That's a poet's trick and I am sooo jealous

this novel is so good

[hd-junglebook]

Neutral

Part 1 : In the Shadow of Greatness

word count - 3,813

You stand in your mother's room, the familiar surroundings offering little comfort as you contemplate your future. Your eyes roaming over the family mementos lining the shelves - relics of a simpler past.

The weight of her expectations hangs heavy in the air, a suffocating reminder of the greatness you're expected to live up to.

You're tempted to change your mind, to refuse the mission and defy your mother's wishes. But before you can voice your doubts, she interrupts your thoughts with a sharp command.

"You have no choice but to go," she declares, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Our people need you. You must do this for them."

Her words strike a chord deep within you, stirring a sense of duty that you can't ignore. Despite your reservations, you know she's right. You may have doubts, but you also have a responsibility to your mother.

You drew in a shaky breath, gathering what courage was left in your body. "I just don't know if I'm ready for this..."

Before she can respond, the door swings open, and a guard enters the room, their presence a reminder of the reality of your situation.

"It's time," they announce, their voice devoid of emotion.

With a heavy heart, you follow the guard out of the room, your mother trailing behind you. As you make your way through the corridors of the Ark, you can't help but feel a sense of finality settling over you.

Outside the drop ship, the guard motions for you to board, their expression unreadable. You hesitate for a moment, a thousand thoughts racing through your mind.

A flicker of movement catches your eye, and you turn just in time to see a curly-haired guard slip onto the drop ship in front of you, but before you can react, they vanish into the shadows of the ship's interior.

Ignoring the nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach, you push the unsettling sight to the back of your mind as you glance back at your mother, her eyes filled with determination, you know there's no turning back.

With a resigned sigh, you step onto the drop ship.

You may be Diana Sydney's daughter, but you're also so much more. You vow to make your mark on the world, to carve out a legacy of your own, one that shines as brightly as the stars themselves.

---

The drop ship shuddered as you and the other prisoners were herded aboard. The floor trembled beneath your feet as you were strapped into your seat, the metallic clang of restraints echoing through the cramped compartment. You were the last one to board the ship.

The hatch closing behind the guard echoing in the cramped space. You found yourself seated beside Clarke and Wells, their expressions mirroring your own mix of apprehension and determination.

Chancellor Jaha's voice boomed over the intercom, his words heavy with gravitas as he addressed the assembled prisoners.

"Prisoners of The Ark, hear me now. You've been given a second chance, and as your Chancellor, it is my hope that you see this as not just a chance for you, but a chance for all of us, indeed for mankind itself.," he declared, his tone solemn.

“We have no idea what is waiting for you down there If the odds of survival were better, we would've sent others. Frankly, we're sending you because your crimes have made you expendable."

The significance of his words hung heavy in the air as the drop ship's engines roared to life, drowning out any further explanation. With a lurch, the ship lifted off from the Ark, hurtling towards the distant planet below.

Clarke leaned in closer, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Return to Earth? But how?"

Jaha's voice swept over the group once more. " The drop site has been chosen carefully. Before the last war, Mount Weather was a military base built within a mountain. It was to be stocked with enough non-perishables to sustain three hundred people for up to two years. But make no mistake, this is a one-way trip. There will be no return journey."

The turbulence of re-entry rattled the shuttle around you, sending a jolt of fear through your body. Shocks from the atmosphere shook through the vessel as it descended through Earth's atmosphere, jostling you and your fellow prisoners in your seats.

Clarke gripped the armrests tightly, her knuckles white with tension, while Wells tried to maintain a facade of calm despite the worry etched into his features.

Abruptly Wells broke the silence speaking to Clarke as the ship continued its descent, “Clarke, there's something I have to tell you. I'm sorry I got your father arrested.”

Just as turbulence around you reached its peak, Clarke's voice cut through the ship, sharp and accusing. "Don't you talk about my father, Wells!" she spat, her eyes blazing with anger. "If it weren't for you, my father would still be alive!"

Wells flinched at her words, his expression pained. "Please, I can't die knowing that you hate me," he shot back, his voice tinged with regret. "You know that."

Their argument filled the compartment, adding to the already palpable discomfort as the drop ship hurtled towards its destination.

Despite the chaos around you, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of the challenges you would face on Earth.

Wells reached out and squeezed your hand, his eyes locking with yours in silent reassurance. "We can do this," he said, his voice steady despite the chaos around you.

And as the drop ship hurtled towards the surface of Earth, you couldn't help but wonder what awaited you below.

With a final jolt that sent a shockwave through your body, the drop ship touched down on the planet's surface, kicking up a cloud of dirt that enveloped the vessel in the patch valley on earth.

---

**On the Ark**

The sterile walls of your mother's room felt suffocating as she laid out her plan, her expression grave and determined. She spoke with a fervent intensity, her eyes shining with determination as she sat in front of you.

"Our society is facing a crisis unlike any we have seen before,” she began, her voice echoing off the metal walls of the cramped quarters. "The Ark can't sustain us much longer. We need to find a solution, and we need to find it now."

You listened in silence, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to comprehend the magnitude of what she was proposing. To be sent to Earth, the very planet that had been deemed uninhabitable for generations, was a death sentence. And yet, there was a glimmer of hope in your mother's eyes,

“We have no choice," she Diana declared, her steely gaze boring into yours. "You must be the one to lead this mission. To sacrifice yourself for the greater good."

You shook your head weakly, "You're asking too much. I can't...”

“I know it's a lot to ask, but you are the only one who can do this for me. You must get arrested and be sent to Earth.”

Her words hung heavy in the air, and you felt the weight of your mother's expectations bearing down on you. To be the one to leave the safety of the Ark, to journey to Earth.

“I can't”

She gripped your shoulders firmly , her nails digging into your shoulders. “You can, and you will. Think of the legacy you will leave behind, the hero who saved humanity from extinction.”

You jerked away from her. "I don't care about glory, Mom! I care about..." you faltered, emotions choking your voice.

Her eyes darkened. “About what y/n? About your own selfish desires? This is bigger than you. This is about the future of our people, about ensuring that generations to come will have a chance to live.”

You stared at the floor, despair and frustration simmering within your body. "There must be another way..."

"There is no other way," she interjected harshly. "Either you accept this mission, or you condemn us all to oblivion."

You finally met her piercing gaze again, anger inside your chest. "And if I refuse? What then? Will you cast your only daughter out like garbage?"

“Refusal is not an option y/n.” she snapped at you, struck by your defiance.

"But why me?" you finally managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Diana's expression softened, a mixture of pride and sadness crossing her features. "Because you're the bravest person I know," she replied, her voice catching in her throat.

"Because you have the strength and the intelligence to succeed where others have failed.” She lifted your chin gently. “Because... because I believe in you."

Her words stirred something deep within your soul. Despite the fear and uncertainty gnawing at your insides, you knew that your mother was right.

“You don't have a choice, my dear. You are my daughter, and you will do as I say. You will accept this mission, or you will be condemning our family to death.”

"I'll do it," you said, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you. "I'll go to Earth."

Diana reached out, taking your hand in hers, her grip tight with determination. "Thank you, my child," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "You're the best hope we have."

Squaring your jaw, you gave her a single firm nod.

---

Consciousness slowly seeps back into your mind, you find yourself disoriented, the lingering effects of the drop ship's bumpy descent still echoing in your senses.

Blinking away the haze, you realize you're still strapped into your seat, the unfamiliar restraints digging into your skin.

Pushing yourself upright, you glance around the compartment, noting the absence of your fellow travelers. Panic grips your chest as you realize they must have already disembarked, leaving you behind.

With a sense of urgency, you unstrap yourself and stumble to your feet, swaying slightly as you brace yourself against the nearest surface. The drop ship is eerily quiet now, the only sound the faint hum of the engines as they slowly wind down.

Taking a deep breath to steady yourself, you make your way to the ladder that leads down to the first floor. The sound of your rings clanging off the metal of the bars.

You jump off the ladder searching the crowd for any familiar faces when your eyes catch sight of someone unexpected—a guard stationed at the door, his gaze fixed on the approaching delinquents.

Despite the disorder unfolding around him, he remains calm and composed, a striking figure amidst the turmoil.

For a moment, time seems to stand still as you lock eyes with the guard, his presence commanding your attention in a way you can't quite explain. There's something magnetic about him, something that draws you in despite never seeing him.

You begin to push through the crowd, your eyes catch sight of the guard speaking to a raven-haired girl by the doors. Their exchange is terse, tension simmering just beneath the surface as they trade words.

Clarke's voice rang out in warning from her place in the crowd, her concern evident as she spoke. "No, we can’t just open the doors.” She continues, “stop! The air could be toxic."

The guard dismissed her concerns breezily, his confidence unwavering, “If the air is toxic, we’re all dead anyway.”

“Do you mind? I haven’t seen my brother in a year.” The raven-haired girl snaps back at Clarke, her words sharp with frustration

A ripple of dissent passes through the crowd as the delinquents anonymously challenge her claim, “No one has a brother!”

“That’s Octavia Blake, the girl they found hidden in the floor," someone explained.

The pressure threatens to escalate as the delinquents continue to pitch in, but the guard intervenes, his authoritative voice cutting through the chaos,

“Octavia. Octavia no. Let’s give them something else to remember you by,” he says as he smiles at his younger sister.

Reluctantly, the raven-haired girl nods, her defiance tempered by the realization that she has little choice but to comply. “Yeah, like what?” she bites back.

The guard's voice swelled with pride. “Like being the first person on the ground in a hundred years.”

Octavia considered this for a second, the gears turning in her head as she headed to the door with a determined stride, her hand outstretched as she prepares to step onto the unknown surface below.

The crowd watches in silence, holding their breath, the girl's boots makes contact with the ground. For a moment, nothing happens, the world holding its breath in anticipation.

“We’re back bitches!” Octavia exclaims, sending a ripple of relief through the crowd.

You're greeted by the sight of your fellow delinquents racing ahead as your feet touch solid ground, their figures disappearing into the distance.

---

You and Wells climb down from the top of the dropship while you both discuss the concerning state of the wires atop the Ark, Clarke approaches with urgency etched into her features.

“We got problems. The communications system is dead. We went to the roof. A dozen panels are missing. Heat fried the wires.” You remark, voice tinged with worry.

Clarke wastes no time in redirecting the focus to their immediate priority. "Well, all that matters right now is getting to Mount Weather," she asserts, her voice resolute as she gestures to the map spread out before them.

"See? Look. This is us. This is where we need to get to if we want to survive."

You exchange a glance with Wells, a knot of worry tightening in your stomach at Clarke's words.

Wells, though concerned about the malfunctioning communications system, is quick to acknowledge the urgency of Clarke's point. "Where'd you learn to do that? Your father," he muses.

Jasper, ever the optimist, interjects with a lighthearted remark, eager to lighten the mood despite the gravity of their situation. "Ah, cool, a map. They got a bar in this town? I'll buy you a beer," he quips, a hint of humor in his voice.

"It's not about beers, Jasper," you say with a wry smile, trying to inject some levity into the conversation. "It's about survival." You admired his positive attitude in such unfortunate circumstances.

Wells, however, remains focused on the task at hand, his expression serious as he turns back to Clarke. "You mind?" he asks, seeking permission to take a closer look at the map and join in the planning for their journey to Mount Weather.

Before you can respond, Bellamy Blake inserts himself into the conversation with his characteristic rudeness. "We're on the ground. That not good enough for you?" he challenges, his tone dripping with skepticism.

Wells, undeterred by Bellamy's hostility, presses on. "We need to find Mount Weather. You heard my father's message. That has to be our first priority."

Clarke, however, refuses to be drawn into their petty squabbles, ending their fight.

"Do you think we care who's in charge?" she retorts, her voice cutting through the tension. "We need to get to Mount Weather because the longer we wait, the hungrier we'll get and the harder this'll be."

Bellamy, ever the provocateur, offers his own suggestion with a sneer. "I got a better idea. You three go, find it for us. Let the privileged do the hard work for a change."

Without a second thought, you step forward, closing the distance between you and Bellamy until you're mere inches from his face.

"Privileged? You think we're privileged?" you shoot back, your voice sharp with indignation. "We're all in this together, Bellamy. Every single one of us has to do our part if we want to survive."

Bellamy's sneer only fuels your anger. "We're alive. That’s what matters, that not good enough for you?" he retorts, his tone dripping with disdain.

"You have a better idea, Bellamy? Or are you just too afraid to get your hands dirty?" you retort, your voice laced with equal parts anger and defiance.

The tension between you crackles like electricity, the heat of your argument fueling an unexpected and undeniable attraction.

In spite of the gravity of your situation, there's a palpable energy between you that neither of you can ignore.

Bellamy's jaw tightens, his gaze challenging. "You think you know what's necessary? You think you're the one in charge here?" he scoffs.

Before your argument can escalate further, a voice interrupts from above. "Enough!" Finn's commanding tone cuts off your voice as he jumps down from the dropship, his presence immediately shifting the dynamic.

Clarke steps in, her voice firm. "We don't have time for this, Bellamy. Finn's y/n's right. We need to focus on finding Mount Weather."

Wells nods in agreement. "Let's get moving. The longer we wait, the harder this'll be."

Jasper, ever the optimist, chimes in. "I'm with you guys. Let's find that place and get some answers."

---

Your group ventured deeper into the unfamiliar woods, you couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sheer vastness of nature surrounding you.

Towering trees stretched their branches towards the sky, their leaves filtering the sunlight to create dappled patterns on the forest floor. The air was thick with the scent of earth and pine, and the sounds of birdsong and rustling leaves filled your ears.

Clarke led the way, her eyes scanning the underbrush for any signs of danger as finn followed closely behind. Jasper and Octavia walked side by side, their laughter and banter breaking the quiet of the forest.

"You know, I've never seen anything like this," you remark, taking in the scenery with wide eyes. "It's like something out of a storybook."

Monty nods in agreement, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "It's amazing, isn't it? I never thought I'd get to see something like this."

As you continue along the winding path, you stumble upon a picturesque lake nestled among the trees. Its surface glimmered in the sunlight, inviting and serene.

Octavia's eyes light up at the sight, and before anyone can stop her, she's stripping off her clothes and diving into the cool, clear water.

“Octavia what the hell are you doing?”

You watch in awe as Octavia swims gracefully through the lake, her movements fluid and effortless. She's like a mermaid, ethereal and otherworldly in her beauty.

The water around her glistened in the sunlight as she continued to glide in the Lake.

But your admiration is short-lived as a sudden commotion erupts from the water. “Oh… Octavia, get out of the water! Get out of the water now!” Jasper screams from beside you, you run towards the edge contemplating jumping in. Octavia's joyful laughter turns to screams of terror as a snake slithers out from the underbrush and strikes at her.

Without hesitation, Jasper springs into action, leaping down the rocks to reach Octavia's side. You watch in horror as he runs to save Octavia from its grasp.

"Jasper, be careful!" you shout, your heart pounding in your chest as you scramble down the rocks to join them.

Jasper focused solely on the task at hand, his face a mask of determination. With a final, desperate push, the group manages to push a boulder into the other side of the clear water, sending the serpent away from Octavia, it’s large figure slithering back into the water.

You rush to Octavia's side, helping Jasper pull her out of the lake and checking her for injuries. She's shaken but barely harmed, thanks to Jasper's quick thinking and bravery.

"Thank you, Jasper," Octavia says, her voice trembling with emotion. "You saved my life."

Jasper smiles weakly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Just doing what anyone would do," he replies, his gaze never leaving Octavia's face.

"Note to self, next time, save the girl."

---

** On the Ark**

The air in your room on the Ark feels heavy with tension as you watch your mother enter. Without a word, she fixates on you with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

Diana's expression is dark as she strides towards you, her movements calculated and precise.

There's a fire in her eyes, a dangerous spark that sends a shiver down your spine. "Well, well, well. Look what we have here. The daughter who thinks she knows better than her own mother."

"Mom, what's wrong? Why are you here?"

"Why am I here? Why do you think y/n? Because of you, that's why."

You recoiled at the venom in her words, the accusation hanging heavy in the air between you. "Because of me? What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb with me. You know exactly what I'm talking about. It's because of you that I've been removed from the council." She continues.

“It's because of your disobedience, your insolence, that I've been removed from the Council."

"Mom, please, you know I would never intentionally hurt you," you plead, your voice trembling with emotion. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

Her voice rises with each word, a crescendo of rage and frustration that threatens to consume you whole. You shrink back, feeling like a small, insignificant creature in the face of her wrath.

"Oh, I don't want to hear your pathetic excuses. You think you're so clever, so independent, but you're nothing but a fool. A foolish child who thinks she knows better than her own mother."

You feel the sting of tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You refuse to give her the satisfaction of seeing you break.

“You've always resented me, haven't you? Resented the fact that. I'm more powerful, more influential than you could ever hope to be." Her words cut through the silence like a knife, each syllable dripping with scorn and resentment.

"That's not true!” You feel frustration and anger bubbling up inside you. "I'm not responsible for your mistakes, Mom. You brought this upon yourself."

"Don't make me laugh. You've always been jealous of me, jealous of my success, my power. And now you've finally gotten what you wanted, haven't you? You've finally managed to bring me down. Just like your father."

The mention of your father's name sends a pang of sadness through you as Diana's jaw clenches, her fists tightening at her sides. "You've always been so quick to shift the blame onto others. "

Her accusations hung in the air, poisoning the space between you as you struggled to find the words to defend yourself.

"He would never have wanted things to end up like this," you retort, your voice tinged with sorrow.

Diana's expression softens for a moment, a flicker of regret crossing her features. But then, just as quickly, it's replaced by a steely resolve. "It doesn't matter now.”

---

[chipchopclipclop]

i have finished death mark 2...... thoughts.....

general thoughts is the overall story was.... BAD. LOL.

I'll start with the good. The interactions between Yashiki and alot of the returning cast i really liked, the writing especially in the first few chapters. An example being alot of Yashiki and Daimon's chatter, especially the whole weight of saving lives things that comes back at the end, alot of it was quite sweet and heartwarming similarly between him and other mark bearer characters.

^^^ BEST CG EVARRRRR....

I liked the choice of Hiroo and Mashita being the two that come in when he's at his lowest, their curtness and refusal to take his attitude was really refreshing, felt really like what he needed at the time lol. In that same vein i enjoyed his characterization alot in the early-mid game, and how it develops. He's such a sensitive guy lollll and it comes through well with how much he cares but near the latter chapters it kind of.... sours.

Though there were a few new characters i liked his interactions with, Abe and Maruhashi specifically i found endearing of the new cast, Alot of them just Die. Or theyre Hime and Michiho AKA the bane of my fucking existence with this game.

They are the two pushed front and center and it is truly its worst aspect, as characters they're shallow personality wise and though you could say that about others in the cast, them being in love with Yashiki on top of it makes it so much worse.

They barely have any scenes where they actually properly interact and feel like they bond at all but for some reason im expected to believe they're suddenly in love with him?? -and in the end they were also dead the whole time, and not even themselves. So it wasn't even real, and somehow any of this is meant to hold any weight to the audience...?? explaining it as the ghosts being desperate for him instead doesnt really make it.. any more compelling (lol the scene at the end where hes like maybe they just wanted those beautiful normal school days they spent by me.... when did that happen yashiki)

I understand Yashiki is probably saddened by the deaths of two young girls but they're treated with so much more weight and gravitas than anyone else in the cast and its so unearned, especially when alot of the other ghosts are somehow way more compelling in that aspect.

He also becomes borderline ooc around them like in what world am i expected to believe he emotionally dumps his burdens on the two highschool girls he barely knows because of how sad he is when hes got like how many other people he knows FROM THE OTHER GAMES he could do that with...????? (AND BASICALLY DOES... ALREADY...?) and it lifts his heart like truly wtf was i reading. HE WOULD NOT FUCKING SAY THAT.JPG

Chapter six is really where it falls off the cliff with this, after hanging out with Hiroo, Mashita and Yasuoka and solving that case they just dissapear from the narrative for a day so he can......... hang out with michiho...?? i couldn't even enjoy murder yashiki in this game because of how ludicrous it felt that the rest of yashiki's companions just dissapeared to make it happen, and no one calls or anything lmfao. I cant imagine how much more compelled i would have felt if he was dealing with that situation with any of the other three around instead of HIME. LIKE I AM ACTUALLY SO INCENSED ABOUT THIS SCENARIO BEING RUINED SO HARD WHEN IT COULD BE SO GOOD BUT I DIGRESS (RIPPING MY HAIR OUT) (CRYING BC I LOVE BLOOD AND HORROR)

Even the first two games weren't as bad as writing women as this!? EVEN IF I HAD TO SEE MASSIVE TITS ON SCREEN THEY WEREN'T TRYING TO JUMP ON YASHIKI AS WELL AS A CENTRAL PLOT POINT (lol kakuya) congrats exp you have outdone yourself with the misogyny.

To continue on the topic of new characters, it feels like so many of them were given so little screen time to make you actually care about them. For how prominent Abe is he barely actually does anything, and Maruhashi instantly dissapears when shes no longer a red herring. On top of this game basically killing off any other character that appears, its hard to get invested in them as characters at all.

You have no opportunities to actually effect their fate as you do in the other two games, so there's even less attempt to immerse you there. Horikoshi comes the closest behind the other two but its because her case with Hanako was easily the strongest and most resonant of the game (lgbt win). Its not even like this is the first time Yashiki saves the lives of kids and bonds with them after, especially with the caveat of being a teacher, like how did you fuck this premise up so bad.

They either needed to commit to more scenes and writing in general to attach you to the new characters or just not have any returning ones show up so prominently if they're not also going to further interact with them.

The overall mystery suffers for it, and while i like the twist of the doll being helpful in this game actually, it is so easy to guess michiho and hime are the departed, and i already didn't even like them so it doesn't hit at all emotionally. Like, i was not feeling very betrayed or anything lol.

Further critiques -> though running around is very fun, the horror in this game really didn't at all compare to the others with the loss of that first person perspective for alot of the exploration, sad.

I also feel like we got more horny shit than we did in NG which is also like lol one step forwards two steps back. Even the gore wasn't as good............... kind of mid in every regard there. I did like the mushroom and scissor stuff, but the bugs and mold ended up just kind of ..... eh...

Mary continues to be the best antag in these games, she slayed and she continues to keep slaying. The sisters were really kind of a letdown in the end, especially since i think i could have enjoyed it if they pulled them off better.

As for my yaoi cocaine score though thats a 10/10 they made yashiki and mashita meow and hiss like cats in this game for some reason, i genuinely think that shattered my mind a little.

I also can't believe they gave us these two panting in unison asmr as well so you could make your own [REDACTED] if you wanted. The departed getting jealous mashita was standing next to him in that one confrontation too like she's calling him a homewrecker..... lol...... also the part where mashita jokes abt him keeping the gun and if you make yashiki go 'then i will 😇' and him immediately backpedaling like okay i was kidding. give it back. very moe very powerful.

I feel like the entire time mashita was on screen he was basically acting as yashiki's brain to keep him from getting too lost in his emotional attachments, truly everyone needs a bitch wife to keep them sane.

TL:DR this game could be so good (average) if it wasn't so fucking badDDDDDDDDDDDD easily the worst entry in this series...... dont buy it unless its on sale for 4 bucks (this applies to every game) or just watch in on youtube lol.

anyway. beautiful yashiki collection. I CANT BELIEVE MASHITA DIDNT GET A BAD END CG ACTUALLY < / 3 BUT YASHIKI'S IS REALLY GOOD < / 3 SMALL WINS < / 3

[zeenmrala]

━ stay alive

summary: your depression is tearing you apart, and you do not think you can survive the night. darth maul reminds you of your strength. pairing: darth maul x reader (no pronouns used) tw: suicidal ideation, depression, trauma, mental health. angst and hope and comfort. word count: 1k a/n: this short fic is for the maul lovers who experience mental health distress and find themselves lost and exhausted in this life. for those who need a reason to stick around. it may feel impossible to stay alive, but try to survive the night. there may not be peace. but there is always hope. music: i always wanna die (sometimes) by the 1975

please click here to view international suicide hotlines.

“if you can’t survive, just try.”

Stay Alive - [Read this story on AO3]

Your body succumbs to the weight of your fractured mind. All the pain, loss, trauma and hardships that have been stacking up like rancid bricks in your skull over the long years of your life have become a burden too great to bear. The wall of sorrow has collapsed above you, raining down in crashes of devastation, pinning your body beneath the wreckage: you are anchored to the ground by the breadth of your mental anguish.

That wretched hollow ache in your chest is devouring you whole: you are imploding with despair and emptiness and the harrowing truth of your colossal depression. The tears come, streaming down your cheeks, the saltiness settling on your skin, in your ears, pooling in the skin of your collarbone. You hold yourself with your arms on the floor in a last ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart. 

You are languishing so entirely in your misery that you do not hear him enter the room. You do not notice the muted whirr of his cybernetics, the soft thud of his metal footsteps, the glaring weight of his gleaming amber eyes. You don't register his unique midnight scent, the usually notable gravitas of his presence. The entire galaxy, including him, has slipped away into complete sorrow. 

But then he speaks, that rich velvet voice you know and cherish so dearly breaking through the oppressive cloud of sadness. Darth Maul speaks your name with a mix of concern and confusion. A wash of shame steals your breath from your lungs as your hazy mind acknowledges his presence. 

He shouldn't see you like this. 

"Why do you weep?" He asks in a rare gentle tone, his usual severity is muted. Do you really appear so pitiful?

"Leave me," you snap at him, the emotional turmoil sharpening your shame against him. You wipe your face with your sleeves, pulling yourself up against the wall at your back, resting your head in your arms, hiding. "Don't look at me."

He ignores your demands and wordlessly approaches. You hear him settling beside you on the floor. 

"Gods, it’s disgusting," you whisper, embarrassment washing over you like a tide.

"What is?"

"These feelings," you admit between gritted teeth as you shake your head. "This weakness."

He is silent, and you refuse to look at him, your face still hidden behind your arms.

"Why do I live with it?" You ask, not him or yourself or anyone in particular. The question just comes out, a stream of truth pouring from your lips. "This gnawing distress and despair. It's a constant shadow. It will never go away. There is no use in fighting it's will any longer."

"Explain.”

"I should let the waves of it take me," you whisper, your arms falling forward, your flushed and wet face revealed to the chilled air. "Let the inevitability of mortality wash me away."

He immediately understands. "To an early grave?" 

"A timely one. A just one. Perhaps it is my fate for this to consume me tonight." A pause, weighty and loaded. "I'm just so tired, Maul."

He stays silent, allows you the relief of a confession, of his listening. 

"I am defective. Broken. This rot within me is me. The part of me that has been slowly decaying has spread so deep that I have become it. The damage is done and I cannot undo it or repair it. I cannot stand it any longer."

"You suffer," he acknowledges. "There is strength in that."

You scoff. "There is no point to my suffering. I cannot harness its power like you. At least there is some purpose to your pain, a boon you can claim from it. I have nothing." You inhale and close your aching eyes. "I am nothing."

"No," he counters softly. "Not at all. Not to me."

You look at him, bask in the sweetness of those words, the unique beauty of his strange face. He returns to his silence, and does not look at you, but straight ahead. 

"Death is not what I want," you whisper, clarifying. "But what I need, I think. It is not that I want to give up, but I want...to..."

"Give in," he finishes for you. 

"Yes," you reply, the relief of his understanding both a balm and a heart wrenching revelation. "Yes."

He turns to look at you then, his golden eyes meeting yours. "The scars of your past will always be with you,” he says clearly, “they may weigh you down, consume you, haunt you. But they do not define you."

You blink, your eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion, such kindness and candour coming from him is a sweet surprise.

"It is true that I gain power from my suffering. My fear. My hatred. But all of that...it is mine. I own it. Your anguish is yours. And though you cannot rid yourself of it, it is part of you.” He reaches towards you, places a gloved palm on your chest, directly above the emotional ache. “Feel it. Embrace its wrath, note how brutal and relentless it has been. How it has battered you and worn you down over the years.”

You close your eyes and do as he says, delving into the ache, recalling the long years of pain and despair, how broken and lost you are…

“Now think of how you have endured it. That you are, despite everything, alive. What kind of person could have survived such an ordeal?”

Alive. You feel the heat of his palm on your chest, the sting of tears on your cheeks, the scent of space that lingers in the starship. You notice the cool chill of durasteel beneath your back, the beat of your heart, the breath in your lungs. The miracle of life, of experience, of tolerating the suffering and joy to this point in time.

“You have achieved that. You. The person that has endured all of that has the strength to survive another night. Stay alive. You owe yourself, - ” he pauses, moving his gloved fingers to your wet cheek, caressing your skin, “- this person that has fought and overcome so much anguish, another day.”

You lean into his touch, and his palm cradles your face. You nod softly, and almost whimper because yes, the pain is still there and it hurts and it is engulfing you entirely and it’s overflowing yet empty all at once. And it may always exist, eternal and timeless. But you have proven to yourself that you can endure it, again and again, as you have before, surviving those countless nights of misery that you have put behind you. You can stay alive. You breathe in the scent of his crimson skin, feel the weight of his strong arms tighten around you. You allow him to hold you for the remainder of the night, and you hold him in return, finding strength and the will to survive in yourselves and each other.

-

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[kiyfra]

Scorpio chapter 7 is done and the fic is now complete! PokéRus AU belongs to @monsoon-of-art. It can be read here or on AO3.

“There is poison in the fang of the serpent, in the mouth of the fly and in the sting of a scorpion; but the wicked man is saturated with it.”

The snow line of Mt Coronet was finally within sight after hours of trekking through the highlands with Volo. The hike was never easy in modern Sinnoh, even with its well used public trails, but the untamed wilderness of ancient Hisui saw very few people visiting its summit.

Dawn’s first journey up the fabled mountain to stop Cyrus had been long and exhausting. Now her shorter legs had to carry her over far rougher terrain while the pressure from the rift drained their energy, like the atmosphere was a leaden blanket trying to force them down.

Even Volo was showing clear signs of exhaustion, unable to keep up the breezy, floating flight typical of togekisses. The merchant was using most of his strength to remain airborne with his backpack loaded with the plates, burdening him in a way his wares never did. Both of them had to take frequent breaks on this trek that they never used to in the highlands, but the end was drawing near.

The rift opened up shortly above the summit, its violent churning darkness and electric storms frighteningly close to the temple where they were bringing the plates. The had finally collected all seventeen plates that Volo believed could call upon Sinnoh’s divine power. Dawn wasn’t sure what that entailed and whenever she asked the merchant what exactly he would do, he would tell her not to worry about it and just wait and see.

“It’s just a bit further! There’s a tunnel straight ahead that will take us right to the temple!” he called out from above.

There was still a long stretch through an abandoned electivire territory. She had only come here once before to study the alpha and its pack, heeding the warnings not to venture past to the summit.

A sense of gravitas and importance always loomed over the summit of Mt Coronet where she could always feel the importance and weight of history from stepping on sacred ground. But never this heavy and never so foreboding. The feeling reminded her of the way pokémon would reservedly carry themselves and avert their eyes when they found themselves face to face with a legendary. The anxiety they felt from the power and majesty that was emitted and knowing they would be battling against a being many considered to be a god.

She could hear the bolts arcing out from the rift and feel the spine tingling energy growing stronger as they neared the temple. It was so close now with just a short trip through the tunnel until they were at the source of Hisui’s ills.

The still darkness of the cavern offered a temporary reprieve from the pressure and it felt like a weight had been lifted from their shoulders. Volo landed somewhat clumsily on the cave floor.

“This seems like as good a place as any to take a rest. How about we take a breather before the temple?” he asked while setting his backpack down.

Dawn plopped down wordlessly, giving all the answer that was needed. She wondered whether it would be a long enough break that it was worth removing her satchel. Probably not.

“I can’t believe it’s almost over and everything can go back to normal,” she said trying to catch her breath.

“It’s quite exciting. Just think, your name might be mentioned in the same breath as the legendary hero! And I was here to witness it,” he preened with his head held high.

The merchant looked quite proud of himself despite downplaying his own involvement. Always the charmer, he was laying the flattery on thick, though even Dawn could tell he was not a humble man.

Volo never dropped the persona of an overly friendly vendor trying to close a sale, even if its insincerity made her uneasy. Dawn was beginning to suspect it was the only way he knew how to be helpful or express kindness.

The dewott made a non-distinct noise and the two of them rested in silence. A question that had been burning at the back of her brain for months itched from a lack of explanation and she figured now was the time to try and drag a straight answer out of him.

“Volo, can I ask you something?”

Her voice sounded too loud echoing off the cavern walls.

“Sure, go right ahead.” The togekiss gave her a coy, knowing expression. “But I might not answer.”

“Right.” She took a deep breath. “Why weren’t you affected by PokéRus like the others? How did you keep your mind while everyone else lost theirs?”

“Well, you know how gentle togekisses-“

“Yes, I do know they’re not very hostile.” She was tired of this evasive non-answer. “The infection made everyone lose their minds and it has nothing to do with how aggressive the species is. Why were you different?”

The Survey Corps member was ready to twist his arm a little. She had more than earned it.

“I’ve been doing a lot of the leg work collecting the plates across Hisui and I think you owe your favourite customer a bit of an explanation.”

Volo dropped the cheery smile and sized her up, the salesman persona falling by the wayside as he scrutinized her. The silence dragged on as the merchant conducted his own private evaluation and Dawn started to feel uncomfortable with how he was looking at her.

Their eye lock continued for what felt like hours before he finally broke eye contact with a shrug of his wings. The large togekiss silently removed a dark purple plate from his travel pack and placed it in front of her on the cavern floor.

“You recall how I told you that I came upon this plate recently while searching at Turnback Cave?”

Dawn hummed in agreement.

“I’m afraid I told you a little bit of a fib.”

Volo made a show of turning his head away out of remorse as if he committed some grievous breach of trust, but the Survey Corps girl merely gestured for him to continue.

“This plate ended up in my possession quite some time ago, and the rift opened shortly afterwards. It felt like it was calling to me somehow and you of all people should know how superstitious the people in Hisui can be.”

Of course she knew. Dawn knew probably better than anyone in the region.

“Imagine if the merchant with vaguely heretical ideas was gifted a spectral plate right before the rift drove the Nobles into a frenzy. What would everyone think?”

“They’d think you were to blame.” Dawn answered bitterly.

Her own divine immunity to the mind altering effects of the virus made her a target of suspicion; it was clear why Volo was so hesitant to tell anyone about his.

“Exactly. We both have our reasons to keep things to ourselves, but I trust you,” the togekiss said with a gentle smile. “Who knows, maybe I was given a role to play in all of this.”

He placed the Spooky plate back into his travel pack and slipped his wings through the straps, ready to continue.

“I think it’s about time we finish our business here. Destiny awaits.”

The silence during their last leg of the journey felt oppressive to Dawn, as though she didn’t have permission to speak. Red light crept in through the cave exit and the constant pressure slowly lowered itself back onto their shoulders as they neared the summit. Dawn was suddenly seized by the notion this would be her last chance to talk to the merchant and she ran to catch up.

“Volo!” she shouted abruptly, causing the togekiss to turn his head back. There was an awkward pause as he looked at her while she tried to figure out how to articulate what she was thinking.

“...Thank you.”

He tilted his head questioningly.

“For coming to find me, I mean. And for looking out for me when everything and everyone was falling apart.” Her voice grew quieter. “No one else came to help me when I really needed them. It really does mean a lot to me and I wouldn’t have gotten this far without your support.”

Volo’s face twisted into a conflicted expression, as if unsure about how to respond to a sentiment that sincere. He looked away towards the tunnel exit and let out an long exhale, before turning back to the girl. The deliberation continued for several moments, but in the end, he settled on the veneer of the overly friendly vendor.

“Well, of course. I couldn’t just let my favourite customer spend the rest of her days as a hermit. It’s bad for business you know.”

The response was unsatisfying and both of them felt it so Volo decided to continue.

“Be honest, are you happy working for the Galaxy Team? I know Rei more than proved himself a loyal friend when we took on Jubilife and your captain and professor clearly have a soft spot for you. But would you choose that life or did it just happen to you?”

Now that was a complicated question. Where would she start?

“Umm… I like catching and training pokémon and I don’t mind doing research tasks for the professor.” Sometimes it was tedious and she did not enjoy waking and working at absurd hours to study uncommon behaviours and phenomena.

“Mostly,” she amended.

No, she certainly didn’t love leaving only a few hours after midnight and trekking to the mirelands to observe how petilils behaved during a storm or some other such matter.

But she could live with it.

Dawn couldn’t deny that she learned a lot and it was satisfying theorizing with the professor to explain interesting pokémon behaviours, even if Cyllene thought they tended to anthropomorphize them too much.

Working on the pokédex for Rowan was a lot different than the one for the Galaxy Team. It felt more like doing a favour out of gratitude than an obligation.

“But working for Kamando is scary. He’s always telling me how everyone in the village is suspicious of me and thinks I caused everything bad to happen. It felt like I could never work hard enough to change anything and one mistake would make me lose everything. And then it did when it wasn’t even my fault!”

All of her fears and anxieties she kept bottled up started spilling out. “I don’t want to go back to working for him after all this, but I don’t know what else I could do.”

“Yes, they say people don’t quit jobs, they quit bosses.” Volo looked lost in thought for a moment. “I haven’t told many people this, but I don’t particularly care much for the life of a merchant. It was something that happened to me rather than something I chose for myself and thinking about how I’ll be doing this for the rest of my life is maddening. I doubt this is what my ancestors envisioned for me.”

He words were the most bitter she had ever heard him speak and contained far more sincerity than she was used to hearing from him. They were more alike than she realized and she felt a sense of warmth at the discovery of the kinship they shared.

“Why don’t you try another job then?” Dawn asked.

“It’s a bit late for a career change and I doubt there’s anything else that would give me as much leeway to pursue my true interests. I at least get to meet a lot of interesting people as a merchant.”

He smiled a bit too widely at her with that statement.

“Hisui didn’t always work that way though. My grandmother used to tell me how the Celestica people entrusted several of their remaining members to pass down their history when they were on their last legs. These chroniclers were chosen back when when her grandparents were children. After strangers arrived on Hisui’s shores, every single one of them eventually had to choose between joining the new world or leaving and I think most of them stopped caring about history.

But I never did. I dutifully learnt everything my grandmother remembered and studied all that I could about her ancestry. My lineage and historical knowledge would make me the last successor of the Celestica people.”

Dawn wasn’t sure she agreed with that assessment, but she kept those thoughts to herself.

“I’ve never forgotten my heritage, but I think everything is meant to come to an end eventually. Societies and worldviews have to be cleared out to make way for new ways of thinking. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hmm…I guess you’re right.”

The Celestica people were replaced by the clans and the clans would end up being supplanted by modern Sinnoh. Her own time could be replaced by a future where people used computer chips instead of money and battled with robot pokémon or something.

“I’m starting to think I was destined to meet you, that the two of us were meant to play a part in the grander scheme of things,” Volo continued. “The gods work in mysterious ways after all.”

With a resolute wing motion, he ushered the two of them forward.

“Onwards and upwards!”

The tunnel opened up onto the summit, a steep stone staircase reaching to the Temple of Sinnoh far above the veil of clouds swirling below the peak. Mighty pillars held up a roof carved with intricate designs and housed statues of revered Nobles. What were presumably the original pokémon blessed by Sinnoh were depicted in dramatic poses, all built by a people that no longer existed.

They seemed so powerful and enduring that Dawn could scarcely believe these monuments depicted species and traditions that time would forget. It felt strange seeing the temple in all its glory when it was reduced to ruins in the modern age.

The sound of cold lighting arcing out of the rift was omnipresent and overwhelming with violent, churning darkness as a low drone. It sat only a few yards above the temple, close enough that Volo could fly to it if he really tried.

Pins and needles made her limbs impossibly heavy and static crackled through her fur. She had forgotten how the air was thinner so high up and how the cold hurt her lungs. Dawn took in every detail of the monument at the epicentre of this cataclysmic cosmic event in a mixture of awe and fear as Volo swooped past the pillars to a landing behind the temple.

He set to work unloading the plates from his pack, Dawn abuzz with nervous excitement. The morning sun did little to warm the peak, but it heralded a new day where everyone in Hisui would wake up and find themselves human again.

The two of them had slipped out unnoticed the prior evening after Volo approached Dawn and suggested they surprise everyone. She felt a bit bad not telling Rei when they had agreed they would all go to Mt Coronet the next day, but she agreed with Volo that they shouldn’t let the clans suffer longer than necessary and Rei deserved to rest after all the hard work he put into helping collect the remaining plates.

Ragged breathing from nearby caught her attention as two figures emerged from behind ancient masonry, an alpha glaceon and leafeon flanking the small dewott.

The wardens and clan leaders had looked worse every time she saw them and she realized the last time had been over a month ago. They were so gaunt that Dawn could easily count their ribs through their mangy and sparse fur. Their jewelry hung loosely off them and their bodies were marred by countless scabbed over wounds, dirty and poorly healed. Rage and hunger were the only things keeping them animated as they stalked closer, looking like death with their lips drawn back into bestial snarls and long strands of drool.

“Volo! Adaman and Irida followed us!” Dawn cried out in alarm.

Neither of them would fare well against one of the mad alphas and the odds of winning this battle would be stacked against the two of them. They could flee easily enough with a togekiss willing to fly them to safety and circle back around later when the danger had passed.

But the merchant didn’t even turn around.

The clan leaders strangely sat down like obedient guard dogs and glowered at her as Volo nonchalantly unloaded his backpack.

“Have you heard of a pokémon called Arceus?”

Dawn’s veins turned to ice at the question, no answer seeming like the right one. Volo knew more about her than she realized and would know if she was lying.

“I-“

Stating where she came from and what she knew would have been downright blasphemous to the clans and their belief in Sinnoh. She doubted Volo with his interest in all sorts of legends would have been offended by by a competing theory, but she couldn’t risk blowing her cover story, no matter how helpful he had been. Now the merchant presented an entirely new danger.

“I’ve longed to meet such a being myself and I’ve spent years learning anything I could about the all-encompassing deity. Neither of the clans understanding of ‘Sinnoh’ came close, but the Celestica people knew the truth. And you know better than the rest of Hisui. How else would you have something called an Arc Phone?”

This was a trap. This was just like confronting Cyrus at Spear Pillar all over again.

“I-it was just lying around when I woke up here! I really don’t understand what it is or why I have it. Honest!” Dawn shouted the half-truth, still hoping for some benign explanation.

“Why you? What have you done to deserve it’s blessings when the blood of the Celestica people runs through my veins?” he continued unmoved by her pleas. “No matter. With the power of all the artefacts I’ve scavenged from across Hisui, it won’t be able to hide itself away any longer.”

Dawn felt sick to her stomach as she considered wether she could take out her flute and play a summon before the clan leaders tore her to shreds. Sneasler, Electrode, Braviary; none of them would make it in time.

“With the red chain in my possession, I can subjugate the power needed to remake the world! Your arrival heralded the dawn of a new era and you should be proud of the hand you played.”

His voice flipped from manic to sickly sweet and the condescension made her face burn with indignation.

“This was your plan all along? You just wanted to use the chaos to get here?”

“It made sense to seek out Arceus’s scorned child and have it tear open the rift. Even with Giratina punching holes into its creation, Arceus still hides itself away. But everything would eventually fall into place. I’ll admit, our affliction was quite a strange and unexpected side effect. Though not without its upsides.”

He tilted his head toward Adaman and Irida whose empty eyes were glued to the small dewott.

“Quite the useful puppets with heads empty enough to be controlled by Giratina. When we can get past our difference of opinions, that is.” He gave an exasperated roll of the eyes. “The distortions created a back door entrance to their feeble little minds.”

“You-!”

It had been him all along. The warden’s violent attacks, Hisui falling into ruin, being taken away from her home, the pain and anguish everyone faced…

Ingo might not even be in Hisui, much less reduced to a mindless beast if it wasn’t for Volo. Her fists started shaking with the hatred she felt towards the smug togekiss in front of her and her whole body hotly prickled with humiliation at how impotent her rage was. The deafening crashing of the rift above, the red staining everything, a hateful presence with dark claws that was unable to reach her; it was the closest she ever felt to it.

She wanted massive jaws to bite with and to tear the merchant apart like a wild animal, but she could only squeak out, “You used me!”

“Why yes, yes I did. And now I have no further need of you.”

Volo paused unloading his pack for a moment and Dawn desperately hoped he was having second thoughts.

“You know, you’ve never actually bought anything from me before,” he tossed over his shoulder before turning back to the plates.

“Kill her.”

The two clan leaders sprinted at the girl on the merchant’s command, spittle flinging from their jaws snapping and barking. A familiar terror washed over her as she was forced to make a split second decision while still reeling from the betrayal.

Quickly fumbling in her satchel, she pulled out a small blue capsule and tossed it onto the ground in front of her with as much force as she could muster. It burst and clouds of smoke spread out over the temple grounds, obscuring the battleground.

She darted behind a statue and the clan leaders pounced where she had been standing seconds prior. Adaman and Irida snarled in frustration at losing sight of the girl and began to prowl the clouded pillars in search of their hidden quarry, ears perked and noses low to the ground.

Dawn forced herself to keep her breathing quiet, squeezing her eyes shut and tears prickling from the smoke hurting her eyes and lungs. She feared the hammering of her heart would give her position away as she listened for the slavering beasts getting closer.

A chill crept near as the click of clawed paws grew louder, Irida completely invisible in the smoke. Dawn pressed her back against the statue base and unsheathed one of her shells in precaution, trying to keep her teeth from chattering and goosebumps forming along her skin. She couldn’t see the massive glaceon through the clouds, but she must have been right in front of her with the icy air radiating in waves and loud breathing being so close.

There would be little warning if she was found; should she attack first? Even though the smoke bombs were designed to release a fragrance to cover up scents, it seemed miraculous Irida hadn’t smelt her out.

Dawn’s luck held and the mad glaceon finally moved away, the girl slumping down and shaking as some of the tension left her body. She couldn’t stay there for long. They were bound to find her eventually and the smoke was already starting to dissipate. Feeling her way around the statue base, she slowly made her way past the columns on tip toes to remain as silent as possible.

An iridescent object shimmering in blues, purples and pinks zipped through the fog towards her, followed by dozens like it that made a beeline to her location. They sliced like razors across her body and she cried out in pain as she clutched the gashes left by the blade-like leaves. The swarm left dozens of stinging cuts before the magic went out of them and they fell to the ground as regular leaves, having done their job.

Adaman’s attack left her exposed after her shout gave away her position, but she was unable to stop the sobs from escaping, a burning nettle-like irritant that felt like dozens of needles stuck inside her cuts. Dawn made her way past the pillars towards the steps as quickly as she could while clutching her bleeding wounds and trying not to think about how fast her paw was stained crimson.

Large jaws bit down on her tail hard and she screamed as she was hoisted off the ground. A painful wrenching was not numbed by the alpha’s frosty breath as she was swung back and forth, fearing her tail had come off as she was flung to the side. Light blossomed in her vision from the painful crack of her head hitting stone, wheezing as the air was knocked out of her from a step jamming into her gut.

The ringing in her ears and pain that exploded in her skull made it impossible to think clearly, the barking and snarling seeming distant and far removed. Only the primal fear of being viciously ripped apart spurred any movement from the dewott and she groaned as she weakly tried to force herself upright.

Dawn was again seized by sharp teeth clamping around her torso and piercing through her thick fur into her back, eliciting a small squeak that seemed far too cute and comical. The world turned blurry as she was shaken like a chew toy and the alpha repeatedly snapped and bit, trying to force it’s teeth through or around the satchel.

All rational thought was driven out and replaced by a haze of terror and panic. Physical space became an impossible enigma filled with reeking hot breath where she couldn’t find her hands, let alone draw a weapon. She couldn’t even tell which one of them had their jaws around her and it was only a matter of time before a fang managed to pierce or rend something important.

An overwhelming flash of cold rushed towards them and something large slammed into them, knocking her loose from the jaws of her assailant and she fell to the ground. Dawn barely registered Irida standing above her with her fur frozen into spikes before Adaman’s claws raked across the glaceon’s face. Enraged by the retaliation, the clan leader forgot about her mindless pursuit of prey and launched herself at her rival. The two of them devolved into a writhing ball of teeth and claws, tearing and biting at any spot they could reach and tufts of torn off fur gently blew across the temple grounds.

Dawn’s senses returned slowly, her head still filled with a fog of pain and her body impossibly heavy. She realized the spat between the clan leaders had given her a chance to escape and the girl limped down the mountain as fast as she could, trying to gain as much distance as possible before Volo realized his attack dogs failed to finish the job. She needed to hide, warn everyone and go get help before it was too late.

—————————————-

Each plate made a satisfying sound as it was laid upon the ancient tile. Only a few more to go until the true creator worshiped by the Celestica people would be forced to reveal itself and its creation would be undone. Volo trembled in excitement as the final plate bestowed upon him by Giratina slipped from his feathers and each and every one laid at Hisui’s seat of power. Finally, after years of study and planning, his patience was about to pay off and he would see Arceus with his own eyes.

...

Nothing.

The plates remained as they were, stubbornly refusing to respond to the vast reserves of divine power at the summit and Volo tilted his head in puzzlement.

What went wrong?

He had gathered all seventeen plates he had discovered writings about, one of every type-

There were eighteen types.

Volo went through a mental checklist and realized he had no plate that corresponded to fairy. He had read through countless manuscripts, deciphered glyphs in ancient temples and listened to tales passed down through generations, but he had never heard of any kind of ‘pixie’ plate. 

Great, just fantastic. He would have to cross reference every legendary and their assorted myths for any chance of uncovering such a thing with no other leads to go off. The possibility of being the first to discover such an artifact forgotten by history would have excited him in any other circumstance, but he could only curse himself for not considering the possibility sooner.

Now he was short a lackey and needed to come up with some sob story for the Galaxy fools, something about how she insisted on going to Mt Coronet immediately and he reluctantly accompanied her. She was ambushed by the clan leaders during the climb and he valiantly tried to save her, but one of them kept him at bay and he was forced to watch as she was brutally torn to pieces.

Yes, that could work. Especially if he put on a show of how remorseful he was for not stopping her from leaving in the first place. And perhaps that Rei kid would make an adequate replacement…

The clan leaders were still snarling and blows were punctuated with the high pitched yelps of a struggle between them, no doubt still fighting over the scraps. The merchant was already in a sour mood and quickly grew irritated with their incessant screeching and caterwauling while he was trying to think.

“Would you two shut up?!” 

Volo wheeled around to see the dumb beasts scrabbling and clawing at each other, the dewott nowhere in sight. A cold flash of comprehension seized him as he realized they failed to finish the job and the girl escaped.

“No! Idiots!” he shrieked, angrily flapping his wings as he landed between the opposing leaders. The snarling continued as they reluctantly backed off from each other. Low growls warned that their animosity not forgotten in the face of the togekiss’s ire, hackles still raised and fur bristling. But neither dared start a fight with him stomping about and cursing under his breath.

“Shit! Now what am I going to do?” He was tempted to keep yelling at them to vent his frustration, but they wouldn’t be able to understand or care about their screwup.

There was no way Dawn wouldn’t tell everyone what went down here; he couldn’t return to the retreat and no one would trust him. Volo would be shocked if there wasn’t a manhunt for his involvement and he’d be lucky if the Galaxy Team caught up to him before the Nobles did. Could he find the last plate before the Survey Corps located it or they found him?

A lightbulb went off and he realized he didn’t have to. Those bandits staying at the retreat would do anything for money, never understanding the true value of what they were stealing. Pay them any meagre price they sought and they would swipe the retrieved plate from right under everyone’s noses. Dawn and the remainder of the Survey Corps would think the race was on, but it wouldn’t matter who found it first.

Either way, Hisui’s end was inevitable and Volo would have his audience.

—————————————-

Dawn shivered as she remained hidden in a tree hallow within the alpha electivire’s territory, the last notes from her Celestica flute fading down the mountainside. As much as she was tempted to replay the summon and spur the Noble towards her hiding place, Lady Sneasler wouldn’t get there much faster and it risked drawing the attention of Volo or the clan leaders if they followed her. There was nothing she could do but wait for the Lady of the Cliffs to arrive and take her back to the retreat.

The cold wind stung her injuries, but her face burned more strongly with shame. How could she face the Survey Corps and explain how her naïveté lost them all the plates and handed a megalomaniac the power to destroy the world?

It might already be too late; Volo could already have the dragons under his control or be face to face with Arceus right now and everything would disappear without even a moments notice.

She had doomed everyone by foolishly trusting again. Dawn, Champion of Sinnoh and star member of the Survey Corps, fell for the lies of an obvious conman only to be used and cast aside once again.

Was she really that much of an idiot?

[thegorydamnreaper]

Darrow vs Lysander - symbolism and favored weapons

Okay this I a bit of analysis that has been turning around in my brain since I finished Light Bringer. There will be major spoilers for all of the books, so read on at your own discretion.

And of course if anyone has points to add please do! This is by no means exhaustive, just a compilation of my main thoughts on the whole thing!

Darrow basically grew up with a weapon in his hand, since he started mining at age thirteen. It becomes part of his identity, an extension of himself. It’s also a symbol of his people, as all Red miners are given one. So as a Red, he already closely identifies with the slingBlade as a weapon, as a cultural symbol, and as a means of protection.

“I wonder what Eo wants of me. Does she want me to take my slingBlade and start a rebellion? I would die. My family would die. She would die, and nothing would make me risk her. She knows that.”

(RR Ch 4)

“This is your slingBlade, son. It will scrape the earth’s veins for you. It will kill pitvipers. Keep it sharp and if you get stuck in the drills, it will save your life for the price of a limb.” So said my uncle.”

(RR part III intro)

Lysander, on the other hand, is trained by his grandmother from childhood to use his mind as his weapon. He is capable of using a razor after spending a decade with Cassius, but his mind was his first weapon. It’s also a callback to the Jackal losing his hand and being mostly unaffected - because all Golds are taught that their mind is their first and greatest weapon.

“He sighs. “I told you. I am something different than you. A hand is a peasant’s tool. A Gold’s tool is his mind. Were you of better breeding, you may have realized this sacrifice means so very little to me”

(RR Ch 41)

“Skipping supper. No wonder you’re a little twig,” Cassius says, pinching my arm. “I daresay you don’t even weigh a hundred ten kilos, my goodman.”

“It’s usable weight,” I protest. “In any matter, I was reading.” He looks at me blankly. “You have your priorities. I have mine, muscly creature. So piss off.”

(IG Ch 8/ Lysander 1)

“My memory is a formidable thing. In many ways it is my grandmother’s great legacy, her teachings preserved in me.”

(IG Ch 8/ Lysander 1)

But the mind isn’t a symbol on its own, there’s no cultural gravitas to it. So to him physical weapons are tools that are an extension of his intellect. In that world view, a gun is the most practical choice of tool. Firearms are the great equalizer - you can be smaller, weaker, less trained than your opponent and there’s still a VERY good chance that you will win any fight.

This leads into another similar understanding that he and Darrow share: their rise must be meteoric. Darrow accomplishes this the hard way, through pain and training and failures. He builds himself as a symbol because he knows that’s the only way to start the chain reaction of bringing Gold down. He is a symbol, and so are his tools. The slingBlade becomes a symbols of liberation when once (as just a razor) it was a tool of the enemy.

Lysander? He cuts corners, because the tools don’t matter only the endgame does. He’s not trying to build something new, or inspire his followers to fight for something they never thought possible. He is fighting to reestablish the status quo as swiftly as he can. He doesn’t need to fight from the ground up to become a symbol - as a Lune, he already is a living breathing symbol of Gold, and that’s enough.

“Dancer would want me to accept the offer. It would guarantee my survival. Guarantee my meteoric rise. I would be inside the halls of the ArchGovernor’s mansion. I would be near the man who killed Eo. Oh, I want to accept. But then I would have to let the Proctors beat me. I’d have to let this little whorefart win and let his father smile and feel pride. I’d have to watch that smug smile spread across his bloodydamn face. Slag that. They’ll feel pain.”

(RR Ch 41)

“He sneers at the gun. “No honor.”

“No time.”

I shoot Alexandar in the head”

(DA Ch 81)

He studies those who came before him, flipping their symbols and methods against them instead of doing anything new. He quotes poems like Roque, uses Darrow’s Morningstar as his flagship, claims to be honorable like Cassius - but it’s hollow because these aren’t his achievements. He doesn’t subvert the paradigm like Darrow does constantly, he just borrows and steals to get his way.

Darrow sees himself as the sword of his people, but he’s more than that because he put in the work to be more. He questions if he’s a good man, but the we see the weight his decisions have on him. But because he built himself up, he has a community that loves him, friends and family that are truly loyal and will check his worst impulses. He is the symbol, but he’s anchored by those he represent. It’s real and has meaning because of all the sacrifices he has had to make.

Lysander can’t even unite the Golds because he is built upon lies. His parents and their deaths, a lie. His grandmother’s teachings, all lies and propaganda. The Golden lies of the Society he so desperately wants to restore. He is built upon lies and hollow promises, of course he collapses into Gold dogma at the first sign of pressure. He has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s sacrificing everything and everyone to prop up this dying system, because that’s where he feels safe. He has no symbols to look up to, no culture to give him strength and community. Anything that could have grounded him is gone (often because of his own actions). Pytha and Cassius were his only family left and he rejected them and their teachings. More than ever before there’s nothing holding him back. He has his mind and it is telling him the only way to be safe is to double down and become the worst of Gold.

[a-realclassact]

"What happens when a genocide falls out of the news cycle?

For those of us in the West? …Relief. Don’t shy away from these thoughts. It’s my job, as an artist, to force us to be honest. We silently feel relieved. We feel exhausted by the weight of having to care about people we ultimately feel we can do nothing for. True radicalization, the kind of change of thought that translates into changed action, only happens for a precious few. The vast majority of onlookers never really wanted to move from their position as spectator; they just fervently wished for a happier ending. So when there is less to look at (because the news cycle needs fresh blood; because the people providing live, on the ground coverage have been killed; when there’s less to look at because we have seen so many clips and photographs and accounts of visceral deaths that looking only makes us numb anyhow), we turn our eyes to the easiest narrative of hope that our screens can provide. We accept a manufactured happy ending.

And now, I am watching a happy ending be manufactured. Because the empire has allowed us our small, Western tantrums at the genocides necessary to keep the machines of imperialism going. It is now time to move on and be placated with a victory story— something we feel we have a sense of control over! Never mind the fact that we don’t live in a direct democracy! Vote! Vote out the fascism! The bombs will still drop and the children will still starve to death (if they survive the Israeli snipers aiming for their heads) and the famines will still be manufactured and the raw resources stripped from the colonies but we did it! We managed to keep ourselves comfortable.

This is the part where everyone boos me. There’s usually one section in essays like these that get under people’s skin, so just to set the tone: I’m not saying this because I want to make you angry, I am saying it because I think it’s a useful truth to consider.

We, the “reasosnable” US masses, only dislike Trump because he embarrasses us.

He has a flagrant disregard of the rules of presidential diplomacy that disgraces our reputation. Policy-wise, his era was really not distinct from the current Biden administration or presidents beforehand. He’s someone who says the quiet parts of running an imperialist ethno-state out loud, which emboldens the radicalized right, and it’s overtly racist, and those people were already organizing for a hostile takeover! We need someone to blame for the radical left’s lack of concrete, sustained mobility and so we love to hate him. We hate him because he embarrasses us, not because he’s worse! Harris is only the better choice because she’s prettier, and more relatable, and has the right sort of gravitas. She doesn’t embarrass us. We are willing to trade liberation for spectacle, but it must be a spectacle that makes us feel good at the end of the day.

Do you know how I know?

We should be outraged that the Vice President of an administration aiding an abetting the most documented genocide in human history can peacefully run for office. That is a sham. That is embarrassing. Especially when that person has stated they do not plan on enforcing any sort of concession from the murderous Israeli regime. There has been absolutely no mention of the other human rights crises and violations happening elsewhere amongst the colonized world— the ongoing conflicts in across Black and Indigenous nations that we tend to tack onto Free Palestine to show we absolutely do care about Black people outside of Western imperial cores. haha. We have made no demands because we, the masses, have no demands outside of feeling like everything will be okay again. We don’t actually care about these people as people. We care about them as symbols of liberation and as litmus tests to prove we, in the hard times, would “do the right thing.” If we cared about them as people, submitting to someone still pleased to orchestrate their deaths, which VP Harris is doing right now, would be unthinkable. We would be using this time of mass disillusionment to destabilize the empire’s business as usual. We want spectacle more than we want actual liberation for ourselves or for the people that we say we are in solidarity with. It doesn’t make any sense.

The only thing guaranteed to be worse under Trump is the spectacle. And we care more about spectacle more than we care about tangible, material change. Another Trump presidency is not a happy ending that will allow us to take our minds of the incessant dying of the third world. And we want something to distract us. We want something comfortable. We want something that we can look to and say, “We did it!! And we already went to all these marches. We're so tired.”

We are supposed to, we are primed to want to accept whatever happy ending the empire orchestrates, because most of us believe in the ability to be comfortable as a divine right. If we're powerless except for the vote, and we usher in somebody that does the spectacle better, that brings us back to a state of psychological comfort: even if we know that everything's not all right, we can feel like everything's all right. IImagining ourselves as powerless is uncomfortable in a way that a new, smiling, voted-in happy ending can solve. Imagining ourselves as powerful enough to stop the machine is excruciating— that means we would have to forgo comfort altogether. And consistent comfort is the only thing that we have. It's consistent running water and no power outages and subsidized corn and subsidized fuel, okay?

I think a lot of us have given up the desire to imagine ourselves as temporarily embarrassed millionaires. Soaring homelessness, economic depravity, the rising cost of food essentials makes it difficult to delude ourselves we’re this close to being rich. It’s become commonplace in pop culture to disparage the ultra-wealthy; most of us don’t imagine we will make it there in our lifetime. Most of us do imagine ourselves just a few steps from comfort. “I don’t want to be rich! I just want to be comfortable.” Conveniently forgetting the price of US comfort is depravity in the colonies. We want to forget what that comfort costs. We want to laugh. We want that head empty Kamala laugh! Girl, we want to laugh. We as a whole never wanted liberation because it's uncomfortable. And I would actually respect everybody cheering for Kamala Harris a whole hell of a lot more if you were just willing to admit that outright instead of pretending like we're actually doing something good.

The foolish concede to corruption.

I am reading Mama Ellen’s memoir at the moment and it is rivoting. Most definitely a text I will read twice. If you are not new to Threadings., I have spoken on more than one occasion on how we in the US are slowly gearing up for civil war. Right now, war is enacted in courts and in policymaking in various attacks on healthcare, reproductive rights, rights to education, the gutting of public school systems, the systematic underpaying of teachers, and actually of all care workers. Thinking about the chronic nurse strikes that have cropped up and been left mostly ignored since COVID has continued to decimate our healthcare infrastructure. More and more of our taxes are going to making sure that we keep the US armed to the teeth and not to making sure that life in the US for the working class is bearable in any way. We're watching the slow deterioration of society and (as Dr. CBS pointed out), the increased militarization of everyday happenings.

Conceding to corruption does not keep the peace. It allows for said corruption to continue its abuses.

I am not usually so cynical.

But truly, what the fuck. What the fuck. Remember when I said that every American is addicted to something?

The only perk of being working class in the Western world is our unlimited access to comfort? The comfort of denial continues her reign as the sweetest drug of all. We choose to cast our eyes towards the fiction of a happy ending rather than disrupting the machines that cause all this misery in the first place. It’s been a good couple months of us looking in the eye the costs of imperialism, the price of all this endless comfort, and instead of looking towards the growing rebellions across the colonies— something that should actually bring us comfort and joy, the knowledge that others bite back their regimes— we cast our gaze to these ludicrous what if scenarios. What if we can just push Harris left? What if we call her a war-mongering arbritor of the police state after she’s elected? Won’t she be better than Trump?

I don’t care who the hell is wielding all the blood money. What I want is a child. I want children in this life. And I am not, I simply refuse to tell my kid, “Yes, I did voluntarily cheer on this woman who I knew would happily continue to suck the bone marrow from the colonized world, even while knowing she would do that very thing! The other option embarrassed me.” Because that’s all this is. The other option embarrasses us.

There is no popular president that would create the revolutionary policy and world-making that guarantees our collective safety. Does not exist. The job of the president of the United States is quite literally antithetical to that idea, and any progessively minded one would be working to make the position obsolete. There is no such thing as a good president. I am watching the youth of Kenya rise over and over again to force their federal bodies into caring for them. And they are dying at these protests, literally under live ammunition, going missing, bodies turning up in slums. And here we are raising money for Kamala. Trump doesn’t embarrass me! Y’all do! Those of Myanmar have been fighting a revolutionary war for years that much of the professional class has decided to take active part in rather than fleeing. And our professional class is raising money for Kamala.

EMBARRASSING!

We (in the West, as a whole) do not actually care about freedom, really because most of us cannot imagine what it would be like to be uncomfortable for the rest of our lives. It humbles me that we offer ourselves— we offer our minds— to be sold like this. I have so much revolutionary optimism until I open fuckin twitter."

-Ismatu Gwendolyn on Substack from Harris, Palestine, and the Spectacle of Liberation

[cinderfeather]

Short Story Writing Tips for Fanfic Authors

While Edgar Allen Poe has many pretentious things to say on the merits of the Short Story (‘a work of art should be able to achieve its effect in one sitting’), I want to talk about them from a fanfiction perspective.

As fic writers, we are doing this hobby for fun, and frequently find ourselves hopping between shiny new idea, to shiny new idea, to shiny new idea…

...which is totally fine. However: to reduce this, I want to impress this upon you:

Keep your fic short enough to write within the span of dopamine it generates.

So while it’s still easy to generate long plots, I usually like to keep my stories small and focused wherever possible, so I can feel proud about ✨finishing✨ it and then have more energy to work on the next idea. In addition, if I have an idea tha t I think is cool, but not something I can fathom spending an entire year writing a novel-length-fic about, I can still write the idea if I think carefully about how I can work it into a short story.

Often writers way things like: 'I have 30k words to write just to get to the fun bit 😭😭😭'

Just write the fun bit.

It might be one thing for me to say that, but learning a bit of craft about short stories can make this easier.

So: one of the hardest things in a story is the ending, and short stories (especially origific) can be very challenging to create a satisfying ending with so little to work with.

In short story craft, there is a lot of talk about things like Hemingway’s ‘Iceberg Theory’:

Hemingway said that only the tip of the iceberg showed in fiction—your reader will see only what is above the water—but the knowledge that you have about your character that never makes it into the story acts as the bulk of the iceberg. And that is what gives your story weight and gravitas. — Jenna Blum in The Author at Work, 2013 (Wikipedia Link)

Fanfic is great for this! You already have a ton of character and plot fleshed out, so you can already have your iceberg while putting very little effort in. Short stories are already much easier as fic because they already have the 'iceberg of canon' beneath them, so make the most of it!

The next trick is ✨Authors Notes✨!

You can just say the background info plainly to the reader, without having to worry about crafting it nicely for the reader.

However, if you feel that the background info might be served best by putting it into the story, then let me introduce you to the next trick: Telling!

Think about summary the you have in your AN, and expand it into slightly longer ‘pretty’ prose:

Months went by. Trees bloomed, and forsook their leaves. One day, Mina stepped outside again.

That covers a year of a character being stuck in their grief, without having to mire reader in being stuck like that too.

We’ve all had ‘Show, don’t tell’ beaten into us with a hammer. But if it’s not important or interesting for you or your story, then just Tell it, and move on to the next exciting thing! What you want to do is research ways to use prose to convey the passing of time, write summaries and transition sequences, and work out ways to cut down and remove ‘all that writing you have to do to get to the fun scene’.

So, let’s say you had an idea for an achingly beautiful Suparbat story that worked like a Shakespearean tragedy inspired by Othello. You start brainstorming and writing fragments of all these scenes where they meet, fall in love, then have all these gradual misunderstandings caused by Lex trying to meddle and break them apart.

They pile up super high, and then there is this devastating, heart-pounding finale where they fight, along with the tragic ending and denouement.

You take your notes and start trying to plan out what scenes you will need, and your face goes pale as you estimate the story will probably be about 80k words.

You can’t commit to that, and you sense another shiny idea might be lurking on the horizon soon (and besides, you have other fics to finish). You consider abandoning it, resigned to the beauty of the story haunting you forever.

Hold up.

The tragic fight scene. That’s the one that excites you the most. Start writing that.

Bam, bam bam.

Why are they fighting? The audience is now curious and hooked, sitting breathless on the edge of their seat.

Line of dialogue! Ultra specific accusation!

Now the reader is intellectually hooked. What event is this specific detail referring to?

Flashback to one of the scenes where they met and were tenderly in love, linked by the line of dialogue before.

Now the reader is emotionally hooked. What happened to make them hate each other so?

The fight scene continues! Dramatic moments of action interspersed with flashbacks of those snippets you wrote—

Now the reader has been enthralled by all this awesome action, and has a good grasp of emotional arc and events that brought them to this point, with the juxtaposition of the moments of love and hate creating a tremendous experience.

The fatal wound, juxtaposed by the fatal misunderstanding that set Batman on this path… Those painful words exchanged in the present, that have been stuck in your head for weeks: Why? I loved you! Lex (aka Iago) comes out, doing a slow clap, and revealing how he plotted and schemed to sow this discord between Batman and Superman, to make Batman kill Superman for him. The achingly haunting moment of looking into each others eyes and Superman forgiving and trying to absolve Batman of his guilt before he dies. Bruce swiftly disabling Lex’s failsafe (to stop him from taking revenge, but its useless because he’s Batman) and holding a batarang to Lex’s throat.

Now you’ve used 80% of your notes, and you have a decent first draft already!

So now, what will Batman do? Break his moral code about killing again (he already did with Superman) and kill Lex? Try to set Lex on a path of rehabilitation?

So then you get stuck. But Cinder, this doesn’t work for me! All I can think of is to end it the same way as Othello! Which I can’t bear to write.

Hold up.

Go back over your story and start tightening it up. The idea that Bruce is willing to kill someone is quite important. Go back and add flashbacks (or add context to the existing flashbacks) about Bruce developing, sticking to or explaining his no-kill rule.

Then you write an epilogue, where a reformed Lex starts making all kinds of structural changes in the world, alongside all the people who stepped up after being inspired by Superman’s life and determination to let everyone have a chance at forgiveness. After this, you realise that the last line Superman needs to say is to beg Bruce not to continue his murder-rampage and kill Lex.

Then you go back over your story again, fleshing out Lex’s character and some of the hints and lines of dialogue he drops to round out his arc as well. The story feels nice, but still a little off. The ending of Othello haunts you. Do you need to kill Batman after all?

You try writing the scene with the climax ending on: ‘Now, the only way: the Bat will die upon the light.’

Then, as you edit the last bit of the epilogue, you add at the end that Bruce is still alive, observing it all, having hung up his cape as Batman, (because how else could their love end after this but with ‘Batman’ dying with him?). With the transformation that happened for both Lex and Bruce when he honoured Clark’s last wish, this meant that world also grew into a place where Batman wasn’t needed anymore.

So there you have a beautiful short story about not just love and romance, but grief and betrayal and death and killing and absolution and forgiveness and a love that grows beyond a romantic entanglement into a love that changes the world�� 🥰🥰🥰

And under 3000 words.

Now other people will be haunted by your story for the rest of their lives, instead of you.

You will have to edit harder if you try to write as concisely as this, but overall I think you’ll get more stories finished if you experiment with focusing on writing the exciting bits, then sprinkling just enough scene fragments to make it work.

I often write out an idea for a few thousand words, till I get stuck, then go back over it and start thinking about how I can reorder and tweak it to bring what I already have to a satisfying ending.

It requires fumbling and sitting and thinking and figuring it out as I’m revising (as you saw in the example) but if you keep focused on making things shorter you’ll be surprised at just how short you can make it.

And how many things you can finish!

[pierrotwrites-hc]

Part III Ch1 sneak peek

Bartimaeus Kemp came down the gangplank and onto the wind-scraped beach to meet his king. Bestride a dark horse, cloak tossed over his shoulder, Kenever looked every inch the grandson of Roland the Conqueror. He had the upright carriage of a soldier, while the thick black hair touched with gray at the temples gave him a scholar’s gravitas. His stiff double-breasted tunic was styled after the Solasan officer’s uniform he’d worn for most of his adult life, but the gray wool was embroidered with the sigil of his Guyish mother’s house. He was the living embodiment of royal diplomacy.

This is what a king should look like, thought Kemp as he bowed.

Kenever swung down from his horse and made the royal sign before clasping Kemp’s hands in his.

“It is so good to see you, Kemp. I trust the voyage wasn’t too difficult?”

Before Kemp could answer, Tam Tregeryth jumped down from the gangplank. As he straightened, the sun caught on his handsome, smiling face. Kemp felt Kenever's hands tighten involuntarily around his own.

Tam winked at Kenever—Indiscreet, Kemp chided in his mind—before bowing. Kenever released Kemp and went to Tam. They stood simply looking at each other, Tam beaming, Kenever almost smiling—which, for him, was as good as the broadest grin. He was not a man who showed emotion in his face.

Rather like the Golden Bird in that way, thought Kenever.

It was not a thought he would ever share, except perhaps with Emine. Likening a king to a pleasure slave was a bridge too far, even for a man with politics as radical as Kemp’s.

Still, comparing the two in his mind, he could see clearly how marked they both were, Kenever by navigating Highcourt’s perilous waters as the second son of a weak king and Luca from whatever horrors had been visited upon him at the training house. Both had grown into men whose implacable exteriors served as armor for what lay beneath.

It had been Kemp and Kemp alone who saw their potential. As he watched Kenever mount his horse, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction at how well his investment had turned out.

Mounting his own horse proved the usual combination of painful and humiliating. Kemp was keeping himself up by a death-grip on the damn thing’s mane while trying to maneuver his good foot into the stirrup when strong arms lifted him up and placed him on the saddle. He looked down to see Tam grinning at him.

“I thought you’d lost weight since we left Absalom, Teacher.”

“Testing a theory, were you?” said Kemp, returning the smile.

“Aye, and right I was! We’ll need to fatten you up once we get to Castle Guye.”

Kemp laughed. It was always a marvel to him how little Tam had changed from the lively, good-humored boy he’d once been. Then again, it wasn’t as if Tam had ever endured the hardship that changes a man’s character. The sun had shone on him all his life. Kemp suspected it always would.

As they rode along the rocky beachhead, Kenever pulled his horse alongside Kemp’s. Kemp had been expecting to be taken aside for a conference, but he was surprised when the first words out of Kenever’s mouth were, “Teacher, I need your advice.”

“Of course, my dear boy,” said Kemp, lapsing into their usual informal address.

“It’s about my half-sister, Amelia—or rather, her sons. What do you know of my nephews?”

Had anyone else asked the question, Kemp's answer would have been painstakingly neutral. Fortunately, Kenever rarely wanted anything but the truth.

And the truth was what Kemp gave him. He described Edmund, Amelia’s eldest, who had all his mother’s vanity but none of her shrewdness. This was to be expected: Edmund was good-looking, which Amelia never had been, and as a man, he hadn’t needed to learn the low cunning and subtle games his mother made her art. Indeed, a man in Edmund’s position needed to play no games at all. He’d been cursed with too much of everything: wealth, breeding, beauty. It had, in Kemp’s estimation, resulted in an idle, stulted mind.

So much for Edmund. Rafe was another matter. He had the potential to be very dangerous indeed. He’d been born to the same banquet of riches, but his eyes were never on his own plate, always on Ademar’s. They were very alike, the King and his cousin. Decadent, ruthless, childlike. That streak of immaturity came out in Ademar’s tantrums and lethally short attention span. In Rafe it manifested as a monstrous yet fragile pride. Even minor or accidental slights he took as mortal wounds. Every act of perceived disrespect obsessed him. His reprisals were carefully planned, totally merciless, and undeniably brilliant—cruelty being perhaps the only sort of brilliance he was capable of.

Kenever listened silently, the furrow in his brow deepening. When Kemp finished, he shook his head.

“Sometimes I believe what they say about my father’s first wife having cursed blood,” he said. “What about Amelia’s youngest, Tobias?”

“There I can offer very little. I met Lord Tobias only once, when we visited Chesten after the death of your royal brother, may he feast in the Hall of Rest.”

Kemp paused, trying to recall the young Lord Tobias. A memory took shape of an unloved and unlovely child, unwilling or unable to speak, lurking at the back of every gathering until the opportunity came to make his escape.

“A lonely boy,” said Kemp at last, “and quite desperately unhappy.”

“Yes, that was my impression as well,” said Kenever, sighing. “When I heard my sister had sent him to squire for that lowborn General, I worried for him. Well, it seems the General sent him away; my scouts found him wandering in the Wychwood. He’s at Castle Guye now.”

“As your guest?”

“A guest with a room locks from the outside. He’s already tried to run away once, you see. Something about a slave he had some attachment to.”

“Ah, so he takes after his father the Duke.”

Kenever shot him a humorous look.

“It doesn’t seem to be that sort of attachment, thank the gods. I almost wish it were; that would make him a little easier to understand. He’s a very strange young man. More like a boy, really. The tantrums he throws! He’s got the servants convinced he’s spirit-ridden. I tell you, Teacher, what Amelia was thinking sending him to war I'll never know. A blind man could see he has no promise as an officer.”

Kenever was an even-tempered man, but there was outrage in his voice. No mystery why; Kenever had himself been an inconvenient youngest son sent off to war too soon. Fortunately he had all the promise Tobias apparently lacked.

“Would you mind interviewing my wayward nephew, Teacher?” Kenever asked. “You have Akena’s eye, you always have. You see things in people they don’t see in themselves. I should know,” he added with a hint of that self-deprecation which Kemp had always felt it so important for a king to have (or, at least, pretend to have).

“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness.”

“I’ll count it as a favor.”

“Really, my dear boy, there are no favors between us.”

Kemp had been vaguely aware of Tam and his friends playing some game which involved trying to shove each other off their horses and over the ridge. Now he galloped past Kenever with a taunting whistle. Kenever gave a shout of mock outrage and kicked his horse forward. Kemp would be the first to admit that his was a cold heart, but watching his former pupils spar and jest, he felt it thaw a little.

The warm feeling lasted exactly as long as it took to arrive at Castle Guye.

[electronickingdomfox]

"My Enemy, My Ally" review

Romulans stole Spock's brain! (or at least, some Vulcan brains)

Novel from 1984, by Diane Duane, and the first of the five-book series Rihannsu.

The plot itself is okay: the Romulans have a new devious scheme (capturing Vulcans to extract the telepathic abilities from their brains), and the Enterprise must stop their plans. Only this time, Kirk will have to collaborate with a bunch of good, renegade Romulans to succeed. It's not terribly original, nor it's the first time that Kirk has allied himself with Romulans in these novels, but as a plot it's entertaining. However, the narrative drags a lot, specially in the first half of the novel, and it takes a reaaally long time to set things into motion. In part, this is due to a "tell, rather than show" approach. For example, there's a lengthy conversation about how the Enterprise and its Romulan allies are going to stage a fake battle between both ships, in full detail. And then a lengthy description of the ships doing just that. One of these two segments isn't needed. There's also a lot of fluff, specially in scenes at the Recreation deck, and plenty of new character introductions, that don't lead anywhere nor have any real importance. A lot of the new character roles could have been filled by the usual crew, anyway. Now, I don't think that a novel should just be barebones plot, but I didn't find these "extra" scenes particularly entertaining nor enlightening. So in my opinion, this novel would have improved greatly if it was cut short. Though the later sections suffer less of this, and are more focused.

The story is notable for introducing a lot of new material about Romulan culture, and specially language (which seems to me even more unpronounceable than Klingon). In fact, most of the time Romulans are referred to as "Rihannsu", which is the name of the race in their own language. I don't know to what extent Duane developed the grammar and vocabulary, but it seems to have a certain structure to it. There's also much emphasis on the power of names over things and people, and some glimpses into the Romulan worship of Elements. A lot of this has probably never been incorporated into the series, but Romulans having several names (of which only the first is revealed to strangers) seems to have its origins here.

As for characters, the most developed one is Ael, the Romulan commander that strikes an alliance with Kirk. At times she comes dangerously close to Mary Sue territory (for example, beating McCoy at a game she had just learned, despite the doctor being skilled enough to beat none other than Spock). But otherwise, she's fine for her role in the story. In many ways, she's both a mirror and a foil for Kirk, suffering also under the weight of command, and the difficult decisions between duty and her crew's wellbeing. Though not exactly a tragic character, there's also a lot of sadness and burdens in her past. On the other hand, Kirk rubbed me the wrong way. Or rather, his relationship with his crew. I found it way too lax and informal, and sometimes it seems he's more like a cool dad for them, rather than a Captain. Kirk in the series had his goofy moments, of course, and Shatner imbued him with much comedic potential. But nonetheless, there was always some gravitas about him, and a respectful distance with his subordinates. Even with someone as close as Spock, he was usually pretty formal. The only one who broke this pattern was McCoy, and that was precisely why their relationship was special. So yeah, I just don't see Kirk trading jokes with Sulu while under enemy fire, or receiving sassy remarks from Uhura, sorry. Also, as happened in The Wounded Sky, there's again a wide array of fancy aliens populating the Enterprise. I didn't mind them that much in the previous novel, since the story is so unusual, that it could have existed outside the Star Trek universe without damage being done. This time around... I've decided that I'm not a fan of this idea. Apart from being too distracting, Starfleet strikes me as a mostly human institution, at least at the time of TOS (after all, HQ is in San Francisco), and Spock often struggled being accepted among the crew. He was THE alien, and this led to isolation and even ocassional prejudices against him. Now, this wouldn't make much sense if the crew were regularly sipping coffee next to a gelatinous blob of tentacles... As for Spock and McCoy, they're mostly okay, though they tend to get overshadowed by the extended cast, and obviously, Ael.

I must be in the minority here, since most people seem to love this novel, but in general, I didn't like it much. Perhaps it's a consequence of having just read John Ford's masterful The Final Reflection, and his fascinating take on Klingons. Perhaps I simply don't care all that much about Romulans...

Some spoilers under the cut:

The first chapters switch perspectives between Ael and Kirk. While Ael reflects on her falling out with the Romulan Senate, because of her opposition to a certain revolutionary research, Kirk is ordered to patrol the Neutral Zone, as part of a task force. Ael has been "exiled" as commander of a shitty starship named Cuirass, crewed by shitty subordinates. But she keeps contact with her old, loyal ship Bloodwing, now commanded by Tafv, her own son. When news of the Federation ships arriving reach her, she sets her plan into motion. After sabotaging the Cuirass' systems, she escapes in a scout ship to Bloodwing. And the latter ship destroys Cuirass, whose crew she considers traitors to the Empire for their collaboration in the Senate's schemes.

After this, Bloodwing rendezvous with Enterprise near the Neutral Zone, and Ael asks permission to come aboard alone, promising some very important info. Then she explains to Kirk what's going on: The Romulan government has started developing a new weapon at the station in Levaeri V. They capture Vulcans and extract their brain tissue, in order to implant the genetic material into Romulans, and thus give them all their telepathic abilities, even enhanced. After leaving Vulcan centuries ago, the Romulans' divergent development made them unable to mind-meld, or do any of that cool Vulcan stuff. But now, with the new research, powerful individuals could read minds, control thoughts and subject any opposition. Ael believes this will ruin the Empire and its old code of honor. And in turn, will cause conflicts with both the Federation and the Klingons. Thus, she asks Kirk to "lend" her the Enterprise, to help destroy the research station. Her plan is faking a capture of the Enterprise by Bloodwing, then towing the starship into Romulan space and destroy the facility along the way. Spock confirms through a mind-meld that Ael's telling the truth.

Kirk is sympathetic with her cause, but refuses to go along with the plan, on the grounds that he can't intervene in Romulan internal affairs. Things change, however, when the Vulcan ship that was patrolling near the Enterprise is spirited away under their noses. Ael explains that its disappearance matches the modus operandi of Romulans. The Vulcans are being taken to the research station (and now I understand why Spock chose to serve in a human starship; Vulcan ships seem to have the worst luck, between being eaten by amoebas and now this...). Kirk can't ignore the matter anymore, now that the Vulcans are in danger, so he decides to go with Ael.

After faking a battle between Bloodwing and Enterprise, they proceed to Levaeri V. Ael's crew take positions in the Enterprise bridge, while Kirk and the rest of the officers play a bit of theater, faking their capture in the brig, to fool the escorts sent by the Empire. Once approaching the station, Bloodwing and the Enterprise suddenly turn against the escorts and destroy them.

In the last part, Kirk sends a large strike force into the station, to free the Vulcan captives and destroy all research with their brains. But meanwhile, the Enterprise is assaulted by a treacherous faction among Ael's people. Scotty, Chekov and Sulu must fight to recover the ship, while down in the station the battle continues.

Spirk Meter: 1/10*. There's a bit about Spock being particularly interested in the proceedings of Kirk's mind, while playing chess. But I can't think of anything else, and even this is really minimal.

There's also some Mcspirk. McCoy likes to study Kirk and Spock while they play chess, to delve deeper into their personalities and psyches. And when Kirk complains that, if Spock and McCoy keep babysitting him, he'll end up taking their hands, McCoy says that's okay with him. But warns him about Spock, and the kind of rumors that could run through the ship. Also, Ael observes that the three of them seem to share a single mind. Though that's downplayed by the comparison with the similar link between Ael and her son.

*A 10 in this scale is the most obvious spirk moments in TOS. Think of the back massage, "You make me believe in miracles", or "Amok Time" for example.