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kittydragondraws · 5 months ago

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Murder Drones - Trauma and Healing

I was once of the opinion that Murder Drones never really had a theme or message. It was kind of just, watch the funny robots be funny.

But the more I've thought about it the more I've realized, Murder Drones does have a theme. And that theme?

Trauma, how it affects people, and how to heal from it.

In this essay I will go over five of the characters of the show, Uzi, N, V, Doll, and Tessa, and describe their traumas. How it affects their actions, and what they do to heal from them.

Uzi - Lonliness and Acceptance

Uzi grew up with no friends, classmates who either hated or ignored her, an emotionally negligent father, and a dead (*cough* in church *cough*) mother. Truth be told, she had no one. No one to talk to, no one who would listen to her, no one who cared about her.

She was alone and very vulnerable. However, she didn't like that. She didn't want people to see her as vulnerable, she didn't want people to see her as weak. So she developed her edgy, "not like other girls" persona to convince people that she wasn't dying inside. That she took all her pain in stride and was owning it.

However, her coping mechanism of creating her goth girl persona didn't help in the long term as it didn't combat her true problem. She was lonely, lonely and... just wanted someone who cared about her.

And one day, while going out to find the last piece of her railgun she needs to save the world and earn her dad's respect and stuff, she meets N. N, the bloodthirsty drone killer, who was willing to sit down and talk to her.

Sure he was blind and thought she was a fellow Murder Drone, but he didn't immediately push her away as emo. Sure he admittedly was used to much worse treatment from much worse people, and Uzi was probably a saint compared to them (which we'll touch on in his part).

But even afterwards, when he realized she was a Worker, and that he would get in massive trouble with J if he let her go, he willingly spared her life. Saw her father leave her to die, and took pity on her.

Where the two came to develop a connection and eventually, friendship.

Uzi had made her first friend.

N - Self Worth and Free Will

His whole life, N has been used and abused.

While we don't know much about his first life, his life before the Elliots, we can only assume he was still treated as a slave, as much as the rest of the Worker race is.

His life with Tessa and her family, while seemingly happy, he still lived with them as a servant. Tessa may have been a good owner, but she was still an owner. He, J, and V might have been good servants, but they were still servants.

His life as a Disassembly Drone was probably the worst. Not only did he have his entire body forcibly changed against his will, but he now was forced to take innocent lives as he relied on their bodies for sustenance. Not to mention he also had his brain swiss cheesed to hell and back, and didn't even know because well... can't remember things well when those memories are full of holes.

Not to mention, the people he was forced to serve under were awful to him. The most obvious one is J, who was him as a waste of materials and space. She literally wanted N dead, leaving a piece of paper that read "kill yourself" in a dog book that she knew N would read, as a Disassembly Drone telling N that if the company allowed it she would kill him herself, and literally stabbing him with a deadly virus after she saw he had dissented.

However the Solver, the Solver was worse. It killed him several times over, wiped his memories of his past deaths, turned him into a monster, and forced him to kill an unspeakable amount of humans and drones. It could clone him an infinite amount of times. If one clone learned too much or got too rebellious, there were always the next hundred. He was disposable, in episode 7, the solver literally said he had served his purpose. The worst part? There's no way of truly knowing what the Solver did to him or forced him to do. How many clones of N it tortured, killed, and replaced.

But what's even worse than this? He enjoyed it. Well, enjoyed is a strong word. But he saw it as okay. He believed that being treated like trash was normal. He literally thanked J for stepping on his neck. He thanked J for "looking out for him" after getting stabbed with the virus.

When Uzi questioned him about what the "company" would do to him after they were finished with their mission on Copper 9, he didn't know. He was blindly following orders, doing what he was told. With no thought to the consequences. He never considered that JcJenson would view them as a bunch of useless, worthless, disposable robots...

Then he meets Uzi. Sure she's a bit rough around the edges, but she doesn't hurt him or belittle him. She values his opinions and him as a person.

She doesn't see him as a means to an end. She sees him as N.

V - Protection and Attachment

V hid information from and hurt N, yet she did it to protect him. V remembered more than N from the manor. More of the killing, the bloodshed, the forced experimentation, more of the Solver.

She didn't want N to remember. To have the same painful memories she did. So she did her best to keep them hidden from him. Keep him in the dark about the Solver.

How did she do that? Avoid telling him anything she knew, anything that he could use to get closer to the truth. She wanted him to stay in blissful ignorance, something she would love to have.

However, her desire to keep N safe didn't just extend to keeping him safe from the Solver, but keeping him safe from her.

She was afraid of loosing N, and the pain that would bring. So if she developed a deep emotion attatchment to N, like say... reciprocating his crush... it would only hurt if she ever lost him again. And she wasn't ready to deal with that pain.

So she pushed him away. pretended to be mean, pretended to be crass, pretended to not notice, not care, literally pretended to forget his name. No attachment, no pain.

But then, Uzi comes along, and her eye starts glitching to show a Solver symbol. V remembers their orders, kill all the Solver infected drones on the planet. But N, N likes this little drone. he sees her as a friend. He won't let V kill her, becuase he doesn't know what she can do.

It would be so easy for V to go behind N's back and kill her, afterall, N's made friends with rocks before. He'd get over a pathetic Worker, right?

But as time goes on, V starts to understand more about Uzi, about why N likes her. She's smart she's kind, she gives a damn about his opinions. She tells him things... that's more than V ever could've done.

And when V realizes N doesn't need her protection anymore, she's willing to let him go.

Doll - Obsession and Isolation

Doll just wanted to be normal. She just wanted to be free from the Solver's influence and live a normal teenage robot life. But she also wanted revenge, revenge on the drone that took her parents from her, revenge on the drone that set her down this path on the first place, V.

After becoming an orphan, Doll became obsessed with getting her revenge on V, to the point she no longer cared about anyone else. Including who lived and who died. Of course, being Solver infected, she had to drink the oil of the Workers around her, so it's hard to fault her for that.

However, it's hard to tell how many drones she kills out of necessity, and how many she kills for other, less justifiable, reasons. The amount of oil she has in her house? You can't tell me she drinks all of it, at least, not before killing more Workers. The prom girls? That was to lure V into the bunker. Even at prom, She kills two (I think) other Worker Drones, for the crime of getting in her way. Why?

V, everything Doll does, is about V. All of the prom-related deaths she caused, were about V. Doll was obsessed with V, all she cared about was killing V to avenge her parents, not caring about who else she had to hurt to do so. All that mattered, was that V ended up dead.

But after Prom, when she had failed to kill V, and ended up getting killed herself. She learned that Uzi had the Solver as well, finally, someone who could understand her pain, someone she could help. But even after learning she and Uzi are in the same boat, she still chooses to go alone.

At every turn she either leaves Uzi to her own, which usually ends in Uzi getting hurt, or she actively antagonizes her, setting back her own progress in terms of investigating the Solver to further her own goals. Even going as far as to sentence Uzi to death by dinesaw after getting to the elevator.

However, in the end, her relcutance to accept help would be her downfall.

Both Uzi and Doll ended up getting confronted by Tessa, whose goal was to have both dead. However, what separated them in those moments was that they had backup. Or at the very least, one did.

When Tessa had been pinned down by Uzi and was about to be stabbed N was there, knife as hand, ready to do whatever it took to save Uzi. He had had enough of Tessa's shadyness, and now only cared about her.

However Doll, Doll was all alone. When she was attacked by Tessa, she had to try to protect herself. She didn't have anyone she could turn to or rely on for help in that moment. So she ended up getting killed by the very monster she was fighting against.

In her last moments, all she could do was find Uzi. And hope that she'd be able to fight back.

Tessa - Love and Compassion (And Getting Skinned Alive By God)

Tessa's parents hated her. Her mom, Louisa, seemed to view her as an embarrassment and while we don't know much about her relationship with her father, James, it can be assumed he was either generally apathetic to his daughter or found her creepy.

Either way, he didn't care much about her, as he was complicit in Lousia's abuse of her, which included chaining her up to her bedpost like she was a misbehaving dog.

Yet, despite her loveless upbringing, when she was given the opportunity to essentially be a mother to the Worker (Zombie) Drones she rescued from the dump, she chose to be the opposite of what her parents were.

While her parents were cruel and demanding, Tessa loved her drones, flaws and all. She was them almost like her children, little ones she had to protect, keep happy and safe. Heck, she probably cared for them more than she should've, considering that they were robots.

However, there was one drone she had found. One who was different than the others, in a way she could never guess. Cyn, little Cyn. She was different than the other Drones Tessa rescued, she was small, had an odd way of walking, and an odd way of talking. But that was okay to Tessa, she was a Worker Drone deserving of a home.

Tessa could've never guessed that by bringing that Worker into her home. She's not only cause the deaths of her parents and countless other fancy rich people, but also her own and lead to the destruction of the entire human race.

The worst part? She couldn't find peace even in death. With her skin being worn by Cyn and used to masquerade as her, tricking her once beloved drones into assisting the very entity they were trying to defeat.

In Tessa's heartfelt attempt to try and break the cycle of abuse, she ended up causing something worse than she could even imagine.

Trauma is a complicated thing to talk about, and an even more complicated thing to get right. However, I do applaud this show for not only tackling the subject but showing such a wide branch of ways the characters cope with it. From finding others to confide in, to harming others in the pursuit of their own interests. And it pains me the fandom can't recognize this.

So many times have I seen people in this fandom either use a character's trauma as an excuse to absolve them of all blame, or ignore it and try to spin them as the second coming of Satan. When these characters are much more complex and fascinating than people give them credit for.

Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope you have a good day.

#kitty's kooky insane ramblings #murder drones #murder drones analysis #essay writing #analysis #character analysis #media analysis #kitty's deep thoughts #<< tag for stuff like this #it's funny this post literally went to hell

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vvatchword · 2 years ago

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In Defense of BioShock Infinite

Although I had preordered BioShock Infinite with all its bells and whistles, I did not actually play it until January 2023. And lordy, I had me another Experience with a capital E. How the hell a bunch of urban Yanks could capture my experience as a queer democratic-socialist atheist struggling with her roots as a rural evangelical-cum-fascist is kinda magical, honestly. As to the game itself, it didn’t hurt how good it looked—the kickass skyhook gun battles—that novel setting—the complex characters—that delicious historical setting—that bloodthirsty critique of America—and to top it all off, they had pulled yet another Cassandra. Hell, speaking of which—not only was the game fun, it was fucking smart. It was intelligent, memorable, and meaningful in a way I hadn’t experienced in video games for years.

Now, back in 2013, when I had realized that I would be spoiled for Infinite, I left the BioShock fandom. After completing the game, I headed to Tumblr to re-engage, wagging my whole body like an excitable golden retriever, only to discover that BioShock Infinite was remarkably absent, and when mentioned, brutally derided.

“I hate BioShock Infinite and all my friends do, too,” someone said in the tags under a post.

I was utterly befuddled and deeply sad. I wanted to talk about BioShock Infinite! I wanted to dig into it, uncover unexpected ideas, learn new things, talk shit, make new friends—the full fandom experience. And instead I kept stumbling into hateful diatribes and super-charged disgust.

Obviously, I first looked at myself and my own judgment. Had I missed some obvious problem or misread some theme or dialogue? This wouldn’t be the first time I’d snapped down on a hook. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

There are two parts of BioShock Infinite that are unquestionably terrible: the fridging of Daisy Fitzroy and the false equivalence of violence between haves and have-nots (lol what are the have-nots supposed to do, ask nicely?). Additionally, one could look at the use of real Native American tragedies as tasteless. Personally, I do not—in the same way that I don’t find it tasteless that real war victims were used as inspiration for Splicer deformities. This is what really happened; this is commentary on events that really happened to real people.

At this point, I’m sure I don’t have to explain why two of these themes are Unequivocally Bad.

Anyway, I thought that perhaps these were the reasons BSI had been condemned to Super Hell.

I was wrong.

How Criitcsim Werk

This wasn’t the fandom I’d made friends in over 2010. Hell, this wasn’t the fandom of 2013. This was a fandom made up of Babies. They were making their first coltish stumblings into media criticism and with it, dredging up the same brain-dead bullshit from Tumblr circa 2008.

Suddenly I was brought face to face with people who seemed to think that if a character couldn’t be likable or good that the story itself couldn’t be likable or good; that one bad element means the story is unsalvageable (lol u pussies); the implication that one is bad for liking it; the destructive juvenile insistence that media accurately measures its fans’ moral qualities en masse like an astrological sign. This goes far beyond simple like or dislike and plunges head-first into Puritanism: praying loudly on street-corners instead of quietly in a dark corner where God might hear you.

At one point I had a kid go off about how they wouldn’t take time to understand Booker DeWitt’s perspective because he had (fictionally) taken part in a genocide. (That same person said the Native American element had been employed for shock value, a thought that sometimes keeps me up at night, because it is legitimately one of the dumbest criticisms the game has ever received.) At another point I saw someone acting personally offended that (fictional person) Dr. Suchong’s (fictional) data was being stolen (in a fiction) by a (fictional) racist who would (fictionally) take credit for (fictional person) Suchong’s (fictional) inventions “while calling him slurs”. Sure, a better question would have been, “Why would the creative team opt to do this” rather than assume intentional racism from a Jewish creative director with an in-office multi-ethnic team in the year of our lord 2013, but why not handwave the choice with prurient moral dismay so your audience won’t beat you to death with bats?

It was as though fans were treating these completely fictional characters as real people whose personal gods had opted to torment them, and that their tormentors merited the kind of censure that psychopaths should receive. As I hope all of you understand, this is fucking madness.

More than once I saw people posting about hating the studio or the creative director in ways that seemed intense, unreasoning, and excessive—notably an “I Hate [Irrational Games creative director] Ken Levine” stamp (rofl the more things change amirite). People get so performatively moralistic about it that I started wondering if I missed something big along the way. Was there some secret Voxophone I missed swearing fealty to baby Hitler or some shit?

Double Standards

At the same time, I was utterly confused. BioShocks 1 and 2 both featured some absolutely ghastly bullshit based on real-life horrors and a thick mix of complicated human beings—many of them victims who have become monsters. The fact they are grounded in historical tragedies is a huge part of their appeal. Hell, I don’t think those games would have had half their meaning without World Wars I and II and the threat of a third.

A gay man who feels so cursed by his orientation that he is incapable of intimacy and systematically destroys his ex-lovers—including the man he loves the most. A Korean who survived Japanese occupation and a Jewish Holocaust survivor repeat the violence and traumas exacted upon them and their people, subjecting a new generation to agonies unthinkable. Chasing the shadows of Bolsheviks, a Russian citizen becomes the brutal tyrant that he loathed. A rich lawyer with an easygoing drawl designs a concentration camp and systematically harvests hundreds, if not thousands of political prisoners, selling them out to medical testing for a quick buck.

But a Native man who destroys his own people and class to ensure his own survival and social acceptability is too far? This character is where people drew the line, so much so that the entire game is disavowed? Hell, if you’re just talking about Booker (rather than Comstock), he doesn’t have anywhere near the largest bodycount. If we were to judge on the metric of human misery alone, Booker wouldn’t even hit the top ten.

Keep in mind that the most-discussed BioShock game on Tumblr is BioShock 2, and that one of the biggest fandom favorites is Augustus Sinclair—the easy-talkin’ Georgia lawyer who sells your character into horrors past all human comprehension, as he sold hundreds before and after you. Sinclair is a motherfucker so vile that BioShock 2 gives you no choice but to murder him. But Sinclair is also pleasant; good-looking to some; spends the whole game making sweet love to your ear; is one of the only true positive experiences you experience in a horror story. Unlike DeWitt, a man who is brutal and awful from step one, Sinclair is smooth and sweet. Unlike DeWitt, Sinclair’s victims are faceless, completely fictional, and carry no political or social baggage.

People fuckin’ ship this guy with Subject Delta, his explicit victim. He’s usually described as a squishy cinnamon roll. In most fanfiction, he often gets to escape to the surface and fuck Delta while helping raise Eleanor as Dad 2. It is rare that I find fanfiction that acknowledges his monsterhood in all its glory. In fact, I can only think of two.

Literacy Comes in Levels

My problem with the over-the-top hatred of BioShock Infinite is along the same lines as my confusion at Twilight and Harry Potter hate: there is so much worse out there (how much do the haters actually engage with media if they think this is that bad—yes, even considering the shitty creators themselves!), the hatred far outweighs the sin committed (in BioShock’s case, the truly bad bits are not central enough to derail the larger narrative), people don’t seem to hate it so much as they want to be seen hating it, fans want to enforce an unspoken rule hating it (bitches this is poison. Stop this), and there’s something about the hate that stinks of poor reading comprehension.

A great metric for general literacy is the newspaper. In journalism, you’re writing for the lowest-common denominator, which for years here in the USA has been about a fifth-grade reading level (about 10-11 years old, for my non-American readers). The AP posted an article a couple years back about how the general reading comprehension of Americans needs to be dropped to a third-grade one (8-9 years), and baby, I’m here to say it’s true.

Most of the problem is that the American education system is shitty as fuck. The rest of it is from an extremely American disdain of intellectualism and the arts. People are not taught how to interpret art or literature—a difficult and subtle skill which involves accepting such truths as “multiple contradictory readings can exist and yet be simultaneously correct”, “the author can be a complete tool and still be right about things”, “the author can be a great person and still write horrifyingly incorrect bullshit”, and “worthwhile works can be ridiculously long and it really is your fault for not having an attention span”.

Media criticism must be learned through trial, error, asking questions, confidently swaggering into a public space to announce your brilliant insight only to have your ass handed to you (usually by your older self ten years later), being willing to admit you swaggered confidently into a public space to state bullshit and then amending your bullshit only to produce more bullshit, and otherwise making a complete and utter cock of yourself. We are taught to fear and flee pain and failure, despite the fact this is how we learn and improve. Because we judge our value by whether or not we are “smart,” we are afraid of displaying that we don’t know something or might be mistaken–better not to try at all than to reveal ourselves to be fools. And yet the best way to learn is to crash up against someone else and be proven wrong!

American parents are terrified of hurting their children to the point that they spare them cognitive dissonance of any kind, disavowing difficult art—without any appreciation for the fact that art is how we provide safe spaces to explore key human experiences, better preparing us to face those difficult subjects when there are real-world consequences (sex, gender and social expression, grief, violence, predation, illness, interacting with people of different ideologies, whatever new issue is pissing off some smooth-brained old motherfucker somewhere).

If parents and teachers aren’t teaching us how to interpret art, we’re probably never going to develop the skill at all, or crash unsubtly into it in a piecemeal fashion (hello it me). Another unfortunate side effect is that these readers tend to be blitheringly superficial: they are literally intellectually incapable of reading deeper than the uppermost layer of a text. The curtains are always blue.

And let’s not forget the role moral performatism plays in media criticism, which although faaar from new, has reached hilarious levels in the age of social media. What’s important isn’t understanding something, it’s finding something to symbolically burn at the stake so everyone knows God loves us: please keep loving me, please don’t hurt me, please don’t throw me on the fire—for performatism is not for outsiders. We long for human connection so fucking much that it’s more important to destroy what might point out our fallibilities than it is to let ourselves stand in the furnace and burn out the dross.

What do you think the point of BioShock Infinite was?

Emotional Machines

Let’s face it. Human beings give a lot more credence to how something makes them feel than they do its complex invisible reality. We are not logical creatures; we are emotional ones. Our logic is too new a biological mechanism to override something as powerfully stupid as our primal lizard brains.

Knowing this, let’s take BioShock’s most popular characters. The first two are Subject Delta and Jack Wynand, the protagonists of BioShocks 2 and 1, respectively; and why not? They’re the characters we play. In the first two BioShocks, whether or not you kill Little Sisters determines the ending you receive. In other words, Delta and Jack can only be as “wicked” as the players are.

How do people want to see themselves? As good. What do people want to see around themselves? Good. (What is “good”? Uh, well,,,,,,) What do they want? Simple moral questions with simple moral answers. And in the first two BioShocks, what is moral is obvious: don’t kill little girls. It’s actually kind of insulting once you say it out loud.

In-fandom, Jack and Subject Delta are almost never painted as murderers or monsters, but as victims and heroes; I saw someone musing about putting Subject Delta on a “gentle giants” poll and I nearly choked on my own tongue. I only saw that musing because someone put Subject Delta and Jack in a “Best Fathers” poll. Nobody in-fandom really considers the “evil” or “complicated” endings as canon choices, despite those versions being fully understandable alternate readings, with a story that doesn’t make sense without them. (I don’t believe Burial at Sea is necessarily canon; in fact, I would bet good money that it is a huge middle finger lol, mostly because a number of brain-dead motherfuckers won’t take unhappiness for an answer.)

Most fandom art and writing is gentle, sweet, good: the symbolic healing of the damaged, the salvation of innocents, the turning of new leaves. These things are not just saccharine sweet—they tend to be unrealistically sweet. Now, far be it from me to demand these works cease. There’s a reason they exist. People write them because they need hope and happiness; I have enjoyed them greatly myself and intend to enjoy them in the future. But if y’all get to have your dessert, I demand the right to have my dinner.

The Colours Out of Earth

Let there be media where the opposite can also be true: where everything is unbelievably complicated and unforgivably fucked-up. Let there be characters who slide slurs into their speech without thinking. Let there be characters who destroy themselves in a thousand different ways, not all of them obvious, some of them horrifying. Let there be well-meaning people struggling with all their mights to do what is right only to destroy everyone around them and then completely miss the fact it’s all their faults. Let there be wickedness painted as goodness, superficial appearances accepted over essential and inherent values, denial of change and transformation, failure to accept that what is old must die and what is new must live, human stupidity and short-sightedness and cruelty in all their flavors. Let’s smash it all together and see how it plays out.

Oh, badly? No shit! But “badly” isn’t the point. How does it play out?

Let there be a world of gradients—a place I can float from color to color, hue to hue, value to value, while attempting to figure out where, why, how, and by whom they transform—to taste concepts in a hundred different ways, test their textures by a hundred different mediums, insert them into a hundred different contexts. I need to understand why I feel the way I do; I need to understand morality in all its hideous, fragmentary glory. For I have been sold to a ideology of blacks and whites, and let me tell you: it prepares you for nothing, and it will always destroy what is most precious about human life.

I can no longer believe in a world where what is lost always returns, because that world does not exist. I have a reflexive need to come to terms with Finality: what I have lost, what I have destroyed, what will never return, what will never be better. I have a reflexive need to understand Transformation: what I am now, what is as of the present, what has risen shambling from the ashes, what turns to gaze upon me in the darkness. I need to understand what is wretched about me as much as I need to heal myself. How can I heal if I can’t understand how I have hurt and been hurt?

I need to shine a light in the dark. Not to remodel it, not to destroy it—because I also can’t believe in a world where the wicked is destroyed forever—but to behold it, to learn from it, to view my own impact upon it, to accept how it has become a part of me, to learn how to do my best (because that’s all one can do). I must learn to love people more than causes, I must learn to love people rather than the act of winning, I must learn to love people rather than battle. I need to stand in that endless black with the lamp off and my eyes closed, letting the agony roll over me, burning with a fire that throws no light, rolling back and forth from an intense self-loathing to a fury at a society that destroys what is most valuable because it didn’t make them feel the way they wanted.

The Unforgivable

I believe that there are only two differences between Booker DeWitt and his equally cursed cohorts.

In the Hall of Whores: The Unmarked Slate

First, unlike the previous two games, where you enter the world as a tabula rasa and might roleplay as what you perceive as a good person, you are explicitly put into the shoes of a monster, and nothing you do can save you.

With other shitty BioShock characters, you are passively watching other people, and you are able to hold yourself apart. Sure, everyone else is crazy as fuck from using biological Kryptonite, but you’re too smart to end up a crazy fucking asshole like them! Sure, you are now technically a mass murderer, but those fuckers deserved it, damn it!

“Look at this crazy bastard!” you say, rolling your eyes at the Steinmans and Cohens and Ryans and Fontaines. “It sure is a great thing I’m not a crazy bastard!”

You are able to escape acknowledging that you, too, in certain circumstances, might be the crazy bastard. You are being challenged to stand in the body of a person who has committed unforgivable sins. Imagine if you yourself committed those sins. Imagine what sins you have already committed. Imagine what brutalities you cannot take back. Imagine what horrors you have wreaked just by breathing.

“Ahhhh!” said players, probably. “What do you mean I’m not allowed to be good?”

Because that’s what the game was designed to do. Because “good” is a fucking cop-out and if it’s how you live with yourself wait until you find out you’ve been doing horrifying bullshit all your life without question. You can be evil by association through no fault of your own.

Original Sin

Second, the plight of Native Americans is a sin that non-Natives will always carry, and the socially conscious are aware of this even if they don’t know how to put it into words. The state of affairs being what it is, it is unlikely that First Peoples will ever be treated humanely, much less have their land returned. They must struggle for scraps of what is rightfully theirs while we lounge on their corpses. We cannot help but benefit from their destruction; we are made unwitting partners with our forebears; we steal the fruits of their lands and make mockeries of their faiths and identities. We have destroyed part of what made this world fascinating and unique and most of it can never be returned. Even if everything were to be made right tomorrow, their genocide is a sin that we will carry until we die, because the only reason we could be here at all is because they were killed.

The obvious solution stands before us, but the powers that be are so much greater than we that we are effectively powerless, and achieving anything less than total restoration smacks of anticlimax.

This is unbearable.

How can one think of oneself as a good person if one sees the good that must be done, but cannot achieve it? If one’s actions are meaningless? Goodness without action is pretension.

We are all Booker DeWitt. We have all set fire to the tipi. We swept the ashes away, we ignored the sizes of the bones, we built a CVS on their graves, and then we made statues and holidays commemorating Native Americans like the world’s cheapest “Thinking of You” card. We have de-fanged them, transformed them into cardboard cutouts, and set them up as cute little side characters in our sweeping American dream.

Booker is not a man. Booker is America and Americans—and America and Americans are monstrous: one part hypocrisy, two parts incessant violence, three parts constant peacocking, and four parts dumb as a stump.

The Monsters We Make

Outside of the message about “choice,” an enormous part of BioShock’s thematic ensemble is the creation of monsters. How are monsters created? Who or what is responsible for creating them? What do the monsters think made them the ways they are? Can a monster be saved? How? Is it enough to acknowledge you did wrong and want to be a better person?

Maybe most people are aware on some instinctive level of what facing one’s own monsterhood means. No one wants it. It’s not fun. It hurts. It’s embarrassing. It’s destructive. It’s admitting you don’t have it all together and might never, ever—that despite your best actions, you can have it horribly wrong at any point. In an age where we demand moral perfection, it demands vulnerability: you must admit that sometimes you’re the racist, the transphobe, the sexist, the nationalist, the classist, the homophobe, the violent, the wrong, the dumbfuck.

Human beings are not built to be moral; human beings are built to survive. We so rapidly learn how to deal with our contexts at such young ages that we don’t have the time or capabilities to question why those contexts are the ways they are or why it is demanded we perform the ways we do.

In a very real way, BioShock Infinite demands vulnerability of us. It demands you look in the mirror and see what is monstrous in you—how you have been created—manufactured—a tool, a machine, a trained animal. It asks you to recognize that you can be a monster simply by association. And if we can’t look into the mirror and truly acknowledge that monsterhood, we run very real risks of becoming or enabling those monsters in one way or another.

Worst of all: perhaps monsterhood isn’t optional. Perhaps the monster was inside of us from the very beginning. It’s not a matter of if you become a monster, but when, under what circumstances, by whose hand. What is more, believing the “right” moral stances will not save you. Monsterhood can afflict anyone, in any ideology, any political stance, in any social movement, in any faith. The only element that can save you is to truly love other people, and even then, you can fail, for there can be states where there is no winner and ways to misread how best to treat another person.

Environment and Society: Context Will Not Be Denied

BioShock 1’s original ending is Jack-as-monster, regardless of how many children he saves, regardless of your feelings as player. He passes through the gauntlet of Rapture, but he has supped of its poison. And he wasn’t poisoned when he entered Rapture the second time—he was poisoned the minute he was conceived. He was born of it. He had no hope of ever escaping it—he never could have—he’d never had a choice to begin with.

No matter what choices you make in BioShock Infinite, Elizabeth will always kill you. Why? Because she has seen every world—every context—every limitation—every boon. And there is no way to stop what has been; there is no way to undo what has been done. The minute you have committed to a decision, you have split the universe; there is no telling what kind of person it will make you. In fact, there’s no telling which of your decisions will matter at all. Only Elizabeth can see because she is the unlimited future: your offspring stands before you, judge and jury, and you will have no choice but to accept her verdict, for despite your name, you are incapable of controlling how you are interpreted.

Elizabeth sits across from you in the boat and stares without blinking. She sees a million million similar Bookers. Some are a little bit taller, some a little bit shorter, some a little heavier or lighter. Some more-resemble one grandparent or another. They have different colored ties. This one blinks when rain hits him in the eyeball. That one took a brutal beating back on the airship and one eye is swollen shut. That one can’t stop shaking; this one is unable to speak at all; one hasn’t yet lost hope, although even he doesn’t realize it.

They all lowered the torch to the tipi.

The baptism determined Comstock; what determined Booker?

Why Booker Is

In BioShock 1, characters are often stand-ins for larger concepts. Thus Ryan stands in as Ayn Rand’s Objectivist Ubermensch; Bill McDonagh as Andrew Ryan’s conscience; Diane McClintock as the citizenry of Rapture; Captain Sullivan as law and order; Frank Fontaine as the truest expression of Objectivism in its distilled form.

Who is Booker? Most importantly: why is he?

Booker is a fictional character with a brutal background based on historical events, alternative and true. Booker might be Lakota; Booker might have undergone forced Anglicization; Booker might have been ripped from his parents; Booker is a product of violence, perhaps literally. Booker is American exceptionalism distilled. Booker is the past in constant judgment of itself, unable to live with itself and unable to die. Booker destroys what is best in him and around him in exchange for belonging. Booker has sold the future to absolve his sins. Booker has sold his daughter because he is a fictional character in a work of fiction who needs to be propelled.

Booker is a shell, a sluice, an environment. Booker is the broken shape you are meant to fill, horrified. His internal shape should torture you as it has tortured him: the messy slaggy soul of a shitty tin soldier.

Does Booker take the baptism and become Comstock? If so, it might be his second one. His last name literally means “the white.” His first name can mean “author.” It is most likely his second name: an attempt to rewrite himself. And when he was unable to rewrite himself the first time, when the cognitive dissonance boiled at the edges of his skull, he found there was only one way to cleanse himself the second: to remake the world entirely. To force transformation on everyone else. To take vengeance on a world that could never love him, never want him—to create a world that has no choice but to love him. If he can’t change the world’s mind, he’ll change the world.

Note what he opts to do: to take the fight to the environment–to the unyielding universe.

Context Is Everything

It is no mistake that BioShock Infinite occurs in 1912: the sinking of the Titanic is often credited with ending an unfettered optimism, a period when the Western world believed technology had brought the human race into a golden age. With World War I—which would follow a mere two years later—came modern warfare and all the horrors thereof, not the least of which was the realization that humans had created a kind of war that could destroy the entire world. World War I also seeded the rise of the United States: much of the wealth of warring Europe—itself fat on the blood of subjugated peoples and stolen lands—would rattle into America’s coffers.

It is also no mistake that BioShock 1 directly follows World War II. With WWII came a heightened terror—that this war is not the last war, that there will never be an end to war, that war will go on expanding and expanding until it has consumed us all. World War III would not be denied: prettily packaged in the ideals of its children, it simply followed the utopians down to their underwater tombs. According to BioShock 1’s original ending, World War III is not a matter of if—it’s a matter of when.

But even more important than the history in the BioShock games are their settings. Mute leviathans, Rapture and Columbia determine all of your behaviors: from where you can exist in space to all of your desires and goals to how you choose to present yourself to how you opt to behave. Isolated in extremism—whether that extremism is the crushing depths of the ocean or the unbearable lightness of the air—most of their power is that they simply cannot be escaped. You can’t outrun them. They are everywhere. They are everything.

Like Lovecraft before it, BioShock acknowledges the greatest horror of all: you cannot escape your context. Your context does not only involve your immediate surroundings. It is also historical; contains zeitgeists from various cultures and subcultures; is filled with pressures both personal and impersonal, human and nonhuman. Many of these forces can hurt you. Many more can destroy you. What you do to survive depends very much on where, when, and with whom you must live.

Human beings are not built to be moral.

The Death of the Future

In the film Operation, Burma!, a soldier asks Errol Flynn: “Who were you before the war?”

“An architect,” says Flynn.

Who were you? Because that “you” doesn’t matter now. That “you” is irrelevant. So you’re an architect. What the war does to you; what these deaths mean to you; your past, your education, your loves and desires and forward motivation, the you that could have been outside war, the you that slogs alone into the brutal future—all completely irrelevant. Your forebears don’t care so long as you can bleed.

Children are the manufactured tools of their creators—helpless before the enormous strength of their elders and the zeitgeists that enclose them, poisoned by their parents’ insecurities and flaws, utilized like weapons regardless of the cost—often with great love.

Consider something more than the traumatized culture: consider the society filled with traumatized children; consider the traumatized society. Consider channeling children through that trauma over and over and over again, if you can. Poisoned—poisoned—poisoned—all of us poisoned. Poisoned by those who loved us most. Poisoned by the people we trusted. Poisoned by the people who meant to make a better world.

I believe it is notable that creative director Ken Levine is Jewish; I have read from multiple accounts that the European Jewish diaspora was uniquely traumatized from the Holocaust and passed that trauma down upon their own families. I sometimes wonder if he saw that firsthand.

The fathers eat sour grapes; their children’s teeth are set on edge.

Choice: Player Expectations and Entitlement

For players who experienced BioShocks 1 and 2 with their multiple endings (Good, Bad, and “ok bye then I guess” respectively), it must have been jarring to suddenly reckon with being a monster. How often I see players grousing that nothing they do will change their wicked pasts! These players completely miss that the only meaningful choice had already been made, that it had nothing to do with the player at all, and even if they had been there, DeWitt was still unforgivable. The only way to go on was to bow out and allow the future to redefine herself.

Nobody was ready for that shit.

Like it or not, BioShock 1 had set a precedent. Not everyone’s going to read up on creator intentions. If any keyword came blaring through the noise, it would have been “choice.” Most players only recognize choice by the ability to make it, not the absence of it, and most of them weren’t equipped to recognize that its lack was the point. The meaningless choices were commentary, and they were as much about the player as they were about DeWitt himself. Not every choice will be meaningful, will it? And there will be choices you make that will be momentous, but they will seem very small when you make them.

Because most players had experienced what they thought was a basic moralistic tale in the first two games, and would see Infinite not as reflection upon America’s destructive personality, its obsession with a meaningless Good/Bad duocracy, and the infinite, cyclical nature of violence, they saw Booker’s death as corrupted artsy claptrap.

“I did the good schuut,” they say. “I want the good schuut end. Where happy end??? Where treat :(”

Bitch the future is here.

Time to die.

It’s Not Me, It’s You

Generally I despise essays that end with, “But the real fault lay with the clueless motherfuckers who played the game!” Often, if enough people complain, there’s something to it; the message has been obscured somehow. Details or explanations weren’t clear or intuitive enough, some mechanism isn’t working somewhere, some character needs to talk more or less, some setting needs to be transformed. O artist: stop whining and get cracking. If everywhere you go smells like shit, it’s time to look under your shoe.

But sometimes it’s true that a piece of media is on a level folks aren’t equipped for. Think of every literature and art class you’ve ever had, if you’ve been fortunate enough to have one. There’s always someone scoffing in a back row, like here are all these jokers making more of something than they should. Similarly, some of you have been arguing with me this entire time, saying: “I just wanted a video game. I just wanted to shoot something and feel better and instead I get this bullshit ending that makes no sense.”

First of all, smart bullshit (and even fucked-up attempts at smart bullshit! Hi BioShock 2) gets to exist on this Earth along with Gmod and Roblox or Schuut Big Tits 84 (there are 84 tits and you must shoot them all. They explode into smaller tits) or whatever-the-fuck-else you think is a worthwhile gaming experience. Second of all, miserable bullshit also gets to exist, and what did you fucking expect if you played through either BioShocks 1 or 2? When you hear a football player quavering out in the darkness for his mom to pick him up, how’d that make you feel? What did you think was going to happen to Jack after pounding back the entire Plasmid library, the cancer cocktail that explicitly destroys the fuck out of its users? Third of all, if you missed the smart bullshit going on in BioShock 1 and didn’t think BioShock Infinite might be larger in scope in more ways than one, that’s on you. Fourthly, if you were simply satisfied with saving like, 15 kids from a violently-perishing city of thousands and call it good, I mean… is that really where your thoughts end? Are you really that fucking small?

It’s Not You, It’s Me

You ever meet those motherfuckers who talk shit about Shakespeare or modern art? And you’re just left there staring with dead eyes at this poseur who mistakes playing devil’s advocate for intelligence, cheek resting on your fist, thinking about the fanfic you’re writing, wondering who it’s for, remembering that all your smut-writing friends get ten times the viewers, and considering throwing yourself in front of a bus.

Yeah, there’s a personal element to this: the fact that BioShock Infinite is the kind of art I like and long for and want to make myself, the fact that the game was successful and yet the studio was closed, the way its DLC was so rushed that the story plopped out like half-baked mystery meat—realizing that the same forced rush was at 2K’s behest for BioShock 2, as well, and wondering how good art can ever be made in this unforgiving capitalist hellscape. The game was weirdly niche and I’m not 100% sure I’ll ever experience anything quite like it again. And with the whiners in this fandom, the loud ones controlling the narrative, some fresh brain-dead exec in some brain-dead publisher might be like: “We must keep it safer and simpler for these fuckin babby adult!”

Nah bitch nah. Naaaah. Cry some more while I enjoy me my fucking dinner. I’ll eat it while making loud smacking noises and keeping unbroken eye contact. Come here. Let’s look at each other. It’ll be like Lady and the Tramp but we want to punch each other. What truer form of love can there be here in the modern world?

I keep having to remind myself that this response isn’t new. I keep having to remind myself of my place. I keep having to remind myself why I write, why I read, why I like to experience art to begin with. It’s not for the reasons other people do it. Oh, I want the same emotional release as everyone else, I want the same rollicking plots, I adore the same tropes. I seek out everything and anything for a good time; I’ll read Moby Dick today and a smutty 5,000-word abortion with the world’s most suspect grammar tomorrow. I don’t give a shit if it’s low- or high-brow; there are all kinds of ways to have fun and there are all kinds of ways to engage with art, and lord knows I’ve done my share of smooth-brain criticism. The problem is that I’ve always wandered off by myself, sunk into an all-consuming reverie, on tracks that no one else ever seems to be on, and then looked up to talk excitedly about something only to realize I’m alone. And whose fault is that?

By the same token, maybe I haven’t talked enough. Maybe I spend too much time with my mouth shut. Maybe I haven’t stood up enough for things that are worth our time, worth talking up, worth setting on pedestals.

I tell you, BioShock Infinite will stand the test of time. It’s too good for this. It’s too good for you, warts and all. Some of you will grow to understand that; some of you won’t; many of you will shrug and go on with your lives (and this is fine; it is only a video game). But I’ve truly not seen anything like it. I can’t believe a mainstream video game was allowed to be so fucking brutal about the American juggernaut, and what’s more, that it sold like hotcakes. Plus, I can’t think of any works in recent memory that have struck me so close to my own heart. No creative work has made me start beating a monster’s face into a washbasin for ten hours only to lift her by the scalp and see my own eyes looking back.

Look into those eyes. See your own stupid impulses pouring out. Your own stupid excuses, your violences, your sins—your claws, your teeth, your costumes, your hilarious attempts at interpretive dance. The beast doth protest too much.

O, monster—behold thyself—and tremble.

#bioshock #bioshock 2 #bioshock infinite #bioshock infinite burial at sea #booker dewitt #subject delta #jack wynand #augustus sinclair #essays #video games #spoilers #vvatchword #vvbsreceipts

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quitealotofsodapop · 5 months ago

Note

Ok, but like, imagine if nobody knew Wukong had a brother because Luzhen is always going off and exploring and stuff. He loves his best life, only ever having to step up as the Prince of Flower Fruit Mountain whenever Wukong is out or unable to be there. During the 500 years he was imprisoned, Luzhen had been protecting the island. Scared Erlang a bit because he had legit thought Wukong had escaped only to check the mountain and see the golden eyes monkey still there. Form there, he figures out Wukong must have a look a like or sibling. And decided that so long as Luzhen didn't cause trouble, it wasn't something he needed to bring to his uncle's attention. Surely, if they hadn't heard of him before, he must be tamer than his criminal brother! (Oh boy, was he wring when he finally got a chance to meet the two monkeys together)

Tripitaka learns about this when he has to visit the mountain, mainly because Luzhen wasn't going to let his older twin go back to that journey after he wa banished in the White Bone Demon arc and Ao Lie and Wujing ended up having to break Tripitaka out of whatever prison he was trapped in and drag his transmutation body to the mountain himself when Zu Baije was outright refused entry by what he thinks is a glamoured-to-hide-his-circlet Wukong (it was actually Luzhen with Wukong hiding in his room crying over how nobody had believed him) and had to go back to the Pilgrims like that

Prev.

Now I'm imagining various demons, celestials, and mortals coming to FFM to take over/hunt only to see who they think is the *exact same* monkey they think has just been imprisoned!

In the first few years, Wukong gets a lot of people coming to the mountain to check if he's still under there. Eventually, most assume that he either left a hair clone on the island, or that he employed a doppelgänger to mess with people. Only people who knew him before the war know that Luzhen is Wukong's brother.

Luzhen is basically the Fred Claus of Monkey Kings. Technically he's the Prince of Flower Fruit Mountain, but occasionally he introduces himself as the "back-up king".

The brothers do reunite briefly after Wukong is freed from the mountain and promptly abandons Tripitaka to go home, but Wukong ultimately decides to go back and do the Journey anyway. And of course Guanyin adds in the circlet to stop Wukong from trying to strangle the monk every time he annoys him. Wukong just sort of forgets to mention that he has a younger brother since he doesn't know the other Pilgrims that well yet.

Cue the White Bone Spirit Arc; where Wukong is banished from the group and not believed when he rightly identified the White Bone Spirit as trying to trick them 3x over. Wukong flies home crying at the injustice of being falsely accused.

I love the imagery of Ao Lie and Wujing getting so frustrated at everything thats happened over the Yellow Robed Demon Arc that they bust tiger-transformed Tripitaka out, so that they can all apologise to Wukong in person.

So now imagine the Pilgrims' absolute confusion when they go to get their monkey back, when they see who they think is Wukong (just with blue eyes) shouting and tossing rotten fruit at them. They know he's upset, but the obscenities he's throwing are a bit unlike him.

Tripitaka: "Monkey! I can only offer my sincerest apologies for not believing you in that moment! I am deeply sorry!" Wukong?: "Tell that to my brother, you empty-headed fleabag! He's inside crying like an infant! You get targeted by bloodthirsty demons literally all the time - why would my brother lie about three consecutive attempts on your life!?" Tripitaka: "I... pardon??"

It takes some back and forth between the Pilgrims, Not-Wukong, and the Stalwarts before the realize that the monkey they're talking to isn't Wukong, but rather a nearly-unknown twin brother!

Zhu Bajie loudly calls the idea an absurb lie until Wukong himself walks outside to see what the commotion is about, golden-eyed and wearing the circlet. Luzhen looks rather smug at the pig's aghast reaction.

Zhu Bajie: "Wait, there's been two of you this whole time!? Even back in Heaven!?" Wukong, sighing: "Yes. I been telling people for centuries but no one believes it unless they see us in the same room." Sha Wujing: "That certainly explains all the conflicting stories of you being in two places at once!" Zhu Bajie: "Then who was the one who did the Havoc?" Wukong, sheepish: "Um, that was still me. I was still pretty mad at not being invited to the Queen's birthday banquet." Luzhen: "I was there too! He tapped out after a single cup of wine and left to go ask Lao Tzu for some painkillers. I stayed back at to party in the orchard with the rest of the Brotherhood." All the Pilgrims: (*having separate moments of realisation*) Zhu Bajie: "You telling me our monkey is the boring one!?"

Lots of compromises have to be made before Wukong agrees to come back to the Pilgrims; one major stipulation being that Tripitaka believe Wukong next time he says something is trying to kill him, and to not default to using the Headache sutra when he thinks he's being dishonest.

Luzhen: "And if you use that sutra again - I'mma personally squish your head like a gourd so you understand how it feels for him!" :) Tripitaka: (*gulps nervously*)

#twin suns au #sun wukong #sun luzhen #lmk sun luzhen #lmk tripitaka #lmk zhu bajie #lmk aus #lmk #lego monkie kid #jttw aus #journey to the west #jttw

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chaoticsomeone · 1 year ago

Text

ATSV CHARACTERS REACT TO

Shadow Summoner reader create shadowed area filled with Volcras, bloodthirsty monsters. To trap a villain

Enjoy!!

You were walking out of the shadowed area you created out of annoyance and anger. Eyes pure black after you used your powers. Only to suddenly fall crying feeling guilty, knowing the villain will die and you can't do anything about it.

Miles Morales

Hugs you

Reassures you slowly

"It's their fault they mentioned your pain"

"They deserved it"

(Romantic) he kisses you, then whispered words to reassure you ane calm you down.

*platonic he kissed your forehead saying "shhh, calm down.."

Promising to help you control your powers better

He creates some jokes and tries his best to make you smile

He was secretly very much frightened

Miles - 42

doesnt caee what happened to the villain

He listened to your rambling

Kissing you to calm you down, hugging and patting your back.

He promises that he wouldn't care about the villain and he would do anything for you

Gwen Stacy

Her first thought was to report to Jess

When she saw you fall and cried, she hang up on Jess to run to you.

She was thankful she hanged up, you could've been in so much more trouble.

She asked you to explain what had happened

You told her everything, the volcras, the villain being tortured and attacked bit by bit. And your guilt.

She holds you close to her chest saying

"I know your guilt. I killed Peter."

"You deserved to kill him"

"You were blinded, its alright"

You knew she was afraid as her voice was unstable

Hobie Brown

Not shocked

He knew you were capable

Yet he was worried the moment you started sobbing

He held your hand as he is patting your back.

Jess was calling

He didnt bother picking up, all he cared about now was comforting you

He did his best to reason that what you did was right

Peter Parker "Dad figure"

Runs to you

Holding you up to his side

Pats your back and ruffles your hair

Tells you its alright

Promises to protect you

Promises to be by yourside

He made sure you had no injuries

Even a scratch would worry him

He put his hand abit into the shadow

Asks you about it more

Listens and tells you its alright and that its a pure accident.

Pavitr Prabhakar

Runs to you faster than everyone else

Thinking your hurt

After you explained he was afraid

He took a step back

But when you look into his eyes he doesnt care abt anything besides helping you now

He promised to treat you to Chai with Gayatri and Him (can be romantic or platonic)

You agreed then slowly was brought to your feet.

You smiled at him

He now has started rambling how its the villains fault

SpiderNoir and Peni

Wows and gasps

Peni was first to run to you when you started crying

Spidernoir was trying to piece things together.

These two hugged you

They both went on to talk about their mistakes and said its alright

And how its partly the villain's fault

Peni and Him then told you that they'd create a power dampener just incase you would need it.

Miguel O'Hara

Angry as hell

"THIS IS NOT CANNON" and whatnot

Jess and the others defended you

He got angry and casted you out

He slowly realized his mistake

How you were experiencing what he felt

Guilt

Pain

Regret

He ended up talking to you and promising to not get angry so quickly again.

Lyla

She can't do much besides call for Jess

But she will still talk to you

She showed you how Miguel did wayyyy worse

She showed you Miguel's mistakes and bad photos to make you smile

You laughed a few times, she was glad

She dissapeared when Jess arrived

But you could see from her eyes that she cared

Jessica Drew "Mom"

At first she was confused and worried

When you fell and sobbed she ran to you

Asks you whats wrong

You told her everything

Her eyes seemed scared for a moment.

She doesnt care for now what happened she was just now trying to comfort you

She tells stories when she accidentally killed her first villain/person

She promises to help defend you against Miguel

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climbthemountain2020 · 3 months ago

Text

Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met - Chapter 12

Part 12 | Ao3

Thanks @witch-and-her-witcher I love you!

Feyre had the good sense to shift her ears in the chaos between the attor breaking through her door and dragging her from the dark room into the blaring lights of the hallway. It was still deep in the night by the looks of the sky, the stars twinkling down on them as if in laughter. The claws dug into her arm, but Feyre was focusing on what she could see, what she could hear. Some of Lucien and Andras’ first lessons for her had been about not panicking when things began to fall apart.

“Keep your wits about you, always,” Andras had said after another clean sweep from Lucien had flattened her on the ground. “You panic when you lose the upper hand, and it makes your thoughts frantic and your movements inconsistent. Always view it as you having the advantage, you just don’t know how yet. The confidence will make things easier.”

“How the hell can I have confidence when you’re all built like oak trees?” Lucien and Andras had laughed at her comment, but it was Lucien who clapped a massive hand over her shoulder, nearly knocking her forward with the momentum.

“The key is to focus on what’s around you. Take in only the details, and don’t project–not your fear, not your worry, not your next move. Only the facts, then go with what you see--what you know. Let that help calm you while you choose your next move.”

Feyre had rolled her eyes then. It was easy enough to say things like that, but in practice? How was she supposed to calm herself and take in details when a fae male the size of a small horse was barrelling towards her?

But even with the claws of the attor clamped around her bicep, the terror and pain rolling turbulently through her, she tried her hand at it now. She could see the hall, a flurry of motion with fae she didn’t recognize running amok. She could hear Calla screaming from her room, calling out for Tamlin in a shriek that pierced the air. She could smell blood and something sharp and sour in the air. Was it the panic? The fear?

The attor thrust her violently towards the stairs and Feyre took in the wreckage below. The manor had been ransacked, furniture and vases broken and shattered to pieces on the floor, the beautiful paintings of the foyer slashed purposefully and horribly, ruined beyond repair. There was blood smeared on the floor.

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, the attor practically threw her at Tamlin and Lucien, her arm shredding under its claws in the process. She cried out as Lucien caught her, preventing her fall. She looked up at him, and his wide, scared eyes mirrored everything she was feeling as another creature began throwing furniture from the balcony to see it shatter on the floor below. Feyre could still hear Calla screaming, three fae males holding Tamlin back as he snarled and attempted to break free when she crested the top of the stairs.

It was suddenly so loud, so overwhelming, and the steady gush of blood from her arm as Lucien tore a shred of his shirt and tried to bind her wound made her head swim with nausea.

“Hang on, Feyre. I’ve got you.” It was the most he had spoken to her since their fight, she thought with a sudden clarity before all the sounds around her crawled in again. Calla had been tossed down the last of the stairs, now quaking in Tamlin’s arms. It was so loud, so loud, and Feyre could hardly form a thought through the voices cascading around her. Why was it so loud?

She realized, then, that she wasn’t hearing talking, but the thoughts of those around her, the panic opening her mind to the horrors that everyone around her was experiencing. It was an onslaught of every thought flitting through the minds of the people in the manor. Low and horrifying was the growl of the attor, his thoughts quiet but bloodthirsty. He was thrilled that he was at the helm of this–he expected the praise from Amarantha would be worthy of something great. Tamlin’s thoughts were worried, angry, and frantic. The words barely came through, but the emotions did. Calla’s thoughts were pure terror, and Feyre realized she was at the biggest disadvantage of them all. Not only was she fully human with no powers to protect herself, but she was unarmed, and entirely unaware of the situation at hand. She had no idea who Amarantha was or what horrors were waiting. Lucien, standing closest to her and projecting his thoughts the most loudly, was sick at the thought of going back to Amarantha, the panic squeezing her heart as she nearly felt it through her own veins.

She wanted to hold him tight, comfort him, but the barrage of sound was burrowing into her very mind. She felt like she might vomit, might pass out here on this floor, and there would be nothing anyone could do to stop it.

The sounds rose so loudly they blurred into a roar like rushing water, her eyes squeezing shut and the edges of her consciousness beginning to darken and close in.

Then, like a great tolling of a bell, Tamlin’s voice–suddenly louder than all the rest–rang through her head clear as day.

Block it out.

The command of the High Lord was laced through his tone, his words, her body aching to follow it. But she didn’t know how.

“I can’t. I can’t!” She was screaming the words, not in her head but to the chaos of the room around them.

Build a wall. Construct it in your mind. Visualize it, Feyre, as real as you can.

She tried to listen, tried to take a deep breath, but the world was spinning. She felt like she was going to be sick all over the floor. But she tried. She yanked on all her magic, visualizing a tall, black wall like the one around her family home. She imagined the stone climbing higher and higher until she couldn’t see the top anymore. She wound it around her mind, until the screams became whispers then stopped entirely. The silence in her mind was the best thing she’d ever heard, despite the screams and crashing still happening around her. Her eyes met Tamlin's worried ones, and she realized she’d fallen to the floor at Lucien’s feet, her hands clawing at her ears and hot tears tracking down her face. She’d gotten overwhelmed, and something had broken a boundary in those strange daemati powers she’d gotten from Rhys.

Calla was behind Tamlin, his arm out to protect her from the chaos of the room as Lucien helped her up. She fell against him, the adrenaline of her panic making her legs shaky and unstable. Fae she’d never seen before and more creatures like the attor tore things off the walls, ripping wallpaper and leaving great gouges in the gilded paint. They laughed as they did it, the panicked screams of the staff seeming to give them joy as they fled into the night. Feyre felt her heart breaking as her home was destroyed, and she wrapped her arms around Lucien who seemed to sink into her, needing the comfort as much as she did. She felt the warmth of magic twist around her bicep, partially if not mostly healing the massive tear in her flesh. She wasn’t sure if it was Lucien or Tamlin who’d done it, but she was grateful nonetheless as the pain lessened.

The sounds began to die as Feyre struggled to get her breathing under control, the exhaustion creeping over her now. The attor, seeming to have had his fun, stood in front of them. Feyre lifted her chin, refusing to cower in his presence though a terrifyingly gruesome smile split his face as he took the four of them in.

Two others flanked him as they closed in on them.

“Time’s up,” he spoke darkly, then they reached out to grasp them and winnowed away.

+++

They hit the ground in the dark, the air damp and musty around them as Feyre tried to adjust her eyes. She could hear dripping in the background, and the cold of the cave seeped into her bones. She could feel Lucien’s warm hand find hers in the darkness, their fingers entwining and holding onto each other for dear life as the guards pushed them violently down what must be a hallway. She didn’t dare speak to him, but she gave his hand a little squeeze and received one back. It would need to be enough for now.

They wound through a maze of what appeared now to be tunnels as Feyre’s eyesight adjusted. The walls were hewn from stone that shone with condensation and moss. She could hear Calla’s occasional whimpers behind her, and she hoped that she was still with Tamlin the way Feyre had found her way to Lucien. She wondered if she could slow down in the small, cramped tunnel to bring them all closer, but she was unwilling to risk whatever punishment drawing attention to herself would carry with it.

Feyre’s heart hammered wildly in her chest as they soldiered on, the halls seeming to never end. At one point, Calla tried to speak, and a sharp slap, a yelp, and a growl from Tamlin followed. Feyre swallowed audibly as the attor growled “no talking”, and they pressed on.

After what seemed like hours of walking, they came to an abrupt halt. Feyre’s feet were aching painfully, her arches screaming and the need to lean against the disgusting wall behind her overwhelming. Her arm had started to throb even healed from the massive laceration earlier, and she was worried about how much longer she could keep up.

Before she could even finish the thought, she was once again being torn away violently, Lucien’s knuckles clicking against hers as he was pulled in the opposite direction. Calla was shrieking and fighting on the side of her, and through the darkness Feyre could see Lucien and Tamlin being hauled off. Feyre rushed to lower that wall she’d sloppily erected in her mind, hoping it wouldn’t be a violation to reach out to Lucien and Tamlin this way.

I will take care of her. Try to tell me what you find out if you can.

The exhaustion was immediate; she had not used this skill nearly enough to flex it this way, and she reeled in the male guard's arms as she pulled back. But Lucien and Tamlin’s eyes shot to hers, a quick, bewildered nod from Lucien and an expression of unreadable emotion on Tamlin’s face as the attor led the two males off.

Though the guard holding her was still rough, he lacked the claws of the attor and Feyre was thankful that he’d left them to these guards. The hallways twisted, the walls becoming more roughly carved and Feyre had the feeling that the floor was sloping down ahead of them. She took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising panic as they dipped further and further beneath the ground. Before long, she could hear distant moans and screaming, her entire body clenching with anticipation.

Surely they wouldn’t have bothered to bring them here just to kill them? They could have easily done so at the manor if that was the end goal all along.

They were shoved to the left, and the cell door clanged shut behind them before they could even turn. Calla threw herself at the bars, gnarled with rust, shaking them in her hands as though they might bend for her.

Feyre had never more fully and painstakingly understood the implications of their mortality than she did in that moment. She winced against the impact of the unforgiving stone on her aching body. She might have powers, but she was still fully human. Calla was even less protected. They’d need to play this as carefully as they could if there was any chance at all for them to survive.

“Don’t get used to the company; it won't last long.” The taller guard sneered as the other turned and began to walk away. “We��ll see what our queen wants to do with you soon enough.” He shot them a terrifying grin and then walked away too, the massive iron door at the end of the hall shutting with finality.

Calla whirled on Feyre immediately. “Where the fuck are we?”

“Under the Mountain.” She was immediately up and looking around the cell for weaknesses, for any way out, trying to ignore her baser instincts and rising panic as the urge to rattle the bars and scream took over.

“Feyre.”

She ignored Calla, quickening her pace around the small room, running her hands over the stone walls and metal bars.

“Feyre!”

“WHAT?” She turned, hissing, shocking even herself at the anguish in her voice. She’d known it was coming, but the impact of their predicament was crashing into her all at once. She felt destabilized, everything shifting beneath her.

Was Rhys close? Would she dream of him here?

She wanted to close her eyes and cry and rage and scream. What had made her think she was capable of this? She’d barely arrived, and she was already in a dungeon.

“We’re in Amarantha’s court. Time ran out.” Nothing stopped her from speaking this time. The curse was over, and none of it mattered anymore–no magic bound her. Calla looked lost–so small–for the first time in the confined of the dark, dirty cell. Feyre’s shoulders dropped.

Feyre came and sat in front of her on the ground, taking Calla’s hand in her own. There was no use fighting this. They would return for them when they had need, and until then, she needed to focus on being calm and keeping her promise. If she couldn’t escape from here, she would never find Rhys anyway.

Keep your wits about you, always.

I’m trying, Andras, she thought.

“How do you know where we are?” The accusing tone in Calla’s voice stung, but she owed her answers.

“Do you remember the blight?”

Calla nodded.

“It’s more than that, too.”

So, Feyre told her everything about the curse, the light dying in Calla’s eyes at each revelation. By the end of it, Feyre was leaning against the wall, exhausted and sad and trying to use the rest of her energy to fight off the impending feeling of hopelessness crawling in her veins. She had known this was the end point, had known she would still come here for him, but being trapped down here, feeling as though her days were numbered, gave a base reaction she felt powerless to fight against.

“Gods, stupid. I’m so stupid. I could love him. I might. I almost said it last night when we...fuck, Feyre. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“We couldn’t. It was part of the curse. Until today, we could no more have said a word about it than you could have grown wings to fly.” Feyre just sighed, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the unforgiving wall. It was cruel how close they’d come.

“Maybe it isn't too late.” The hope in Calla’s voice was somehow worse than the accustation.

Feyre gestured at the dungeon cell around them, “What makes you think that?”

Calla gave her a look, but before she could respond, the door to the stone hallway clanked open, the iron of it groaning as steps drew closer.

“Hope you brought your court dresses. Time to meet the queen.”

Feyre was deciding on all the different ways she might kill the attor as he shoved them from the cell, a different guard now on each side taking their arms so violently she knew there would be bruises. She wasn’t sure how long the walk would be to wherever they were to meet Amarantha, but Feyre was already pulling inward. In the silence, she was drawing on the magic within her, feeling it swell and swirl and expand in her chest. She would need to be smart about this; everyone’s lives hung in the balance.

She tried to prepare herself–tried to think of all the ways this could go: Amarantha might kill them immediately, knowing they didn’t add anything but perhaps entertainment to the court Under the Mountain.

She tried to think of a second option and failed. Two humans in a court of fae ruled by a cruel queen who loved violence–there weren’t many additional outcomes.

Feyre checked to make sure that her glamour held and her ears were still pointed. She glanced back at Calla. Could she glamour her too? She tried to stretch that magic out, make it reach for Calla, but she hit an invisible wall, the tether of the magic refusing to extend to someone else. She sighed. It was for the best. She wasn’t sure even if she could extend it that she could hold it. She was glad she’d practiced on herself. Covering the tattoo had paid off, and she barely felt the tax of disguising her ears as well.

All she could do now was hope it held through whatever awaited them ahead.

The halls began to get taller and wider the longer they walked, the light burning Feyre’s eyes a bit as they shuffled towards it. They weren’t put in any restraints or chains, a testament to just how weak they were amongst the company here.

They were led through towering doors, taller than even the manor had been, the top of the cave seeming dark and endless, like Feyre might see the stars of the night sky if she looked hard enough. But once they were through the doors, the stone shifted, turning light and smooth as it reached towards the heavens. The room was cradled by pillar after pillar, each supporting the grandiose ceilings and massive throne room they were walking into.

The floors were lacquered, shining red, looking for everything like the color of freshly spilled blood. The light from the various chandeliers splashed across it, leaving strange shapes and patterns of opulence cast out where the floor wasn’t occupied by throngs of High Fae.

In some strange way, it seemed that they were having a party, mingling, even. There was a crowd further in the room that seemed to be circling something, quick flashes of movement catching Feyre’s eyes, but the blur of activity between her and them made it impossible to see what was going on. There was food and drink and music, the air humming with spice and sound and something that sounded horrifyingly like merriment. The High Fae parted to form a path and looked at Feyre and Calla as they passed, some with interest and some with disgust. Feyre made sure that the wall in her mind was up and strong, then made sure the magic glamouring her ears was working. She held her chin high. She would not appear here looking afraid. She had not come all this way to die scared.

She fought the urge to scan the crowd for Rhys and lost, her eyes poring over the faces of fae as they watched her too. But he was nowhere to be found. She wasn’t sure if she was more relieved or disappointed. If she were going to die, it would have been nice to see his face again.

As they reached the front of the crowd, a silence fell across the throne room, even the discordant music stopping as though to listen. And there, in front of them on a black, warped throne, sat the queen.

Amarantha.

Feyre was shocked that she wasn’t prettier; she looked nothing like she’d made her up to be in her mind. She had a shock of blood red hair that cast a sharp contrast against her pale skin. It matched her lips and nails, both painted to look like they were dripping with blood. Her face was elegant, but pressed into a permanent sneer, making her look like something just this side of gruesome. But it wasn’t her appearance that caused Feyre to freeze.

There, on the throne next to hers, sat Tamlin. Feyre frantically scanned the crowd for Lucien, as she heard Calla squeak next to her. She found him standing near the foot of the dais, his head bowed but eyes pointed squarely on her. She almost brought her walls down to reach out for him, but the nearly imperceptible shake of his head stopped her.

Tamlin, for whatever reason, did not look at the two of them, instead choosing to seek a place beyond their heads, out over the crowd. His face was cool, impassive, strangely bored in this macabre setting.

He didn’t look horrified, didn’t look angry. Just looked…unimpressed.

Feyre saw Calla take a small step forward.

“Stop.” The whisper was so low that only Calla could have heard it, and she did. As everything fell entirely silent, Amarantha leaned forward on her throne, hands curling over the armrests of it.

“Oh? What’s this?” Amusement glittered in her eyes, and it was a sight more horrible than anything else Feyre could imagine somehow. “Move back,” Amarantha spoke to the crowd, gesturing waving them off with a flick of her hand. The High Fae complied without a word, leaving Calla and Feyre and their guard exposed and in the open.

“These are the two we brought in with them,” the attor jerked his grotesque, receding chin at Lucien. Feyre could feel Calla trembling next to her, and she looked back at her to see her eyes fixed to their left where the crowd had just parted. Feyre caught the garbled gasp in her throat, clenching it between her teeth and desperately trying to fix her face.

The fae had been beating–torturing–a human woman, marred now almost beyond recognition. The pool of blood was smeared across the floor around her, as though she’d been tossed around. She wasn’t moving, and Feyre couldn’t tell if she was still alive.

“Clare.” The word was a hushed whisper Feyre was sure no one had heard but her. She knew that Calla’s next step would be towards the girl, the one whose name Tamlin had offered up to save them.

She ripped a block from that wall in her mind, tunneling into Calla’s.

Don’t.

A strangled noise left Calla, her eyes wide enough to burst from her head as she heard Feyre’s soft voice in her mind, then narrowing with hurt as she turned on her.

You had powers the whole time.

It wasn’t a question.

I’m sorry, Calla. Don’t show fear, don’t let her see how it affects you.

She could see Calla aching to ask more.

Later.

And Feyre pulled from her mind before she could say or hear anything else.

Amarantha’s voice boomed around them from the dais and both their attention snapped back.

“What a delightful treat. It seems you’ve brought me the wrong human.” The attor and the guards turned their heads down apologetically, supplicating themselves to her. Feyre held her sneer. Her wall was slipping with her nerves, and she could still hear Calla’s racing thoughts.

My fault, mine, my fault, as Clare lay on the floor. Be brave, be brave, be brave.

“Now tell me,” Amarantha leaned forward, “What brings you here?”

Be brave.

Calla stepped forward, her chin jutting out and shoulders back, though from this close Feyre could see her shaking.

“I am here to claim the one I love.” This was Calla’s last effort, the final possible hope before all hell broke loose. Feyre had never been much for praying, but she bid every god and entity that might be listening to help them now.

Amarantha’s smile was wild, mocking as she whispered. “And who might that be?”

“The High Lord of Spring.” Feyre let her eyes wander to Lucien and then Tamlin. Tamlin’s face remained impassive, but Feyre saw him trying hard to hide the flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Oh, Tamlin?” She averted her gaze to the male sitting next to him, and she smiled, a cruel, wicked thing. Feyre could feel the rage pouring off of Calla beside her. “Seems he’s busy at the moment.”

All the air rushed from her lungs when Amarantha’s predatory eyes moved to Feyre. She steeled herself. If she served no purpose here, would she kill her outright? She was disguised as fae, so perhaps not. Would it be better to serve a purpose, even if it was a dangerous one, if only to keep her useful? She remembered what Lucien had called her: a bargaining chip. She knew the history between Lucien and Amarantha, the story of it fresh in her mind.

She could feel Amarantha’s appraising stare from head to toe. She had to make a choice.

“And what are you here for, little fae?”

Feyre’s eyes locked on Lucien’s, and he registered what she was going to do a second before she did it.

“Feyre, don’t!” he yelled, but it only lent credence to her plan.

“I am here with Lucien.” Her voice was braver than she felt, the eyes of the fae around the room all on her.

“Delicious.” Amarantha all but hissed, the sound reminding Feyre of a snake ready to strike. “Did you hear that, boys? Your brother seems to have found another activity for you.” Feyre traced Amarantha’s sight line to a group of males, the copper color of their hair could only mean one thing. Lucien’s head dropped. “We’re going to have a lovely time with you.”

Feyre refused to let the fear show on her face, the defiant mask the only one she allowed through.

But Amarantha only smiled, making the anxiety coil in Feyre’s gut despite her outward appearance.

“Oh, Rhysand?” And all Feyre’s blood froze.

From the shadows at the side of the throne, he materialized like a ghost from the darkness, strutting in that same way that he had in Spring when Feyre had seen him through Tamlin’s memories. It was arrogant, leisurely pacing, as though he had no cares in the world. Feyre thought, even so, he looked even more beautiful in person–a regal prince of night. Her heart fluttered at the sight of him, his presence making the magic in her chest run wild and hammer through her heart. But even beneath the catlike smile, she could see the exhaustion around his eyes. She wondered if anyone else could.

She saw the moment it registered for him.

He had been elsewhere, the call pulling him from something else. She wasn’t sure if he could sense her presence, or if he could smell her, but the change-up was nearly imperceptible. His jaw clenched, a tightening beneath his ear, and she noticed his knuckles whitening as his eyes scanned the crowd. When he found her, almost immediately, she saw his throat bob as he swallowed, never changing pace or expressions.

“Yes, my queen?”

For a moment, Amarantha seemed to be deep in thought, no quick, cloying reply on her tongue. The fae of the throne room waited, and she blinked one, twice, then that putrid smile spread across her face.

“I have a task for you. A gift, if you will.”

“You honor me, my lady. I am undeserving.” He sketched a bow so small it towed the line of mocking, but his eyes, his expression, showed nothing.

“We have Lucien’s beloved here. It seems he’s finally managed to move on.”

“Is that so?” The voice was measured, equal parts mocking and cautious, and again Feyre wondered who here might be able to parse that out aside from her.

“It is. I would like for you to take good care of her.”

What? Feyre’s head swung up as though on a swivel. Could she truly have mistakenly wound up under Rhysand’s care simply by way of choosing the most dangerous route? How could she have failed upwards so incredibly hard? She ripped an opening in that wall in her mind, practically screaming at Lucien.

Make it convincing. Please.

He didn’t hesitate. “No!” The satisfaction on Amarantha’s face was immediate, but Rhys’s was undercut with something else, something she could almost taste on her tongue as she looked at him. Was he jealous?

“Oh, Lucien.” Amarantha tutted at him. “You should have known better.”

“Please, I’ll do anything.”

“Yes, you will.” Feyre worried about him, worried about Rhys, worried about everyone, but she had managed to control the smallest part of the situation for now, and the rattling of her heart in her chest seemed to quiet for the first time in hours.

Amarantha was already focused back on Calla, her predatory eyes looking up and down her bedraggled, human form appraisingly. “Now, what will we do about you?”

Calla’s face showed set determination that Feyre genuinely felt awe to behold; she could feel the fear coming off her in waves, but she was holding her ground admirably, unflinchingly.

“I’ll make a bargain with you, human. You complete three tasks of my choosing–three tasks to prove that human love–loyalty–truly exists, and Tamlin is yours.”

“I want his curse broken, too.” Amarantha’s eyes glittered in amusement while Calla spoke. “If all the tasks are completed, his curse is broken, and all of us can leave here and remain free forever.” Feyre was genuinely impressed by her specificity. She had learned quickly.

“Of course, I’ll even give you a bonus for fun. Just to see if you’re smart enough to deserve a fae male. I’ll give you a way out, girl. If you can solve a riddle of my choosing, the curse will be broken instantly, and they’ll all be free. But if you answer incorrectly…” She twirled her finger to point at Clare’s broken body, and Feyre saw Calla swallow.

Calla was quiet, her eyes distant as she debated internally. She looked at Tamlin, his face still unbelievably uninterested in the events unfolding in front of him.

“If the answer to the riddle is spoken at any point, everyone goes free, no questions asked?” Amarantha smiled as though she was speaking to a child, clearly believing Calla to be too stupid to solve whatever puzzle she would give her.

“Of course.” Feyre could hear the chuckles from the crowd as Amarantha’s patience with Calla tinged with taunting. “Is it agreed, human?”

“Agreed.”

The smile on Amarantha’s face held a promise of something horrid. “Perfect.” She steepled her fingers together. “Solve this, human, and everyone goes free.”

Through pain of resistance, through struggle apart The plan of the cauldron, a true work of heart Firmer than steel but lighter than feathers Equal in measure but stronger together Unbreakable vows, both spoken and soundless A link to each other, an agreement that's boundless A treasure through time, through trouble and hate No matter the circumstance, you can't outrun fate

Feyre took the words and tried to memorize them, puzzling it over in her head as she saw Calla’s mind working in tandem. She’d never liked tricks of logic, nor had she been particularly good at them. Nesta used to pour over them in their study time until her mother or school teacher beat her hands bloody, but Feyre had never understood the allure. She’d avoided them like the plague, preferring just about anything else over logic puzzles, but she was kicking herself for it now.

Perhaps Rhys could help her.

“You'll both do menial labor in the interim. Can’t have you staying here for nothing, now can we?” The words were saccharine, but the evil twist in Amarantha’s eye was enough to make Feyre’s body shudder involuntarily. “Enjoy your stay. We’ll be seeing you soon.” She waggled painted nails at them, then snapped her fingers.

Feyre felt a sudden rush of cold at her back before his scent hit her, overwhelming now that he was so close. She was wrapped in it, the smell of oranges and salt and spice wrapping around her like a blanket before his hands did.

I’m sorry for this, echoed in her head as he roughly tugged her hurt arm. She yelped involuntarily as he brushed against the tender, barely healed skin from the attor. But no sooner had the sound left her mouth than she felt the pain soothe away immediately.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Amarantha nod to the creatures that had been flanking them, seeing them close in on Calla.

“Wait! Calla!” Feyre heard Calla’s screams as Rhys pulled her from the throne room. Her mind went into overdrive, her only instincts telling her to fight, to get back to help Calla. She couldn’t abandon her there. She looked back up at Tamlin through the chaos, sitting motionless in his throne.

What the hell was he doing?

She scanned the crowd for Lucien, kicking and screaming as Rhys pulled her effortlessly from the room.

Stop fighting. She was furious with Rhys suddenly, a feeling unfamiliar to her. Please, Feyre. His voice was soft in her mind, comforting, but the rage she felt at being unable to help Calla, now entirely swarmed and invisible within the chaos, was overwhelming her. She stopped thrashing as he tugged her through the massive doors, the exhaustion suddenly overcoming her making her want to cry.

Calla’s screams faded into echoes as he pulled her through the halls. The second they were out of everyone’s sight line, that sweeping, sickening feeling overtook her again like it had in the woods with Vilja, and she was suddenly in a dark room. It looked nearly unlived in, apart from the large fireplace and great bed–no weapons or books or personal touches to be found. There was no light either, save for a few flickering candles. But it smelled overwhelmingly of Rhys.

“We have to go back. I have to–” A sob crept from her throat unbidden, and in response, Rhys held her to him, smoothing his hands down her hair.

“She’s okay. I took her pain from her. I did the same for Clare before I left. She’s not suffering. I can heal her once she’s back in her cell.”

“We can’t just leave her–” He took her hands in his.

“We must, Feyre. Or they’ll kill you both. We have to let it happen.” She deflated like sails on a windless sea, the tears tracking hot trails down her face as the fight went out of her.

She drew back, staring at him. She couldn’t believe he was here–here, the two of them together at last. But the furrow between his brows deepend, something akin to anger burning hot around him.

“What are you doing here?” The words came out as a snarl, a tone he’d never used with her before, and rather than be shocked that rage built right back within her.

“Weren’t you sending me dreams??”

“Yes, to prepare you if something horrid were to happen! Not to tell you to seek out a way to come here yourself!”

She couldn’t believe that she was finally here, and he was going to argue with her about it. She’d expected he would be upset with her for taking matters into her own hands, but it didn’t hurt any less now that it was happening in front of her. “Well, you didn’t exactly leave clear instructions.”

“You said you would wait.”

“Yes, and wait for what? You were never going to be free of her. I had to do something.”

He scrubbed his hand over his face, tired, pacing.

He turned so quickly she could barely register the movement before he pulled her into his chest, some of that affronted rage melting away as he whispered her name like a prayer. “You’re here.”

“I’m here.” And there it was–that peace she’d expected to feel once they were together for good, no longer simply touching through their dreams. The magic stirred within her, rumbling as though it was purring, and she molded around his form. They stood, holding each other for what felt like hours, the quiet sound of their breathing the old thing between them.

“I could see you in the dreams, but it was all faded, warped. I couldn’t tell if it was real. I couldn’t tell where you were.”

“I knew if you found me you’d send me home. I’m sorry.”

He sighed deeply, burying his face back in the crook of her neck. She smiled as he inhaled deeply.

“I didn’t want you to see this part of me. I didn’t want you to know me this way.” His voice was muffled, but she could tell it was rough with emotion. Feyre pulled back to look at him.

“I meant what I said, Rhysand. I see you–I see beneath the mask. You don’t scare me.” His violet eyes found hers, the power of the vast span of galaxies contained within them and focused entirely on her.

He averted his eyes, and she could feel his vulnerability cloaking him–feel his dislike for it. But still he held her, sunk into her embrace. “Why were you in Spring?”

And so she told him everything, from the night of the ball to now. At one point he walked them to the bed, silk sheets that she recognized from her dreams sliding against her skin. They sat, then they laid back, the level of comfort seeming as natural as though they’d done it for years.

As she spoke, he healed her arms, the bruises from the guards and the tender slash from the attor smoothing away as though they’d never happened at all. She told him about Vincent and Vilja and the bargain to give her magic. She told him about how Lucien and Tamlin, and eventually Calla too, had become family to her. She explained how everything had just come to a head the night before, that they’d been mad at her and none of them had been on speaking terms when the attor had come bursting through the doors of the manor, and she wasn’t sure where it left them all now. She finished it all with a sigh; she wasn’t sure she’d ever felt this tired in her life, the shock and adrenaline finally wearing off now that she felt marginally safe.

“How did you find out who I was?”

“I was reading books on all the courts while I waited in Spring. I thought it was smart to know as much as I could about Prythian.” Rhys smiled down at her with something akin to pride.

“Smart girl.”

“I had saved the book on Night for last,” she laughed. “I assumed I didn’t have much reason to learn about the High Lord of the Night Court because he sounded scary, and I was sure you wouldn’t make me live in such a terrifying place.” She smiled up at him and found amusement dancing in his eyes. “Imagine my surprise…”

“I’m sure they didn’t hesitate to tell you, but Tamlin and I aren’t exactly on the friendliest of terms.”

“Oh, they told me.” Rhys laughed at Feyre’s tone. “They tried to talk me out of it, but nothing was going to change my mind, and I told them as much. At the end of the day, though, I know they were trying to keep me safe. I don’t agree with them, but I can’t fault them for caring for me.” Rhys nodded in agreement.

“Perhaps once we leave here, I can find it in myself to thank them for helping look out for you.” The sentiment of it all had Feyre grinning back at him.

“Gods, it’s all been so much for the last months waiting to come here, and even so I was so unprepared. What luck that her evil plotting led me right to you, hmm?”

“It wasn’t luck.” Rhys’s words were sharp and immediate.

“What do you mean?”

“The second I saw you, I delved into her thoughts. She was going to have me hold your mind while Lucien watched and his brothers had their way with you, very publicly. She’d have had me kill you after that.” Feyre gasped, the nausea crawling up her throat. “I influenced her. Made her see the prolonged emotional torture we could inflict if she gave you to me as a plaything.”

Feyre had been so stupid, and that overwhelming feeling of being entirely out of her depth overtook her once again. She felt sick to know what had almost happened, embarrassed at the blind relief she’d felt. She was so ill-equipped for this–how could she possibly play any part in setting them all free?

You must be strong, unbreakable, cunning in the name of love, or you will not succeed.

She remembered Vilja’s words, almost constantly. Was she any of those things? She steeled herself. She had to be. She would be.

“Didn’t you lose your powers?”

��Not all of it. I can’t do anything earth shattering with my magic anymore, but small, insignificant influences can still be done to her. I just have to be careful about it. If I set off any red flags for her, it would be a matter of life and death.”

“You would risk that?”

“For you, I would.” He tucked her into his side, his smell surrounding her along with his arms, and Feyre felt that bone-deep exhaustion once again.

“Do you know the answer to the riddle?” Rhys nodded. “You can’t tell me, can you?”

“No, I cannot.” She should have known Amarantha wouldn’t leave any loose ends. It was a problem for tomorrow, her mind unable to keep thinking things through.

As sleep began to take her, she heard him ask “What’s your end of the bargain, then?”

“Hmm?” She yawned, eyes already falling closed.

“The bargain with Vilja, what's your part in it?”

“Oh, right. You just have to…” but her throat closed, that familiar feeling of halting magic gripping it. “You just…” she couldn’t, the panic ripping through her as she realized what was happening. “You need to–” But the words wouldn’t come. The tears did.

She couldn’t tell him. These stupid fae bargains were going to be the death of her.

“Shh shh,” he saw her panic and pulled her close. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out. I will do everything I can to keep you safe here, Feyre. We will survive this.” He held her hands in his, running his fingers over the knuckles until they caught and he looked down. She felt the moment he recognized the ring she wore. “You kept it.”

“I did.” Her voice was thick with tears.

“I’ve had it for centuries–it was a gift from my mother. It always reminded me most of home before I met you.”

She didn’t miss the hope in his eyes.

Hope.

It spread through her body, her chest, her very being. She would need it, every bit of it, as the panic around the predicament she found herself in began to tug relentlessly at her heart.

Taglist: Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!

@cauldronblssd @buttercupcookies-blog @witch-and-her-witcher @yeonalie

#feyre archeron #rhysand #feysand #acotar #acotar fics #feyre and rhysand #a court of thorns and roses #Your Eyes Whisper Have We Met #acotar au #fated mates #acotar retelling

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pun-for-fun · 5 months ago

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Littlefoot is a BAMF

I rewatched Land Before Time (the first movie) yesterday for the first time since I was a lil kid and like. Holy shit.

Littlefoot, this little kid, upon being freshly orphaned after years of starving in a wasteland, goes off the rails and rounds up a group of other little kids (one of which is a NEWBORN, SPIKE) and one of which that is constantly spewing dinosaur racism (but don't come after my girl Cera all that crap is her dad's fault), led them all across a barren wasteland while starving and being actively hunted.

Look at them. This is right after killing the sharptooth. ZERO REMORSE OR INJURY, just rosy cheeks and smiles. Terrifying little children, my god. Which leads me to this- when he got fed up with being hunted (legit fed up and not just scared), he just goes "You know what? I've had enough of this sharptooth. Gather round everybody I have a plan." and then goes on to formulate a working strategy that allows a group of five little kids to literally murder a bloodthirsty t-rex. Which was entirely justified given the circumstances (if you didn't cry over Littlefoot's mom dying then I don't trust you), but was also done with zero guilt or hesitation.

This is the face of a killer. And until that same t-rex crushed it underfoot, Littlefoot was able to keep his tree-star intact and vibrant for countless miles of travel through everything. Honestly I think it might have been a power limiter his mom gave him, because he came up with that flawless murder plan and then found the great valley minutes later only after the tree-star got shredded. Like Rock Lee's ankle weight. Did his mom know what would be unleashed without it?? Actually in hindsight Littlefoot might have gotten the quietly unhingedness from her, given that her last act was to beat the crap out of that sharptooth so hard that it caused a literal earthquake...and then she appeared in the tree-star, and the clouds...

Hold on. Hold on a fucking second.

Was Littlefoot's mom like, a dinosaur goddess?? Is THAT why LIttlefoot was the only child born in the longneck herd, how she beat down the t-rex while starving and wounded, caused an earthquake, then spoke from beyond the veil to give Littlefoot guidance???

Fuck. GUYS. LITTLEFOOT IS A DINOSAUR DEMIGOD. DEMIDINO. DINOGOD. FUCK.

The movie even follows the same sort of format that most myths do- with the hero going through trials and gaining allies and defeating a feared enemy to achieve some seemingly impossible goal. AND he kept his tree-star alive for that long, even in literal volcanic conditions- how??

Okay so I only realized all of this in the process of writing this post, but. In conclusion. Littlefoot is a terrifying sweetheart of a long-neck demigod, his mother was a goddess, and now I'm scared to ask about his grandparents.

Bonus: If Spike helped commit pre-meditated murder of a gigantic predator as essentially a newborn, than his sleepiness may be mercy upon us given how it indicates a level of potential power above even Littlefoot. Like Hercules killing those snakes in his cradle or something. I don't know. Fucking hell.

(And don't come after me talking about suspension of disbelief and unrealistic limits in movies. That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about what the movie itself implies. Goddamn.)

#land before time #littlefoot #spike #dinosaurs #demigods #what have I wrought

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nagarashi · 6 months ago

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Always resented the way Logan was treated in Fable 3, didn't you?

Long post ahead...

Fable 3 has always been an example of controversy, at least I used to stumble upon it all the time. Some branded it a disgrace, while others said it wasn't that bad because of the potential it had, which unfortunately was never realized.

I've always been on the side of the second. Just recently I settled on a marathon and went through the entire trilogy. Just like the first time I was "burned out" from that missed potential. In particular I am always saddened by the king - Logan.

For me, Logan is pretty much the only character I really feel sorry for and care about in Fable 3. Yeah, even Walter I feel pretty cold towards.... but that's partly because I'm on the King's side from the beginning of the game, even though they try hard to turn me against him (which is what turns me away from the other characters). And it's the reason I really dislike the Hero (Princess in my case), she's blind, infantile and driven, she doesn't think with her head (probably like all the Heroes in the fable).

The game does our brother one hell of an injustice. I felt it especially strongly when I finally played Fable 2 after many years. The faceless queen (in my case Sparrow Woman) mentioned in Fable 3 suddenly took on a face for me and became something important... I know what she was like and what her life was like. And I'm sure she would have loved Logan, because she was deprived of parental love early on, and didn't want brother and sister to be against each other, because she lost her sister, her only sibling, at a young age.

Logan was the firstborn son of Sparrow and as the firstborn, the eldest, all expectations were to be placed on him, everything was to be left for him... What does the game tell us?

The game does, however, show and give the impression that Logan was some sort of outcast in the family. And for some reason, the Guild seal was supposed to go to the youngest. You say she's a hero? What was her Heroic talent until she got a gauntlet to use magic? Broke sword in training? I may be biased, but I have a feeling Logan has broken more than one sword in training as well.... But for some reason, all the excitement goes to the youngest one.

Speaking of magic, it used to be used without any gauntlets, does that mean that it weakens the blood of Heroes? That would be... logical. That's where Reaver and his still strong bloodline would come in handy, lol.

Back to Logan. Not only was the seal not for him, but for some reason, even in the Sanctuary, the note from his mother was left for Jasper, not him. What?!

There's a strong and unpleasant feeling of ignoring the fact that Logan even exists. Why does he deserve to be ignored? From a game perspective, I understand that it demonizes our brother, but from a logical perspective, I don't see how it's justified, at least not when it comes to things involving family.

That and the way everyone hates him only made me get more attached to him.... and the fact that he's the closest thing we have to family. You can't just walk away from that fact, giving in to calls for a stupid revolution without even trying to talk to your brother before doing so. Was the princess angry with him? That anger is some kind of unfunny joke. She didn't care about her brother, why should she care about some random dudes she's being asked to execute?

The game shows that even the sister didn't care about Logan. She doesn't notice the changes in him (which by the way even Elliot notices, in my case) and doesn't even try to talk to him to find out what's going on.

And as if that wasn't enough, when we get to a certain point and find out the truth of what's going on with our brother, why he's changed so much, instead of talking to him in person, for some reason we let Walter take him away and have a trial where all those bloodthirsty critters from our allies come out when they wish Logan dead (except Page, surprisingly, I don't like her, but she shows a lot of common sense at the trial).

On top of all that, Logan has seen with his own eyes what Crawler can do, he saw the deaths of all his men when they faced the Darkness for the first time and subsequently experienced the horror that Crawler is capable of, and we have seen what he can do through our example and Walter's. He brings out the deepest nightmares.... Now imagine facing the death of your home, your people, your family, the one person you care about. And then with the knowledge of all this you come back and try to tell people the terrible truth, but they just think you are crazy, you are powerless to convince them. But the sheep have to be saved from the wolves, no matter how stupid they are.

Logan obviously has severe PTSD after the incident, recurring nightmares and obsessive thoughts of what will happen if he fails? Thoughts that he MUST succeed no matter what. Wouldn't that drive you crazy?

It makes everyone think you're a monster and hate you..... Imagine what it's like to live under that kind of constant pressure every day? And then your dearest person, your flesh and blood, goes against you... It's like the last drop to break the stone already broken by despair and depression.

I don't know how Logan can be executed at the end of the trial. Personally, I've never done it, although I watched that scene on youtube for the sake of interest. It's just horrible in my opinion... It's so soulless. I love playing Fable as an evil character, but even by my standards this is just too much... Logan's execution isn't evil or even justice as the crowd screams, it's murder besides being very vile, even for me.

I really dislike that at the end, when he leaves, we aren't given a chance to stop him. He will always be a brother to Hero and they will always need each other. Anyway, after everything that's happened, I wish Logan was by my side so he could finally have peace and love instead of hate and despise. I don't want him to wander the world and die in an unmarked grave somewhere.

P.S: I always liked the moment at the trial, when all those who were crying the whole game, what victims of Logan's cruelty they were, immediately turned into a pack of vicious dogs, as soon as they felt the power and opportunity to grab Logan's throat with no punishment, literally siccing you on your own brother.

P.S.S: Screw Teresa, I hate you for what you did to Sparrow and her kids.

#fable 3 #logan fable #king logan #fable #my sweet baby #i'm burning up

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thebusytypewriter · 1 year ago

Note

May I request from your Followers event. If it's no trouble, I request izuru kamakura and reader insert, and the length will be long. And can it be fluff with a tint of angst, That's all and thank you!

Oh absolutely, anon. I went ham with this one (the brainrot was BAD) so enjoy the extra long fic!~

As always, this will be cross-posted onto AO3 shortly.

As the world falls to pieces, no one is immune to injury, fatal or not.

You learn that the hard way when rioters become extra violent in Tokyo, which ends in several explosions, wrecks, fires… everything. Whether it’s a homemade blast, something stolen from the government, or a freak earthquake, you have no idea. All that you know was that you’re just trying to evacuate when something goes off, throwing you a dozen feet back, feet-over-head. You crash into something hard and simply black out from the impact.

How you’re still alive is a mystery to be sure. When you come to, you’re sprawled across the pavement, lightheaded and confused. To get your bearings, you attempt to stand.

Keyword being attempt.

Your legs aren’t cooperating, simply staying inert even when you pull up on a nearby car. All of your arm strength isn’t enough to pull yourself up, and your lower back hurts like a bitch. It’s enough to make you cry out in pain and frustration as you simply flop back onto the road, defeated.

For the first time, you realize that you’re alone and completely helpless.

Until you hear footsteps nearby—heeled shoes, clicking across the debris-covered pavement, heading in your direction with careful steps.

You squeeze your eyes shut and hold your breath. You’re not sure how much time has passed since the explosion, so you can’t completely rule out the idea that it’s a rioter. They were bloodthirsty people, and you would rather not get got immediately after waking up.

…Then again, who knows how long you could stay alive like this? Would you even be able to pull yourself to a store to get food? Or water?

The footsteps continue to approach, growing louder with every moment. You debate pleading for your life, wondering amidst the panic what you would even have to offer in exchange when—

“What an inconvenient place to rest,” they say, monotone and male. “The tension in your face suggests that you’re in pain.”

“Just get it over with,” you groan instead. “Put me out of my misery, yada yada.”

“Why would I kill you? You’re no threat to me.”

That’s… odd. You hesitantly open your eyes to see a vibrant red gaze looking back at you. This man stands over you without any sign of wary, only a blank expression on his face with the slightest hint of curiosity. Your eye is drawn multiple places, from the red eyes, to the long dark hair, to the rough scar across his crown. This is someone with a story, and you’d be enthralled if it wasn’t for the lingering confusion as to why he’s just… staring at you.

Weirdest looking angel I’ve ever seen.

“I assure you,” he says without prompt, “I am no angel.” When you gawk and open your mouth to question him, he simply talks over you. “Are you so faint as to not be aware that you said that out loud?”

It forces a startled laugh out of you. “I, uh, think I might have a concussion. Also my legs don’t work. So please, feel free to move on with your day.”

The stranger blinks at you. Once. Twice. “Odd,” he finally says, small and distant. “I shouldn’t be feeling pity.”

“Odd thing to say.”

“I should be incapable of having emotion. I was made that way.”

The scar across his crown suddenly makes sense, and now you’re feeling pity.

“Are your arms functional?” he asks.

“Yeah, looks like it. I can always just pull myself along until I find shelter, so—”

His hands are on you, then, guiding you up into a sitting position while you startle. The stranger is rather cold to the touch, but he’s quite gentle. After you’ve sat up, he fully squats in front of you, his gaze tracing everywhere available to it. One hand finds its way to the side of your head, and you yelp at the sharp pain. His brow furrows in response.

You think he’s checking your injuries, but for someone as hypothetically-emotionless as him, it feels odd.

He turns, back facing you now, and reaches out behind him a bit. “Arms around my neck.”

“Wh—The hell are you—?”

“That was not a request.” There’s no audible bite to his words, but you decide that you don’t want to test it.

Still hesitantly, you lean forward as much as you can and lock your arms around his neck, careful to not pull any of his hair in the process. Just as you’re about to question his intentions, the stranger’s hands slide under your knees and hoist you up into a piggyback position. You half expect him to show some kind of effort in standing, but he does so without problem.

You hold just a little bit tighter. “H-Hey, uh, whatcha doing?”

“I will be your transportation and protection until you are well enough to take care of yourself,” he responds simply, the duh implied. “Is this to your satisfaction?”

“…Do you have a name?”

Red eyes find you over his shoulder, no longer cold and menacing, but soft. “I have been named Izuru Kamukura. Call me whatever you wish, within reason.”

You introduce yourself to your savior, and he begins walking to god-knows-where.

– – –

Kamukura is, in fact, someone with a story. A batshit one, even.

Somehow, you manage to coerce him into spilling some things about himself. While he doesn’t remember much more than the past year or so, he does know that he was created as artificial talent by Hope’s Peak Academy by giving some poor Reserve Course student a lobotomy. (You’re upset on his behalf. What a dick move, Hope’s Peak.)

In return, you tell him a bit about yourself. Though, truthfully, there’s far less to tell than him. You’re a new university student, having barely made it past your second semester when everything went to shit. It’s unfortunate, really, but you do feel some semblance of peace without schoolwork constantly weighing down your shoulders.

Kamukura carries you everywhere, which really is everywhere, since you don’t have a destination, and he’s the wandering type. When not on the move, he provides you physical and occupational therapy by utilizing his many talents. Slowly, you gain more mobility in your lower half, but your legs still don’t cooperate enough to walk properly. When you suggest scouting out or making a wheelchair, he closes off.

You’ve gotten used to it, being looked after by a walking mystery. And if you didn’t know any better, you would say that you’ve both grown fond of each other.

(You contemplate kissing him by the fire one night.)

(You don’t. Your anxiety overtakes you.)

Judging by the day/night cycle, your time with Kamukura lasts for about three months before something changes. He’s particularly restless one morning from the moment you wake up, and he doesn’t elaborate when you ask him about it. You decide not to press.

It takes all day, but he ends up bringing you to the old Hope’s Peak Academy building, in all of its crumbling glory.

On the second floor, you arrive at a door that stands slightly ajar. It’s evidently a classroom, based on the remainder of desks scattering the place. From your minimal knowledge of Hope’s Peak, you know that this building was used for the Main Course students—the “Ultimates.” What would Kamukura have to do with classroom—You find the splintered remnant of a sign hanging from the wall—77-B?

Inside, he sets you down on the most intact chair. “Do you still have those flowers you found?”

The question takes you by surprise, but you nod and pull out the carefully-wrapped bundle: a daisy and a carnation. His luck had graced you with encountering the two in the remains of a flower shop the day before, so you’d taken special care to preserve them until you could find a good spot to replant them. It seems that he has another idea.

Kamukura grabs a vase from a shelf—again, has to be his luck for it to not be any worse than cracked—and gingerly places your flowers inside. He then sets it on a desk at the back of the room and slightly turns it, leaving a pretty array.

The pain that reaches his eyes alerts you to the truth—this is a memorial.

“…A friend of yours?” you ask as gently as you can.

“Chiaki Nanami. I believe she used to be a friend, before the Project.” Kamukura reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small hair clip, one with a pixelated spaceship. He rubs it between his fingers. “I watched her die at the hands of Junko Enoshima. I should have saved her. I was more than capable of doing so.”

“They took your emotions from you,” you counter. “Or at least they tried to. It’s not your fault you didn’t have the will to do it.”

“No, I am at fault. But at least Enoshima is dead now. She can no longer hurt the few people that I care about.” His meaningful gaze finds yours, and it shoots warmth through your body. “Would you mind giving a few moments of quiet? I have not been able to properly reflect on her like this until now.”

“Of course. Take as long as you need.”

And so he does.

Many minutes pass as Kamukura stares out the window into the setting sun, silent and somber. You watch him for a while, hurting by association, before you quietly pull out some paper and a pencil from your bag. Even if you can’t make this girl a headstone or something similar, you can make do and lay out a sign by the vase.

Chiaki Nanami, beloved friend and hero. Never forgotten.

While you fancy the lettering up a bit, something catches your eye from the doorway, forcing you to drop the pencil as you gasp. “K–Kamukura…!”

There stands a new face, a boy that can’t be much younger than you or your companion. His wide amber eyes are primarily locked on Kamukura, but they flicker to you with your outburst. With a suit and styled brown hair, you would have pegged him as a government agent or something, but he seems more nervous than anything.

You realize that you recognize him.

Kamukura turns sharply at your call, red eyes more murderous than they’d been in the past months, but they dull when they meet the newcomer’s. “Makoto Naegi. I understand that you’re here to apprehend me on behalf of the Future Foundation, along with the three dozen soldiers rapidly approaching our location.”

Naegi smiles in return, apologetic. “It’s, uh, good to meet you, Kamukura. But… yeah. Are you…?”

“I will not be running this time,” Kamukura assures him. “I will come quietly.”

You gape at the admission. “Wh—You’re—”

“On one condition.”

“O-Oh? Well, um, sure!” Naegi nods. “Sure. What is it?”

The walking mystery meets your gaze finally, and you hate the hesitancy in them. “My companion here is paralyzed in their lower half and requires medical attention. Physical therapy. Proper meals. I will only surrender if you take care of them as I have. They are not associated with my actions, and they are very important to me.”

Heat flies to your cheeks, but it does nothing to stop the pit from forming in your stomach.

The other seems surprised at Kamukura’s words, but he doesn’t voice it. Instead, his own apprehension melts away in favor of warm understanding. “I swear, we’ll take care of them as our own.”

“Then I surrender.”

“No,” you snap, pushing yourself up from the chair. Your weak legs wobble and threaten to give, but you hold yourself upright. “No, you can’t just leave me. Not after everything.” The desk is released in an attempt to step toward him, and your knees buckle beneath you.

He crosses the room in an instant, catching you under the arms before you fall completely and holding you to his chest. Your name comes out softly as he holds a hand to the side of your head like he did when you met. “I’ve known from the start that my path leads to the Future Foundation. It was a stroke of luck to come across a kind soul like yours along the way. Now I know that the Project could not strip me of all emotion; how else would I feel such fondness as this?”

“But I’m not gonna see you again, am I?”

“It is… unlikely, but not impossible. I won’t die, that much I am certain of. Stay with Naegi and his team until you’re better.”

“Kamukura—”

“That was not a request.”

You’re only faintly aware of the soldiers filing into the room as you hold his suit lapels tightly, stubbornly. They have to pull you from him like lovers separated in a war, and you’re handed off to Naegi as he apologizes to you.

Kamukura is escorted out of the building in restraints, and that’s the last you see of him.

Somewhere in the mess, a flower vase had been knocked over, its contents spilling onto the scorched classroom floor.

– – –

Given your questionable status within the Future Foundation, you’re kept in the dark about the Remnants as soon as they’re shipped off. Not that you expect much different, to be fair. No one trusts you from the moment you enter the facility, despite your lack of hostility and current physical handicap.

Speaking of, you’re quickly gifted a wheelchair for mobility purposes, but therapy is put on hold for the time being. It leaves your legs stiff and sore, even when you try to repeat the stretches Kamukura did with you.

You miss him, and you vocalize it often.

Asahina, a friend of Naegi’s, is in charge of monitoring you while her compatriots oversee the Remnants elsewhere. She does her best to keep you positive, and it only works sometimes.

You’re holding the pixel hair clip close one evening when your room’s monitor flickers on.

It shows the classroom Kamukura took you to, but it’s completely unscathed. Whole. Like the Tragedy never happened at all. You recognize the faces there from what little information you were given about the Remnants—Komaeda… Kuzuryu… Koizumi… all of them.

One girl introduces herself as Chiaki Nanami, and you gasp. Could it be…?

The final student enters the room, and your shock is completely overshadowed as you do a double-take. You know that face. It’s pinched with anxiety, not neutral, but you know it. You know those eyes. They’re olive green, not red, but you know them.

He calls himself Hajime Hinata, and you’re confused as hell.

Hina bursts into your room then, frantic and also confused as hell. She then spills their plan involving the Neo World Program, explaining the idea of blocking out Despair memories to heal their inner selves—or something like that—and clarifying that they did not expect Kamukura to revert to his pre-Project self.

You find that you like Hinata, but you wish he were Kamukura.

Then the killing game starts.

During your time with Kamukura, you’d witnessed the School Life of Mutual Killing, live on television, from start to finish. It was a horrific experience, and you weren’t even there. With the same bear in charge this time, the Remnants end up pressured to begin killing each other.

For the next three weeks, their numbers steadily decrease. You’re relieved that Hinata’s managed to make it this far.

As the program finally winds down, you catch wind of the Board’s displeasure of Naegi’s unauthorized actions. Hina manages to convince Togami to take you with him when he absconds, avoiding the fray, only for you to panic when one final killing game occurs among the Board and trial participants. Togami and his squadron rush to find their location, and you tag along on the helicopter ride to help with damage control.

To your surprise, Naegi insists that he and the others are fine and taken care of, and he points you in the direction of the seafront. You catch a glimpse of Class 77-B, and you take off in your wheelchair to meet them.

They’re piling onto a commandeered Future Foundation battleship, every one of them alive. It should be impossible for that to be the case, but you have a hunch.

You call out for Hinata, who startles, as you approach. Finally, sparing some room between you, your wheelchair comes to a stop. “So, um, you probably don’t know me, but I just…”

All words fail as you notice a distinct change about him—while one eye remains green, the other has taken on that sharp red you used to know. It’s the only thing truly Kamukura-like about him in appearance, but somehow it soothes you. There’s confusion in them, but only for a moment.

Hinata smiles, the warmth filling both eyes, and he says your name without prompt. “He told you he wouldn’t die, right?”

“Is he—”

“He’s in here. I think we have a lot to talk about. Do you think they’d mind if I borrowed you for a bit…?”

“Who the fuck cares?” You roll forward and past him to the ship’s ramp. “My transportation and protection is on this ship. If I’m a traitor, I’m a traitor. Munakata can fuck off.”

A laugh bubbles from him, and your heart flutters at the sound.

Even if he isn’t completely Kamukura, he’s still someone to lean on, both literally and figuratively.

He’s home.

I think there's been a glitch

Five seconds later, I'm fastening myself to you with a stitch

And I'm not even sorry

Nights are so starry, blood moonlit

It must be counterfeit

I think there's been a glitch

#Follower Event :D #salem's works #danganronpa #danganronpa x reader #izuru kamukura #izuru kamakura x reader #kamukura x reader #i hope this was okay anon <3 #writers on tumblr

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gabessquishytum · 1 year ago

Note

There is not enough Yandere/Jealous/Possessive Hob fics in comparison to Dream being the Jealous/Possessive one, so why not change that? (Also, Obviously!Dream because, again, why not?)

Maybe, after everything happens, Dream starts to regularly visit the New Inn and Hob's very happy with that, up until he realizes people are flirting with His Dream.

First, there's this really beautiful woman who, thankfully, Hob was able to resist his initial reaction of wanting to rip her eyes out for looking at His Dream and settled for throwing a possessive arm around His Dream's shoulders as he took a seat. After all, she is His Dream's older sister.

Then, one day, Lady Johanna Constantine is sitting across from His Dream and that won't do at all. Crowley, bless his demonic soul, does owe him some favors. It is only much later does he learn that she is a descendant of the late Lady Constantine and wasn't granted immortality too. At least she survived and, Crowly bless him, would no longer darken the inn's doorsteps.

Calliope is hard, because this is the mother of His Dream's Orpheus, the son His Dream mourned for in his arms (the first time Hob every got to really hold His Dream) and he'd promised His Dream he'd do all he could to ease that pain. Hob couldn't outright kill her or even have one of his associates do it for him. Thankfully, all it takes is a ticket back to Greece and she's gone. (He may have also paid a hefty amount to have a spellcaster bare her entry from the Dreaming and England altogether, but no one needs to know that.)

Hob thought he had it all under control, that he got used to all the lovely woman that surrounded His Dream as none of his darker urges reared their head when a young lass with colorful hair was all but sitting in His Dream's lap the next time they meet up. His Dream was all too happy with how he treated Delirium that night, sending him soft smiles that Hob coveted form himself and himself alone.

He was even polite to Rose Walker, despite wanting to rip her to pieces likes she'd torn apart the Dreaming (the Dreaming was His Dream and His Dream was the Dreaming; that meant, she'd hurt His Dream) when she'd been a Dream Vortex.

However, the night he arrived late to the New Inn and found His Dream sitting at the bar rather than at their table with some guy openly flirting with His Dream and His Dream (obviously to the man's flirting) talking with him, Hob snapped.

Thankfully, his bartender (who wasn't all that of a reformed convict as she pretended to be) knew him well enough and pleaded with His Dream to help her getting Hob's wine down from the top shelf in the backroom (and it made something flutter inside Hob that His Dream only assisted her because it was Hob's wine). When His Dream returned with the wine, Hob had taken the seat the other man stole from him with a fresh cut to his jaw and a bloodstain on his shirt which he readily reassures His Dream was from a minor trip on his way over. Nothing to worry His Dream over and hey, look, His Dream had his favorite wine, they might as well share it together up in his flat where His Dream could clean his injuries if he was so inclined.

So yeah, feral/yandere/possessive!Hob, we need more of those.

Bloodthirsty possessive weirdo Hob is for sure an underrated concept! And you know what? I think Dream would love him.

I mean, we're talking about the Dream who literally wears the skull/spine of an enemy he killed AS A HAT. He put his ex girlfriend in hell. He doesn't exactly have the most shiney moral compass.

And Dream isn't stupid. He knows that Hob has been reigning in his darker impulses and he's actually quite impressed that his friend is so chilled out these days. He knows about Hob’s mercenary past and he knows that it isn't easy to let go of those physical impulses. Even so... it would be nice to see Hob get a little possessive over him. After the whole Burgess fiasco, it would kind of nice to have someone going all defensive, big bad bodyguard-ish for him?

So when he sees that Hob just got in a freakin fistfight while his back was turned for five minutes. That's kind of hot? Dream feels all warm and fuzzy inside for the rest of the evening.

He keeps getting into conversation with random guys at the Inn just to goad Hob into a reaction. Sometimes Dream brings along his own Guy (one of his poor dreams forced to manifest in the waking world so Lord Morpheus can live out his fantasies ig 🙄). Hob gets himself into a tizzy every single time beating these guys up or threatening them or slipping something gross into their drinks. He's getting more and more unhinged every week.

The only problem is that one time Dream brings Destruction along to genuinely meet Hob but Hob is by now so conditioned to go ham on any man he sees talking to His Dream... he ends up in a scuffle with Literal Destruction. It goes about as well as you might expect, Destruction is very apologetic afterwards lol.

The one silver lining? Hob gets to sit on a barstool while Dream patches up his wounds and fusses over him. He even gets a kiss on the cheek!! Scaring off 50% of the inn's patrons with his antics? Entirely worth it.

#the sandman #dreamling #nsft

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trashlie · 1 year ago

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I saw a theory about Mr. Kim being Kousuke's real father. Makes me want to throw up. And then I saw another comment on that thread how the real thing that would break Kou is realizing that Nol is no longer his brother.

And omg ew? Sang Chul would be??

And I'm never getting over Nol's plastered smile. The sneer. The humans suck line.

The "Convince Me" line.

Girl I'm going thru it.

You totally called it on the theories.

The WORST kind of "OH GOD I KNEW IT" weeks have been happening for me when it comes to ILY lmaoooo and I NEED QUIMCHEE TO GIVE ME A BREAK AND LET ME CATCH MY BREATH!!!!!!!!!!!

Gonna drop my thoughts below the read more! Spoilers spoilers spoilers!!!!!!!!!!

When Elle and I talked about the "Rand isn't Kousuke's father" theory on the fourth episode of our podcast I even talked about how as much as I don't want the theory to be true for Kousuke's sake, narratively it's SO compelling and it just makes SO MUCH SENSE. I remember the first time I read the theory, too, how initially I was like "no way, this feels really out there" but it just stuck with me. I couldn't let it go, I kept going back to that panel, the "you're the sole heir" speech bubble over Nol's face and I think I've just always felt that it meant something, you know? That quimchee would NOT have done that if it didn't mean something, if we weren't supposed to read into it, if it wasn't meant to be the earliest of foreshadowing of this theory.

And to have it actually confirmed!!!!! Just has me SCREAMING but absolutely anticipating what it means for everyone!!!! Because not only does it mean everything Kousuke has ever worked for - the only thing he's ever had to his name, the only career option he's ever had - is taken away from him and thrust to someone who may not even want it, someone who wants to be as far away from this family and this coldblooded, bloodthirsty rivalry as he can get.

Neither of them get any reprieve.

Kousuke never had any other option, and is left with nothing.

Nol will likely be thrust into the heart of everything he wants to excuse himself from, everything he's come to resent and loathe and GOD it's insane to see how it's all unfolding, after all this time!!!!!!!!

I think, too, in thinking about the fact that Nol isn't even Kousuke's brother is that it means re-examining the rawness of 212 and what it means for Kousuke, who believes that he got none of the good traits of Rand that he sees in Nol, the good parts that he's never been privileged enough to see in Rand himself, and that he was left with only the worst parts of him - the cold man with his back turned to him. But it's worse, because none of that was his.

(Please know that I am saying this SO VERY LOOSELY, in the sense of how I imagine Kousuke is thinking this. I'm not a fan of the "Rand suspected Kousuke wasn't his son and that's why he was so cold with him" theories. Frankly, I think they're disgusting and it shows an interesting bias in people in how they perceive biological family to be more worthy over, say, adopted family. I think it's very evident that Rand loves both of his sons and has done the best within his means, but has been dealing with an incredibly controlling tyrant of a wife who has ensured that he had little chance to provide the nurturing he wanted to, who ensured that there was a gap between him and Kousuke so that Kousuke would be forever chasing after him, because she needed him to stay focused on her goal. I refuse to humor conversation that implies Rand loves or favors Nol more because that's his biological son and because Kousuke is, currently suspected to be, the son of a Kim, he has less love for him. That's a disgusting mindset. Biological love does not make someone inherently love their child more. Yui herself proves this. And in that same vein, not being Kousuke's biological father does not excuse Rand's part in Kousuke's neglect and that it was the commodification of his love that has factored into how Kousuke has come to view love in this transactional manner and why he struggles to see his father's true love for what it is. Regardless of whose genetic material fathered him, Rand is the man who raised Kousuke as his son, the man Kousuke saw as his father, and therefore he is Kousuke's father.)

Kousuke has modeled himself after his father in every way, tried so hard to emulate him, to be someone who will make his father proud, who can earn his affection and feels like he hasn't succeeded at that yet - and to find out that the man he has spent his entire life emulating is not, in fact, his father? Is going to CRUSH him. Not because it changes the fact that it was Rand who raised him and Rand to whom Kousuke looked up, but because it's yet another lie in a series of Yui's lies, yet another lie that she has used to manipulate him, to mold him into her pawn, to create him into a likeness of something of her own desire, rather than ever allow him to be his own person.

She lied to him about his father. She whispered paranoia to him about his brother his brother's mother. She made him believe that everyone is out to get them, to tear them down, that because they are better than everyone else he can trust no one. She used these tactics to isolate him and played upon the paranoia and fear that she created and instilled upon him so that when he did rebel and stray from her, when he did try to be his own person and have friends and a life of his own, she could pull him back to where she felt he belonged, at her side. She smothered and suffocated him and manipulated and lied to him and nothing she has done to or for him has ever been honest and even his father is a lie. Even his goals and motivation is a lie.

I know a lot of people still hate Kousuke but it fucks me up. It has me choked up, to think of what it must be like to be him, and to have this bombshell thrust upon you, that everything you believed has been a lie, that your mother has been manipulating you for your whole life, she's been drugging you, you have finally grasped the gravity of the harm you have caused using the justification she has equipped you with. To come to the realization that everything you ever justified was never truly justifiable, that you caused harm that cannot be undone.

How do you come back from that?

How do you deal with that?

And then, to find out that the man you've believed was your father isn't. That the only person who ever offered you unconditional love, whose relationship you've destroyed isn't even your brother, and has no reason to ever turn to look your way ever again.

Kousuke was right. He has no brother.

And it devastates me lmao ;____________;

And I do really think that it means his father is Gun Kim. All of the comparisons to Sangchul and Kousuke have haunted me as much as this theory.

BUT MAN IT'S JUST SO MUCH QUIMCHEE IS JUST OUT HERE WITH A BODY COUNT. MA'AM. SLOW DOWN I CAN'T KEEP UP. Nol is on a warpath and I need him to CHILL.

Actually no you know what was the FUNNIEST thing to me about Nol and his humans suck line? THE FACT THAT MY GIRL SHINAE IS OUT HERE BLUSHING.

GIRL. /GIRL/

She is DOWN BAD. SO FUCKING BAD. LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO i can't stand her I love her she's a whole hot mess express I really need to gather myself and drop some thought dump posts over here finally because generally my reaction to all of these episodes lately has been [SCREAMING CAT]

i'm two for two on "dark theories i didn't want to be true but knew in my gut are" and listen. I DON'T KNOW IF I LIKE IT ;_______; HOWLING

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fireemblems24 · 11 months ago

Text

Golden Wildfire Ch 12

My thoughts below. So, about Claude . . .

MAIN STORY

Please just tell me I don't have to kill Felix, Ingrid, Sylvain, Rodrigue, Annette, Gustave, Mercedes, Dedue, or Dimitri :(

Oh, Arval. Forgot about all of that lamo.

Are we circling back to TWSITD and the origins of Shez's powers? It really hasn't played any role in GW so far. In AG, Shez brings it up all the time (with Dimitri always saying it doesn't matter) and in SB the whole "we only promoted you bc we don't trust your power, sorry now we do" thing.

Nadar . . . doesn't want us to call off the attack. He's really a bloodthirsty jerk, isn't he?

Is Claude JUST now figuring out that taking out the Kingdom is a bad idea for the Alliance?

At least Claude's not stupid enough to not realize Edelgard won't take over the Alliance next. Begs the question then, why?

That's what I mean. This is all potentially interesting, I just think Claude's plans are all really stupid.

So, Claude sided with the Empire because he hates the church that much and actually believes all that shit? Or does he really think Edelgard will stop her war when Rhea's dead? (because she definitely does not in Houses when Rhea's captured in her prisons)

I DO like this for Dimitri though. I'm REALLY curious to see what he does. Is it too much to hope that he'll dump the church to rescue his people from war?

IDK, I just love the idea of a Dimitri willing to sacrifice anything - even his sense of right and wrong (since leaving Rhea to die when all she's done is help him IS wrong) to spare his people pain.

But I'm predicting he'll be too stubborn or not trust Claude or Sylvain furious at his father's death will ruin it

But it's also really cool to see Dimitri kinda backed into a corner with no "good" way out.

I can forgive Hopes giving Edelgard a boring af plot, writing Claude like a moron, and making me kill Blue Lions members, but if they miswrite Dimitri here (or Sylvain, kinda worried about that too tbh), I'm really going to be pissed

Also, like if Claude's plan is really just to gank Rhea to stop Edelgard's rampage, that means he really did all this twisting around just to try and stop one woman's murder rampage - why not just, like, take her out? If this is all really about the least death possible, isn't assassinating Edelgard the fastest way to keep more people from dying?

God, please, please, please have Dimitri dump Rhea to spare his people (I'd feel awful for Rhea, but I really, really hope Dimitri proves to be someone who would spare his people any pain, even at the expense of himself - when he's sane at least lamo).

On the flip side, I'm dying to play GW. It's plot may not make any sense and my opinion of Claude has tanked, but you can't say it's not entertaining.

LORENZ & LEONIE B SUPPORT

Kinda sad they only go to B. They were cute together in Houses. Seems some of the ships got turned up to 11 and others got dialed down.

Lorenz is contemplating his existence in a world where commoners don't rely on the nobility.

He's struggling to see from the commoner's POV, so he wants a commoner to serve as an advisor. Honestly, Lorenz, pretty good call.

The way Lorenz talks about Leonie and her choices, it makes it sound like history was trending towards commoners and nobles not being so rigid without Edelgard doing anything.

Leonie turns down Lorenz's offer because she wants to be a mercenary.

LORENZ & MARIANNE A SUPPORT

Lorenz wakes up after getting injured. Marianne thinks it's her fault, which I saw coming.

Lorenz thought he imagined Marianne asking for help, but she actually did.

Marianne realizes she wanted to live, hence why she called for help. So she's feeling guilty that the end result is Lorenz got hurt.

Lorenz is encouraging and is happy Marianne opened up to him.

Honestly, a better support for him than a lot of the Hopes ones.

CAMP/SIDE MAPS

Balthus is . . . really hung up on the idea of wrestling Dimitri, isn't he?

So some NPC talked about how the Kingdom is getting attacked on all fronts. I can't be the only one who finds it amusing that Dimitri with his smaller army and surrounded by enemies is doing a better job than Edelgard with her massive one lol.

When Hapi proves way smarter than Claude, knowing how massively stupid Claude's plan of "let's kill everyone they love and then force whoever is left over to listen to us! I'm sure they'll be thrilled." Hapi's like, eh, not sure this will work.

Man, Ashe is just miserable when you recruit him. I do find it kind of heartwarming in a weird way how miserable all the recruitable Lions end up being (even in Houses, moreso than the other houses at least). Ashe and Felix taking the cake, but Mercedes was regretting her life choices the last SB chapter too.

Aww, Yuri is worried about Ashe and finds Claude cruel for forcing him to fight against the Kingdom.

Holy shit, Shez really spitting facts to Claude's face, telling him his plan is a giant disaster (Dimitri won't fall for intimidation tactics, and Edelgard won't stop attacking people even after she runs out of excuses.) As insufferable as all of the Golden Deer are in this game, at least we've got stuff like this pointing out how cruel and stupid they're being.

Lamo, take only one unit into the map, as if that's a challenge. I literally only use Lorenz. This'll be easy in AG too bc Dimitri's such a beast. Dreading it in SB though.

Annette is still alive here at least :( And Rodrigue. And Gustave. (we're with the Blue Lions discussing Claude being ... GW!Claude)

Sylvain thinks Claude's an idiot lol. Dimitri and Sylvain are sussing him out.

I love how Dimitri is the only character who's goal is to avoid bloodshed among the lords. The other two are, uh, yeah.

Oh.... is Dimitri actually going to run over the church? Like I wanted? When Dimitri's the best character in GW lol.

Dimitri looking out for Sylvain, knowing how angry he is with Claude.

I had to fight Ingrid :(

SHEZ & LYSITHEA A SUPPORT

Lysithea catches Shez assuring a younger girl that she doesn't seem like a child, but an adult.

Predictably, Lysithea gets angry, because it's Lysithea, but to be fair, she's upset because Shez said the same thing and thinks Shez is being insencere.

Shez admits that it's not cool, what she did, but she's bad at advice and keeps using the same lines she's learned from stories lamo. I love Shez.

Honestly, Lysithea is kinda right to get mad here, at least I get it unlike some of the times with her.

Lamo, Shez can borrow another line from a story. I'm gonna piss her off bc I can lol.

Lysithea buys it. I wonder if it's the same line lol.

SHEZ & SHAMIR C

Having mercenary talk. I had Shez choose to ask for help. Shamir offered once she's free.

Shez comments how mature Shamir is. Shamir comments how relaxed Shez is (but it's a positive thing, not like a judgment).

They bond over having lost trusted allies, including the ones at the beginning for Shez.

Kinda boring, but honestly these two are almost too well matched, like not enough tension and just too normal lol

LYSITHEA & HILDA A

Hilda wants to gossip, but Lysithea only goes on about how awesome Holst is, so she's not interested.

She thinks he should be more careful as head of household, but Lysithea points out that he has no choice.

Hilda is worried who Holst is married. There's an ick here where Lysithea thinks that's because he's too focused on Hilda.

Hilda just talks about who Lysithea might marry, which, yeah...

Hilda offers to help Lystheia out, and some, um, implications that she'll be Lysthesia's new family - she says big sister, but there's def some ship teasing

They made Hilda really flirt with all the girls this time lol

CLAUDE & HAPI B

Hapi finds Claude easier to talk to than Edelgard and Dimitri.

Props to Hapi for telling Claude not to unload his trauma on her.

Hapi's like if you're bitching, why not just quit? Lamo.

Hapi says she'll support him.

MARIANNE & BERNADETTA A

Honestly don't remember if I've seen this in SB already or not.

Bernie likes Marianne's painting, but not her own. This is true vice versa, because of course it is.

Marianne compliments Bernie's horsemanship.

Two shy girls compliment each other, then get shy.

Then Bernie asks what Marianne wants to do after the war and Marianne becomes a Disney princess, wanting to sit in the woods with animals. Bernie wants to finish a story. Honestly, both girls picked amazing options I too want.

Bernie's story is about Marianne lamo. But Marianne isn't mad, she just wants to read it.

I really find their friendship cute, ngl.

Also, Bernie supports Dimitri, so there's no way she's NOT writing fanfic about his life because it's a never drying well there.

LORENZ & RAPHAEL C

Lorenz asks Raphael why he didn't just stay at his family's inn instead and joined the war instead

Raphael wants to keep his family safe, and thinks that following Claude will bring peace to the world (lamo) so that's why

Lorenz is more grounded, saying that all he's doing is exposing his family to the dangers of war

Which, Lorenz isn't wrong, but he also starts prattles more about nobility need to do everything and commoners nothing

But like, does Lorenz really think you can make an army out of nobles only, because, like, that just doesn't happen

Raphael is touched lamo, thinking Lorenz is concerned

Raphael just challenges him to a muscles competition

It is amusing to see Lorenz try to give his spiel and Raphael just keeps doing his own thing

Like ALL of Lorenz's supports in this game is this though, he's more repetitive than Bernedetta at this point

LORENZ & CONSTANCE A

Lorenz is bragging about himself, Constance is in the sun so she's . . . not

You know, I was thinking just how insufferable Lorenz would be in my playthrough because he's like 10 levels ahead of everyone, a god on the battlefield, always MVP - he like trounces everyone so he's be bragging and he'd be right - I wish Claude had to deal with this, watching Lorenz win the war for him and have to put up with Lorenz being Lorenz over it

They overdid it a bit with her sunshine personality - like Dimitri and Marianne are very realistic about a lack of self-worth, but Constance just comes across like a joke (and maybe that's all she's supposed to be)

Poor Lorenz is just confused and wants the normal Constance

I do have a soft spot for when male characters are desperate for the snotty side of a female character to come back (like, really just talking about Rutger and Clarine)

This is going on for too long though without any change

LYSITHEA & LEONIE B

Lysithea mistook a mercenary Leonie talked to for a bandit

But he's just someone who loot dead bodies on battlefields

I always found that kind of distasteful

Lysithea feels torn because she wants to learn about commoners more, but doesn't seem comfortable talking to people who steal coins off dead people, which same

Lysithea of course wants to know about commoner sweets

And Leonie talks about how they can't afford noble treats and likes commoner snacks (hopefully different from Chole's folk food lamo)

SHEZ & YURI C

Shez is snooping on Yuri's letter. I love that Shez is a snoop.

Yuri's pissed though, lamo. He threatens Shez's life though. That's a bit . . . much.

I'm going to pretend I didn't read it lol.

OMG YURI HAS A MOM. SOMEONE IN THIS GAME HAS A MOM.

She's ill so he was visiting her.

He's a bit needlessly sometimes.

IGNATZ & LYSITHEA B

Lysithea thinks there's something wrong with Ignatz.

She guesses right that he's unhappy, but guesses wrong that he wishes he ran his father's company instead of his brother.

He slips up that he admits he's only a knight to please his family.

Awww, Lysithea offers Ignatz the opportunity to live in Ordelia territory and does whatever he wants to afterwords.

She was actually really sweet in this support.

Also, anyone else realize that Ignatz is proof that the church/crests/inheritance isn't the one forcing children to do things they don't want to? It's human greed?

CLAUDE & HAPI A

Claude left a meeting because he was bored of people arguing. Hapi also left a meeting.

Oh, interesting, Hapi asks Claude if he would walk away if someone could take his place. Claude says no that he wants to get a lot done and can't let anyone else do it. So a really uninteresting answer.

LEONIE & LINHARDT B

Linhardt got a gift he doesn't want so he offered it to Leonie.

Lamo, Linhardt forgot the meeting he set up with Leonie.

He gives her a notebook already full, so she wants to give him something in return.

She gives him a rock that turns out to be part of an ancient relic and he gets thrilled.

Linhardt comes to the conclusion that they value the complete opposite things, but they decides they're actually not a special pairing lamo.

MAIN BATTLE

Ugh, not looking forward to this.

Wow, imagine that, the Kingdom isn't bringing them a welcoming party. Like, did Shez really expect that?

They're a bunch of psychos. They're all excited to go kill people because they're strong warriors.

"Let's see if a crushing defeat can get through Dimitri's thick skull." Because you like tried talking with him so many times before???

What is Claude smoking? He's never tried anything but bloodshed of innocent Kingdom people to accomplish anything in this route?

I see what people mean when they say this is one of the most unlikeable casts ever.

Gustave's middle name is Eddie. Not Edward. Eddie. Suffering through GW is worth knowing that.

Also, fuck, I don't want to fight Annette and Gustave, who are only defending their home.

Thank fuck, Annette retreated. Having SB flashbacks where I had to kill Annette. Annette.

And thank God that Gustave did too.

On the flip side, I sort of wish GW wasn't so wish-washy and they all died. At least SB has the guts to show there's consequences for your character's actions. But GW like to pretend only Annette and Gustave matter and it'll be ok to slaughter thousands of low born people of Faerghus every single level because they're not named.

Dimitri evacuated his citizens. I think he's literally the only lord who did that lamo. (I remember distinctly Edelgard not doing that in VW, and I don't think Claude did in CF or AM? Could be wrong about Claude).

FUCK. Dedue. If he doesn't retreat, I swear to God I can't finish this.

Oh, God, not Sylvain too.

Wait, what the fuck, Claude. His "defense" against Sylvain accusing (rightly so) Claude of invading his home and murdering his parents is that "we're all risking our lives here." I guess Faerghus is 2-for-2 whenever someone is actually allowed to criticize people who are invading them.

At least Sylvain retreated.

Dimitri appeared to defend Faerghus. I swear whoever wrote this game didn't care at all about the Golden Deer.

Oh, a cut scene. Also pretty sure Shez called Dimitri Faerghus' strongest soldier.

Well, at least Dimitri being an utter and complete badass in this game continues since Claude admitted that he could never win against him. And he needed Hilda and Lorenz to just push him back, not even defeat him.

Oh, great, more backtracking. Claude has to retreat. Does this mean I have to fight Dimitri again?

You're right, Hilda, it's the same thing all over again. God, this gets old.

It would be funny if it was the Empire, but it's probably just TWSITD. It's pretty funny Claude is the one who learns the least in Hopes vs Houses.

At least Annette and Sylvain are still alive.

Gotta love also how damn badass Faerghus is in general, fighting a 3-way battle and not losing.

Dedue is here too, my beloved.

I love seeing Claude taking another L and having to retreat again.

xxx

#golden wildfire #fire emblem #fire emblem three hopes #three hopes #three hopes spoilers #golden wildfire spoilers

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caffedrine · 2 years ago

Text

This is just a very quick and dirty plot summary from chapters 25 and the epilogue of the dramatic route. Lots of spoilers, I'm leaving out a lot of information, and there's no guarantee that it's accurate.

I made it so that I could follow along with the plot, keep track of the mysteries, and a few of the interesting scenes.

Spoilers for Gilbert's route

Spoilers, Spoilers, Spoilers

In an empty hallway, Emma and Roderich wait outside the medical wing for word from Walter.

Thanks to Lucien, they were able to deliver Gilbert to Walter, and he was rushed into the surgery suite. Walter had warned them that Gilbert’s chances were already low, and even if Gilbert had been in perfect health, the results would not be guaranteed. The surgery has never been performed before, and was a lot more theoretical than it should be. But Gilbert had finally given him permission to perform it, and like a responsible doctor, Walter promises them that he will succeed.

While they wait for news, Luke walks by and stops by them. He asks why Emma looks so glum, you’d think someone was dying or something. He asks if she was able to speak to Gilbert. Emma stutters and Roderich cuts in, explaining that Gilbert is missing. It’s currently a secret, but they’re conducting a search for him, and he’d appreciate it if Luke kept this to himself. Emma is simply morose since she was planning on talking to Gilbert.

Luke groans, first Gilbert taunts Emma to come and kill him, but when she finds her resolve, he goes missing. Who even knows what is going on in Gilbert’s mind?

Roderich replies that Gilbert often randomly goes missing, usually because of some secret plot or another. He’ll show up sooner or later.

Luke reports that while Gilbert is missing, he never got around to changing the timetable to send out the bullets. They’re going to miss their chance at the signing ceremony, and now Luke is upset that this entire trip was a waste of time.

Addressing Emma, Luke admits that he’s taken the time to consider what she said to him earlier. And she’s right, killing the Royal Family of Rhodolite is too kind, he needs to find another way to exact vengeance. Vengeance that will hound them and weigh heavily on their hearts as they live their long lives in remorse.

Emma wishes him luck on that. She’s pleased to hear that Luke is considering other options besides murder.

Luke pats Emma’s head and tells her that it’s late enough that she should just go to bed. Gilbert will be fine, he always is.

After Luke leaves, Emma thanks Roderich for covering for her. He tells her not to mention it.

Roderich brings up what he told Emma about the Day of the Blood-Stained Roses. No matter what Gilbert has told her, he had been extremely angry at the civilians’ deaths, more than anything else that had happened that day. Roderich asks if Emma can guess what the first thing Gilbert had done after killing the Emperor.

Obsidian was exhausted from the wars the Bloodthirsty Emperor had waged, with the citizens taxed beyond their ability to pay. In addition, the country was suffering from a famine and there was not enough food to feed its citizens. Gilbert’s first order of business was to secure and ration out food to the citizens.

Emma thinks to what she saw back at the city, and how it must have been so different 10 years ago. Everyone had been lively and bustling, if she didn’t know any better, she might have thought it was a nice city in Rhodolite.

This is why everyone in the castle adores Gilbert. In only 10 years he took a country on the brink of collapse and made it into what it is now. Roderich is only upset that only the people in the castle know this; the people in the city don’t realize that all their advancements are due to Gilbert. Everyone who knows the truth views Gilbert as a savior, their last hope in this corrupt country. Roderich thinks that Gilbert had high expectations for Emma, including handling Luke.

Roderich apologizes for being so forward, but if Gilbert is the savior of Obsidian, then Emma is Gilbert’s savior.

At some point during the night, Roderich fetches some chairs from a nearby room so they can sit and wait. Eventually the night fades into daybreak, and the door leading to the medical wing opens to reveal Walter. He’s surprised to see that they both waited all night long, but they ignore him to ask about Gilbert.

There’s good news and bad news. The good news is that the surgery was successful and Gilbert will live. The bad news is that they have no idea if they were quick enough for him to ever wake up again. Walter does have one last message from Gilbert to Emma.

“Good luck with the signing ceremony.”

As a proxy to the Emperor of Obsidian, Emma attends the signing ceremony to be held by the four nations. Even if it was created by a whim of Gilbert’s, this was everyone’s opportunity for a peaceful future, and there might never be a second chance at this.

Emma isn’t naïve enough to think that the treaty will actually stop Gilbert and his evil plots, but she believes it’s a step towards opening dialogue rather than war. Emma attends wearing the black dress Gilbert had ordered made for her, as well as the obsidian necklace in his secret flat.

Emma was not met with welcome when she arrived, and the Kings of Jade and Benitoite looked suspiciously at her. She understands, after all, just a month ago she was a commoner, and now she is expected to be the personal representative of the Evil Emperor of the Evil Empire. If she let her guard down at all, she would be intimidated by the powerful men around her.

Both the King of Jade and the King of Benitoite are insulted by the Emperor of Obsidian not attending. Emma gives a flimsy excuse of both the Emperor and Gilbert being very busy with internal matters, but they had agreed that this matter was important enough to send someone to sign. She presents the documents naming her as the proxy to the Emperor.

Chevalier, the new King of Rhodolite, has her back through this. He insists that it doesn’t matter who signs, the proxy documents make Emma’s signature just as legally binding as if it was the Emperor himself here. He asks if they are going to throw away this opportunity because of one woman.

They are not.

Before she realized he was sick, Gilbert had spent time with Emma going over the treaty, making sure she could understand the clauses and could tell if anything had been changed after the 4-nation meeting.

The document was the same as what Gilbert had taught her, and the signing went without problems. At the conclusion, the meeting hall full of witnesses erupted in applause.

Afterwards, Emma and her detachment of Obsidian Soldiers snuck out of the Castle of Rhodolite, and she made her way to Gilbert’s secret flat. Since it’s important to Gilbert, she has her guard wait at the mouths of the alley, and enters alone. To destress, Emma begins to give the flat a thorough cleaning.

It is at this time that she discovers another letter. She remembers Gilbert saying that he had last been here as a child, and surmises the letter was from then. The fact that it is addressed as from Chevalier Michel does surprise her. She remembers Gilbert mentioning reading the books in the room with another child his age.

It puts into a new light her final meeting with King Chevalier just earlier.

After the signing of the treaty, they had a chance to speak alone. Chevalier had received Lucien’s report, and Emma understands that she doesn’t need to say anything about the mission he sent her on; he already knows everything.

Chevalier warns Emma that as long as Gilbert is alive, he is a threat. Emma understands and promises that she will stop him. Chevalier warns her that she can only stop him while she holds true to her very flimsy ideals. No matter how much she wishes otherwise, there are always people who are impossible to understand through dialogue, and one must resort to violence.

Emma isn’t that naïve; she already knows all of this. However, she maintains that violence should be the last resort, after all other options have been exhausted.

Chevalier is similar to Gilbert, but unlike Gilbert he has Clavis and Leon to help him think of a third path. Gilbert doesn’t have that support, so she must fulfill that role.

Chevalier tells her that she has the worst taste in men.

He also giver his blessing: the minute she becomes his enemy, he will kill her together with Gilbert. Emma assures him that she won’t let that happen. Chevalier snorts and hands her an envelope and asks her to give it to Gilbert. With a flip of his cape, he leaves the room.

There is still so much that Emma doesn’t know about Gilbert, but she’s learning more every day.

In Gilbert’s hideout, Emma takes a quick moment to have a cry, the hostility she has encountered since arriving in Rhodolite and her worries about Gilbert catching up to her. She has to stay in the hideout until the sun is set and the stars shine brightly in the sky.

Emma doesn’t linger in Rhodolite long; but she does take the time to say goodbye to the people who were especially worried about her, chief among them Yves, Rio, and the bookstore owner, Akatsuki. She says goodbye to her former home and rushes back to Obsidian, not knowing if Gilbert will ever wake up.

Emma and the soldiers decide to rest for the night in a town just passed the Rhodolite-Obsidian border. Emma and a soldier have an awkward moment when she exits the carriage, and a soldier instinctively offers his hand to help her down.

Emma almost touches him, but then they both freeze as they both remember Gilbert’s orders. Awkwardly both retract their hands. She follows the soldier toward an inn, when suddenly her detachment all move away from her.

Confused, Emma looks around, only to see Walter and Roderich waiting for her. She hurries over to them, but they immediately begin making frantic motions. Walter looked paler the closer she got, and while she can’t see Roderich’s face with his hood up, she understands that they mean for her to stay back. Suddenly the soldiers all around her drop to their knee and bow their heads reverently.

Whispering directly into her ear, Gilbert complains that she’s running off to other men while he’s right here. Even though he went out of his way to pick her up, she’s going to make him want to kill everyone here.

As Emma’s eyes blur with tears, Gilbert darts forward to kiss her. Emma grabs his jacket and buries her head against his chest, trying not to cry. Quietly, Gilbert reminds her that the soldiers have no reason to know why she’s acting relieved. Pulling away, Emma loudly says that she’s simply crying because she’s happy to see him. Gilbert smiles at her and then loudly asks if anyone here saw her face. The soldiers, who are all very pointedly not looking at them, all announces that they have seen nothing.

Gilbert’s happy to hear that, it sounds like he probably wont have to kill this entire group. He gives them a quick signal, and the soldiers all withdraw, leaving behind Emma, Gilbert, Roderich and Walter.

Emma has a lot of things that she wants to say to Gilbert, so much that she needs a moment to put it into words. Gilbert came to meet her, he let her attend the signing ceremony, he chose to live, everything crowds in Emma’s mouth.

Emma sincerely thanks him, for the first time smiling at Gilbert without any melancholy behind her. Gilbert smiles back at her, just as sweet and bright.

They travel together to the Castle of Obsidian, and Emma is able to give a report on what happened in Rhodolite. Gilbert listens to every word with interest, and at the end points out that he still hasn’t changed his mind about his values. Even with the invisible shackles of the non-aggression treaty, he can still trample the countries. His specialty is inciting civil wars to collapse governments, none of which is even prevented by the treaty.

Emma climbs into his lap and is pulled down onto Gilbert’s bed. He knows that her plans changed when she saw him dying alone in that flat, but he wonders what her original plans were.

Emma admits that she could not change Gilbert’s mind in just one day. So, her goal was to remind Gilbert that love is true the essence of humans. Gilbert is confused, and Emma reveals that a long time ago, she and Chevalier spoke about it, that there are no true villains, just people who are influenced by their environment.

Gilbert remind her to consider that he has murdered many people for very little reason.

Emma was chosen as Belle, because she was deemed skilled at determining the essence of people. What she has judged him for is that no matter how much blood coats his hands, Gilbert hasn’t lost the ability to love people. And, because he still loves people, he hasn’t lost his hope in them, including those in power.

Once, Emma had promised to drag Gilbert into her warm world of human kindness. If his environment made him into the villain he is today, she will change his environment and fill him with compassion. If Gilbert, the ultimate evil of the world can go from corrupt to pure, that means anyone can without needing violence. It’s not too late for them to give up on the world and wallow in despair.

Gilbert sums up what Emma is saying; she’s trying to stop the evil deeds of the trampling beast by confessing her love to him. If she were to choose her own words to summarize it; Emma would say that she doesn’t think that a Happy Ending is possible without him.

Gilbert nods, she has a interesting argument.

Unlike any of the sweet kisses before, this kiss is terrible, bordering on violent. A finger presses into her mouth and forces it open so Gilbert’s tongue can go deeper. The kiss takes away her breath, and Emma has to pound on Gilbert’s chest to make him stop long enough for her to breathe.

Gilbert asks if Emma wants him to remember how to love, right? She should know that her ideals have a price. Emma wails for him to give her a second, but he’s already unlacing her corset. Soon, her blouse is completely unbuttoned. Then, almost like magic, Emma isn’t wearing any clothes.

Gilbert stares at her, and Emma pulls up the sheets, covering herself. Somehow, this action makes her feel even more cornered. Laughing, Gilbert offers to take off his eyepatch, so that he can see her better.

Under the eyepatch is a brilliant ultramarine blue, the color almost identical to Yves’ rather than Rio or Chevalier’s eyes. Unlike the red one, this one is overflowing with kindness and affection. Emma asks why he’s hid it all the time. Gilbert asks if she can guess why he suddenly wants her to know his last secret.

As Emma mentally goes over their conversation, Gilbert begins to take off his clothes. Soon, he is biting her all over her body. He bites Emma’s chest, her collarbone, her shoulder, her arm, and, as if that wasn’t enough, he also leaves hickeys all over her. While the bites were sweet, they did hurt, and Emma rolls over to protect her front. Gilbert shifts so that his body weight is ontop of her.

If Gilbert were to die, and someone with the exact same features as him were to take his place, it would be difficult if everyone knew that he had heterochromia. Gilbert had known he would die young ever since he was a child, and had accepted it. But he was worried that his older brother, Albert, would get lonely, and after hearing the story about a noble woman picking a slave to replace her dying child, Gilbert decided to do the same thing.

But now, when he’s alone with Emma, Gilbert doesn’t need the eyepatch.

Gilbert loves Emma, and only her, but he expects her to live up to his expectations. Emma understands, she is going to have to prevent the disaster of the world from raining down on the continent. At the same time, Gilbert is making it so that she does have the capability to stop him. Gilbert feels sorry for her, Emma is going to carry the world on her back from now on. He traces one of his bite marks with his fingers.

Emma understands that the scars on her body and heart are going to increase now that she has accepted Gilbert’s love.

When Gilbert warns Emma that he is going ot make it so that she cries every time that she thinks of him, and warns her that he won’t ever stop loving her. He apologizes for being the bad guy.

Emma thinks that’s fair, after all, she was planning on making him cry every time he thinks of her too. Gilbert smiles and laughs and when Emma turns to look at him, he kisses her again.

Gilbert and Emma used to be friends, but from now on, they are going to be lovers. Emma agrees, what they’re doing right now isn’t something that friends do.

Human warmth lingers in Gilbert’s cold fingers.

~~~

The castle understands Emma’s position as a lady from Rhodolite, who is favored by Gilbert. With Gilbert’s 50 decrees, distance remains between Emma and the residents of the castle, and she finds it exceedingly difficult to make friends.

In fact, it’s getting worse.

Right now, Emma is chained to Gilbert’s bed by a very lovely set of iron shackles. They are made to resemble a rose and vines, a very beautiful testament to the craftsman’s skill. And they have completely robbed Emma of her freedom.

Earlier that day, the bookstore owner, Akatsuki had visited her and Gilbert at the castle with a satchel full of books. When Emma had rushed to hug him, Gilbert had stopped her, complaining that she was too close to another man. Not even pointing out that Akatsuki was, for all intents and purposes, her adoptive father had changed Gilbert’s mind. Instead, Gilbert had hugged her tightly from behind and politely greeted his new ‘father’.

Akatsuki was not amused, he didn’t tell Gilbert all about Emma only for them to get married. Gilbert assures him that it will be fine, after all Gilbert would make a very handsome son in law. He asks Emma if she would agree that he’s been nothing but kind to her. Feeling like she is being tugged in two different directions, Emma nods, but Akatsuki’s expression does not improve.

More seriously, Gilbert assures him that he’s been protecting Emma from the malice of the Obsidian nobles and there is no reason to fear for her. Emma adds that she has been enjoying her time here with Gilbert.

Akatsuki tells them that he’s still considering this Emma’s vacation time, and he hasn’t given up on her returning to Rhodolite and his bookstore. Gilbert asks him consider Emma resigned from her place of employment. Akatsuki tells him that their employer-employee contract has absolutely nothing to do with him.

On to business, Akatsuki has a selection of books from the Country of Tanzanite, the Country of Divination and Illusion. The books were mostly academic ones, history, methods of food cultivation in a desert environment, and agriculture. Emma notes that there is also a selection of romance novels that are out of place.

Emma is surprised, when going through Gilbert’s personal library, there were no romance novels, and she asks if he’s branching out. Gilbert doesn’t mind the thought, but he requested them on her behalf. His current plan is to have a shelf full of romance novels in his room, that way Emma will be tempted to stay forever in his room. He smiles at her and kisses her head.

Emma realizes that Gilbert is being very affectionate with her in public, right in front of her semi-adoptive father. She suggests that they wait until later, but Gilbert refuses, kissing her ear as well.

Looking less than pleased, Akatsuki warns them that he will be looking in on them often. And, if he thinks that Emma is looking less than whole and hale, he will kill Gilbert. Gilbert isn’t worried and promise to take good care of Emma.

When Akatsuki departs the castle, Emma lets Gilbert have a piece of her mind; he is getting far to comfortable with these public displays of affection. Even when they’re not in public, he is very clingy and physically affectionate. Take now, for example, he is literally holding her so that she can’t leave his lap!

Gilbert understands that Emma only feels comfortable with affection if they’re alone. So, he decides to confine her to his room so that he can be affectionate with her all the time. He wants to always cuddle with her, and with the restrictions Emma is putting on him, his options are to kill everyone around her or keep her isolated with him.

Gilbert makes Emma sit on the bed, and then carefully wraps a linen cloth around her ankle, and suddenly she hears a click and feels cold metal through the cloth. Emma realizes that Gilbert has shackled her ankle, and the chain is attached to his bedpost.

Emma argues with him for several hours, until the sun sets and dyes the world red. She complains that Gilbert is a tyrant who thinks that she’ll allow anything just because she’s in love.

Lying next to her and playing with a lock of her hair, Gilbert assures her that this isn’t tyranny. He’s just overflowing with love for her. He asks if she’s trying to say that she doesn’t love being with him all the time, is this as far as her declaration of love went?

Emma asks him to consider this from her point of view; how would he feel if she were to imprison him to her bed.

Well, Gilbert is actually into that idea. Emma reminds him that he has duties, things that he needs to do, but Gilbert disagrees. Right now, he’s an emperor in name only, and not even that. He’s mostly retired; he made it so that with all the people he’s gathered here in the castle, the country could be run without him.

Oh. Right.

Gilbert leans over Emma, holding her to him and kissing her mouth even as she protested. Like a trampling beast, his tongue is in her mouth, conquering everything it touched. Her clothes are shifted and cold hands run over her skin. Emma’s body begins to burn and Gilbert brags that he knows all of Emma’s weaknesses.

Gilberts fingers slip inside Emma as he caresses her ear with his mouth. She can feel Gilbert’s smile as she trembles, shacked by the addictive pleasure as well as the actual shackles. Emma wonders if Gilbert really does intend to lock her up in his bed for all of eternity.

Eventually Gilbert takes off his military coat, and admits that he’s anxious when Emma isn’t tied up and free. Its easy to control people with fear, but he has no idea how to control her with love. Because of that, he’s afraid that this is all a dream that will blow away like smoke.

Suddenly Gilbert laughs, he was joking when he said that he would confine her forever. Besides, he just promised Akatsuki that he wouldn’t do anything to kill Emma’s spirit. He asks Emma if she would like to shackle him now. Since she loves him, he doesn’t think that he would need to escape. He wants to find out what the balance between them is, and what both can tolerate.

Well, in that case, Emma doesn’t mind going for a little revenge. She pounces on Gilbert and sinks her teeth into his shoulder through his shirt. Biting is how Gilbert loves to demonstrate his affection, and she wonders how well he will take it. Pulling back, she looks into his face, only to see him dazed with averted eyes.

Emma asks if it hurt too much, but Gilbert assures her it didn’t. Rather, a whole new world just opened in front of him.

Emma realizes that she has made a huge mistake.

Before she can pull away, Gilbert wraps his arms around her and pulls her on top of him. He thinks this is perfect, they can imprison each other and bite each other lots. Gilbert laughs in delight as Emma nearly collapses on top of him.

Gilbert has trouble trusting in love, and Emma wants him to learn to love her without feeling anxious.

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