#its very useful for scaring off Soldiers and Civilians alike

[genesisorionix22]

So I have an OC,

This is Dr Penn (sometimes Penny, He/She), a Höllvanian doctor researching the Technocyte infestation. Initially she was working with Scaldra but he didn't want the infestation to be destroyed necessarily since it could be used for great medical benefit

So he sought out Albrecht to become one of his "Volunteers", and was infected with the Nidus batch. Now she can kinda speak to and through the techrot, as well as VERY rapidly heal wounds and regrow whole limbs (though the new flesh is fully infested, not Penny's)

Her weapons of choice are a Vesper-77 Pistol stolen from a Scaldra agent and just a fucking chainsaw. Guy who tears you in two. Girl who is so blood and guts. It's surprisingly effective against the armoured suits some Scaldra soldiers use, as well as for cutting through thick techrot.

Idk if he would be directly allied with the Hex, she feels like the kind of person to more hide out and experiment by herself.

[reneeofthestars]

Nerra Voa Numa

** I’m so excited to finally share the fic I wrote for “Found: A Clone Wars Zine”!! This was such an amazing project to be a part of, and I’m so thankful to the mods for allowing me to participate. **

***Leftover sales for the zine are currently open, so check out @foundaclonewarszine if you are interested in purchasing one of these amazing zines!***

Click “Keep Reading” to stay on Tumblr, or read it on AO3 

*     *     *

The bustle of the spaceport felt oddly comforting. Boil squinted against the harsh Rylothian sunlight as he stepped off the hoverbus, letting himself be jostled along by the crowd. Food carts tempted him with sweet aromas, pilots called for cargo or passengers, engines roared and sputtered on the landing platforms, droids and beings alike called and beeped and whistled.

The debarkation processes for civilian freighters and transports were far less organized than those the Grand Army of the Republic had used, but it had a liveliness to it, an energy that reminded Boil of the anticipation that had filled him the first time he watched the oceans of Kamino shrink into a cloudy sphere before vanishing altogether in the blur of hyperspace.

He hadn’t felt that excitement in years.  When the Imperial troops loaded into the cruisers – that is, the Star Destroyers – it was like watching some parody of Boil and his fellow soldiers. The clones set out under orders to drive back the mindless Separatist droids and defend the citizens, and their focus was palatable. The stormtroopers were commanded to instill order – even when there was no disorder to be found – and their energy felt…wrong.  

Boil had worn the stormtrooper armor for years as he trained new recruits. He remembered how civilians had looked at the clone troopers when they came to the cities during the war – yes, there had been skepticism and dismissal; but there had also been relief, friendliness, appreciation. As a stormtrooper, he only felt positive emotions from a select few Core Worlds. Everywhere else, the civvies looked uneasy, mistrustful, even scared.

But he had been able to chalk those feelings up to the vast changes in the galaxy. The war had begun and ended so suddenly; residual turmoil was expected. He went on as he always had: a soldier following orders.

And he had fellow clones in the ranks that he spent time with. They mostly kept to themselves; the natural-born recruits viewed them as either superiors or inferiors. They had quietly complained about the degraded plastoid armor and inefficient helmets, reminisced old battles, spoken to each other like only brothers could. But one by one, they died in skirmishes with criminals, or were forced into retirement by their superiors, until Boil was the last clone at the Arkanis Imperial Academy. He’d never been without a brother before, and the loneliness had almost swallowed him whole.

He had known it was only a matter of time, but that hadn’t stopped the swooping sensation in his gut the day his supervisory officer told him to clear out his bunk and come to her office. He’d signed the discharge doc absently, writing his nickname without thinking. The officer had scowled and ordered him to resign it with his birth number.

And now, here he was: a clone on Ryloth with a limited credit supply, a bag of clothes, his old armor, and no idea what he was supposed to do now.

A passing Rodian caught his eye and frowned, like she was trying to figure out if she knew him. Boil ducked his head and hurried on, securing his headwrap closer to his face, trying to obscure it best he could. It had been ten years since the end of the war, and most civilians seemed to have already forgotten its existence. But there was still an impression that the clones were somehow responsible for the hardships of the war, which could lead to…problems. Boil ran a gloved hand over his face. Getting a job would be difficult.

Maybe he could be a mechanic. Or a mercenary. Or maybe a bodyguard. He’d have to find a place to buy a good blaster – the Empire hadn’t let him take his standard-issue blaster with him. Outside of war, he wasn’t sure what he could actually do. Maybe –

“Nerra.”

Boil froze. The voice was high and feminine, coming from somewhere off to his right. It was said quietly, almost absently, but it struck him to the core. He had a flash of a ghost town in a canyon, a small girl calling after him –

He spun around.

A young, teal-skinned Twi’lek woman was walking past, pushing a hovercrate brimming with electronic scrap. She wasn’t looking at him; she focused on the crowd in front of her, shooing away vendors that got too close.

Boil felt his breath catch, turning to tell Waxer – but no, Waxer had died years ago, what was he thinking?

He didn’t recall stepping forward. All he knew was tripping over his own feet as he hurried after her. “Ex – excuse me? Ma’am!”

She kept walking.

“Ma’am? Ma’am!” Why were his hands shaking? He stumbled to a stop. “Numa?”

She jerked to a halt, whipping around to face him, her head-tails swinging. Her eyes widened. “What did you say?” she demanded in heavily accented Basic.

“I – ” Boil faltered. “You called me ‘nerra’.”

The woman’s face flushed a darker teal. “It’s – it’s just an old habit. I didn’t mean to –”

“No, you – you called me ‘nerra’ when I was here. During the war. Me and Waxer.”

She fell silent. Her wide brown eyes were streaked with violet, taking in his face, his height, his orange-marked greaves visible just below his oversized poncho. Very quietly, she asked, “Boil?”

He laughed. It had been so long since anyone called him by his nickname. He wasn’t sure why it happened, but his knees gave out.

And then she was there, little Numa, alive and healthy, if still a little too thin, kneeling in front of him, her hands holding onto his shoulders as he shook.

“You’re alive,” he gasped. “I’m so glad – you’re alive. So many people died – so many we couldn’t save…”

“Shh.” She looked around, apprehensive. The crowd had parted for them, and Boil realized he was attracting stares. “Come with me. I’ll help you.”

“No, it’s – it’s alright,” he grunted, fighting to pull himself together. The last thing he wanted was a patrol of stormtroopers to see him like this. “I don’t know – what came over me. I just – I’m glad you’re alright, that’s all. I’ll be going –”

“No,” Numa said fiercely. “You helped me. You helped my people. It’s my turn to help you.”

Boil let Numa pull him to his feet, surprised by her strength. Wordlessly, he took the hovercrate from her. She hesitated before nodding slightly and leading him through the winding streets. He wiped his face with the cloth of the headwrap, embarrassed.

He followed her into the residential quarter, the chaos of the spaceport fading away behind them. It was a quiet area, save for the wind whistling through the rocks around them. The homes had been hewn into the stone; they were much better-kept than the village he and Waxer had found Numa in all those years ago. Adult Twi’leks chatted outside of homes as children chased each other. Several of them called out to Numa, throwing Boil curious looks. He kept his head bowed.

Finally, Numa had him park the hovercrate along the side of a particular building. She tossed a large rough blanket on top of it, camouflaging it with the stone. That caught his attention. He looked at Numa sharply, but she either didn’t notice or chose not to respond.

“Uncle Nilim!” she called, leading the way inside the house. The entry room opened into a sparsely decorated common area, with cushions and seats arranged around an outdated holoprojector.

An aging, blue-skinned Twi’lek man appeared from an interior room. It took him a moment to see Boil, then recoiled when he did. He held a frantic arm out to Numa, crying something in Ryl.

She said something very quickly in reply, her lekku twisting and gesturing, and Boil remembered a lesson on Kamino in his childhood; Twi’leks used their head-tails to communicate in tandem with their oral language. He’d never paid attention before. It was like the hand signals he’d used with other clones.

The man still looked skeptical; he skirted the edge of the room before approaching. He and Boil stared at each other for a long time before the Twi’lek finally gave a small nod. “You are older. But it is you.” He pronounced every word deliberately, with great care. He seemed to be practicing his Basic.

“And it’s you,” Boil responded, realization dawning on him. Numa had run to this man when Ghost Company had liberated her village. Boil had always assumed he was her father. But she called him ‘uncle’…

The man smiled. He placed a hand on his heart as he bowed his head. “Nilimb’ryl. Nilim Bril,” he introduced himself. “I am honored to finally meet you, Nerra.”

“My name is Boil. Uh, thank you,” Boil said hastily, bowing his head too.

Nilim gestured towards the common area, and Boil followed the two Twi’leks as they sat on some plump cushions. Boil mimicked them, grunting as he lowered himself to the seat. He was getting old.

“I told you we would meet again someday,” Numa said, beaming as she nudged her uncle. She looked to Boil, sitting forward eagerly on her cushion. “And where is the other? Waxer?”

The air rushed from Boil’s lungs. It never got any easier.  

He didn’t need to say anything. Numa’s face fell. She extended an arm and touched his shoulder gently. “I’m so sorry.”

“He’d be glad you’re okay.” Boil forced a smile. “He always wondered if the war left you alone once we liberated the planet. It sounds ridiculous, cuz we only knew you for a day…but you left a big impact on him. On both of us.”

He set his pack down and reached inside. Nilim shrank away, reflexively grabbing his niece’s arm. “It’s alright,” Boil said quickly, holding up his hands. “I don’t have a blaster. I just want to show Numa something.” He didn’t move until Nilim nodded.

Boil moved his assorted belongings aside until his hand closed around his helmet. He hadn’t worn it since the war, but he’d been allowed to keep his armor, and the detail on the bucket was still intact. He stared at the visor, his reflection gazing back at him.

“When we found you, Waxer realized you might think we were droids, so he took his bucket off so’s not to scare you.”

“I did think that,” she admitted. “I remember being scared – I thought the droids were going to take me too. Then when I saw his face – ” she laughed. “I’d never actually met a Human before, so I wondered where his lekku were.”

“And when I took mine off, you pointed at us both and said ‘nerra’.” Boil was quiet for a moment. “He didn’t want to leave you behind. I did. If it had been up to me, I would have left you there, to continue my mission. Waxer was always a better man than me.” He hung his head, grip tight on the helmet.

“You’re a soldier,” Numa answered, her voice soft. “Sometimes you have to make hard calls. But you made the choice to help me. And you saved me. You saved all of us.”

Boil chuckled. “Heh. Well you saved us, too. Those two-legged insects would’ve eaten us if you hadn’t gotten us outta there.” He lifted the helmet from his pack and handed it to her.

She took it, her brow creasing as she examined the cartoonish figure painted on the side. Waxer had painstakingly added the decal to both their helmets.

Discomfort settled on him as Numa silently stared at the drawing of herself. “We both wanted to remember you,” he offered awkwardly. “When the war started, we knew we were fighting for the Republic, but it was just an idea. It’s not like we’d ever lived in it, or knew why it was better than the Separatists. But we saw what happened to the civilians caught in the middle. Waxer wanted us to remember who we were really fighting for. For you, and for people like you.”

Numa remained silent, her expression unreadable, her lekku still.

Nerves fluttered in Boil’s gut. He cleared his throat and tried to explain. “Our armor was the one thing that was our own. We never had possessions – we moved around too much, and it’s not like we had much shore leave. So, we clones started painting our armor to make it our own. Different colors for different companies, accents for battles, tally marks for fallen brothers… everyone was different.” He fiddled with the hem of his pack, waiting for a response that didn’t come. “It was the best way we had of honoring people. We always said our armor showed who we were, and who made us that way.”

Numa said nothing. Carefully, she set the helmet beside her. She stood abruptly and hurried from the room, refusing to look at him.

Something caught in Boil’s throat and he gulped, rocking forward on his cushion to stand, but Nilim laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Give her a moment,” he advised.

Boil slumped. “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“People end up where they need to be.”

What a strange thought. It reminded Boil of something a Jedi would say. A flash of – anger? shame? – shot through him before dissipating as quickly as it came. Keeping his voice low, Boil looked at Nilim. “Where are her parents?”

Nilim’s gaze drifted, his smile slipping away. “My brother and his wife were killed in the attack in Nabat. I have raised Numa since their passing.”

“I’m sorry,” Boil said. The only family he’d ever known were his brothers. He didn’t know what it felt like to have parents – or to lose them – but he imagined the pain was the same. A wave of guilt drove him to his feet. “I’d better get going. I’m only making things worse.”

The Twi’lek’s eyes widened, startled. “Numa will not want you to go. You are welcomed here.”

“I’m a clone,” he said gruffly. “I’m not welcomed anywhere.”

“Stay.”

Numa stood in the doorway, cradling something decorative. The whites of her eyes looked vaguely red, and her mouth was held in a thin line. She shifted from foot to foot, looking almost apprehensive.

“This is a Kalikori,” Numa said, holding the decorative piece reverently.

“It is a totem,” Nilim explained, “passed down the line of a Twi’lek family.”

“It honors all who have come before. It is our way of remembering our family.” She held it out to Boil, and he took it gingerly.

It was a long series of intricately carved figures, arranged in a T-shape with charms and carvings hanging from the points. Stone, wood, metal, and clay pieces were engraved with symbols and shapes. It was easy to see that great care had been put into creating it.

At the bottom of one of the strands were two small orange and white blocks joined by a teal rectangle with some sort of script chiseled into it. Boil’s mouth went dry, a prickling sensation springing up behind his eyes. “What does that say?”

“Nerra voa Numa,” she answered quietly, watching him closely. “Brothers and Sister.”

Tears spilled from his eyes as Boil held the Kalikori tightly to his chest. His shoulders shook and his breaths turned to gasps and sobs. He turned his face away, ashamed. He hadn’t cried like this since he’d learned of Waxer’s death.

Hands rested on both of his shoulders as he wept; one large and calloused, one slight and gentle.

“Boil.” Numa paused, taking a deep breath. “For the last ten years, every time I saw a clone, I would say ‘Nerra’, hoping that one of them would react to it the way you did. I’ve wanted to find you ever since you left. I don’t want you to leave again.”

“We added you to the Kalikori years ago,” Nilim murmured. “You have been a part of us all this time. You have a home here, if you wish.”

The words stuck in Boil’s throat. “I…I need to think on it.” He dashed a hand across his eyes, fighting to steady his breathing. He handed the Kalikori back to Numa, and she gently set it down.

“Of course.” Nilim squeezed his shoulder. “And while you think, I will be making lunch. You are hungry?”

“Thank you,” Boil said, successfully distracted by the idea of a home-cooked meal. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything that wasn’t rations or Imperial-regulated meals.

Nilim left the room. Boil and Numa sat in near-silence as Boil worked to control his breathing. The tears kept falling, but they were drying, which he was grateful for; Numa was watching. From the other room, he heard Nilim shuffling about, cookware scraping together as he worked. Once he trusted himself to speak, Boil pitched his voice low. “Numa, why did you hide those electronic components?”

She looked to him appraisingly, and suddenly she seemed much older, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was no longer the frightened child that had trailed behind him all those years ago.

“Because beneath those electronic components are blasters for Syndulla’s resistance. The Free Ryloth Movement never truly dissipated. The war never ended here.”

Between them, the Kalikori and his helmet rested side-by-side. “I want to help you.”

She beamed, and before Boil could move, she’d thrown her arms around him tightly. He started in surprise before returning the hug.

When she drew back, her eyes were dancing. “I’ll message Cham and let him know you’re with us. Not a word to Uncle Nilim, though. He’s not on board with me being in the resistance yet.”

“I understand.”

“I’m glad you’re with us, brother. There’s much work to be done.”

[flameleadsarc]

Anonymous asked:

Hellhound leashed, you fire-spewing dog. How does it feel? To see the carnage again? Do not avert your eyes, the images will only slither beneath your lids. How does it feel? The scent of burning flesh? You may desperately avoid it now, such a painful reminder, and yet you smell it in your dreams. A dog's nose is keen, and every step of the way you will be reminded of your reeking sins. The cookware crashes to the ground, your ears perk up. Gunshots. A bone gives out underneath your ash-caked foot; Snap. Death. But before death, agony. Dog teeth are not meant for mercy. Dog teeth are not meant for love. You know. This is why you are their weapon, the leash a silver chain. The same chain you keep safe and warm within your pocket. You want this. You always have. Perhaps it was fate, and we all know how fate goes. So, why do you hurt? You kill because you are good at it. Let that be enough. Now, look. Lower your hand, the deed is done.

Lower your sight and behold - your son of bloodshot golden eyes, a scream carved into his frozen features as the rest of his body burns. That bullet alone would have been a more peaceful death. Dog teeth are not meant for love. Will you pull them out? Or will you keep destroying everything you care for? Will you lay down your arms and accept your punishment before you harm him so? Will you wrap that silver chain around your neck and step off your sinner's path into the fall? You know well there is no other escape. Not for you, and not for him. They will take your sons from you. Only fair, to save them from such a monster. You had no right to ever make them believe loving you was okay.

So, hellhound leashed, you fire-spewing dog, without teeth you can still speak, but will the words come out right - when you sin your last and still tell them you love them as the chain rattles against the rain-slick wood until it straightens with a jolt and then -

Snap.

...You had no right to make them watch this.

Scare the Flame Colonel  | Currently accepting.

How cruel this voice was to find him when he thought he was safe. Inside the four walls of his home with his family, he let his guard down just enough. A pair of gloves sat in his pocket next to the pocket watch inscribed with a single word: Flame. No, he didn’t need either of them here. Surely he could put them away where they belonged, somewhere out of sight where he needn’t look at them or acknowledge their existence. Yet, the first two words he heard had him reaching for them without thinking. His weapons---he needed to be armed.

A soldier still at war, still fighting, still breathing despite Death surrounding him on all sides.

                        Hellhound leashed.

Leashed, yes. So very careful, he never let it loose after the war. Hadn’t he? He left that demon behind where it couldn’t hurt or kill anyone ever again. It never should have come to life, known how the desert sun burned everything it saw, what sand dunes felt like under military issued boots. What killed hundreds of soldiers and civilians alike allowed the beast to thrive as it left destruction in its wake. As it calmly marched forward, it took the last breaths of the innocent as their own and used the oxygen to kill again.

                    SNAP.

And again.

                              SNAP.

And again.

                                              SNAP.

His body sat on the edge of his bed, but his mind transported him to the desert. He wasn’t in Central anymore.

Standing in the midst of rubble and decay, he looked to the ground. Ash was all that remained of a once tethered leash. Following the trail, Roy dared to meet the beast’s gaze. Eyes formed out of obsidian, volcanic glass acting as a mirror, glared back. Blood dripped from its mouth as it growled, heat emanating from its body while it threatened to burn him too. Another feast, something to satisfy the bloodlust nestled deep in the demon’s belly.

                                  "They’re demons.”

All State Alchemists bore that moniker. Every single one of them slaughtered hundreds, if not thousands, in minutes compared to the hours or days it took other battalions. The Flame Alchemist, though, was the one who wielded hellfire. Their precious Hero of Ishval, the hound born in hell, followed orders and left no survivors. Corpses charred beyond recognition, filling the air with their pungent odor with skin that clung to the skeletons that remained.

Roy remembered it. His breathing quickened as that keen sense of smell didn’t allow him to forget, color leaving his face as his stomach churned. How it reeked. Gunshots fired in the distance had him gripping the watch and gloves with one hand, his other extended and poised to transmute. It shook in the air as his boot crushed bone with ease. Bones couldn’t be broken that easily---they shouldn’t be.

Cremation, if done by a professional, happened at thirteen hundred degrees Fahrenheit and lasted for hours. Two fingers creating a spark with proper ignition between them made the process take seconds.

             What a good killer you are.

And he was. He followed orders, and he followed them well. Why though? Why did he continue killing when he knew he shouldn’t? That it was wrong, abhorrent---he knew it in his very soul, one that wept in his tent for all the lives he took. Why didn’t he stop?

“You want this. You always have.”

Flame alchemy was his and his alone. No one else could claim its power, its beautiful, symphonic destruction. He didn’t want to share it. It belonged to him. Civilians, soldiers, killers, Homunculi---the targets didn’t matter. The hellhound bared its teeth and killed, and it reveled in a job well done. Fighting real monsters Killing made him feel alive.

Even if the person he killed was one he swore to protect, cherish, love. His son with eyes and hair of gold looked back at him, and he recoiled. He backed away as he lowered his trembling hand. What had he done? What did he do? Leashed hellhound---it wasn’t leashed when it hurt his son, biting him with the intent to sink bloodied teeth in further, to eat the heart the bullet missed.

He let it loose. He let this happen.

                                   “Dog teeth are not meant for love.”

That was all he was: a dog of the military. The Hero of Ishval. Amestris’s hellhound. As such, he wasn’t designed for love. Weapons couldn’t receive it, and they certainly couldn’t give it.

Heart racing, he struggled to breathe, choking on the smell of burnt flesh as he should. One hand still clutched his watch and gloves. This chain was the leash, one that might be strong enough to hold the dog back. If he coiled it around its his neck, he could hold it himself back. He could still save his family, his precious sons. Save them from the monster.

“               You had no right to ever make them believe loving you was okay.”

No, he didn’t, but he let it happen. Edward and Alphonse believed loving him was okay, the former even going so far as to counter that logic.

                      “You don’t think yer worthy'a love but you don’t git ta decide that.”

No, he didn’t.

Alas, that didn’t stop him from believing knowing he wasn’t meant to have it. Gloves dropped to the floor in front of him, he held his pocket watch in both hands and stared at the chain. A gun would be quicker. His alchemy would be quicker, and he deserved to feel the pain he inflicted on others. Two thousand five hundred degrees Fahrenheit---he deserved to know what that felt like. But, he never managed to use a gun on himself, and he could never turn his fire on himself except to save his own life.

How fitting. How cowardly.

That same cowardice led his hands to wrap that chain around his neck. He ignored the tears that ran down his cheeks. These hands knew how to kill better than most. They knew the human body well, how to hurt it, how to kill it in multiple ways. This was for the better. He needed to keep his sons safe from him, from the hellhound. It continued to snarl, preparing to unleash another attack. Quickly, before it was too late, he needed to---

                   “You wanna know what ta fuckin’ do? LIVE.”

Edward Elric’s voice was what he heard as his pocket watch, the second one he received after the first caught a bullet, clattered and hit the floor. God, what was he doing? What the hell was he doing right now? If Edward knew---if his sons knew what he just started attempting, they’d... they couldn’t... he couldn’t...

“I was accepting my punishment,” he thought to himself, not daring to say it aloud. He deserved to be punished, didn’t he? He and the hellhound were one in the same. Before it hurt anyone else, he needed to put it down. It wasn’t supposed to live this long. Again, though, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. For the umpteenth time, these useless hands of his couldn’t kill the one person, one thing that---

Out of the desert and back in his home, his body shook as he sobbed. Was his door closed? He didn’t check. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t do anything about it now. The leash wasn’t around his neck, but he was, for the time being, immobilized.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” The words looped in his mind. “I’m so sorry. Don’t Forgive me.”

He wasn’t made for love, and he couldn’t have forgiveness.

[ares-golden-ram]

So I wrote something on Hedy’s past and what ultimately brought her to Earth, it’s also on AO3 if anyone wants to read it from there here’s the link! I have proof read it so many times I can’t even understand if it makes sense anymore so please feel free to point out any mistakes! 

The // sign at the end of specific sentences represents a time skip!

THE RIGHTEOUS (THE HIEROPHANT/STRENGTH)

I notice her the moment I walk through the golden doors of the Royal Hall, the corridor is completely empty except for us and I subconsciously hold my breath. I freeze in the presence of the right hand woman of the Monarch because despite this being a place of passage it feels like I've intruded a very private moment. The knight is facing a stained glass window depicting a flaming sun rising before a barren ground, she fits perfectly in the illustration as the daylight hits her metal body making it glisten in golden accents. I can't bring myself to talk, I've never seen the android on the battlefield but I've heard the stories, listened to every single retelling of her feats, one wrong word and I'm done for. She turns around and all I can do is stare, she's not as big as other war bots, the model of her screen is older but sturdier and on it her expression is ever-changing, the pixels reforming every so often to display what she feels. She's frowning, the line that is her mouth forms waves every time she speaks and right now her soft humming creates constant soft ripples, she's holding her sword in a tight, clawed grip. Her stance relaxes and a soft jingling sound catches my attention as she sheathes back the weapon. Electronic Escort Droids don't have antennas, those things are useless for such technologically advanced forms, yet she wears one, both ends are fused in her casing and in it a small number of silver specks can be seen, embedded in the wiring. Spoils of war, or even better, trophies. Sword shards, tips of modified arrows, bullets...and they say EED aren't vain. In her defense the whole planet sees her as the symbol of hope, the bringer of future harmony and peace, having a fake halo just means she fully embraces her role as The Guardian as everyone seemed to call her since she started to rank up in the military.

"Are you going to stare a bit longer? I have places to be you know".

I realize my mistake but my mouth is dry and I can't think of some reasonable justification, another moment passes and just when I start to wonder if she'll draw her sword again the sound of her laughter fills the hall, clear and sharp, like coins falling to the ground one after the other.

"Please, forgive me but this joke never gets old!" She says as she touches her chest, mimicking the organic gesture of needing air. "I'm aware of the moniker civilians have given me but please, call me Dee" she extends a claw in a very careful manner trying to look as harmless as possible, "I'd love to stay and chat but our Monarch awaits us".

ENLIGHTENMENT (THE HANGED MAN/THE TOWER)

The moment we are deployed on the battlefield I know what I must do, the few soldiers I took with me are my first objective, less than a dozen but they're the only ones I was able to recognize after their secret meeting. How could they betray our Monarch? He's a strict ruler but just and compassionate, he doesn't want this war any more than anyone else yet they accuse him, dirty his name while carrying his banner. I'll keep him safe, I'll kill the traitors and move on, the unlucky bastards should have been more careful. I unsheathe my sword, the only companion I can always seem to trust lately, and I get to work. //

She begs me, crying and screaming for absolution, she didn't know any better. I sink next to her, carefully fixing her hair behind her ear, the organic ones are always too easy to kill, too emotional.

"Why?" I ask, she's not a threat anymore and I need to know what could ever justify their treason.

"They talk! We...we spoke to one of them, Tix wounded one with a poison arrow but the venom was taking too long. He begged to be killed but we were too shocked to do anything".

"Nonsense, the Belkaith don't speak. And they sure as hell don't implore for mercy, the only thing they'd ever talk about if they could would be war and violence".

"I know it's insane but that's the truth, we were fooled! I ask you to read this, please-"

I strike her as soon as she reaches for her pocket, I don't have time for the blabbering of a scared traitor but unexpectedly she still moves, trying to save a few papers from either getting soaked in her own blood or catching fire thanks to my sword.

"I'm sorry". That's what she tells me as her eyes go blank, the papers fall gently to the ground and I extract my weapon from her body, the flames go out as soon as I sheathe it back in the scabbard.

I pick up the letter and instantly recognize the Monarch's hand writing, the fancy lettering and short sentences compose a threat. I recognize a few more names the letter is addressed to other than the ones of the soldiers I just killed, I guess his majesty knew of their treachery already, maybe I should have talked to him before attacking them.

Something's off, the more I read the less it all makes sense, the writing becomes more sharp towards the end of the page, sloppy as if he was in a hurry...or scared. I read the letter over and over again until it's imprinted in my code and all I can do is stare at the page, my mind completely blank.

I get up, store the letter in one of the pockets on my belt and start walking towards the sound of blasters and screaming, like a ship following a siren's song. //

I finally reach the heart of the battle and as I pull out my sword everyone stops. I turn around to check what caused the abrupt change and there, slowly lowering through the sky his ship appears, radiating a soft glowing white light. The first thing that comes to my mind is home, how many times did I sigh of relief spotting his vessel after a strenuous battle? Now that feeling travels all the way from my heart to my stomach and then to my limbs like fire following gasoline trails.

"My dearest, please come on board I believe we need to talk"

His voice sounds so comforting, so much so that for a moment I'm tempted to say yes, to climb inside and be saved from this nightmare, I want to hear him say it's all a misunderstanding, I must have gotten it all wrong! Except for the fact that he is here and that alone confirms the very awful truth.

There are so many questions swirling through my mind: Why? Who else is in on this? Does everyone know? Am I the only one who was fooled? I served by his side for years fighting for our people, how could he do this to me?.

If he's a monster then what am I?.

A blinding rage possesses me, the flames engulfing my sword creep higher and higher, my vision blurs with tears, I can't trust my voice right now so I do the next best thing to make him and everyone else understand. I raise my sword in his direction then turn it towards me and with a sharp motion I slice my antennas, severing the halo on my head. I cut down my puppet strings.

It doesn't hurt, the anger makes it all feel numb, the only thing I'm aware of right now is that I'm surrounded, enemies on every side and the only way I can leave alive is by fighting them until I can't and then fight some more. The message has been understood loud and clear, he doesn't waste a moment and immediately gives the order to kill me, the Belkaith yell in their ancient guttural monosyllabic sounds that I was too presumptuous and stupid to identify as a language and resume their assault as if the order was given to them, my companions don't touch me, they're baffled by the situation, shocked by the Monarch's words. I can't hesitate, can't repay them with the same kindness, the spell breaks as my first attack pierces the armor of a fellow soldier and everyone tightens the grip on their weapons.

"Traitor!".

"The Guardian has forsaken us!". //

My sword is in pieces, the legendary Maramakula is destroyed, the head of the sea serpent that was engraved in the handle is just a few steps away from me, I was a fool to think that I could face them all.

"What good is a knight without his sword?"

"And without a king!" they laugh, so easily turned against the one they idolized just a few hours before, I can't blame them. All of a sudden the same feeling of when I saw the royal ship washes over me like fire burning my every circuit. I cling to it this time, feel it rage in my heart and soon enough it feels like a volcano is about to erupt inside of me.

"What the fuck is she doing?"

"How am I supposed to know? She's disarmed anyway stop wo-" He doesn't finish the sentence, can't really, not when right in front of him the grass burns and the blood from the corpses of fallen enemies and fellow soldiers alike starts bubbling.

My whole left arm is on fire, the deepest red I've ever seen dances around my limb with a life of its own. With a reinvigorated spirit I rise from the barren ground, the sun shines its blinding golden light on my armor.

"Good thing I'm not a knight anymore, then" That's the last thing I remember before the overwhelming strength of this new power swallows me whole.

METANOIA (THE CHARIOT/TEMPERANCE)

I wake up in the little shelter I built in the last few months I've been stranded on this new planet, I have no idea what its name is but I've never seen so much green in a single place. I grab a clean pair of shorts and put them on, slowly make my way to the kitchen where I down a cold cup of oil, I'll never get used to the taste. Today I need to go to the stream and wash my clothes, then I'll get back to the fields, I've been trying to plant almost anything I could get my hands on in the meadow near the shipwreck but nothing seems to take. //

I'm still unsure of this whole 'clothes' concept, I'm not organic, I don't really need them but for some reason seeing me bare makes the villagers feel uneasy, so I humor them most of the time and only take them off when I need to do some heavy work, they're too constricting for my taste. As I'm hoeing the soil I can't stop looking at the ruins of my ship, barely visible from behind the thick foliage of the nearby trees, sometimes I think how unhealthy it must be to see the reminder of a failed past life every day yet somehow I always end up here, staring at this horrible monument perfectly depicting my foolishness, my anger, my mistakes.

The sun is going down, painting the barren field in reds and oranges, the colors softly shimmer on my body and the warmth of it all makes me recoil as the haunting memory of someone else, someone I no longer want to remember, tries to surface. I fall to the ground trying to make myself as tiny as possible, folding in on myself, I want to escape from this place I want to run away from it all once more. And then I see it, between the tears clogging my vision, a small sprout trying its hardest to grow between the cracks of the unwelcoming soil. The symbolism is clear, almost like a cruel joke from the universe itself, so I laugh like I haven't in years.

[breakingarrows]

Replaying Ace Combat 04: Shattered Skies

[This was originally published on VerticalSliceMedia.com in 2018 and is republished from the latest draft I have]

Ace Combat 4: Shattered Skies is a surprising game in that it not only carefully balances arcade style gameplay with a somber narrative but that the narrative itself reaches so deep into certain themes of war and aspects of the gameplay reinforce that. Playing a silent protagonist who only goes by the callsign Mobius 1, the weight of the story is not yours to bear but instead falls on a man relaying the story of his childhood and his interactions with the enemy during that time.

Since Ace Combat 4 is not focused on the reasons behind why wars are started (that is reserved for its sequel: The Unsung War) we are presented with the very simplest of details at the outset. The Erusians invaded ISAF territories and expulsed them from the continent. Erusia was aided by perverting the Stonehenge installation, a series of giant cannons designed to shoot down incoming meteors that threatened the continent in the past, and repurposed them as long range anti-air weapons. ISAF was eventually forced to retreat to an area labeled North Point but not before many battles were fought on the continent, one of them witnessed by our narrator [First video at the bottom of the post].

In all wars civilian casualties are an inevitability, but to many never evolve beyond numbers on a data sheet or total given during a news report. However, just as what was once abstract is made real for our narrator, so too is the data made real for us as we begin to follow this young boy’s life during the war.

 Who is responsible for the death of his family? The first answer would be the aircraft with the yellow 13, as it shot down the aircraft that destroyed his home. Or was it the fleeing aircraft that flew low over civilian territory? We see in the image the pilot ejecting safely with a parachute deployed. Whether he is ignorant of his effect on the boy’s life or knows the destruction he just caused doesn’t matter. Just as civilian deaths are reduced to data so too are soldiers and their armaments. Are the commanding officers above these pilots responsible for the collateral damage? Do the nations engaging in war have a duty to those displaced and killed by their activities? These are the questions that came to mind while replaying Shattered Skies, and I fear it does not serve a fulfilling answer to them.

 Mobius 1, the player character, reigns destruction that outmatches any other singular pilot in the war. However your own capability to kill and destroy is never shown to affect non-combatants in a negative effect. The only time civilians appear during a gameplay mission is when you protect two commercial airliners carrying defectors to ISAF territory, and when you liberate the boy’s city of San Salvacion and hear broadcasts of reporters on the ground describing their view of the battle. You as the player character are untouchable, both in the air and morally, even if ISAF is clearly responsible for some civilian deaths as shown by the introduction.

 Mobius 1 occupies a blank slate upon which not only can the player project their own morality and beliefs but so too can those who exist within the world. Your allies pin the hope of victory on your presence while the enemy curses it. Yellow 13 praises your performance in battle and regards you with respect as an honorable pilot.

 Both Stonehenge and Yellow Squadron make appearances in missions prior to your ultimate confrontation against them. Stonehenge appears as a sound of destruction that rips the skies above you, forcing you to fly at low altitudes in order to escape death. This happens a few times when your mission places you within range of the installation, before you finally get to fight and destroy the cannons that loomed over all operations due to its circle of range present at all briefings prior to its destruction. Yellow Squadron appears early on to chase you off the map, being impossible to hit and constantly locking onto you while you try to escape. After they appear as more of a passive force during certain dogfights, though still invincible. Tasked with protecting Stonehenge, Yellow Squadron fails to do so and show up after its destruction in order to fight off your group. Having gained enough experience through the previous eleven missions and with Yellow 4 wounded and needing a replacement engine, you are able to shoot her down easily. Yellow 13 makes his only audio appearance here, asking if anyone saw Yellow 4 eject. She did not.

 Having Stonehenge make its presence known through attacks despite being hundreds of miles away really builds up both its capability as a super weapon and also as a shadow over any mission taking place within its range. When you see the map grid during a briefing and notice that the mission area is within the dotted line you know your mission will most likely require you to fly low to the ground in order to avoid being blown apart by Stonehenge. This fear makes it so satisfying to finally confront your phantom threat head on and immobilize it and eliminate its threat for future missions. Likewise with Yellow Squadron, they appear as targets that severely outmatch you. Unable to land a hit, you are depowered in their presence and have to make adjustments in future missions to not waste time attempting to land a shot and instead focus on other, lesser pilots. Shooting down Yellow 4 is both an accomplishment because it shows how far the player and Mobius 1 have come since the initial confrontation, it also undercuts that victory with sorrow at the loss of someone who has never been shown to harbor ill will or malice. Yellow 4 simply desired to protect Yellow 13, who likewise prided himself on never losing a wingman, until now. Our respect, and the young boy’s burgeoning love for Yellow Squadron undercuts any victory over them and turns it into a complicated weave of emotions.

 Yellow 13’s portrayal throughout the game goes against traditional villain and instead is more of a rival pilot. Even then that stereotype falls short since he is not obsessed with Mobius 1 but instead awaits the ultimate confrontation that will lead to his death with open arms. With the loss of Yellow 4 and the constant turnaround of pilots in Yellow Squadron, his attachment to this world are gone. Even the two children he watched over turn against him. One night, the barkeeps daughter is caught planting detonators for the resistance and flees. Yellow 13 catches her, confirming she was responsible for the sabotage he so detested that caused Yellow 4’s death. The young boy is nearby, and appears yelling, “Get out of our town fascist pig!” at Yellow 13. Clearly hurt by this betrayal from the only two he had left, Yellow 13 allows them to leave. Whether this is due to their tender ages or because of his own disgust at Erusia, which is only increased by the Erusian tactics during the defense of San Salvacion: placing AA guns atop hospitals.

 Despite his hatred for the Erusian forces for occupying his town and disrupting peace, and his hatred for Yellow 13 for the cape crash, the boy continues to follow Yellow Squadron after the liberation of his hometown. By this point the boy has long abandoned his plan to confront Yellow 13 about his part in the family’s death. Yellow 4 scared him off previously, and now without her he sees Yellow 13 suffering from the same loss he himself did. The boy can’t bring himself to confront 13 now, after learning so much about him, after being cared for by him, and after seeing him suffer familial loss in war too. In an early scene the boy is shielded from the cold night by a Yellow squadron jacket, most likely placed there by their ace pilot.

 Yellow 13 ultimately gets the fate he wanted, death at the hands of a pilot better than he. The dogfight takes place over Farbanti, the Erusian capital and penultimate mission of the game. Victory is all but assured with the capture of the enemy capital, but in rides Yellow Squadron, ever loyal to their duty to serve Erusia even if it means embracing death. Mobius 1 shoots each one down.

 A theme I didn’t realize until this playthrough was that of memories, and how speaking them is enough to keep them alive. This is first mentioned by the boy when he recalls how Yellow 13 spoke after Yellow 4’s death. After Yellow 13’s death, the handkerchief that is buried represents both Yellow 4 and Yellow 13’s lives and the memoires the barkeep’s daughter and the boy have of them. These memories are kept alive even still by the framing device of the game, the letter being written by the now grown boy to you, Mobius 1. By writing this letter he kept the memories of Yellow 13 alive, and by playing the game, you keep it alive as well by watching and participating in it. While it may not be a true story, it still effective at portraying personal tales during a meaningless war.

 A lack of identity in Mobius 1 is used to speak directly the player. AWACS makes a request that you provide a victory on his birthday, the airbase you’re protecting want to relay their thanks to you personally, and allies get emotional when you’re put in danger. These voices aren’t directed at the character of Mobius 1 since it doesn’t exist. Instead they are directed at you, the player, in order to gain your sympathy and make victory not something to be viewed distantly but something you actively achieved. Video games consistently do this more often than any other form of media due to their interactive nature, but not all are as successful as Shattered Skies at making the player engage with the gameplay in order to win not just because it is how you progress but because it means victory for your allies.

 Despite being restricted to dots on your radar and voices through a radio filter, friend and foe alike have a human weight to them. This is continually built upon over the course of the four hour campaign, and culminates in the final mission as you shoot down each plane in order to hopefully keep your own friends alive. You quicken your pace as the ground forces take losses and audio plays of their battle in a place you cannot reach. Instead, you make your way through small spaces and destroy generators in order to open up the final missile silo and eliminate the final threat to total victory. Throughout the mission the strongest tracks of the game play: “Rex Tremendae,” “Megalith -Agnus Dei-”, and “Heaven’s Gate.” [Second video at the bottom of the post]

This final mission is a great end to a surprisingly emotional arcade flight simulation game.

 I have always had an emotional connection to this game since I first played it in the early 2000’s. I am very happy that it continues to hold up nearly 17 years later. Yellow 13 has a wonderfully somber story and I hope it continues to live through the retelling and replaying of Shattered Skies for years to come.

[96thdayofrage]

WAR DAY 7️⃣1️⃣2️⃣2️⃣ 🍐 "Over the weekend, the Washington Post reported that the Biden White House (and its friends in the Pentagon) are considering postponing the scheduled May 1, 2021 withdrawal of most US military forces from Afghanistan. This is not only wrong, it’s foolish. The US will not get its way in Afghanistan more than any other invading nation has. Twenty years of war and close to fifty years of armed meddling should prove that. Although only 2500 troops officially remain in Afghanistan, the symbolism of their leaving without a victory seems to be too much for some to take. Indeed, last month Biden’s Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin said US military forces 'will not undertake a hasty or disorderly withdrawal from Afghanistan that puts [its] forces or the alliance’s reputation at risk.' When all other reasons to occupy a nation with foreign forces have proven false, Washington is never afraid to bring up the face-saving argument.

"After all, if one truly takes a moment to consider it, what reputation is General Austin referring to? Would it be the reputation of NATO as a tool of the world’s bloodiest imperial nation? Or perhaps he meant the United States’ reputation as the nation whose promises at peace talks were referred to by Chief Joseph of the Nez Perce in this manner: 'White man speak with forked tongue?' Maybe he was referring to the reputation of the US/NATO weapons industry’s claim that its products are designed to make and keep the peace; a claim brutally exposed in Afghanistan.

"If one looks at the history of Afghanistan over the past fifty years, it becomes clear that the primary reason for its current situation is the meddling of the United States. The US involvement in Afghanistan that began under Jimmy Carter was not an accident. Led by neocons Zbiegniew Brzezinski and Richard Pipes and aided by liberals like Barney Frank and Paul Tsongas, this ultimately successful effort represented a resurgence of the pro-militarist wing of the policy establishment as the primary architect of US foreign policy. What this meant for Afghanistan was that Washington was going after the progressive government in Kabul by backing a class of socially and politically reactionary mullahs and landowners opposed to any social reform for generations. This mujaheddin war and what followed destroyed the social progress made under previous Afghan governments. Women and girls were relegated to second-class status and fundamentalist intolerance became the order of the day. Ultimately, these forces won thanks to the support of Washington and Saudi Arabia. The strongest of these reactionary mujaheddin groups were called the Taliban. It was they who claimed victory in 1996. It was the Taliban the United States said they were going after when it attacked Afghanistan in 2001.

"One can not be certain why the United States is still in Afghanistan. It could be to control the opium business or it could be for alleged mineral resources. It could be for strategic reasons or it could be to force a US-style regime on the nation. It could be all these and more. The original intent to exact revenge for the events known as 9-11 is long gone, along with most of the original players in that episode. In fact, it seems fair to say the only players present back in October 2001 when the first attacks occurred are the arms manufacturers the US military and the CIA. The phenomenon known as Al Queda is not the same as it was, nor are the Taliban and other resistance forces. The US mercenary forces once known as Blackwater are not only operating under a new corporate name, but also different directorships.

"The failure of the US to impose an effective client government in Afghanistan is not a good reason to remain in that country until one is established. Instead, it is real proof of the failure of any policy that requires a military occupation in that nation and region. Keeping US forces there to support the US-funded regime in Kabul is an admission that Washington’s policy has failed. It’s time to accept that and get out, lock stock and barrel."

- 🍐 Ron Jacobs, CounterPunch

*****

"There are at least two main sets of problems standing in Biden’s way, assuming he did actually want to ditch this 19+ year disaster.

"First, expect the Pentagon, and the civilian Washington-wing of the 'defense watcher' expert analyst class to either obfuscate or exaggerate — maybe even fabricate, given past track records — the existence or extent of current al-Qaeda-Taliban ties.

"In fact, the [wishful] think tankers — civil and military alike — have been pushing such alarmism for a hot minute now already. Yet such fear-mongering masquerading as objective analysis rarely offers satisfactory evidence, place what evidence they do have in proper context, or provides any real sense of proportion — i.e., even if they’re right about the Taliban-al-Qaeda nexus: what’s the actual, comparative, threat to the U.S. Homeland of leaving Afghanistan?

"Second, it seems the Taliban feels, and may in fact be, strong enough — they now control or contest half the country — to scoff at such stipulations. And they’ve no motive to quit attriting an Afghan National Security Force that’s long been on life support, and can’t recruit replacements as fast as the Taliban offs them — to say nothing of their army of AWOL 'ghost soldiers,' who don’t so much man the battle lines as line the pockets of the corrupt officers who continue collecting their paychecks.

"Problem is, the Taliban’s understandable propensity to escalate — and maybe even talk to a few al-Qaeda capos to boot — may offer Washington’s war-hawks just the justification they need to settle U.S. troops in for an even longer haul. They may even try to escalate — with some calling for 2,000 extra troops to bring the count of hopeless crusaders back to 4,500, thereby undoing Trump’s late-stage reductions. That oughta do it!

"The most recent, and mainstream-amenable, energy behind the 'Stay-the-course, Joe' crowd, comes from the congressionally-appointed Afghanistan Study Group, a bipartisan panel whose recent report essentially argued 'that withdrawing troops based on a strict timeline, rather than how well the Taliban adheres to the agreement to reduce violence and improve security, risked the stability of the country and a potential civil war once international forces withdraw.'

"Sound familiar? Yep — it’s the exact same line these exact same people have peddled for years. It even burnishes the same old buzzwords!

"Next comes the exaggerated alarmism, encouraging you to be afraid, be-very-afraid, because: 'A withdrawal would not only leave America more vulnerable to terrorist threats; it would also have catastrophic effects in Afghanistan and the region that would not be in the interest of any of the key actors, including the Taliban.'

"Strange though, these scare-tactics always seem — and always have been — laced with way more ominous lingo than actual empirical evidence of credible threats to the homeland, or clearly-defined vital interests that the United States actually has over in the Afghan imperial graveyard. Perhaps that’s by design.

"For example, nowhere in Steve Coll’s New Yorker piece — which was a hardcore hedge job — did he so much as mention a vital U.S. interest, or a realistically assessed threat to the homeland. He, like the Study Group authors — and mainline pundits everywhere — speaks instead of 'Kabul’s fortunes,' Afghanistan’s (admittedly in-for-it) 'working women,' and the foreboding fortunes of that country’s 'globalized urbanites,' and 'democracy dreamers.'

"Anyone else notice that there’s no calls for invasion, occupation, and a societal makeover on behalf of those same groups — including the near chattel-status of women, sometimes beheaded for 'witchcraft' and 'sorcery' — in the Saudi Kingdom we’ve propped up for nearly a cruelty-complicit century?

"So just who’s in this here group study in the bureaucratic banality of evil? I mean, since they’re charged by Congress to submit sweeping recommendations for the new president’s profound policy decision in America’s longest-ever war — it’s probably a pretty diverse sample of U.S. foreign policy thought, right? Wrong again!

"Sure enough, the Afghanistan Study Group is a full house of failed militarists — a crew Rep. Ro Khanna poignantly dubbed 'the people who got us into this mess.' These folks are all tainted by war industry-ties and their past policy positions. In fact, they’re so overtly hawkish and awash in defense contractor blood money, it’s frankly embarrassing — and a slap in an apathetic public’s face. Consider the highlights:

-Former Senator Kelly A. Ayotte, co-chair: a leading voice in the hawkish wing of the Senate Republican Conference; opposed Obama’s Iran nuclear deal and closing Guantanamo Bay; and is on the board of BAE Systems – a prominent defense corporation.

-General Joseph F. Dunford Jr. (Ret), co-chair: former four-star general who once commanded – and failed to win when had a crack at that hopelessness – America’s Afghan War; these days he’s on the board of Lockheed Martin.

-Oh, and you may recognize a few others: Nisha Biswal (senior adviser with the [Madeleine] Albright Stonebridge Group); James Dobbins (RAND Corporation); Michèle Flournoy (WestExec Advisers and Center for a New American Security); Stephen Hadley (one of the key architects of George W. Bush’s absurd – and failed – Iraq surge); Meghan O’Sullivan (Raytheon and WestExec Advisors); and retired General Curtis 'Mike' Scaparrotti (another former Afghan War commander and now of the Cohen Consulting Group)

"These are the pyromaniacs — if mostly polite pyros — who lit wildfires from West Africa to Central Asia since 9/11, and are now studiously dancing on the torched region’s blackened graves. Think these Congress-members might revive and hire John Wayne Gacy to perform at their children’s next birthday parties?

"Steve Coll did get one thing basically right — in his column’s closing line: 'Now, as then, there are no good or easy options — only less bad ones.'

"True, but after 20 years of less-bad-strategies that never stuck or meaningfully moved the Afghan needle — maybe, for once, it’s Band-Aid time, baby! That’s right, ditch all the arguments to stay and fail — whilst only maintaining the fiction of not-yet-losing — and head home. Bring the boys and girls back, and fast. Consider it the Seinfeld solution to pain-management and forever war loss-cutting: one move, right off!

"Pity we didn’t do it back in 2016, 2009 — or 2003, for that matter. Nothing would have meaningfully changed — in the long-term, at least — on the ground if we had … and thousands of the troops Americans pretend-to-adore might be alive today."

- 🍐 Maj. Danny Sjursen (USA, Ret.), Antiwar.com

*****

"The governments of Albania, Armenia, Australia, Austria, Azerbaijan, Belgium, Bosnia-Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Czechia, Denmark, Estonia, Finland, Georgia, Germany, Greece, Hungary, Italy, Latvia, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Mongolia, Netherlands, North Macedonia, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Turkey, Ukraine, UK, and US all still have troops in Afghanistan and need to remove them.

"These troops range in number from Slovenia’s 6 to the United States’ 2,500. Most countries have fewer that 100. Apart from the United States, only Germany has over 1,000. Only five other countries have more than 300.

"Governments that used to have troops in this war but have removed them include New Zealand, France, Jordan, Croatia, North Macedonia, and Ireland."

- 🍐 David Swanson, Antiwar.com

_____

🍐 Washington in Afghanistan: How Long Must This Go On? By Ron Jacobs, CounterPunch, Mar. 16, 2021.

https://www.counterpunch.org/2021/03/16/washington-in-afghanistan-how-long-must-this-go-on/

🍐 Will Biden Finally Bring Troops Home from Afghanistan? By Danny Sjursen, AntiWar.com, republished in Consortium News, Feb. 22, 2021.

https://consortiumnews.com/2021/02/22/will-biden-finally-bring-troops-home-from-afghanistan/

🍐 A GLOBAL DEMAND TO 35 GOVERNMENTS: GET YOUR TROOPS OUT OF AFGHANISTAN. By David Swanson, Antiwar.com, republished in Popular Resistance, Feb. 22, 2021.

https://popularresistance.org/a-global-demand-to-35-governments-get-your-troops-out-of-afghanistan/

🍐 Intersectional Imperialism: A Wholesome Menace.

The empire claps back. By Alex Rubinstein, Mar. 15, 2021.

https://realalexrubi.substack.com/p/intersectional-imperialism-a-wholesome?utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&utm_source=facebook&fbclid=IwAR2YmHJGw7RV2ZzLdsyhpvODf7lUD2qhag6RRa9e6IgWRPtZIE_v5jr5k-U

🍐 CNN is pushing for permanent occupation of Afghanistan: What Biden and Blinken don't want to tell Americans about Afghanistan. Opinion by David A. Andelman, Capitalist News Network, Mar. 16, 2021.

https://edition.cnn.com/2021/03/16/opinions/afghanistan-us-troop-withdrawal-andelman/index.html?fbclid=IwAR2ie4dIqDoO-5fL5S8GpB6lNT5B1YzhLgS6qAa7S3xr8q2gkDLU6dfbXk8

[theclaravoyant]

AN ~ this one’s for myself, but also for @jadehendrixmusic who asked on a convo between me and @marvelthismarvelthat that this be written. Enjoy the PAIN but srsly have I told you how much I love Daisy mcfreaking Johnson. This also fills @aosadvent2017 prompt “hope”

“We can’t change the future,” he reminded her. “We couldn’t then and we can’t now. But they did get one thing wrong.”

The real story of how and why Daisy Johnson broke apart the Earth.

Read on AO3 (~2300wd). Rated T. Rshps: Daisy-centric, Daisy & the Team, Daisy & Fitz. Angst with a Happy(ish?) Ending. MCD and I’m not f*ckin around w that

Destroyer of Worlds

In the end, Daisy thought, she should have seen it coming.

She’d felt it for a while, somewhere deep inside herself.

The knowledge that she would bury her friends.

-

For a while they managed to stick together as the world collapsed into chaos around them. They clung to each other, looked after each other so well it almost felt like they were the last real people left on Earth. But of course, there was only so much that seven people could do against an alien dictatorship and soon enough, things started to spiral beyond their control.

Coulson was the first to go, in a fiery, guns-blazing, one-against-the-world sacrifice to buy time while Daisy and Elena escaped, and rescued a mob of Inhumans from the Kree cells.

A little while after that, Jemma’s mysterious immunity to one of the Kree’s favourite pathogens attracted the wrong sort of attention from their leaders. She was captured and – after flatly refusing to cooperate, whether willingly or under duress - experimented on, before finally being released. Delirious with her newly regained freedom, she had sprinted full-tilt for that shadowy corner of the world that the team now called home, until she’d realised - and stumbled and fallen and ploughed into the dirt with the shock of it – that the only reason they would have let her go was because they’d won. She’d contracted something. Something dangerous. Something that could wipe out the resistance.

So she’d run the opposite direction instead, and died alone.

May lasted a little longer than that. She was getting old by the time she went. Her eyes clouded with cataracts and she walked with a permanent limp, her legs and knees having been destroyed and re-knitted so many times. She remained a key strategist in their little band of resistance until the end, and died in as much peace as anyone could afford these days, surrounded by most of the remaining people that loved her.

It was funny, Daisy mused, the way that people used ‘funny’ for things that were not funny at all – like how she was sure that May would have preferred Coulson’s end, and he hers.

Still, the rest of them soldiered on.

-

And then there was Fitz.

His was a slow death, and one of the hardest as the dwindling resistance lost perhaps its truest believer. It started with a painful arthritis - in his hands at first, which was cruel enough, and then it spread to his shoulders, his back, his knees. Still, he refused to stop working; building panel after panel, machine after machine, engines and life support systems and generators and UV light-towers for growing food, and all manner of things that Daisy and even Mack did not fully recognise or understand. As per the policy they’d developed in case of capture, nobody had a clear idea of what all this was supposed to mean, not even the people working on it, until the day Fitz died.

That day, Daisy was curled up in a chair by his bedside as he slept, trying to resist the urge to chew on the sleeve of her jacket. She had asked not to be disturbed, feeling much less the hardy resistance leader their followers knew, and much more the lost girl about to watch one of her best friends disappear before her very eyes.

Fitz mumbled something, incoherent, and Daisy threw herself forward, falling to her knees at his bedside. He smiled – amused, apparently, by her dramatics, as if he wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “’s just what happens when you breathe in metal dust all day, ‘n don’t eat anything, and-“

He cut himself off, his words lost in a barrage of coughing, and Daisy poured him a glass of water. She couldn’t tell if her hands were shaking or if it was the water in the glass itself, but she got it to him eventually and the coughing calmed. She helped rearrange his pillow so that he could sit up, but Fitz batted her away, too tired for the effort. Almost too tired to keep his eyes open. His whole body ached, even as he smiled ruefully over at Daisy.

“Not long now,” he said, his voice croaking with an age he hadn’t lived yet.

She clutched his hand fiercely. “Mack – just wait for Mack. He’s coming in from scouting. He’ll be here soon.”

“That’ll be nice.”

His body shook – once, violently - as if it was about to launch into another coughing fit, but was too tired to manage it. The end was coming faster than he thought it would, and though it hurt to push her away, he had to claw past Daisy to pull open a nearby drawer. He pushed a notebook into her hands. Frowning in confusion, she pulled out more papers from the drawer. On one of them was an illustration of a massive space station. Daisy’s jaw slackened.

“This is what you’ve been building?”

“The Lighthouse,” Fitz confirmed. “That’s what it was called, right?”

“Yeah. The one in – the one in space, after I…” Daisy frowned, piecing things together slowly. “Wait. You don’t think –“

“It’s big enough for several thousand people. Mack’s been helping me make shuttles, too. We’ve been sending bits and pieces into space. It’s nearly ready.”

“Ready? For what? I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do,” Fitz pointed out. He reached out again and Daisy gave him her hand. His squeeze was not as strong as it once had been, and his skin felt papery and odd, but it was still his hand. It still felt warm. With horror, she thought about how this might be the last time she’d ever feel that warmth. But Fitz needed to tell her something, so Daisy looked into his eyes, and saw in them why he had been such a believer. The wonder and the inevitability of the universe.

“We can’t change the future,” he reminded her, his voice soft but steady, and full of conviction. “We couldn’t then and we can’t now. We bought ourselves a little time, with a lot of lives, and here we are. But they did get one thing wrong.”

He smiled.

“You’re Daisy Johnson, and you’re going to save us all.”

-

Those words echoed in Daisy’s mind for hours. Days. They were a lot to live up to – as were the eyes of the gathering crowd, who had fled here from, as far as Daisy could tell, all over the world. Some of them still managed to have such hope that it almost broke her heart at the same time as filling it. Most of them, though, looked to her: the last hope, for humanity and Inhumanity alike.

“Don’t let me fail them,” she whispered. She was not sure to whom. Mack, standing a few feet away, directing refugees about their final missions on Earth? The ghost of Fitz or Jemma or Coulson or May, who she longed to guide her through this? Maybe herself. That’s all she had left, really.

Not long now.

The ground seemed to beat beneath her, as if it could feel the anticipation thrumming through her veins. The crowd buzzed, scared and hopeful, curious and heartbroken. The prospect of spending the next few days in tiny shuttles in the unknown vacuum of space was not an inviting one, but it was better than the alternative: the Kree were turning more and more Inhumans – there were even rumours of mind and blood control – and those pockets of resistance that had made it this far were being snuffed out one by one. As far as Daisy had managed to discover – and as Fitz had probably already known – this was the last one.

Before her sat the last shuttle of the 10-stage interstellar evacuation mission to save humanity.

The SS Hope, Fitz had called it.

That’s why they’d decided to launch it last: in case it pulled a Challenger and blasted itself out of the sky. Nothing killed a revolution like Hope literally going down in flames.

Fortunately - as could always be expected of Fitz and Mack’s work – the other shuttles had all taken off harmlessly and were well on their way up to the Lighthouse. The last of the remaining civilians were walking up the gangplank of the Hope when Elena appeared at Daisy’s side.

Daisy clenched her fist.

“They’re here,” Elena reported.

She’d seen this coming too. Felt it, in the vibrations on the ground: armies, marching. This being their last chance – life or death - they’d be coming after the dregs of the resistance with everything they had.

“We’re ready,” Mack announced, marching down from the gangplank with a determined expression. “Everyone’s strapped in, ready to go.”

“Yeah, but we’ve got company,” Daisy informed him grimly. He frowned, at her, then at Elena, who he knew had been out scouting before. The shotgun axe came down from his back, and he cocked it.

“Where?”

Elena nodded her head in the direction they would have to go, and Mack nodded with determination. To Daisy, he said –

“Get that bird off the ground,”

- and with that he was gone, following Elena to face the firing lines. Two of them against an army would never last long, but for them this had always been where it was going to end. Humanity’s last line of defence. Death so that others may live. Not the worst way to go, all things considered.

Which brings us back to Daisy.

It was with a heaviness in her heart that she signalled for the last pilot to take off. She received his solemn final salute with a stiff upper lip and turned her attention to the task ahead. It was all up to her now and these precious, last few seconds were where she would make her final stand. They were oh-so-close now, and she knew what she had to do.

Daisy lifted her head, proud, feeling the heat on her face and the rush of the air from the engines of the last shuttle lifting off. She reached out after it, feeling its vibrations in the air; feeling her blood sing with the frequency that would get humanity to freedom. A smile touched her lips as she farewelled the ship – after all, maybe she couldn’t literally change the future, but who would have thought that one day she, a scrappy orphan raised in a van, would become this?

Kneeling slowly, Daisy put her outstretched hand on the precious earth. She dug her fingers into its surface and reached down into it with her mind, feeling the frequencies of rock and magma and shifting plates. She reached further than she ever had before, pushing through the nosebleed and the headache, downward and outward until she could hear the running river; the grass crushed underfoot; the kickback of pistols and the falling of bodies in battle not far away. She felt – with a violence she had not expected; so powerful it was as if she could see it – Mack’s body crash to the ground as the immense odds finally overwhelmed him. She was hardly aware of her own self, her own heart breaking, the tears on her own face, with her consciousness spread so wide across the world, but she knew it hurt. And when she felt the hummingbird heartbeat that was Elena die it was if strings were being cut inside her.

Maybe they were.

The last strings holding Daisy to this world were gone. Overwhelmed with the pain and Elena’s scream when Mack was cut down and the dissonant screaming of the earth she screamed too and the world shifted. Rocks cracked and split, magma trembled and fissures broke open – not just at her feet but all across the country. Kree ships were blasted out of the sky. Cracks opened in the earth that swallowed trees and buildings. Her body hummed with all the frequencies of a dying world and Daisy watched herself be lifted into the air, pulling all the threads together into a reluctant, tumultuous harmony. She hit a note, somewhere in there, and all of a sudden it didn’t hurt. It felt like diving into a pool of water; slow and smooth, and she could watch the world collapse around her in slow motion, untouched.

Drifting above the apocalypse, Daisy remembered that once the Asgardian, Sif, had claimed she would be transformed into a Kree weapon; a drone, marching at their beck and call – or worse, a believer in their empire. The Kree themselves had been pretty excited about that too. And Deke, and the others on the Lighthouse fifty-odd years from now, had believed it too, or some version of it anyway. That she’d destroyed their world. Only she knew… she, and the ones who had come before her… that it was not so simple.

She was Quake. Destroyer of Worlds.

Yet, even as the tectonic plates of the Earth cracked and burst by her will, like a glass still in the motion of breaking, she had crushed that name into the dust. There was hardly anything left to destroy. Only enough for one hell of a scorched-earth campaign as the Hope escaped the atmosphere, sailing humanity onto their next sanctuary – and their next challenge.

Those few Kree who had somehow managed to cross the burning, exploding Earth approached Daisy. They looked small, and greedy, and far too confident for the likes of her. Could they not see what she had become?

She was Daisy Johnson. Saviour of Humanity.

And like an opera singer breaking a glass, she waited until the perfect moment to let go the note she’d been holding onto. The harmony shattered, and all the discord of this dying world unleashed at once. It ripped through her fragile human-esque body, and through the Kree, and through the Earth, and the whole planet finally splintered around them.

Daisy died with a bloody, victorious smile upon her face.

[colormetheworld]

Okay, this is probably pretty cliche but here you go.

happy reading!

tc

Combat

....

....

No good deed goes unpunished. This is the first thought that runs through Maura’s mind as she pulls the vehicle over to the side of the road. The dust plume that her wheels have kicked up in their wake overtakes her, and for a long moment she just sits in the car, gathering herself. She is going to have to get out and see about the wheel. Whatever she hit has definitely damaged the tire, and she takes a final second to hope that it is just that and not the axel or the rims. But the night is pitch dark beyond her headlights, and who knows what the rural dirt roads hold in terms of danger. She steps out of the car, flashlight tight in her hands, and the world is illuminated for a split second by the flash of thunder. “No,” Maura says, looking up at the sky. The thunder rolls in answer. “Okay,” Maura says, hefting the tool bag from the floor of the backseat. “Here we go.” … She is soaked to the skin almost immediately. The rain follows the thunder within minutes, and though she deduces that the tire of her vehicle is the only thing that has sustained any damage, she realizes very quickly that she just isn’t strong enough to change it by herself. “This is why they warn us never to take the vehicles out alone,” Maura tells her non-existent companion. “And never after dark.” That’s not the only reason. The part of her that is scared, the part of her that she has been shoving down and out of consciousness since she arrived in this new country, it rears its ugly head.  She stands back from her vehicle and crosses her arms over her chest. Would it be better to walk? She contemplates the repercussions of leaving a military grade vehicle on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. Granted it is not armed or even full of gas. She is closer to the base than to the settlement, and she doubts that anyone with ill intentions would be able to do more than drive it around for an hour or so. On the other hand- Her musing is cut short by a second pair of headlights on the road, coming from the same way she had been, which is not reassuring. Sure enough, the car that grinds to a halt in the pouring rain is a civilian jeep, four men, rain hoods obscuring their faces…but not their shotguns. “Get in,” the driver calls to her over the rumble of more thunder. “No, thank you,” Maura says, stepping back. She realizes that she is shivering. It is not just from the cold. “Get in,” the man in the passenger seat says, more forcefully. “Like fucking shit,” A rough voice says from behind Maura, and she turns to see the end of an Assault rifle, balanced across the window of the passenger’s side of her car. The person who owns the voice is hidden behind the steel of the car’s body. “Why don’t you assholes continue on your way?” The occupants of the jeep say a couple words in their language, which Maura recognizes as profanity. The man hidden behind her vehicle throws the words right back, and as a flash of lightening pitches everything into daylight for a moment, Maura realizes that he is wearing a US issued vest, and that the gun is military issued. She feels relief wash over her, as real as the rain. The men in the jeep seem to think that she is no longer worth their time, and with a couple more swear words, they speed off into the darkness. The soldier stands and trains his gun on the taillights until they are only specks in the distance, and then he stands straight and presses a hand to his vest. “Yo, Frost. We’re clear, over.” At this, there is the gun of an engine and the flash of two more headlights, perpendicular to Maura’s vehicle. She blinks against the new light, and as her eyes adjust, she sees that her rescuer is not a man, but a woman. She pulls her helmet off and shakes out her hair, and the ATV that was hiding in the scrub brush, pulls up alongside them. “It’s a flat,” the woman soldiers says, her voice still deep and rough. “You owe me sixty.” The driver of the ATV hops out, carrying his own bag of supplies. “Damn,” he says. “The way it bucked I was sure it was an axel.” The woman soldier rolls her eyes, reaching out for the carjack Frost holds up. “Axel goes on this puppy? It’s gonna throw the doctor clear out.” Maura watches as they move to the tire and crouch down simultaneously to inspect it. Frost whistles low between his teeth. “Fuckin’ knew it,” the woman says darkly. Maura can’t be quiet any longer. “Ah, excuse me,” she says slowly. “Who-” The woman looks up at her over her shoulder. “I’m Rizzoli,” she says, “This is Frost.” She turns back to inspect the wheel, and Maura gets her first good look at the identifying insignias on the soldiers arms. Frost’s indicates that he is a Corporal. Rizzoli’s…indicates Master Sargent. The doctor’s gasp makes the other two jump up, alert. They both pull their weapons and train them in opposite directions, so graceful that it seems choreographed. “What?” Frost asks her, tight-lipped. “more headlights?” “Oh,” Maura is glad that the darkness might hide some of her blush. “No…I…” she looks at the woman lowering her weapon. “Jesus,” Rizzoli says. “You can’t make noises like that when we’re out here alone, okay?” Maura opens her mouth, but an answer doesn’t come to her. “Lay off her, Jay,” Frost says softly. It strikes Maura as too familiar a reprimand for their ranks. They must be something else to each other besides comrades. “She nearly got herself abducted. You want me to lay off her?” They turn back to the wheel, and with their combined effort, manage to loosen the bolts enough to remove and replace the tires. Maura watches without saying anything else, until Rizzoli climbs behind the wheel of her vehicle and Frost heads back towards their ATV. “I’m perfectly capable of getting it back to it’s-” she begins, but Rizzoli glares at her, and she can see that even Frost raises his eyes to the heavens. “Get. In the car,” the woman says between gritted teeth, and although this is the same exact sentence her would-be abductors had used, Maura obeys. And she knows better than to point this out. …… She is expecting to be reprimanded by the Chief of Staff the next day. She expects to be told to review the safety protocol, perhaps even restricted to the base for a period of time. She expects that Rizzoli or Frost will come to scold her as well. None of that happens. Business continues as usual. No one seems to be any the wiser in regards to her nighttime jaunts. There is not even an inquiry about the vehicle, and how it managed to blow a tire while sitting in a garage. It is almost two weeks until she sees Rizzoli and Frost again. They are in a settlement forty miles from base, have been called there to see to the victims of the latest firefight, and when they’d arrived, Maura had seen that the victims were civilians and soldiers alike. Marines sitting on the same worn cots as women and children. The sight makes her want to cry. It fills her with a kind of molten determination. Frost is her fifth patient. She turns to greet whoever is next, and feels her eyes go wide in recognition. Frost only chuckles, holding out his hand. “Corporal Barry Frost, Dr. Isles,” He says easily. “Good to officially meet you.” Maura takes his hand, reassured by how kind his face is, and gestures he should sit on her makeshift examination table. “What happened?” she asks. “You’re my first soldier of the day.” “Worst off civilians first,” Frost says. “Last Guard came from nowhere, fully armed to the teeth. They would have wiped everyone off the map if we hadn’t been heading through. Right place, right time.” Maura presses lightly on his ribcage, raising an eyebrow when he hisses. “Not the right place for that particular rib, I’m afraid,” she says, looking up when he chuckles. “Sorry,” he says, sobering at her expression. “That was funny.” “You won’t think so in a moment,” she says, and she uses the split second in which he is distracted to press the break firmly back into place. Frost yelps. “Corporal,” she calls, when he is getting ready to leave a few moments later.  He turns back to her. “I…wanted to thank you for…coming to my rescue the other night. I’m not sure what I would have done if you and – ah – Sargent Rizzoli hadn’t arrived.” Frost grins at her. She wonders how a man in the middle of this war can have such a kind face. “You know, Jane –that’s the Sergeant? – she is in charge of the whole lot of you,” Frost glances at her and recognizes her confusion. “I mean the doctors,” he clarifies. “She oversees your boss. She’s keeps track of all your supplies, makes sure you’re all safe and accounted for, that sort of thing.” He raises his eyebrows. “There’s not a whole lot that goes on with the Medical Crew that she doesn’t know about.” He pulls on a white undershirt over her bindings as Maura digests this. It isn’t possible. She’d been so careful. She’d made sure that she never took the same vehicle. She never went on the same day. No one had ever know…had they? Could the Master Sargeant know that she has been stealing vehicles to make house calls to scared, sick refugees since the third week of her arrival? No. No? “Why wouldn’t she tell anyone?” Maura blurts out, Just as Frost is pulling up the flap of the tent to take his leave. He looks back at her. “You’ll have to ask her,” he says with a smirk. “She’s next.” … Master Sergeant Jane Rizzoli has a fractured nose and a mildly concerning laceration on the outside of her bicep that requires cleaning and stitches. She comes into the tent in just her fatigue bottoms and tank top, and where Frost’s face had been open and kind, Maura thinks that this woman looks hardened and sharpened under the weight of the war. “Local anesthesia,” Maura says, holding up the syringe. Jane gives her a curt nod. She hasn’t truly spoken since she entered the tent, and Maura feels unaccountably awkward, just as she had during the silent ride back to base the night of her flat tire. When Jane’s gruff voice finally breaks the silence, Maura almost misses with her needle. “You need to take a JLTV.” “I’m…sorry?” Maura pauses her work as Jane glances up at her. “When you go out. You need to take a JLTV, one of the bigger model vehicles. And switch up your routes. You take the same one to each settlement. People can follow your routine.” Maura stares at her. “You know I’ve been sneaking out?” For a brief moment, the other woman smirks. “Yes,” she says. “It’s my business to know.” “JLTVs are harder to navigate alone,” Maura says, deciding not to ask why she isn’t in trouble. “I’m going to accompany you,” Jane says matter-of-factly, and although there are several pros to this idea, Maura fires up at once without pausing to consider them. “You can’t order me the way you order your privates around,” she says. “I don’t report to you.” Jane frowns. “Technically you do,” she says. “But it’s not an order. I’ll accompany you. Or you just won’t go. Your choice.” Maura sputters. “You’d deny sink and frightened people the chance to have access to medical supplies and antibiotics.” Jane blinks at her, impassive. “No, doctor,” she says tightly. “You would, by not accepting my offer.” “If the government cared about more than protecting the exports our country depends on, then there would not be a war to injure these people at all. You do not allow me the time to make a full diagnosis, or to do a follow- up visit, and then when I find a way to work around-” “Your LTV ran over road spikes,” the soldier stands, cutting her off. She no longer looks uncaring. “You hit road spikes specifically designed to disable your vehicle. Do you know what that car of men had planned for you?” Maura has stepped back, startled at the passion in the other woman’s voice. “They tracked you. They laid a trap. If I didn’t figure out where you were going, and follow you every night, you would right now be screaming for help from some underground torture shack with no one to hear you.” Jane presses her hands together, and Maura notices that she has scars on the palms and the backs of them. She looks back up into the woman’s face. “I…didn’t realize,” she says. Jane’s face softens. Just barely. “You’re not in America, Dr. Isles,” she says quietly. “And there is no good guy or bad guy here. I’m not so deluded that I believe that. But I have a directive to protect my company, and to make sure the Medical Crew is safe. I take it seriously.” Silence. Maura steps back up to Jane, who sits slowly, and the stitching begins again. “I’m sorry,” Maura says. Jane doesn’t answer for a long time. “You know that…kid you saw on your seventh trip?” Maura raises an eyebrow. “Boy or girl?” “Little boy. Really little. His appendix burst?” Maura smiles. “Yes.”  She taps Jane’s arm to let her know she’s all done, and watches as her work is inspected. “Is he okay? Did his stitches get infected? I shooed him back inside from play field every time I could.” Maura feels both awe and shame. She has been too quick to judge. “He’s doing well. I received word from his mother last week when we were in the refugee settlement.” Jane stands, nodding. Some of her hair has come loose from her bun. She swipes at it. “Good,” she says brusquely. “Well…thanks, doctor. And if you’d rather travel with Frost, I’m sure he’ll do it. Hell, it doesn’t matter. I out rank him.” She grins, a cheeky, rather sexy thing. “I wouldn’t rather,” Maura says. “Thank you.” …… …… “Thank you for helping back there, Sergeant. I find working with toddlers always requires an extra couple of hands.” “No problem. I have two kid brothers. I’ve seen worse.” “Have you?” “Yeah. Once I dared Frankie to climb this old tree in the park? He must’a been twenty feet up when a branch broke. I carried him on my back screaming, all the way home. Ankle bone sticking through his skin.” “Unfortunate.” “What was unfortunate was how bad my Pop tanned my hide for letting him do that.” “He hit you?” “Yeah. When he was pissed or drunk. Or both.” “That’s abuse.” “…Well, no one’s perfect. And God gave him Cancer for it…so…” “I’m sorry, Sergeant. I didn’t mean to sound judgmental. I…just don’t believe a child could ever do something that would justify violence.” “…Thanks…” “…Your hands hurt more today?” “What?” “You’ve been rubbing them. And it was foggy this morning. I assume they hurt more during the foggy weather.” “Jesus, yeah! They do. More than rain even. How did you know that?” “There’s more moisture in the air. That exacerbates the problem I would assume. I can show you some pressure points that might relieve the pain.” “…yeah. Thanks, Doctor.” “You can call me Maura…Well, I suppose you can’t, not in public, but…Here. You can. If you wish.” “Okay…And you can call me Jane. Here. And maybe in civilian life. If I get there.” “You’ll get there, Jane. Don’t say morbid things like that. What are you smiling at.” “Nothin…I just…I like the way you say my name. Can you say it again?” “Jane.” “It’s been a while since anyone called me that, but I like it from you, especially, I guess. Sorry. I made you uncomfortable.” “Not at all. But it’s polite to return the favor. Under the circumstances.” “What? Oh! Maura…I’m sorry, Maura.” “I will like it very, very much when we are just Maura & Jane. And you will get there. I have faith.” “Me too... Keep your eyes on the road.” … “Doctor Isles?” Maura looks up to see Susie Chang standing in her door. The look on her face says she’s been standing there for a while. “I’m sorry, Dr. Chang, I lost myself. What can I do for you?” “There’s someone up in the bullpen to see you. I said I’d come and see if you were available.” Maura stands, feeling in the stiffness of her back the long hours she’s spent in the chair. “Something to do with this case?” “No, Doctor, I don’t think so. Do you want me to say that you’re-” “No,” Maura summons a smile as she exits her office, Susie on her heels. “I’m fine.” She is not fine. Not really. She has been home, in Boston, for almost a year, the Chief Medical Examiner at the precinct for half of that, but her time in Doctors Without Borders still clings to her like mist. In her downtime, in the moments when she is not actively occupying her brain, the warzones drift back to her in cloudy hazes. Children and women and soldiers. Blood and tears and sweat that never fully washes away. Master Sergeant Jane Rizzoli drifts back to her. The months they spent alone together, making clandestine trips to and from settlements so that Maura could be the kind of doctor she wanted to be. She rounds the corner into the bullpen, and is able to locate the visitor at once. She stands straight, hands behind her back, looking formal even in a pair of slacks and a v-neck t-shirt. Her long hair is pulled tightly back into a bun, and her sharp features are focused with their usual impassive attention on Police Chief Sean Cavenaugh as he speaks to her. Jane Rizzoli. Maura hears herself make a noise that would embarrass her in any other situation. Jane looks around at the sound and her neutral expression falls away into the cheeky, dimpled grin that Maura had only seen on a few occasions. She nods an apology to Cavenaugh, and steps around him, towards Maura, whose feet feel rooted to the spot. “Hello, Doctor,” Jane says when she is close enough. Maura wants to cry. She shakes her head. “You disappeared.” Jane’s smile fades. “I got reassigned,” she says. “And then extended.” “You never wrote.” “I thought you’d hate me,” Jane says quietly. She is not smiling at all now. She looks concerned, possibly disappointed. “I couldn’t, but you didn’t know that, and then I thought…it’d been too long to really-” “You called me doctor just now,” Maura interrupts. Jane blinks at her. “What?” “You called me doctor, just now, Jane.” It is hard to keep looking so solemn when now all she wants to do is laugh. Jane’s mouth twitches. She raises her eyebrows. “It’s good to see you, Maura,” she says, voice dropping low the way it does when she’s particularly emotional. Maura laughs. There are tears in her eyes. “Welcome home, Jane.”

[storiesbybest]

The Anniversary

Fandom: Wander Over Yonder

Summary: Wander wakes up with a present, and Sylvia learns a little more about his past.

Notes: Part 1 of ???, 2176 words

This is the rough of a Wander/Hat (still need a good name for that ship...) wishing star fic using one of @woyprompts rarepair ship prompts. This is very rough, mind, but I wanted something for the day.

******

Wander woke up to a small box on his belly, white, with a green ribbon tied around it. He slithered out of his hat and set the box carefully on the ground with a quiet thank you. He then put his hat on his head and got to his morning routine, which got progressively longer the more people he met in this galaxy.

When he came back, breakfast for Sylvia in hand, he saw she was already up. The box was in her hand.

“You got a secret admirer?” she asked, holding it up for him. “Or someone who really hates you…”

Wander giggled. “Why would a box mean someone hates me?” he asked as he swapped the breakfast for the box. “And no, it’s not a secret admirer. I know who it’s from.”

Instead of explaining further, Wander set the box at his knee and dug into his own breakfast, partially to hide the smile on his face. He could feel Sylvia’s stare as she practically chewed on her tongue to not give into the urge to ask. But while she was good with temptation most days, today just wasn’t one of them. And who could resist an unopened box?

“Okay, who’s it from?”

“Ahaha, I don’t kiss ‘n’ tell,” Wander said, tutting at Sylvia.

Sylvia’s eyes lit up as she realized what Wander was doing. “Oh, so it’s someone you already know -- and are apparently dating.”

“Sorta.”

“That girl from La Moura.” Wander shook his head. “Lindsey the watchdog.” Another negative. “Peepers?” Wander grinned, but shook his head. “Hm…. Hater? Have you been having a secret affair with him?”

Wander snorted. “I wish! That’d make bein’ best buds way easier.”

Sylvia fell silent, running out of people Wander might be in a relationship with. They traveled so often, and she’d never seen him consistently with anyone but Hater, Peepers, and herself. And so far as she knew, she wasn’t dating him nor had she gotten him anything. Which left a different approach. “So… what’s in the box?”

“Iunno. Let’s see.” Wander set his plate aside to be washed and carefully undid the bow, then peeked into the box. After checking what it was, he opened it properly, revealing a pile of crystals that shifted between several different warm, rainbow shades sitting in a dark green velvet nest.

“What are those?”

“Ah, they’re honey chips! Thank you, hat!” Wander pulled the brim down in front of his face to place a smooch on the soft, black underside of it.

“What sort of honey --” Sylvia cut herself off as she realized what else Wander had said. “The hat? That’s who gave you the gift?”

Wander’s tongue poked out as he realized his slip up. “Whoops. Yeah, we’ve been together for years ‘n’ years ‘n’ years.”

“You said you were dating.”

“Sorta,” Wander repeated. “I mean, it ain’t like we go out to dinners or things, but I do love my hat, ‘n’ my hat loves me, don’t ya buddy?” He pulled his hat from his head to hug, and the opening looked like it was smiling in agreement as Wander nuzzled against it. Sylvia wasn’t entirely sure Wander knew what dating implied, or, more likely, he didn’t care. It was the easiest way to explain a relationship like… whatever theirs’ was.

“So how did…. All this turn into a relationship?”

“Well dig on in, and I’ll tell ya,” Wander chirped, offering her the box to help herself to some of the chips.

Sylvia took one and examined it while Wander tuned his banjo for musical accompaniment. It smelled like honey, with some sort of mulling spice undertone. She licked it, then popped it in her mouth. It tasted warm and comforting, like some sort of memory from when she was little, though she knew she’d never had these before.

Wander began his story. “It started a few galaxies-- no, gosh, a few dozen galaxies back, when folks called me Traveler. Like I mentioned before, there was this civil war going on, and I just had to help the poor hat right in the middle of it all...”

******

Tears clung to the edges of Traveler’s eyes, and he felt like he was going to be sick or pass out or both. The artifact he’d grabbed looked to be in even worse shape, though. It was a bag, blue and patterned with stars, with a golden cord that fed through it, keeping it closed. The velvet had been rubbed bare in places, and the tassel of the cord was fraying.

He sank down against the pillar he’d ducked behind and bit his tongue on any noises that wanted to come out. Guards were prowling every corridor, and he imagined sooner rather than later they’d realize what he’d done. A bag that looked nearly identical to this one was on its pedestal in Lord Iifa’s chambers, the innermost sanctum of the citadel. It wasn’t a perfect copy, and, more tellingly, the instant he tried to use it to create anything he wanted, he’d realize Traveler had swapped the bags.

He’d stolen it. Rescued it, Traveler reminded himself. Lord Delva was waiting for him to deliver it, but Traveler had known going into this that he wouldn’t. The poor bag had just looked so sad no matter who had it and was waving it around, declaring his supremacy on every airwave to a tired, beaten down galactic population. Traveler couldn’t watch it change hands again, when one was just as bad as the other. So he was stealing twice over.

His desire to help only strengthened when the bag…. Malfunctioned, he supposed was the word. An entire moon turned junkyard within minutes, soldiers and civilians alike buried. It had been horrible, would have been worse if he hadn’t gotten involved. Traveler wouldn’t let that happen again.

The bag wasn’t his either, yet here he was, doing just what they’d done. He had no intention of conquering anyone or using it for anything, but it still turned his stomach to think of. Just taking what wasn’t his, without asking for permission. But there hadn’t been time. He could see how upset the bag had been, and nobody else seemed to care.

Traveler brought his knees up and curled tightly into himself, cocooning the bag.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, both for himself and to the bag. “It’ll be okay.”

He flinched as a guard glided past on fluttering tendrils. Traveler squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for those tendrils to wrap around him and yank him from his hiding spot and, inevitably, to an execution. Traveler had no delusions about how this would end if he was caught. Lord Iifa had trusted him. He’d betrayed that trust, and Lord Iifa wasn’t known for his mercy.

When the sound of the guard faded, Traveler wiped away his tears and peeked out from the pillar, checking if the coast was clear. Two halls further at an unlocked window his rendezvous was waiting to take him and the bag to Lord Delva. Traveler wasn’t going that way.

He scrambled for the kitchens, bag bundled up as small as he could make it. Every second he expected something to grab his arm, or wrap around his neck, but by luck alone, Traveler made it to the kitchens which were full of people too busy to pay the strange little alien in their midst much mind. Now he just had to get out the door with the trash, and he’d be home free.

That was when all the lights went out, only to come back on angry and red. The sounds of blast shields dropping echoed all throughout the citadel, moments before an alarm blared, causing everyone to freeze.

Traveler bolted for the door, but just barely missed his chance. He stared at the metal plates between him and escape, arms squeezing the bag painfully tight. The instant they did a sweep, he’d be found out.

He looked around frantically as he heard the telltale whisper of more guards. On such a uniform planet, it would be easy to find the one, orange fuzzball. He was basically dead already. He hoped at least his ride had had the sense to peel out when he didn’t show and the alarms were tripped.

Traveler spotted a compost bin and, with a whispered apology, shoved the bag in it just as soon as a spotlight hit him. He spun around. Lord Iifa loomed, taller and more voluminous than his guards, and the kitchen staff around him parted like an ocean.

“Hiya, Lord Iifa,” Traveler said with a shaky grin, trying to appear nonchalant. “What brings ya here?”

Lord Iifa’s eyestalks drifted around the gathered servants, then over Traveler, before settling on his arms. Traveler glanced down. Bits of chopped vegetables and dark juices coated his fur.

“Step aside, Traveler,” he said, words like water rushing through reeds, but carrying a heaviness that scared Traveler.

“I -- I’m afraid I can’t, y’ see….” he trailed off, trying to think of how to continue that. “It’s garbage. Wouldn’t do to expose your lovely fluttery bits to that.”

Lord Iifa’s lovely fluttery bits gained a flattered shimmer of purple, but he just waved a guard over who forced Traveler away on threat of stinging tendril to the face. This was it. The bag’d be found and it’d be back to being a pawn in this, pardon his language though he felt about now some strong language was called for, flarping stupid war for it.

A tendril came to rest across Traveler’s shoulders, spines tucked away though he knew they were there, just beneath the gelatinous surface, and he glanced up at Lord Iifa nervously. His eyestalks were glued on the compost bin.

“What,” he said flatly, drawing Traveler’s attention to the bin. The guard hadn’t pulled out the bag, but a hat. Green, stained, torn, with one blobby star on it. Hardly the tool of tyrants and despots.

“What,” Traveler repeated. “I -- my hat!” he corrected quickly, disengaging himself from Lord Iifa’s grip and going over to take the hat from the guard. “I accidentally knocked it in there earlier, y’ know, when all this happened.”

Lord Iifa pulled at the hat, though Traveler refused to let go until he was shown a tendril that glinted with spines about an inch from his eyes.

“You’ve never worn a hat before, Traveler.”

“I know,” Traveler said like they were talking over lunch, though inside he was dying of panic as Lord Iifa examined the hat carefully. “I figured it was time to shake things up, ‘n when I saw this hat here, I thought it was a good fit. Bit rumpled like me.”

Lord Iifa reached into the hat, and Traveler tasted the sweet ichor of blood on his tongue where he’d bitten too hard. Lord Iifa’s tendril came out with nothing. Traveler let out a sigh.

The hat was handed over to him with some barely hidden disgust at its state.

“You will be confined to your chambers,” Lord Iifa announced before sweeping back out. “Until we find the bag.”

“Oh, sure thing!” Traveler chirped, hugging his, he guessed, hat to his chest. First chance he got, he was out of here. Somehow.

******

Back in the room with guards posted and doors locked, Traveler set about cleaning both himself and the hat. The blast shields were still down, blocking him from the brilliant moonlight that he’d become accustomed to here. He set the hat on the bed and went to the bathroom to fill the sink with warm water.

He approached the bed. The hat flinched away from Traveler as he reached out to gently touch it. His heart twisted at the obvious pain it was in, drinking in its crumpled, ripped and torn state. He whispered, “It’s okay… I won’t… I will never hurt you…”

His words weren’t going to sway the hat, he knew, not after what it had been through, but he wanted it to know. From beginning to end, Traveler would stick to that.

Traveler returned to the sink and soaked a cloth, then sat on the bed near the hat, but not touching it. He could wait.

To pass the time, Traveler scrubbed himself clean, then scatted a bit, patting his knees to keep the rhythm as he made random noises in some sort of loose tune, not looking in any particular direction. He put on as calm of an air as he could manage, though internally he was having a meltdown. Lord Iifa knew, and he knew Traveler knew, so what was this, some sort of game? If he made it out alive, he’d have to send so many apology letters.

Soon, he felt a soft weight on his arm, and he glanced down at the hat, which had flopped its rounded top from the other side toward him. Traveler lifted the cloth.

“Mind if I give you a bit of a cleanin’?” he asked, careful not to move too much, like he was dealing with a wild animal. And maybe he was. He didn’t know a whole lot about his new friend here.

[puckish-saint]

Dragon!au Hanzo and Genji with a (male) platonic friend/lover (your pick) please :D maybe they never planned to tell reader but something went wrong and reader found out, cue angst, freaking out, misunderstandings but all is well at the end (or whatever you are inspired by!) Thanks and keep up your great writing^^

Hanzo

Most people connect the sight of adragon with the horrors of the omnic crisis. Nowadays all butextinct, during the crisis they experienced their greatest increasein power, allying themselves with the god programs to enslavehumankind. Veterans and civilian survivors alike remember thedragons’ roars as they hid from the awe-inspiring and terrifyingcreatures, their enormous bodies shadows in the water, blotting outthe sun above.

Once they stood as a symbol ofprosperity, longevity and wisdom, but overnight they turned into thenightmare of a generation. After Overwatch trapped the last godprogram, freed the omnics in their service and became the globalorganisation they would remain for twenty years, their first orderwas to call out another great dragon hunt. It should be the last.

What followed historians describe asone of the most brutal mass killings in history. As punishment forthe crimes committed during the crisis, horrendous in their ownright, the dragons watched as they were hunted down, slaughtered andtorn apart from skin to bone marrow. Some fought, but the crisisweakened them, and some hid, like the human prey they hunted, but noone would shelter them.

Overwatch called a stop to the huntonly when the enraged mob turned to the children. By then the dragonswere gone. A once mighty race standing side by side with humankindreduced to history.

“... Rough estimates put the numberof surviving dragons in the low dozens but no one can be sure. Forbetter or worse they hide. Perhaps one day we can find common ground.Until then the dragons’ place is in stories and legends.”

The documentary ends to the creditsrunning over an old picture of a group of human and dragon soldiersduring the second world war, side by side and smiling brightly. It'sthe first show you've seen that doesn't demonise dragons and asexpected the older attendees of this movie night make their derisionknown. Even Reinhardt keeps himself tight lipped and says nothingwhen Jack monologues about the natural malice all dragons possess.

Dragons are hated more than omnics, forthe very simple reason that in the last three decades people got usedto the omnics’ presence if they wanted or not. But there are nomore dragons and the last memories of them are ones of blood.

“They weren't all evil.” Lùciosays. “Most were just trying to get by.”

Jack snorts and shakes his head as ifhe can't believe people would forget about the horrors he fought toprotect them from so quickly.

“They wanted to use us as food stock,kid. That's why they allied with the omnics during the war, to putyou in a pen and fatten you up before they eat you.”

Lúcio won’t be deterred by what hesees as little more than a cautionary tale. He argues hotly and Jack,who should be old enough to keep his temper in check but doesn’t,jumps at the chance to flex the old debating muscles. From the looksof it they’ll both be flexing their actual muscles before long.

Angela, who lost her parents to one ofthe aforementioned food pens during the war, tries to negotiate apeace between them but quickly finds herself taking Jack’s side.Mei intervenes on Lúcio’s behalf, mainly because she doesn’tlike seeing him fight one against two.

“They used to guide and protect us.”she says. “China and the dragon clans belong together. They werenever our enemies.”

Satya doesn’t skip the chance toantagonise Lúcio and falls in: “You genuinely believe they wouldhave spared you in the end? You are even more naive than I thoughtyou were. We humans are nothing to them.”

Few others want to take part in theescalating argument. Making a mental note to stop Winston fromsupplying any more educational as well as polarising documentaries toweekly movie night, you don’t notice Mei’s attention falling toHanzo until it’s too late.

“What do you say, Hanzo? Your countryhas also kept close ties to the dragons. You must have an opinion.”

Hanzo, who has so far lain with hishead in your lap, dozing to the general background noise, stiffens.Opening his eyes he finds everyone looking at him, expectant of hiscontribution. You know from experience he has an opinion about nearlyeverything and isn’t usually averse to share. But this is aquestion the answer to which will put him at odds with half the team,no matter which side he takes. The air has taken on a silence soprofound you could not only hear a pin drop, you could also determineits exact pitch in comparison to another pin that might fall threethousand miles away.

Carefully, as to give himself as muchtime as possible, Hanzo sits up, smoothes down his hair and thewrinkles out of his clothes. You try to reach out for him but heshrugs your hand off and says, avoiding eye contact with the rest:“The dragons were a plague and a menace. The ploy that in the endproved to be their downfall was only the latest in a long series ofcrimes against humankind. Their ‘guidance’ may have held backscientific advance by centuries, their protection only served theirown interests. It is good that they are gone.”

He stands, nods briefly to thespeechless audience, and leaves.

For a full long minute no one says aword. It’s a damning verdict coming from a man who tries to makethe least enemies possible in this group. Usually he avoids argumentslike these, held for nothing but the sake of argument. Something,perhaps in the topic of discussion, perhaps in something else, mustbe wrong.

Just as you realise that and followHanzo out of the room, the argument flares up again. It doesn’tsound like it’s anywhere near finished.

Over the next days he avoids you. It’ssubtle, he doesn’t outright flee the room when you enter, but hedoesn’t make as much conversation and your schedules never seem tooverlap like they usually do. When you go to bed he pretends he’salready asleep and when you wake up he’s already gone. You don’tthink much of it, sometimes he needs a little space, until one dayyou make a trip to the cellar to retrieve some ancient tech onWinston’s behalf, and find instead a dragon in the corner.

The first thought that comes to mind ishow a dragon this size managed to infiltrate the base. Actually, thefirst few thoughts are a variety of creative swear words, intenselythought rather than spoken aloud to avoid waking the beast. Youneedn’t have bothered. The dragon lifts its head, yellow eyesseemingly glowing in the half-light, wide and impossibly deep. Themoment it spots you it surges up, long body uncurling like a spring.Your hand flies to the comm.

“Win-”“No! Please!”

You let your hand sink, staring as thedragon transforms before your eyes into a panicked and naked Hanzo.He stumbles towards you, scaly legs turning soft and human with everystep. Something makes him trip and fall, landing hard on his kneesbefore you. Instead of getting up, arguing to make it all seem likeyour fault, he bows deeper, folds his hands in a pleading gesture.

“Don’t tell them. I beg you,please, don’t tell them.”

You’ve never seen him this meekbefore, without his pride or abrasiveness. There’s nothing exceptfear, coming from a man you’re beginning to realise would have thepower to pull the entire watchpoint into the ocean with a singleword.

“Okay.” you say because what elseis there to say when he still won’t get up from his knees. “Okay.Your secret is safe. But, Hanzo, why ... “ Why didn’t you evertell me; the question lies on your tongue but you swallow it andinstead sit down by his side, wondering not why, but how he kept thissecret for so long. The why lies in Overwatch’s great hunt, in themassacre of an entire people who sought to commit an equallyhorrendous crime. No matter how much he trusts you, he would havelived with the secret for so long, he likely never thought aboutrevealing it.

He won’t look at you when hestraightens up, preparing himself to explain something that has puthis life in your hands.

“There’s an … an itch if I remainin one body too long. I can resist it for months, but eventually Ihave to change shape. I used to hide deep underwater, but ... ““Thedark scares you.” you finish, remembering the electric candle healways leaves on, even through the night. He used to see Genji’smutilated body in every shadow. Nowadays he only sees him in thedarkest.

Hanzo nods, drags his hands through histangled hair. For lack of a better thing to do you take one strandafter another and comb out the knots between your fingers.

“It was careless to hide in thecellar, anyone could have found me.” He pauses and reaches out tohold your hand, for the first time in days. “I am glad it was you.”

Thinking of Jack, of Satya and Angela,you have to agree. This could have been much worse.

“Do you want to, ah, shift back? Intoa dragon, I mean. I can run interference for you.”

The offer takes him aback. You neverspoke out against dragons, but there is not a lot of pro-dragonsentiment to go around. He barely dared hope for tolerance. Now hefinds acceptance.

He makes you turn your back while hechanges shape, says it looks nauseating, the way his body stretches,scales growing through skin. With a swish of his tail againstyour back he lets you know he’s done, tentative at first when hecurls around you. To be fair, you hesitate just as much before youlay a hand on his back, petting the smooth scales.

It’s strange and scary for both ofyou, coupled with no little amount of danger. The last great huntended decades ago, but who knows what people would really do if theyfound a dragon living, eating and working with them.

A low thunder rumbles through thecellar and almost makes you scream until your mind adjusts and yourealise it’s just Hanzo speaking with vocal chords as long as youare.

“Our father took Genji and I to oneof the Shimada-gumi’s breeding pens once, during the war.” hesays, the depth of his voice as soothing as it is powerful. Butdespite the altered body, you can still hear Hanzo in every word.

“‘Breeding’?”

“Good breeding for prime … meat.”he says, managing even as a 150 foot dragon to sound awkward. Youhum, lean against him as you become more at ease with this body.

“What was it like?”

“Intimidating in its size. I was fouror five, I barely remember it, but the grounds were expansive,wardens caring for hundreds of human prisoners. Father spoke of afuture in which we would reign over all humanity, using them asservants or food source to our liking, the way we had done in thedistant past.”

He trails off, stares into nothing,caught by the memory. Then he shakes himself out of it, almostknocking you over with a comparatively gentle nudge of his head.

“It was never a viable dream. Thedragon clans spoke of never interbreeding with humans anymore, topreserve their genetic purity. In truth, of course, the oppositewould have been true. But sometimes, when I hid from the world as Ichanged into a being that was once admired, worshipped even, Iwondered what it would have been like. When I thought I had killedGenji, I lost the only other dragon in the world I knew of. I spentyears dreaming of finding others of my kind. But they hide well, justas I do.”

“Maybe ... “ you start, wonderingjust how well your idea will be received. Hanzo isn’t shy aboutmaking his distaste known, although you doubt he would, even in hisdragon form, bite off your head. “Maybe we can work on changingthat. It’s been almost thirty years. Maybe if dragons were to comeback, fighting alongside heroes, they could redeem themselves.”

It’s an unfortunate choice of wordsbut Hanzo laughs, so deep it makes the ground tremble.

“You would see me not only redeemmyself but my entire kind?” he asks, good-natured and not temptedto make a decision one way or the other.

“You have much faith in me.” hesays and you know in this moment that he could do it, could bring hispeople back from history’s fickle memory.

“Just about enough, I think.” yousay.

Genji

The communal laundry room is, after thekitchen and the recreation area, the third busiest room at thewatchpoint. There are two reasons for this. One, even the agents whodon’t live on base usually return to do their laundry here. Jessehas almost lost his serape one too many times to bounty hunters withill timing to wash his clothes anywhere it isn’t secure. Everythree months or so he rolls around with a big bag of dirty laundryand everyone tries hard not to think of how he handled the washingbefore the recall came.

But the second reason the place is sobusy is that it lies several hundred feet underwater, part of theexpansive network of rooms and tunnels that make up the hidden mainpart of the watchpoint, concealed from prying eyes. It was originallydesigned to be an observation deck before the recalled agentsrefitted it, as there are still too few agents to make booting up theautomatic laundry lines worth it.

You sit on top of an empty washingmachine, solving a crossword puzzle one of the others left behind,and glance through the 180° panoramic window at the deep dark blueocean outside. Fish swim outside, alone or in small swarms, but apartfrom that it’s as empty as only a place filled with invisible lifecan be.

Satya just left, in a powerwalkcarrying her laundry that contains items that are definitely nothers. An educated guess puts the bright yellow tank top in Lúcio’spossession, which leaves the question just how it ended up in herlaundry pile.

It’s then that you spot it, a shadowin the water, gone before you know it. Instincts kick in and you havereached for your weapon before realising that even had you thought tobring it with you it would not be wise shooting the only thingkeeping you from several tons of wet death.

Instead you move closer to the window,trying to catch a glimpse of whatever it was through the dark water.

It couldn’t be what you thought itwas. It’s impossible, at the very least extremely unlikely. Whywould a dragon appear here, next to the only active base of theorganisation that nearly drove its kind to extinction? It doesn’tmake sense but you’re still transfixed on the water when Fareehasuddenly stands behind you.

“See anything interesting?” sheasks and almost gives you a heart attack. You didn’t hear her comein and now have to lean against the glass to avoid topplingover.“Shit, you can’t just sca- there!” You press your noseagainst the glass. “Did you see that?”

Fareeha looks at you as if she’smentally signing you up for some psych evaluation.

“Some … plankton?” she guessesbut you shake your head.

“I saw something. Big, like a -”you stop. You’re not sure it’s a dragon and putting the entirebase on high alert based on something that may well be a waywardbeach towel isn’t a good idea. “Nevermind. It was probablynothing.” you say and excuse yourself.

There’s a small indoor bay that usedto house several watercrafts but now lies as empty as most of thebase. It connects directly to the ocean and is supposed to beprotected by a carefully maintained laser grid. The grid is offline.And in the shallow water sits a dragon, a real life dragon, its tailcurled, its leg stuck up high and its tongue on its genitals.

This isn’t the first time in yourlife that a creature licking its own private parts made eye contactwith you while in the process of doing the same. It is, however, thefirst time you know there to be a sentient person looking back atyou. A person, a talking, walking person, indistinguishable from ahuman most of the time, made the conscious decision to sit in theshallow water of an indoor bay and lick itself in the mostinappropriate way possible.

“I just followed a hunch.” you saylater, soothing your nerves over a cup of Ana’s tea. “I didn’tthink I’d find something. But there it was, at least a hundred feetlong.”

“That’s on the smaller side.” Anasays in the tone of voice of an old person about to regale theyoungins’ with a tale of the good old days. “Back in my day someof them grew to over two hundred. And there were hundreds of them,grey and blue like stormclouds. Majestic, in their own way.Terrifying, but still beautiful.”“This one was green. And Iwouldn’t it was majestic. It wasn’t behaving very majestically.”

Jesse, taking a sip of the vile stuffhe calls coffee, says: “To tell the truth, I’d be doin’ thesame thing if I had the necessary … flexibility.”

Hanzo and Genji choose that moment toenter the kitchen.

“I am loathe to ask, but what are youtalking about?” Hanzo asks, already sensing that with a smug grinlike Jesse wears the topic can’t be anything refined.

“We have a dragon on base.” yousay, still so shocked from the revelation that you don’t noticeboth of the brothers tensing. “And it was licking its own balls.Like a dog.”

Hanzo scowls at Genji.

In hindsight they both do a remarkablejob to keep their composure in the face of being discovered.

“Should we commence a search?”Hanzo says, clasping his hands behind his back all business and alsoto hide them trembling. Both in fear and in indignation at Genji’sbehaviour you would expect.

“No use. It might be anyone. It isprobably one of us, seeing as I don’t think even a dragon couldhave infiltrated this base without arousing suspicion. Which puts outthe question if we should pursue this at all.”

Ana looks into her mug, thinking abouta topic she thought she put safely behind her decades ago. She usedto find Fareeha sleeping in the most improbable places because shewoke from a nightmare in which her mother was devoured by dragons. Itwas always the dragons that scared her. Not the omnics and theirclean, ruthless calculus that kept Ana awake at night. Nor omnicsympathisers which made Gabriel nervous, or the masses of peopleexpecting them to solve every problem for them that had Jack breakingout in sweats. Always the dragons, their claws and teeth, theircontrol over the sea which held its own terrors already.

Genji pulls her, and the rest of you,out of your somber ruminations. “You’re thinking aboutletting a dragon run free on the base?” he asks, sharing a lookwith his brother that none of you can, yet, interpret.

“Might as well. Figured if theydidn’t eat us so far, they’re probably friendly. My money’s onHana, by the way. Has a real bite to her.”

Jesse makes a snapping motion with hishand, but Ana shushes him.

“Don’t make assumptions, child.Accusing someone of being a dragon is a serious charge, even if wecan assume they’re on our side. It’s best, I think, we let thismatter rest. And that we not tell the others, until the dragonchooses to come forward themselves.”

You all agree and shortly after partways, Jesse packing for another prolonged trip he still makes,believing no one can stand being around him for too long, Ana towardthe training range, and Genji and Hanzo fixing themselves up somelunch, having just returned from there.

You planned to make another trip to thebay to look for more cues and are halfway there when you notice youforget your access card to the lower levels. It’s probably still onthe kitchen table.

You make the short walk back and enterthe kitchen just in time to hear Hanzo and Genji argue.

“This behaviour is unbecoming. Allthese years and you haven’t changed at all. Just as when we werebo-”

“Who cares? So I was seen once, it’snot like anyone knows it was me.”

“Once? You mean to say you did thismore than-”Again Hanzo can’t finish his sentence. This timeit’s because he has spotted you standing in the doorway, mouthopen.

It’s not hard to put two and twotogether, especially not after it just happened. Hanzo sputters,tries to say something and then leaves when he can’t think ofanything. Genji is left to deal with the mess.

“It’s you?” you ask the obviousquestion and Genji doesn’t dodge it. He nods, part sheepish andpart afraid of your judgement. There’s a million questions buzzingaround your head and you settle for the most obvious.

“Why?”

Because he can, that’s why. It’s atthe same time that simple and that complicated. Like Hanzo he grew upin the world after the crisis, forced to hide half of his nature.Their father successfully pretended his sons, born to a human mother,had not inherited the dragon genes and on that secret their wholelives rode. Genji was fifteen when the hunt for his kind was calledoff and he remembers the fear in his family’s faces after too manyclose calls he himself barely noticed.

When Overwatch reconstructed him hishuman self shattered and instead of hiding half of himself, he hid itall.

And then Zenyatta came, with hispatience and determination. Up in the mountains of Nepal no one wouldcare about a dragon living in the temple and Genji, laughing to chaseaway the nervousness, admits he almost lost himself in the sensationof having a fully organic body again. His dragon-self is healthy,without a trace of scars or prosthetics, it has never seen enoughlife to be marred by it. “I got used to changing shape wheneverI wanted to.” he says as you sit side by side once again in theobservation deck and laundry room. “When I came back I lost thediscipline to put off the shapechange our father instilled in us. Sonow I just change shape every other week or so and take a swim. It’sa surprise I wasn’t discovered sooner. It’s something elselooking into this room from the outside.”“I’ll bet.” yousay, imagining a bubble of light and solid walls in the middle ofdeep water.

It’s a good deal more pleasant thanreliving the memory of watching Genji lick his own balls, anyway.

[ecotone99]

[FN] The Day of Night

little aside here, but hello! this story is one im quite proud of, and was in fact written for my writing fiction class at university. i hope yall like it, but it is a pretty rough draft so to speak; i know it can be fixed up, but i dont know what to change, so thats why i want to share it with yall. thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy!

The Day of Night

O, darkest day, O, Day of Night,

Thine Terrors bring man's nobl’st fight.

The rain will flood lands of no lords,

As legions arm with spears and swords.

O, darkest day, O, fearful night,

What reason have you for this blight?

As children die and soldiers tire,

You watch us suffer in your fire.

O darkest day, day of no light,

Your reign will cease before our might!

O, darkest day, O, Day of Night,

Your death is now! Behold our light!

- Ancient Ipiarian Hymn

“Tonight,” bellowed a cleric, “The Malice will bestow itself upon our humble lands, wreaking havoc in its wake! The day of darkness, the Day of Night, is upon us!” The cleric’s words were heard by all within the capital city of Grendar, as the Ipiarian man’s sun-soaked skin housed a practiced lecturer’s booming voice.

The vendors stood behind their wares with anxiety as the mothers herded their young ones out of the central marketplace. Soldiers hesitated as they climbed the stairs of the central dais to the old, white-robed man. They rest their hands on the swords mounted to their hips, but do not draw. The old cleric ceases his preaching.

“Oh my, I must be going, by the looks of things,” he chuckled.

“Don’t move!” Shouted one of the soldiers, drawing his longsword and pointing it to the old man’s nose. “We can’t just let you go free. This is not the first time you’ve scared the citizens with your… your… your terrible sermons!”

The old man stroked his snowy white beard and mumbled to himself, “Not terrible, per se, but I suppose they can be unpleasant…” He perked up and pointed his finger to the sky as he exclaimed, “I will no longer preach in the square. I apologize for the inconveniences I have caused. When you perish as victims of the cataclysm, beg not for my help!” With that, the old man began laughing hysterically, sending echoing reverberations through every home and alleyway before he snapped his fingers and— Poof! The geezer was gone.

The soldiers sighed and returned to post. It had been a long day, but the sun was now directly above; they were halfway home to their wives’ home cooking and… well, one is familiar with the home life. The day was looking to become much easier, until another Ipiarian man arrived at the square, stood upon the same dais as the cleric had before, and drew a sword from his hip.

The sword was like none the guards had seen; it had been set ablaze! — or rather appeared as such, anyway, as its silver blade shined brilliantly in the hot, golden light of the sun. The gold hilt had been ornately crafted, bearing swirls and small spikes in a beautiful, symmetrical shape further adorned with radiant jewels embedded into the fiery metal.

The man appeared similar to the old preacher who stood previously on the dais: a long, white robe, common leather sandals, a red rope serving as a belt tied around his waist, and the distinctly rich, desert-baked skin of an Ipiari. The man’s face, however, looked like that of a fairy-tale prince, with a firm, sharp jaw and blood red irises in his sky-gazing eyes.

The guards followed suit, looking to the sky above them. Now, where the sun once flew, a dark hole pierced the sky. The sun disappeared as its crown of light transformed into a swirling maelstrom of darkness. The black streaks whipped through the sky, revealing streaks of brilliant colors in the now violet sky. Deep blues and reds stained the heavens; gashes of brilliant yellows and greens cut through the sky above. The man then pointed his blade skyward, and shouted thus:

“O, Malahasi, fateful blade of legend, grant me the power to confront this evil! O, darkest day, day of no light, your reign will cease before our might! O, darkest day! O, Day of Night! Your death is now! Behold our light!”

As the you man’s voice rang in the ears of every man, woman, child, and beast, he gripped his sword with both hands and held it to his face, the blade dissecting his image. He let out a roar that pierced the heavens and the earth before his blade was struck by a blinding flash of purple lightning that hurled itself down from the center of the dark portal in the sky. The man began glowing a with a vibrant light and proceeded to levitate above the city.

“Soldiers! Now is your time! Gather all of your strength, all of your hope, all of your love, and use it to vanquish these armies of shadows as they approach. Defend your world, defend your country, defend your city, defend your family, defend us all!” spoke the flying man. The soldiers were dumbfounded by his command, but quickly obliged when They came.

The sky wept. A furious tempest suddenly arrived in the city, falling from a dark, cloudless sky. From the portal in the sky, quick jolts of black lightning came striking down all around through the city streets, leaving behind tall, slender silhouettes that bore sharp claws. The figures, known simply as “Them,” began running toward anyone they could find quickly tearing them down.

The front line of soldiers had all but become fodder for the armies’ bloodlust. The rivers that rushed through alleyways and down boulevards due to the unfathomable downpour became streaked with crimson as the blood of soldiers and innocents alike fell into the water. Thankfully, the remaining soldiers knew what they were to do. They drew their various arms – swords, spears, axes – as did the civilians –their hoes, rakes, pitchforks and knives. All as one, soldiers and their families began to grapple with the dark armies, with Them.

Our robed hero saw from above; the city had begun fighting back before he flew away into the portal in the sky. Even he, our hero of legend, knew not what lay before him through the unholy gate, but he knew he must pass through.

The hero had never before known a pain so severe as that which he felt passing into Their realm. His limbs were torn off tenfold, despite being visibly attached to his body. His eyes were blinded not by light, but by a maddening darkness that consumed all he could see. A piercing, deafening silence rang through his ears. As he felt these pains, he felt his very soul being torn from his body. Had he met his end? Had he come all this way to fail?

But, as quickly as he experienced this eternity of pain, it disappeared. He was standing on the stone dais in the center of Grendar again, red rain pouring down while bright, black flames consume the landscape around him. They, however, were not to be seen. The townsfolk were nowhere found. All that was before him was a silhouette.

He gazed at the shadowy figure, trying to understand what it was. It on another stone dais, opposite to himself, and held a longsword in its right hand. Clutching his own blade in his own right hand, the hero called out to the figure.

“Who are you? Where are we? What is happening?”

The figure stood silently and opened its eyes, revealing glowing, crimson irises in its eyes as its mouth formed a sly smirk.

The figure spoke with a gravelly tone, “Merle, my boy, you know exactly who I am. You know exactly where we are. You know exactly what is happening.” As these words graced our hero’s ears, the shadow around the figure dispelled and revealed a terrible face.

Merle, our hero, gasped as he realized that he does, in fact, know who this is. It was his father, Gundren, the creator of the Malice in which they stood.

“You knew this day would come, didn’t you, Merle? The time has come for you to make your ultimate decision: will you surrender and die in dignity, knowing you can’t defeat me, or will you fight and die in humility after I smite you for daring to oppose me?”

Merle spoke defiantly to Gundren, “Father, you told me when I was a boy that, when confronted with an ultimatum, I can always forge a third option of my own.” And, with those words, he did.

Merle and Gundren leapt toward each other at impossible speeds, their swords ringing with a loud clang! as the blades meet between their glowing vermillion eyes.

“So, your death will be in vain, I see! What a spectacular son I’ve raised!” growled Gundren as he stepped back and reset his sword.

“No, father, yours will!” Merle lunged toward his father, blade pointed out at Gundren’s heart, when suddenly Gundren raised his sword to parry. Just as their swords are to connect, Merle invokes Malahasi’s magic powers and suddenly appears behind his father, swinging at his father’s exposed rear. Merle, however, is familiar with their weapons’ magical powers and swiftly turns around to block his son’s strike.

“That’s my boy! No matter how futile, you stand to your opposition with bravery! It’s just like when you were a boy,” shouted the deranged Gundren with glee. “To die in vain is impossible, is it not? Futility breeds honor!”

The son continued his attempts to teleport around his father, to swiftly redirect a feigned blow, to overpower his father’s raw strength, but to no avail. Merle found himself on an equal playing field with his father, their strategies always the perfect counter to each other’s. Whenever Merle would attempt to land a blow, regardless of the new fashions to do so he would formulate, his father always seemed to block or dodge in the nick of time, remaining unscathed. However, Merle was able to do the same vis a vis his father’s offense, always deciding the perfect way to avoid taking a hit.

The father and son exchanged swings, dodges, parries, and counters with their blades for a time immeasurable. Their lightning-quick dance of lunges, stabs, swings, back steps, flips, teleportation, and strategy continued for what must have been eons, or perhaps only minutes, before finally coming to a fateful close.

Merle and Gundren found themselves on their respective daises again as they once had when their battle began. The leapt toward each other once again, blades meeting directly in front of their faces as Gundren spoke to his son.

“Merle, when will you give up?” Gundren sighed before he continued, “No matter how honorable, how righteous, how glorious, how heroic your actions may be, they are still futile.”

Merle stepped back and lowered his sword, sulking on the dais he arrived upon. With a heavy sigh, Merle spoke with remorse, “I suppose you are correct. Malice truly is power. Had it not been for my own reservations, had I not refused to give in to my anger, my malice — perhaps then I could have won.” Merle tossed his sword to his father’s dais, landing with the blade pointing directly back at Merle, the handle ready to be clutched by Gundren.

“Son,” Gundren spoke softly, “It is time you join me.” As soon as he finished his sentence, Gundren lunged almost instantly toward his son, the point of his blade near to penetrate between Merle’s eyes. He would kill his son and claim Merle’s power as his own. Gundren would transcend his humanity— he would become a god!

As Gundren’s sword landed on his son’s skin, Merle disappeared. Gundren quickly swung himself around to face his rear, bringing his blade with him to cut down his son. To his surprise, however, his blade cut through only air and Merle’s blade was through his heart before he had time to even notice what happened.

“I’m sorry, father,” Merle whispered into his father’s ear, twisting his sword. “You were so close. Did you really think I would strike unarmed?” Merle chuckled as he asked his father the ridiculous question.

“No, son,” Gundren choked as a tear rolled down his cheek from one of his glowing eyes. “I am sorry. What kind of father am I to attempt my son’s own life in the name of— what, power? Some cosmic good?” Gundren sobbed as he continued, "I am not a god, I am a fool.”

Gundren ripped his son’s blade out his chest before throwing it aside and sitting down calmly on the ground. Before Merle could protest, Gundren smiled and closed his eyes before falling over limp.

The city – no, the entire world – fought back against them in a fierce war for an equally imperceivable amount of time. How long had these soldiers fought? To some, they felt as though the Malice arrive with Them merely moments ago, others must have been fighting for centuries. They were all but extinct, only a few shadows continuing to slaughter the humans with particularly futile determination.

Then, the storm stopped, the sky no longer weeping to forge rivers. The flames extinguished themselves instantly. The vivid colors staining the sky all retreated into the terrible portal high above, the violet hue following as the sky became a gentle blue once more. They fell to the ground and disappeared, leaving no trace of their monstrous form.

Men, women, children, and beast rejoiced as the darkness faded away, as life was restored to its true beauty. Citizens of Grendar whooped and cheered as Merle descended onto the central dais with angelic wings outstretched.

The Ipiarian man disappeared as quickly as he arrived. Nobody knew, nor has anyone known since, where he went. However, while Merle of Ipiar was never seen again, he would be immortalized throughout the ages as a mysterious, legendary hero who fought a foolish god before becoming a god of his own.

Posterity treated Merle’s likeness as nothing but sacred and awesome. Statues of his stature were raised in every temple and city square, novels were written recounting various authors’ own versions of his journey in The Malice, paintings captured the image of Their arrival and the final confrontation between Merle and his father, the once revered cleric and preacher Gundren, who once warned the world of the very evils he would later incite. Merle had unified the world and ended his father’s reign of terror.

O darkest day, day of no light,

Your reign has ceased before our might!

O, darkest day, O, Day of Night,

Your death has come from our light!

- Contemporary Ipiarian Hymn

submitted by /u/dtmijfeu [link] [comments] via Blogger http://bit.ly/2Iyvg74

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WEEKEND TV HOT FILM PICKS!

Check out my guide to the top films on TV this weekend and the best of the rest. Enjoy!

LATE FRIDAY 3rd NOVEMBER

HOT PICKS!

W @ 2100      Dead Calm (1989) ****

If you are thinking of watching “Adrift” or any of the other modern water based suspense / thriller / scary movies - forget them all. Dead Calm is the ultimate and only film of this type that is required. I have very fond memories of this suspense thriller. Nicole Kidman and Sam Neill are a couple on a sailing trip in the pacific trying to forget something terrible in their past. They happen upon a stranded ship with a man on board. Billy Zane is Hughie, the sole survivor on the vessel who just so happens to be a mass murdering, wife seducing general all round bad egg. Soon his true nature is revealed and they fight for their ship and their lives. Kidman is so young in this and was a bizarre casting gamble to pair up with the much older Sam Neill - but she is fantastic and I am always impressed with her handling of the character and the script. Dead Calm’s success lies in its atmosphere and is serenity. If you are looking for a well-acted, well shot, haunting suspense thriller then this is right up your street. Even with a cast of just three actors - this film is thoroughly engrossing.

Horror @ 2255       They Live (1988) ****

I love a bit of John Carpenter in my film diet. Especially 1988 cult classic They Live. Rowdy Roddy Piper is Nada - an out of work construction worker who hits the city in search of work. He comes across a pair of sunglasses which reveal the world as it REALLY is - the people controlled by the rich, a mass media saturated world where people are driven into consumerism fuelled pacification. Government messages are revealed in stark, bold black and white text on billboards, TV and newspapers - showing the messages of “OBEY” and “CONFORM”. Even more sinister is the revelation that the upper echelons of society are populated by an evil exploitative alien race. The constant Carpenter score is our companion throughout almost all of the film which works wonderfully. Funny in parts, action and fights galore - this is a great Cult Classic Carpenter.

Horror @ 0050        eXistenZ (1999) ****

From Carpenter to Cronenberg. Another favourite Director. No better course that a slice of reality vs. illusion dark sex-tech creep fest that eXistenZ. A game designer is on the run from people intent to kill her must play her new virtual reality game with a Marketing trainee to determine if the game has been damaged. We follow them both as they tumble down the rabbit hole of the virtual world questioning reality at every turn. Mysterious, thrilling and a down right mental - this is one of Cronenberg’s films I always enjoy returning to.

Best of the rest:

Disney @ 1802       Aladdin (1992) *****

Film4 @ 1815         Runaway Jury (2003) ****

TCM @ 1855          The Others (2001) ****

CBBC @ 1900        How to Train Your Dragon (2010) ****

ITV2 @ 2100          Bridesmaids (2011) ***

5* @ 2100              21 Jump Street (2012) ****

TCM @ 2100         Mad Max (1979) *****

TCM @ 2250         Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981) *****

Film4 @ 2250        Boy (2010) ****

SATURDAY 4th NOVEMBER

HOT PICKS!

TCM @ 2100     Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981) *****

The Road Warrior has always been my stand out favourite Mad Max film and probably always will. Raw, unforgiving and unglamorous. The Road Warrior ticks all the boxes when it comes to action and thrills. Tom Hardy sits very comfortably as our new steely eyed and distant antihero, but after watching The Road Warrior again last recently, Mel is always the one true Mad Max. The new outing of Fury Road treads an appreciative step forward in this post-apocalyptic world where the hunt for fuel is endless and fraught with danger.

I was surprised when I found out the original film was released dubbed for the American market due to the “Heavy Australian accents and slang” how times have changed! Anyway, thank the maker that didn’t happen here. That would have really racked me off. Thankfully it didn’t stay that way for long. I love the original Mad Max which sets up the back story for our loners fall into his nomadic existence looking for fuel to continue on his road to nowhere. This sequel / new start has a bigger budget, bigger ideas and some of the best physical vehicle stunts and effects I’ve seen. I’m still left wincing at every elaborate crash and explosion. The stunt people certainly earned their keep on this film.

In his search for fuel Max does a deal with a group at a fuel refinery to drive the tanker as they flee for pastures new. They are plagued and chased by an evil gang headed by the scary looking, hockey mask wearing, Lord Humungus who is intent on killing his way to the fuel they are protecting.

The final chase sequence is always impressive and even after 35 years it holds up very well. On a scrubbed up Blu ray version it feels as fresh as the first time I saw it. Thrilling, action saturated, road war carnage; Max Max 2: The Road Warrior is one of my favourite action films.

Film4 @ 0100      Dog Soldiers (2002) ****

British director Neil Marshall brought us the impeccable scare fest Horror film The Descent in 2005 and here is his 2002 directorial debut: Dog Soldiers. With just a meagre budget and a great idea Marshall managed to put together a great little Horror film.

A British Army squad go on a training mission in the Scottish Highlands against a Special Ops team. They talk about local folk tales of grizzly happenings in the area, but these stories become a dangerous reality as they come across the bloody remains of the Special Ops team. Something part man part animal is after them and will stop at nothing to kill them. They go on the run for their lives dishing out oodles of frights, shocks and plenty entertainment along the way. A must watch for fans of British Horror.

Best of the rest:

Syfy @ 1500       The Last Starfighter (1984) ****

Disney @ 1600   Aladdin (1992) *****

Syfy @ 1900       The Addams Family (1991) ***

ITV2 @ 1920       The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (2003) *****

Syfy @ 2100        In Time (2011) ***

TCM @ 2255       Poltergeist (1982) *****

SUNDAY 5th NOVEMBER

HOT PICKS!

C4 @ 1715      Paddington (2014) ****

Who would have expected a live action / CGI cross over of the much loved story of Paddington would work - but it absolutely does. It’s charming, heart-warming and walks the line of sentimentality that never goes too far, it honours the original material and brings an altogether joyful experience to all that watch it. A sure hit with children and adults alike, with enough sequences of absurd action and moments of effective comedy that keep the flow continuously. A truly lovely film. Don’t miss it.

Syfy @ 2100       28 Weeks Later (2007) ****

When I first found out that someone was attempting to make a sequel of Danny Boyle’s amazing Brit zombie flick 28 Days Later I was prepared for an utter disaster but 28 Weeks later is a pretty solid sequel picking up the original story line 28 weeks after the initial infection. In a deserted London, the Military are tasked with re-housing 15,000 civilians into a secure compound so they can begin rebuilding their lives. We follow Robert Carlyle’s Don and his children Andy & Tammy as they settle into their new home. The calm soon turns to panic, blood drenched carnage as another outbreak threatens the lives of everyone. As the military loses control and make increasingly more difficult and ultimately poorer decisions the film picks up even more pace adding a nice element of human failings and moral choices. The camera work and direction really adds to the panic and terror as our eyes dart from shot to shot. This film is gripping, fast paced and packed with relentless zombie terror with some great edge-of-your-seat moments. Admittedly it doesn’t have the intimacy and originality of the first film but it still hits the mark as a stylish, action saturated zombie gore fest that takes pride and place next to the original as a great compliment to the superb first serving.

Horror @ 2240     Starry Eyes (2014) ****

One of the best horror films to come out of 2014. This brings a new take on the traditional and kept me captivated throughout. It starts out pretty slow but with its great synth score and Los Angeles at night looking fantastic - I was hooked. It can be quite brutal in parts and that works here but certainly not one for the squeamish. It wears its message blatantly on its sleeve - no subtleties here but who cares. A cracking Indie Horror.

Best of the rest:

Syfy @ 1230         The Addams Family (1991) ***

Syfy @ 1430         Splash (1984) ***

C5 @ 1700            Grease (1978) ****

BBC2 @ 2100       My Scientology Movie (2015) ***

Comedy @ 2100  Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (2004) ****

TCM @ 2100        Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985) ***