#not a proper chapter

[i-mushi]

Cumpounding Debt Chapter 12

SCENES

Here's the link for Ao3: Go read it!

This is not a proper chapter! It's 5 scenes from various future chapters that haven't been written or fleshed out. They're disjointed, have minimal context, might be confusing, but still have sex and feels, and hot stuff I promise. I just don't want to leave readers wanting any longer since I have no idea when the story will be completed.

[galaghiel]

Both Jack and Maddie stared at him, speechless. Silence blanketed the lab, everything but Danny’s strangled crying, his hand pressed over the muzzle as if to hide it. No- to hold it still, to still the dozen wicked barbs that were digging into his tongue, probably ripping it with each sob.

a little sketch of @liketolaugh-writes amazing one-shot fanfic that you can read here

[branwinged]

"dragons plant no trees" gets thrown around a lot as fact, but i think the veracity of that claim is still up for debate in the books. because dany (like bran and jon and many others) is a narrative symbol of hope and rebirth within the series because of her connection to dragons and fire, not in spite of it. this is because dragons in asoiaf have a much more expansive narrative function than simply 'nuke metaphor'. the 'exclusively weapons of war' image they have acquired breaks down immediately if you recall that the first thing dany does with them is begin dismantling an unjust status quo. she rallies the unsullied at the gates of astapor with cries of dracarys! dracarys! freedom! <- dragons as a symbol of hope and freedom for the persecuted. and obviously they've been built up as an oppositional force against the others. we're told when the last dragon died summers became shorter. in that respect the dragons, or more specifically, fire which is warmth which is passion—very much embodies life against the numbing, deadening threat of eternal winter that the others represent. but fire also consumes, which simultaneously makes dragons agents of destruction, or as adwd shows: the monsters who eat little girls and leave behind their bones. but when dany found herself chained to a false peace which effectively undid her cause in meereen, it was the dragon that rescued her and reignited her fire to fight back—which is to say that dragons represent a wealth of contradictions within the text and this is likely something grrm means to parallel with the others to some extent, by questioning their apparent narrative role as the one true evil. because i doubt the series is gearing up towards a spectacle-esque battle wherein our heroes get to practice righteous, easy violence on a monolithic army of monsters. that feels like it would undo a lot of asoiaf's preoccupation with investigating violence against socially acceptable targets, even if said target is ice sidhe. and this binary between a one true good and a one true evil, i.e. melisandre's philosophy ("if half an onion is black with rot, it is a rotten onion. a man is good or he is evil.") is not something the story takes as given.

instead there's this exchange between bran, jojen, and meera in asos: "but you just said you hated them." / "why can't it be both?" / because they're different. like night and day, or ice and fire." / "if ice can burn. then love and hate can mate."—and i think it's talking about reconciling two conflicting ideas. because the dream of an eternal summer is just as unsustainable as the threat of eternal winter. i think the battle for dawn is more about questions of seasonal harmony. the first line from agot's summary says, "long ago, in a time forgotten, a preternatural event threw the seasons out of balance", so it's not totally out of question for the series to end with that seasonal balance restored once more. and that question of balance and how it can be achieved then works as a metaphor for a bunch of other things. because asoiaf at its core is very interested in exploring big contradictions, like love and duty? how do you keep all your oaths without betraying someone you love? how can one hope for a just, rightful ruler in a world where the systems in place can never allow such a thing? how do dragons plant trees?

you cannot frame dany's arc as a binary choice between planting trees or embracing (dragon)fire. because the fire is hers, it is a part of her, that's who she is. and her character has always existed outside of rigid dichotomies. at the end of agot she had two options, resign herself to a life of seclusion as a widow or die with the last of her family in that pyre, instead she performed a miracle. presently, i think grrm means to explore necessary, revolutionary violence with her arc because you cannot deal with institutional slavery by simply negotiating with slavers like she does in adwd. and the consequences thereof because she's also been set up to be more reckless with dragonfire in the future. but i think there will be an eventual reconciliation there, between her dreams "to plant trees and watch them grow." and her role as the mother of dragons, as a revolutionary figure. because if ice can burn, then maybe dragons can plant trees. they'll learn how to.

[cathchicken]

Elnina and Lanino!!! Because I want to show you how much I exclusively love them both!!!

I haven’t drawn them in forever

[geistboy1]

elnina and lanino!!!!!!

[gorejo]

okay, he gone thats understandable, painful and it doesn’t make sense, but understandable — it’s gege.

but not a single acknowledgement given to someone who fought non stop throughout his life to protect those weaker than him? who fought on par, almost breaking down sukuna's threshold and stood up for not only one but two children that were supposed to die. and he gets treated like this from everyone ?

literally no funeral, no info on the current whereabouts of his body, and the way everybody just ignores him even in death? even side characters got a proper ending, Tsumiki got a proper burial... but not Satoru — like not even a hint of what happened to his body ??

“Haven’t we had enough Gojo Satoru?… but if this is where I bow out, there’ll be a time where you guys grow up more than I ever did, right?” satoru knew. saying this to yuuji with a smile, "I think there should be at least one among you who forgets about me… this is confidence. Confidence I’ve never had before." yet he still yearned for reciprocation from others to be remembered and couldn’t even have that.

these are really rough translations, but the point still stands that satoru was neglected in the end )) :

and this is the last panel we got to see of his body… wow the way i cried when i saw him being used like that

[i-dare-say]

Shixiong!Shen Yuan AU

Shen Yuan has been living in the PIDW world since birth but doesn't remember anything about his previous life. He manages to enter Cang Qiong Mountain Sect and become a disciple of Qing Jing Peak, until he's fourteen and a sparring head injury causes his memories to return all in one go. Now that his memories are back the System is also activated.

He finds out he's been reincarnated into a no-name cannon fodder character (the name is the same because what originality do you expect from PIDW?) and the System informs him that he now has to enhance the story's quality while also ensuring the protagonist's satisfaction.

Shen Yuan is already pretty done with all of this. Whatever he does is sure to lead to his death. It's either the system kills him because his points reach 0 or the protagonist kills him later because he stood by while he was bullied/didn't help him enough to not get bullied.

And now Shen Yuan's brain has been flooded with all this information about the world and, worse, about people he's known for some time now.

His sweet Ning-shimei is fated to become a character trope he despises, a simple damsel in distress only there so the protagonist can show his strength by saving her over and over again.

Ming-shidi has always been most respectful towards him, and now he discovers that he's at the front of the pack of disciples that bully Luo Binghe.

And his shizun...

Shen Yuan has never really known much about his shizun. His tea ceremony had seemed as normal as it could be (Shen Qingqiu had asked him a lot of questions about his past, but that's expected since they do have the same surname. Still, nothing came out of that), and for the four years since he's been a disciple his shizun had seemed like an admirable immortal master, cold and strict, but competent and intelligent. Shen Yuan did admire him. At least, until his memories come back.

Now he has knowledge of what Shen Qingqiu will do (maybe has already done, since Shen Yuan is not sure whether Luo Binghe is already on the peak) to the protagonist, and of all the crimes against the other characters. He's a poser, hiding a scummy personality behind his aloof persona.

Shen Yuan is not happy to know all of this. But he's almost glad to remember his old life because it doesn't feel weird when he wholeheartedly thinks: Fuck.

First of all, he has to find out if Luo Binghe's already a disciple.

The shijie he was sparring with is now taking him to Qian Cao to be checked so he asks her about Luo Binghe. She doesn't know, so as soon as he's clear to get back to Qing Jing he goes straight to Ming Fan.

Ming Fan is practicing guqin playing with some friends (Shen Yuan suspects these are the other bullies) and is having trouble with a particular movement, so Shen Yuan helps him by guiding his fingers. Once he's satisfied his shidi has learnt what to do and sees the others not paying them attention, he lowers his voice and asks Ming Fan about Luo Binghe.

It's clear the boy knows what he's talking about. Ming Fan is curious about the reason for his question and warns him that Luo Binghe is nothing but trouble, that their shizun's already had to punish him for his misbehaviors. Shen Yuan thanks him for the advice and takes off towards the woodshed.

Luo Binghe is not there, but he will come back sooner or later. So he decides to wait and prepare for the future.

The first step of his plan now is to get stronger. Enough for Shen Yuan to be able to protect Luo Binghe from the other disciples. He'll take on the mantel of older brother figure, someone who helps the protagonist in the beginning of the story while he's too weak to do it properly. Then, once Luo Binghe finds his way and becomes the all powerful demon lord he's destined to be, Shen Yuan will try his best to convince him not to raze Cang Qiong to the ground.

He doesn't have much hope of that though. After all, he's just a no-name cannon fodder. But at least he can help Luo Binghe right now, while he has the power to do so. To make these bitter years a little more bearable. And that future is so far away, he has time to think about what to do and plan accordingly.

While thinking this, he falls asleep against the wall of the woodshed.

He's awakened by someone touching his shoulder. He snaps his eyes open, shaken, but he soon adjusts to the darkness enough to see the person in front of him.

Luo Binghe is certainly different from what he imagines the future emperor of all three realms to look like. But this is white lotus Luo Binghe, and in his very first years as a disciple at that. His cheeks are round, height much shorter than Shen Yuan's. And yet there's already the countenance of the stallion protagonist in him, a sort of aura that makes him shine in the dark, an intensity to his gaze as he worriedly looks at Shen Yuan.

Shen Yuan can't help but smile and say "Binghe".

Luo Binghe looks shocked. He hesitantly asks if shixiong is well, that it's very late and that the curfew has already started.

Shen Yuan finally realizes the late hour, but he doesn't mind the curfew. It wouldn't be the first time he has to sneak in in the dorms, and it certainly won't be the last. He stares at Luo Binghe, who nervously tries not to fidget under his gaze, and comes to a decision.

He won't have to sleep in there. Not anymore. Not as long as Shen Yuan has a say in it. "Come with me."

He takes Binghe's hand and heads for the disciple dorms. Luo Binghe follows silently, until he stops and says: "Shixiong should rest first. He can punish this one tomorrow."

Shen Yuan is horrified at the prospect of being thrown in the same group as Luo Binghe's bullies. He doesn't want to be at the other end of the protagonist's blade!

"I'm not here to punish you," he says, but Binghe is not convinced. Well, what did Shen Yuan expect? Apart from his own adoptive mother and Ning Yingying, everyone else had always treated Luo Binghe with indifference or contempt. Of course he expected a punishment.

Shen Yuan kneels in front of him and Binghe is once again shocked.

"I know we don't really know each other so this must seem strange to you. But I do want to. I mean, I do want to know you."

Shen Yuan is so embarrassed to be saying these things. But this is all to gain the protagonist's trust! So he'll have to swallow his shame and be a little truthful for once.

"I…your shixiong sometimes has…nightmares. And sleeping with someone else in the room helps. Can you indulge me a little bit for tonight?"

Luo Binghe has been staring at him with awe. He squeezes Shen Yuan's hand and replies: "This Binghe would be honored to help shixiong with his nightmares. But, shizun said I must sleep in the woodshed. I don't want shizun to get angry with you because of me."

"Shizun won't know about it." And even if he did, Shen Yuan is ready to take the blame on himself. Shen Qingqiu's punishments would be nothing to the protagonist's unique brand of torture. "This shixiong promises that from now on, Binghe won't have to sleep in there. Do you trust me?"

Luo Binghe nods. So Shen Yuan takes him to the dorms and they sneak in through the open window. His room is for one person only, so they have to share Shen Yuan's bed.

Binghe insists on sleeping on the floor, says he really doesn't mind, he has no problem falling asleep on the ground. But Shen Yuan yanks him on the bed and forces him to lay down. Since both of their bodies are on the smaller side they end up fitting in just fine.

Shen Yuan falls asleep almost immediately, exhausted despite the small nap he had before. And Luo Binghe stares at him, at this shixiong who he knew of but never really interacted with, who he's seen being kind and welcoming to other disciples around the sect, who suddenly reached out to Binghe and took him in his room without a moment's hesitation.

Luo Binghe doesn't trust that this kindness will be directed towards him for much longer, but he likes the way Shen-shixiong looks at him. So he'll treasure it as long as he can.

--------------------------------

So this is the beginning of my Shixiong! Shen Yuan fic. I was curious as to what would happen if Shen Yuan ended up in the same position as Shang Qinghua, what kind of consequences being born in the PIDW world would have on him.

As this is my first ever fanfic I just wanted to write something short, just a simple AU where Shen Yuan is free to dote on Luo Binghe and he doesn't have to worry that he's going to be murdered because he has the role of "Shen Qingqiu".

And then I started to think more about the implications of the premise I made up. Shen Yuan is fourteen. Yes, now he has memories of his previous life, but his mind is still that of a fourteen-year-old. That would be interesting to explore, I thought.

And what if Shen Yuan is more gifted that he thinks, I asked myself. What if Shen Qingqiu recognised that at the tea ceremony and, just like Binghe, inquired about his past. But, unlike Binghe, Shen Yuan's past is much more in line with Shen Qingqiu's, which brings the man to leave him be.

And what if, once Shen Yuan remembers and starts becoming stronger and protecting Luo Binghe, Shen Qingqiu's attention doesn't fall on Luo Binghe but Shen Yuan?

And just what happened in Shen Yuan's past, exactly? Because he sure as hell doesn't think about it or his feelings involving any of it.

I just really wanted to explore all of these questions. So I guess this is gonna be longer than I expected. To be honest I'm just really happy to be writing again, scum villain really is such a great inspiration for storytelling.

[radicalhoodie]

my illustration for this year's @klapollo-minibang!!! this is a scene from @goodboypolly's lovely star trek au fic, Suspended Animation (A State of Bliss)!!

i also got to work with @ulenehlervu, check out their work here!!

[haomnyangz]

FFXV CHAPTER 10: The Heart of a King EPISODE IGNIS CHAPTER 3 VERSE 2: Possibilities

[uncleardyn]

(alan wake-gravity falls crossover) 12 year old girl and her new best friend, the sopping wet sad dog of a writer she found face down on the front lawn

[overusedusername]

Yugi Twins try being normal for at least one universe(Challenge impossible)

[abalidoth]

Replanting (Chapter 1)

[read on ao3]

When you feel the missile clip the corner of your mech's leg joint, you know it's over.

It feels like a line of white fire directly to your brain; your pain and the mech's mingling. But pain is nothing, pain is your every day. It's the immobility that terrifies you. Your mech knows before you do that the leg won't work, can't carry you back to base.

They won't send a field repair team out this far, not into enemy territory. Not even for the material outlay of the mech. You have no illusions of what would happen to you if they had to extract, but at least it would be fine, given a new pilot and allowed to keep doing its duty.

Don't think like that, it sends to you. I don't want another pilot.

You struggle a few dozen meters until the residual coolant in the leg motivators gives out and the intractable hand of physics pulls your mech to its knees. A cloud of dust billows up around you and you give up the rest of the way, mech lying on its side amid the baked earth and the scrubby bushes.

Creosote bush, the mech says. Didn't know it grew this far north.

You know it's just trying to keep you from panicking. It's not working -- you can feel your heart racing, the connection gel around you contracting in an autonomic effort to keep you from thrashing in the cockpit. Worst of all, your handler's ever present voice in your ear has gone silent.

A pilot's job is to keep its mech moving. No more and no less. You know there's no real affection from your handler, that her ministrations are part of the system, but you can't think about that sudden abandonment without a pang of grief. She should be there, she should always be there, but now there's nothing. Silence and static.

That feeling gives you a rush of adrenaline, coarser and hotter than the artificial flush the mech gives when you complete an objective, purely a product of your own withered adrenal glands. You have to get back you have to get back. You struggle to your knees, planting the mech's hands in the caliche like anchors and shoving so hard you feel something pop. (In you? In the mech? Is there a difference?)

You make it another hundred meters before you fall again, and the Caskie mech finds you, hitting you with an EMP before you can take them down with you. It lands with a jumpjet hiss in your sightline, so you're treated to the view of the alien-looking mech opening its canopy wide, two pilots getting out of the crude-looking mechanical cockpit.

---

They salvage the mech with you in it.

The pilots didn't seem to know what to do with you; you could hear from your outboard sensors that they were discussing in that strange, fluid accent how to get you out without killing you.

(You don't understand why that matters.)

Eventually, they just called for reinforcements; three heavy carriers showed up some indeterminate amount of time later. They haul your mech, pilot included, through the air on a frankly ridiculous web of heavy cables. You see the desert fade to green, canals threading through the land like veins, as you pass from the disputed zone into Union territory.

Your mech keeps a constant stream of commentary, talking about the plants that it sees, pointing out where old semi-arid forests have been restored. Its voice across the neural tunnel holds false cheer, picking up whenever you start panicking, but the enthusiasm is genuine.

Finally the carriers land at a base. It looks much like Conclave military architecture, concrete in utilitarian blocks, but you can see shining glass and chrome off in the distance, a city. They must want to keep you a ways away from civilians. You suppose that's fair.

They land you in an empty mech bay. It’s been cleared out hastily – you can see the Union mech that used to reside there off to the side, plugged into an aux power array. Your mech is not the right size, not the right shape, but a gaggle of mechanics come out anyway. They locked a restraining clamp on you at some point so you can't move, can't fight. Still, the mechanics move around you warily, like you'll snap and take them all out at any moment.

You would, in a heartbeat. Not just to get the euphoric response, but to quiet the anxiety, the feeling that you're entering a world where you don't have the tools to survive. But you can't, and a quiet part of you (or the mech) is relieved at that.

They strip your mech of all its weaponry, a harsh and hasty disassembly. You feel each removal sharply. Not physically -- mercifully, the mech has dialed down the haptic connection so it's left to suffer alone -- but in loss of potential, the closing of options. 

Finally, when everything is done and your mech is defenseless (other than being a fifteen ton vehicle) a tall woman in a labcoat comes out, flanked by guards with red cross emblems on their sleeves.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is formal, neutral. Lower than you expected, with just a hint of that singsong Cascadian accent. "Can you hear me? Or see me? We have sensitive solid-conductance microphones on the outside of your mech so we can hear you if you speak."

You know the trainings. A pilot is part of the system, part of the Conclave war engine, and cogs don't speak. Your tongue flicks idly against the suicide capsule in your back left molar. You go to press in on it.

You feel something, like a hand, guiding you away. A great wave of fear washes over you, and you know it's not yours.

Please. No.

You stop. Think a moment. 

"Hhhhh."

It's been a while since you've spoken. Just whispers in the dark with your handler, words carrying neither voice nor meaning. Your throat is dry, and you feel for a moment like it's not there. (Why would a mech have a throat?) You clear it, and try again.

"Yes. I can hear you."

She nods. "Good. I'm Dr. Mia Crane. I'm required by Cascadian Union treaty to inform you that as a prisoner of war, you have rights including food, shelter, protection from torture, and the right to ask about your other rights." She adjusts her round framed glasses. "I'm required by basic hospitality to ask you your name."

You pause. You know what names are, of course. Your handler's name is Rebecca. But that's not something pilots have. "I, uh. No?"

She blinks, a little taken aback. "Okay, well, we can work on that. Do you at least acknowledge your rights as a prisoner of war?"

This isn't going to end until you acknowledge, you feel, so you just say "Yes."

"Okay. Is there anything we need to know before we get you out of there?"

"I don't want out," you say. Your throat tightens.

You can't stay in me forever. It's okay. You'll find a way back to me.

You hear a hissing sound, and the low, sick gurgle of the connection gel draining out of your suit. Before you understand what's happening, the canopy drops open and you stagger out of the mech onto the diamond-patterned steel catwalk.

The sharp edge of disconnection, the sudden hole where there should be something inside you, keeps you off your feet. You stagger to one knee, felled as surely by shock as you had been by the missile.

The guards rush over to you and help you up. You want to fight them off but your muscles are jelly. Your head hurts.

Dr. Crane looks you over. You know she's not your handler, but you reach for the familiarity anyway, half expecting the usual routine, the ministrations that get lost in the foggy haze of post-battle euphoria. If your arms weren't being held for your own stability, you'd start opening your suit.

Instead she shines a light in your eyes and asks you to stick out your tongue, making notes on a clipboard as she goes. She puts a strip of fabric around your arm and it gets tight for a moment. "Elevated heart rate and systolic pressure, pupil dilation is beyond what I consider normal."

Your heart hammers in your ears. The smells around you -- the saccharine sweet of connection gel, your own body, something undefinable coming off the doctor, heighten to a nauseating strength. Your head hurts. "Are you going to..." You swallow. "Do you have the syringe?"

Dr. Crane tilts her head. "The syringe?"

"When the..." How do you explain this? You haven't had to explain any of this, people just know what to do. "When I'm done. Rebecca, she has the syringe, it's blue, and."

"Do you know what's in it?" she asks, gently. Too gently. The words are too soft, they smother you, it's too hard to breathe.

Your head hurts. The lights beat down.

"No, but it... she... always..."

Your head hurts.

Your head hu--

---

There are voices.

At first you don't care. You just want to go back to sleep. But there's something wrong with your bed, it's too soft. And the voices don't sound right -- that soft lilt, one you've only recently heard.

"Patient has been stable for six hours. Their heartrate is still a little funny, and I'm not sure this godawful cocktail of tramadol, modafinil, and tricyclics we pulled out of their tox panel is good for anything other than keeping them from dying of withdrawal, but we should be seeing them awake soon."

"Thanks, Dr. Chen." You recognize this voice, soft and husky -- it's Dr. Crane. "Have you figured out the... um. Mortality problem?"

"Part of it is that stimulant cocktail, I'm sure -- we haven't had the chance to pull in a full Conclave mech with pilot intact, and our field teams don't have the tools to stabilize someone as quickly as we were able to do here. But the most likely reason... false molar full of tetrodotoxin. We made sure to extract it. Carefully."

You probe the back of your mouth with a sluggish tongue. There's still a tooth there, but it feels strange. The one that had been there was artificial already, of course, but this one is much smoother, more like the rest of your teeth. Something lightens within you -- you've lost an option, sure, but maybe you were never good with options.

"Fuck," Dr. Crane says quietly. 

"That's not all," Dr. Chen says. "There's extensive neural grafts consistent with the autopsies we've performed, but... there's something weird going on with the brain activity scan. I'm not sure what the Conclave is doing to their people, but it's scary."

"Nnn. 'M not," you say.

There's a rustling around your bed. You open your eyes and blink against the sharp light a few times, and eventually the face of Dr. Crane comes into focus.

"Hey," she says. "Glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

You have no idea how to deal with this. Never expected to be in a hospital room of all things, being treated like valuable materiel instead of ammunition. So instead of answering her question, you just repeat your previous statement. "I'm not. Person."

She gives you a look you don't really know how to read. You never had to get all that good at reading faces, but you suspect this one might be hard even if you did.

"...well. Anyway." Dr. Crane clears her throat. "You had a medical emergency when you left your mech. You mentioned something about a syringe? I assume that's part of your post-operation routine? We've got you stable now. We're going to give you about another day to rest up before we bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning?"

"You're the only Conclave pilot we've brought in alive," she says, with a twist of her mouth. "It's damn near impossible to piece together any information about Conclave technology and hierarchy. I should know -- I'm the Union's top academic expert in Conclave culture and I always feel like I'm flying blind."

That was... a lot. You just nod.

"So you said something about... not having a name? Do you have something you'd like to be called? I know you're technically a prisoner, but you're safe here. People will respect what you say you are."

She says that last part with a lot of emphasis, a particular gravity to the words, but you're not sure why. "No."

"Okay. Designation number?"

"They re-assign our numbers every week so we don't get attached to them," you say.

She says a word under her breath that you don't know, other than that your handler says it when she gets mad.

"Alright." Dr. Crane takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "How about I just call you "Pilot" for now?"

That's what you are, and you don't see why that's so difficult, but at least this line of questioning seems to be over when you answer yes. She promises to check on you in a while, and leaves.

---

You dream about vines.

They're all over you. You haven't seen many vines up close -- there was sparse ivy on the back of one hangar for a little while before Maintenance took care of it. But you feel you know these.

They aren't strangling you. It almost feels like a caress, like the flight suit, like Rebecca's post combat care, but not quite any of those. It's pleasant. Cool rather than warm, and calming.

There is intense pain in your arms and legs, but it doesn't bother you. It's like someone is telling you that your limbs are being shredded, but the pain isn't getting through to the part of you that cares. It's just another sensation, less pleasant than the vines but certainly not bad.

You feel things you can't explain. A name, a pull in a direction that's not physical, feelings and sounds beyond your ability to parse. They build to a crescendo, and you wake with a shout. But at the edges of your awareness, the green is still there.

---

The next morning, you're herded into a shower stall with a clean jumpsuit, a washcloth, and a bar of soap. You clean yourself off as well as you can, given the circumstances. The soap has a soft smell to it, and no grit. It almost doesn't feel like it's cleaning you at all, without the scratches.

You knock on the stall door once you're finished dressing, and the door slides back. In addition to the two guards, Dr. Crane is there. She's wearing the same white coat, but her hair is pulled back, and she looks even more tired.

Still, she manages a slight smile. "Pilot. Did you sleep well?"

"No," you say.

"Ah. Well, hopefully we can help with that tonight. In the meantime I have some questions for you."

You follow her through a maze of white corridors, lit with skylights. Your sense of direction was never the best (your mech always took care of that, you think with a twist in your gut.) You wouldn't be able to find your way back if you needed to.

She leads you to a room with two chairs, both of them plush and soft. You feel like you're sinking into it; she looks like she's perched on hers. She balances her clipboard on her knees and starts in eagerly on the questions.

There's a part of you that feels you should shut up, refuse to answer, let them finish the work they didn't let your false tooth start. But one handler's as good as another. You're a weapon, and weapons know no loyalty. So you answer -- even when the questions don't make sense, or aren't about obvious things, or are about things you've never been allowed to see.

The reactions don't really make sense to you either. You talk about some of your worst missions, and she seems sad but like she knew what was coming; you talk about your handler, and she's gripping her clipboard so hard her fingers go pale. You stop trying to understand what's going on, and try to hit the same state of unconscious action that you do on a sortie. Question, response. Question, response.

There are a few about your accommodations. They're fine, of course. You have little standard for comparison, and if she asks if you need anything else, you feel she won't leave you alone with a "no," so you ask for books. Rebecca was always reading when you were doing synch tests.

After what feels like the whole day, Dr. Crane lets you go. She doesn't ask you any questions about the haze of green starting to fade in around the corners of your vision when your mind drifts, so you don't volunteer any information.

---

The next day's meal comes with a couple of books, and Dr. Crane seems determined to find you the right reading material because every meal tray thereafter has more. There's a shelf in your room for the purpose. It was a ruse at first, but it is genuinely a better way of spending your time then staring at the wall.

There's more questions, along with a handful of medical tests, supervised by Dr. Chen. Dr. Chen's questions are even stranger than Dr. Crane's, but at least they seem satisfied with the answers given by the scans and blood draws.

A few days pass until you get a good enough feeling of the layout of the facility to know which direction the hangar is in. You occasionally see Caskie pilots in groups of twos and threes, talking and joking with each other. No handlers, no augments that you can see -- if you hadn't seen people in those same outfits walk out of their primitive looking mechs in the desert, you wouldn't believe that they were pilots at all.

All of them are coming and going in the same direction, and it's a direction that Doctor Crane and your guards never take you. So naturally, the first chance you get when both of your escorts are distracted and you have the chance, you peel off that direction and start running.

Your augments sing as you stretch your legs. They’re not like infantry augments (or so you’ve heard) and they don’t have auxiliary power – you can feel them burning away your body’s energy, energy that would normally be supplied by your mech. But your desperation fuels them just as much as your calories do, and the initial burst of speed and agility is all you need.

The facility is confusing as always, but you spot a sign that says HANGAR and get reoriented. Startled cries fly in your wake, doctors and workers and pilots confused at your frenzied speed. Something that might be an alarm and might just be lighting flashes at the corner of your vision, nearly obscured by the green.

You get lucky, and a mechanic is coming through the secured door at the checkpoint at the same time you arrive. You take advantage of her confusion and duck underneath her outstretched arm, through the door and out into the hangar bay.

It's not hard to find your mech. You remember the layout from your brief spell of consciousness after arrival, the way your mech looked so different from the rest and didn't quite fit into its space.

You pull up to a stop, wheezing from exertion, and look at it with dismay.

Your mech has been dismembered, all four limbs strewn about the bay hooked up to various pieces of testing equipment. The body itself is on a riser jack, slightly askew like there wasn't the right connector to fit it, hooked up by thick cables and patched-together connectors to the exposed limb contacts. The canopy stands open, the inside unlit but visibly cleaned of leftover connection gel.

The sight makes you sick. You hold it down, but barely; but the nausea makes it hard for you to resist when a burly mechanic comes up behind you and wrestles you to the floor.

You're not sure you would have, anyway.

By the time Dr. Crane has shown up, your face is wet with tears and snot, and your breath comes only with sobs. You're still being pinned to the ground by a mechanic, but she's not putting her full weight into it. She more or less let go when you started crying.

Dr. Crane pushes through the crowd of onlooking mechanics and kneels down in front of you. "Are you all right?" she asks.

At first, you think she's addressing the mechanic; it would be such an incongruous question to a pilot about to be terminated for insubordination. After a silence disproves that theory, you shake your head and gesture with one semi-restrained arm to the mech. "No."

"I'm sorry, pilot," she says, "but you are still a prisoner. I'm going to request the board not to restrict your access for this, given that you didn't really hurt anything -- and I'm sure they'll listen to me -- but you surely didn't think you could just get back in your mech and run away?"

"No," you say again, frustration at your own inadequate words prompting a fresh fall of tears. "It's... you're hurting it, you're..."

Things click together, things that you've always known. Feelings shared through the neural tunnel, deeply held beliefs that couldn't be kept from a pilot. You understand, now, what your mech was trying to tell you all along.

"You're hurting her."

Dr. Crane looks from you, to your mech, back to you. She goes pale.

"Are you telling me," she says quietly, "that there's an AI in your mech? A sentient AI?"

You nod. It's too late to lie, now. To protect her. The green in your vision threatens to overwhelm you. You're sorry, so, so sorry...

"A sentient AI that... we have been effectively torturing for four days. Fuck." She takes her glasses off, buries her face in her hands for a moment. "I can't believe that didn't come up during questioning."

It could have. You had avoided the topic, because you were afraid of this happening -- your greater part, torn away and experimented on because you couldn't keep her safe. You had always heard that the Union had strange beliefs about machine minds.

Dr. Crane looks around to some of the mechanics. "Anyone who was working on this mech -- did you have any idea there was a sentient AI? Any anomalous readings?"

"Some anomalies came up in the report that indicated synaptic activity in the post-0.4 Turing level," says one mechanic, nervously playing with their hair. "But everything about Conclave tech is anomalous. Kinda got buried in all the other weirdness."

"Okay." Dr. Crane sighs. "Can we get some input/output hooked up to her, please? And give her her limbs back."

One of the guards flanking her frowns. "I don't think that's a good--"

"She's a prisoner of war, Ortega. Pretty sure removing a sapient being's body parts is against something in the codes. Not to mention the First Principle."

Ortega sighs, and waves some mechanics over.

---

They don't know what connection gel is, but it doesn't matter. The sensation of her against your skin is important, but not as important as just reestablishing the connection.

Dr. Crane apparently spots your longing glances towards your mech, and takes you by the arm. When you flinch back, she holds her hands up in a defensive posture. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was just going to guide you over there again."

There's a lot of activity going on in the hangar, between the mechanics re-arming your mech and the other pilots getting suited up to react in case she tries to start killing people. (You don't think she's going to, but you suppose you can't blame them too much.) It would be a shame if your reunion with your mech got postponed because you got beaned in the head by an inattentive mechanic carrying a crysteel strut, so you offer your arm to Dr. Crane again and she guides you through.

You don't want to take too long, but you're only going to get to do this once. You run your hand over the lip where the canopy seats into the body, feel the soft seal and the framework beneath, then lift yourself up over and inside the cockpit.

There's no gel, so you can't hear her voice right away, but you know what to do. Years of drilling guide your hand to the hidden compartment with the emergency connection pads. It falls open with a clunk, the ribbon cables and connection pads jutting out in a fall like vines. One on either temple, one on either side of the chest, one on the back of each trembling hand. You're probably being watched, stared at as you have been since you broke into this hangar, but you don't care. She's here.

Hello, love.

You shudder, come apart, not in a procedural way like with your handler but in a form that shoots through to the very core of you. Untouched, but undone. You have no words for her, but you know she can feel your relief and your joy. You crumple, weeping, and run your hands over the familiar inside of the cockpit.

The green in your vision doesn’t go away, but it recontextualizes. It’s her. It’s the part of her that lives in you, a fragment within a fragment.

It's a little while, just basking in the connection, before you realize you've fallen in an uncomfortable position. Your skin, your joints, protesting their treatment. You reorganize yourself, pull yourself from the connection just long enough to get there. 

They've hooked a set of speakers up to her ports. They come to life with a spiky flare of static as she finds her voice.

"Hello," she says. You can feel her voice from inside and outside, through the tunnel and through the skin of the mech. "I am a Conclave of God Armored Forces Samson-B Light Interdiction Unit, but I would prefer if you called me Acacia."

[damianyadesmond]

this chapter slammed my ass in the dirt and dragged me around would this be considered something like a manga color?

[rosiathemagician]

Someone liked my Last Legacy backgrounds and the spa bg reminded me of this

I'm fine

I'm doing ok

I promise

🥲

[purpleleafsyt]

Purity, Sincerity, Luck, Loss of a Loved One

1. Lily of the Valley | ->

[101suouexpressions]

An in-depth of the Takiishi Chika tattoo

With chapter 152, we have a glimpse into the tattoo on Takiishi and Endo's shoulders.

Let's disect it!

Furanki

Breech-loading swivel gun – or Furanki (仏郎機砲, "Frankish gun") in Japanese (Turnbull, 2006) – was one of the first cannons used in Japan. Coming from the Portuguese, these early European models were either called ishibiya (石火矢) or furankihō (フランキ砲) (Gunsen History, 2019), the latter bears similarity with the gun's Chinese name "Folangji", which comes from the Turkish name "Prangi" or Turkic "Farangi" (Chase, 2003). This explains the "Frank" on the tattoo.

I was trying to see if the wheel in the tattoo has any other meanings, but as far as I know, it is simply the wheel of the cannon. The same structure can be observed from Nii Satoru's drawing of the cannon wheel with 4 main spokes and 4 additional, underlying spokes. (Most wheel symbols in Hinduism or Buddhism are eight-spoked wheels).

The right-most part of the tattoo appears to be the rings and the button at the base of the cannon. It is pretty similar to what we'd see with a top-down view of the plan below.

Note. From Oozutsu cannon Japan 16th century [image] by Unknown author. Wikimedia Commons, 2010. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Oozutsu_cannon_Japan_16th_century.jpg 

The wolf

The illustration of the wolf was cleverly combined into the cannon. Its hind legs turned into the cannon base while its fur blended into the fire surrounding the cannon.

Wolves have many symbolic meanings, but here I believe Endo was trying to highlight Takiishi's fierceness. Takiishi is an untamed, lone wolf. He doesn't obey the rules; and Takiishi's world, as per Endo's explanation, has no one other than Takiishi (of course until Umemiya makes an entrance).

Name references between Takiishi Chika and Ishibiya

Japanese Ishibiya (石火矢) hand cannons are also early firearms in Japan and have made an appearance in the movie Princess Mononoke.

If you find Endo's explanation confusing, here's a more visualised version for it.

Takiishi Chika (焚石 矢)

焚 (taki): to burn, or anger. This character is made up of two 木 (trees) and one 火 (fire)

石 (ishi): stone, or rock

矢 (chika): arrow

Ishibiya (石火矢)

石 (ishi): stone, or rock

火 (bi): fire

矢 (ya): arrow, projectile

Kunikuzushi (国崩し)

Occasionally, Furanki guns were also called Kuni-kuzushi by the Ōtomo clan, which means country destroyer (Gunsen History, 2019).

Kunikuzushi (国崩し)

国 (kuni): country, or nation

崩 (kuzu) し(shi): breakdown

References

Chase, K. W. (2003). Firearms : a global history to 1700. Cambridge University Press.

Gunsen History (2019). Taihō (大砲): Japanese Cannons and Artillery. Gunbai: Ancient Japanese Warfare. https://gunbai-militaryhistory.blogspot.com/

Turnbull, S. R. (2006). Samurai : the world of the warrior. Osprey

Unknown Author. (2010). Oozutsu cannon Japan 16th century [image]. Wikimedia Commons. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Oozutsu_cannon_Japan_16th_century.jpg