#reason she dies and he carries that guilt on his back for a decade despite this being a man who supposedly doesnt have any feelings BUT IF | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

flowercrown-bard · 4 years ago

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Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7/ part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12 / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 / part 16 / part 17 / part 18 / part 19 belongs to this

content warnings: mourning, funeral, isolating oneself/ pushing people away despite needing support, mention of past character death, drowing used as a metaphor briefly, guilt about feeling happy, beginning of depression (I am not sure about this, but just to be safe), not a comforting ending, touching a dead person

This is still not the ending. I will write "final chapter" or something above the actual final chapter

also please tell me if I should put brief summaries of what happened at the beginning of the following chapters in case anything is too upsetting for you to read

Geralt didn’t cry. Not yet. Maybe he never would.

All he wanted to do was lie here and never open his eyes again. What was the point? The man he had dedicated decades of his life to was gone. By all accounts, there should be nothing left for him to do.

And yet, when the sun began to rise, so did Geralt.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jaskier. He looked so peaceful, the smile he had fallen asleep with, still on his face, a lock of hair falling into his eyes.

Geralt brushed it away as tenderly as he could. His fingers touched cold skin. He knew it was nonsensical, but that didn’t stop him from pulling the blanket tighter around Jaskier. He couldn’t let him be cold. Not when the sun was rising and spring was just settling in, eager to warm Jaskier.

When the cries of the early birds shattered the crushing silence, Geralt got up as he had always done.

As impossible as it seemed, he still had things he needed to do. Things, Jaskier needed him to do.

His body moved on its own as he left Jaskier behind and sat himself down at the table, paper and quill ready.

His hands didn’t shake when he wrote the letters. To Yen, who through some sort of magic Geralt had never bothered to ask about would receive them within hours no matter where she was.

To his family, who was still had each other, probably sparring or making jokes around the breakfast table at the moment. Still all together at Kaer Morhen.

Lambert used to complain about the snow that kept him in the place he hated for longer than he wanted to, but Geralt couldn’t help but agree with what Jaskier had said yesterday. At least they were together. At least they didn’t have to be alone when they read Geralt’s message. Selfishly, he was thankful that it also meant he didn’t have to write more than one letter to them. He didn’t think he would be able to.

Writing it down was supposed to make it more real, but all he could think about was how Jaskier would good-naturedly criticise his plain phrasing.

Once more he wrote the words down. A name, a date, another date for the funeral.

His feet carried him to the town square where he hung the pamphlet on the notice board without ceremony. Barely anyone was up yet to wonder why Geralt was here so early and all alone.

Geralt left before anyone could read his note and pat his back in sympathy or offer him words that wouldn’t mean anything, because there had been only one person who had without fail found the right words to comfort him.

On his way back, guilt started to creep up in him. He should go to Kris, tell them what had happened. They deserved to hear it from him, but he couldn’t bring himself to go over to them. Doing so would mean having to say it out loud and nothing, not the deadliest monster or the thought of the trials, was more terrifying.

So he kept his eyes on the path that lead him back home, ignoring the gnawing feeling in his stomach as he passed by the road that led to Kris’ home without even sparing it a glance.

He only came to a halt when his eyes fell on something in front of the door of his cottage.

The blanket they had dropped when getting up to dance, forgotten as they had laughed and looked at each other as if the world didn’t exist.

He picked it up, letting the fabric glide over his fingers until his hands tightened around it. Jaskier’s scent still lingered on it.

With wooden movements that weren’t his own, Geralt entered the cottage, cleaning up the mess he had left. The emptied the day old cup he had held in his hands while waiting for Jaskier to join him, only to find something precious beyond imagination when Jaskier had finally awoken. He put the scarf he had flung across the bedroom back where it belonged; Jaskier’s teasing and mock outrage still hanging in the air.

Geralt tried to occupy himself with such tasks. Anything to keep his mind away from what he didn’t dare think about, even while knowing he couldn’t push it away for good.

He could only ignore it for so long.

It all came crashing down on him, when he caught himself thinking about looking over their garden as he had done every year at this time. But watering the flowers would be of no use now. The best thing he could probably do was getting rid of the plants, before they died on their own once Geralt left.

Because he would have to leave.

He couldn’t stay here. The cottage, the coast, this tiny town that had welcomed him with open arms had nothing left for him. He wasn’t the one who had come here to stay until the end of his days.

His heart turned to stone at the thought. This had been his home, something he had never thought he could have. But it wasn’t anymore. Anywhere would have been home as long as it was with you, Jaskier had said and Geralt found the truth of the words dragging him under, as he stood in the place that no longer felt like home.

He would have to get rid of the cottage somehow. Sell it or abandon it until it succumbed to time and weather.

For some unnameable reason, the thought hurt more than writing the letters had.

Home had been a beautiful dream that through some undeserved mercy had become reality. It was over now. Time to wake up. Time to go back to the real world, where the nights were cold and lonely and the path he wandered was bare of laughter and song.

And yet, Geralt found himself hesitating. The cottage was chockfull of proof that it had been more than an idle fantasy.

All around him were mementoes of a shared life. Trinkets Geralt had brought Jaskier back from his hunts, the numerous notebooks filled with Jaskier’s verses, feelings and thoughts. The myriad of sea shells Jaskier had collected on their window sills, just as he had dreamed of doing when they had started imagining what they could have.

Geralt knew those trinkets should hold no more meaning. Once he left, they would only be objects gathering dust.

And yet he couldn’t bring himself to even begin throwing them away. It was too much. It belonged to Jaskier, all of it. Geralt couldn’t take it away from him, even now.

Just like he couldn’t take Jaskier away from this place that had been so dear to him. Selling it and moving on would be the sensible thing, but even as Geralt considered it, he knew there was no way he would be able to do so.

Every part of this place breathed Jaskier’s name, evidence that he had been here, that his life had been meaningful. Notebooks desperate to tell the world that Jaskier existed.

Geralt couldn’t keep his hands from shaking, when he pulled the notebooks out, one by one until finally his breathing came to a stuttering halt, when he found what Jaskier had kept hidden from him for who knew how many years.

There, behind a book of poetry and one of silly children’s stories lay a stack of letters.

For what seemed like an eternity, Geralt could only stare at them until he ripped himself out of his frozen state with a jolt, grabbing the letters like a drowning man reached for an outstretched hand, desperate for the tiniest slither of hope, though knowing it was too late to save him.

One by one, he gathered the letters close. There were so many. Countless words Jaskier had wanted to share with him.

The overwhelming urge to rip each letter open this instant overcame Geralt, crashed into him like a wave during a storm. He needed to know what Jaskier had wanted to tell him, needed to read his writing as if it could replace his voice.

His fingers trembled, as he reached for the first envelope. The paper started to rip, the sound of it unbearably loud and sharp.

Geralt froze.

He couldn’t do it. Those were Jaskier’s last words to him, a last part of him that remained for Geralt to discover. Reading them, even opening the envelopes felt too final. He couldn’t –

A flash of light in his periphery made him flinch. A gust of wind tore the letters out of his grip and strew the letters through the room.

He turned around to see his family step out of a portal.

Of all the emotions, Geralt hadn’t expected to feel the tiniest bit of rightness as he stood before the hole he and his brothers had dug out, holding Jaskier’s body in his arms as if he had fallen asleep there. No word had been spoken while they had dug the grave, but the occasional touch - seemingly random brushes of hands against his shoulders or arms – had told him enough. His family was here with and for him.

Triss, who had come with Yennefer had hesitated to let them dig the grave themselves, but there had been something utterly impossible about the idea of doing this with magic.

It had felt wrong, just how the place for the grave had felt right. Here, in the garden Jaskier had so loved, amidst the flowers that would bloom in time, Jaskier would be able to rest. Here, where he had sat crying and desperate to get told that he was loved, he was now bid farewell, surrounded by people who loved him.

The sheer amount of people who attended the improvised funeral had almost made Geralt choke with unexpected emotion. He had known Jaskier was liked by many, that he had touched lives and made them brighter, but never had he dared to expect how many people would show their gratitude for Jaskier’s life once he was gone.

Neighbours, people who used to be strangers until Jaskier had befriended them; regulars who had bought their flowers; people who had flowers gifted to them with a smile and a kind word; parents of the children who used to listen to Jaskier’s stories. They all were here.

Even stranger and more wonderous was the fact that they didn’t spare even one distrustful look at the witchers and the sorceresses.

Geralt’s brothers, Vesemir, Yennefer and Triss all stood to the side, while the townsfolk held their rites and yet they didn’t seem like foreign bodies, more like guardians. There was no doubt that every single person here knew that they were who Jaskier had held closest to his heart.

For a long moment, Geralt didn’t move. No one said anything, no one pushed him to get on with it.

Still, Geralt knew he couldn’t prolong this any further.

His grip on Jaskier tightened, crumbling the fabric of the green jacket he had put on Jaskier. He didn’t know if such a thing was frowned upon by the townsfolk, but he didn’t care. Jaskier had loved that garment, had been so happy when Geralt had brought it back from Corvo Bianco.

Unbidden, images of Jaskier’s smile and the little twirl he had given to show off for Geralt, flashed through his mind.

Finding the jacket had almost felt like packing to go travelling together again. Except these were travels Jaskier was taking without him.

Geralt gathered Jaskier close, letting his hair tickle against his skin, as he whispered, “One last journey, Jaskier. One last adventure for you.”

His voice was quiet and broken. Not one of the humans would be able to hear him, but he knew that his words would not be hidden from his family. In a strange way it was comforting to know his words didn’t get lost in nothingness.

One last time he let his thumb brush over Jaskier’s skin, before lowering him in the ground and burying him in the soil that would soon bring forth new flowers.

He stood before the grave, staring down at Jaskier looking so small and wished that there was more he could do, more he could say.

Instead, he took a step to the side to where his family stood.

Eskel’s hand brushed against his and he felt Vesemir’s presence at his back as they watched the people who had gotten to know Jaskier step closer to the grave, one by one and laying sea shells onto it, each one accompanied by words describing a memory the people had of Jaskier, before they left the burial site with a promise to keep that memory in their hearts.

Without his permission an almost unnoticeable smile twisted Geralt’s lips. Jaskier would have been fascinated by the traditions of the sea-side town.

The last person to step forward was Kris. They lingered by the grave longer than anyone else had. Geralt did his best not to listen in as they quietly shared their memories of Jaskier.

Although Geralt understood little of the town’s rites, it felt like a private moment, too precious to intrude on.

Contrary to anyone else, Kris didn’t turn to go back home when they were done. Instead, they approached Geralt.

Geralt steeled himself for pity or words that wouldn’t be able to reach him, however well meant they might be. He tried coming up with possible responses, as Jaskier surely would have wanted him to.

But Kris didn’t offer him any such words.

“What will you do now?” They asked instead, their expression open and bare of judgement for any possible reply.

Still Geralt stiffened, when he forced the words out. “I am a witcher.”

The words weren’t supposed to hurt that much. Thought they were the truth, saying it out loud felt like betraying Jaskier, who had dedicated his life to making sure Geralt knew he was more than that.

But no time spent listening to encouraging and loving words could change the fact that Geralt was what he was.

His eyes drifted to the patch of dirt under which Jaskier lay.

He was a witcher. There was no choice in what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

And yet.

“I can’t leave him alone.” The words that slipped past Geralt’s lips without permission were little more than a breath, but Kris heard them nonetheless.

“I’ll be here.” They reached out to Geralt, touched his hands, almost briefly enough to be able to pretend it was a coincidence, and yet the gesture meant as much to him as the words that did reach him despite everything. “I will take care of him.”

There was no mistaken the wavering of Kris’ voice.

Geralt didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t comfort Kris; he didn’t have the words or the strength to do so. So he settled for a brusque nod that hopefully would be enough to make them understand.

Kris returned the gesture with a trembling smile, before turning their back on Jaskier’s family and leaving them to what they needed to do.

As the last rays of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, the witchers took up their positions surrounding the grave.

In the light of day, the people of Oakwood had held their rites, but the night belonged to the witchers. They couldn’t deny Jaskier the traditions of his people, but neither were they willing to let him go without acknowledging what he was to them. Jaskier deserved both, just as he had made it his life’s work to live in both the humans’ and witchers’ worlds.

As the moon crept across the sky, the witchers held a vigil over the one they had lost, each one holding a small flame of igni in their hands – it was as close as they could get to the pyre they would normally light.

For anyone walking past, the sight would have been unsettling, but for Geralt the quiet comfort of his family protecting Jaskier in his first night truly away from them melted the sharp spike that had been struck into his chest.

The only movement to be seen came from the dancing flames that lit the way through the darkness for Jaskier until the morning came. The only sound to be heard was the beating of their hearts, the sound of family close by the most comforting sound a witcher could imagine.

They remained like this throughout the night, no sleep or meditation to rest their bodies, when their minds needed to remain sharp to watch over the fallen.

It was only when the night faded into grey once more that another sound was added.

Coën’s voice drifted through the night. A haunting but strangely soothing melody that Geralt had never heard before, matched to the rhythm of their hearts.

The song broke through the silence that the wolfs had built, but neither of them raised their voice to detain Coën. They wouldn’t deny the griffin his rites either, as they hadn’t denied him a welcome into their family, as Jaskier hadn’t denied him his heart.

As Coën sang, Geralt couldn’t help but think of the times that Jaskier had done his best to get the witchers to sing with him. His grin had been so bright when Coën had finally given in and his laugh when Lambert had joined in and completely butchered the song still remained in Geralt’s memory.

None of the wolfs accompanied Coën. Their rough voices would ruin what he was giving Jaskier, but Geralt felt Eskel shifted next to him, until they were touching. A quiet understanding.

When they finally left their vigil and rose with the sun, something in Geralt’s chest came lose.

He shouldn’t feel this way, but for the first time since they arrived through the portal, Geralt really saw his family.

What had been needed to be done was done.

Now, he got to hug Eskel again - gods, how he had missed him – he got to watch Vesemir’s exasperation at whatever Lambert was doing. He could see the sunlight reflecting on the gemstone Coën wore in his beard, as Jaskier had suggested to him so long ago. He could see Yennefer and Triss talking quietly amongst themselves until Triss lifted her hand over the grave, letting the first buds of wildflowers sprout on it.

He couldn’t supress the smile when he saw a dandelion among them.

Geralt couldn’t remember a time when they all had met outside of Kaer Morhen, like this, like a family.

He wished Jaskier were here to see it. He would have been so happy. He would have deserved to see it.

But he never would get to again.

And here Geralt was, looking at his family and feeling warm inside, as if they hadn’t spent the night standing over the grave of the man he loved most. Happiness should be the farthest thing from his mind right now.

The guilt about it was eating him up, and still Geralt couldn’t push the feelings down that welled up any time he saw Lambert nudge his shoulder roughly against Eskel’s.

This was wrong. It was all so wrong.

So why did it feel right as if his life hadn’t shattered around him?

A hand found his, almost making him flinch. It was smooth and warm, so similar to how Jaskier’s had been decades ago, if it weren’t for the lack of lute-calluses.

Geralt looked up and met violet eyes.

A lump formed in his throat, but he couldn’t look away.

Yennefer gave him a tight smile. “Nothing selfish about being happy.”

She couldn’t know. She couldn’t understand. She had no right to be saying his own words that had been spoken when he hadn’t known any better back at him.

And yet as he looked at the tentative smiles of his brothers he couldn’t bring himself to disagree as much as his mind was telling him he had no right to feel this way.

“He mentioned you,” Geralt said, just to fill the silence with anything other than the voice inside his head. “Yesterday, not long before…before it happened.” Yennefer stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Nothing bad,” Geralt added quickly. “Not like the last time you saw him. It wasn’t… that time wasn’t the last memory he had of you.” Geralt shuffled uncomfortably, the spike of guilt rising into his throat with every passing second. “He told me not to tell you, but…you made his last hours less painful. You truly helped him.”

Yennefer nodded brusquely. “Of course he needed my help. He always was a walking disaster.” Her tone lacked the bite of her words and Geralt pretended not to notice the quiet sniffle that followed them. “Thank you for telling me.”

She looked away, as if she were unaffected, but Geralt could see her subtly reaching out for Triss’ hand for comfort.

Geralt was glad for it. It was good that Yennefer had someone there with her.

He was glad that he had all of them here with him, if only for today.

The day dragged on like quicksand pulling him under, slow at first until he was half sunk before he had even noticed it.

They sat in the cottage’s living room, as if it was the library at Kaer Morhen.

A shudder ran down Geralt’s spine and he couldn’t pretend it was a bad one. The relief at the sound of voices and scratching chairs in this place flooded him without warning.

This place was never meant to be silent.

The noise that filled it now was nothing like Jaskier’s singing, his rambling or the scratching of his quill on paper, but it was close enough.

At the very least, the voices drowned out the deafening silence left by Jaskier’s missing heartbeat.

With every passing second, the tension dissipated bit by bit, whether because they were all pushing the unavoidable thoughts into the back of their minds or because the others’ presence was easing them enough to laugh again.

Still, Geralt could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air. The others might pretend not to notice how Geralt grabbed the strewn about letters off the floor, but he could feel their eyes burning into his back.

Even worse was when he stood back up and found none of their eyes on him, as if looking at him would set off an explosion that would rip him apart.

Something about it set Geralt on edge again, suffocated him.

A human wouldn’t have been able to see the tiny tremble that took hold of his hands, but it would be foolish to hope it could escape the notice of witchers or sorceresses.

Eskel was the only one who reacted, while the others kept talking among themselves, pretending they weren’t watching Geralt’s every move with concern.

“Let me,” Eskel said, making space on the table for Geralt to place the letters on.

Geralt swallowed as he watched Eskel put the vase and various meaningless knickknacks that had meant the world to Jaskier to the side.

“I didn’t have time to get rid of that yet.” The words sounded more defensive then they were meant to. Geralt almost wished they sounded more like the lie that they were. It had had nothing to do with time and everything with the memories that clung to them and that Geralt couldn’t let go of.

For a long moment, Eskel didn’t answer, but when Geralt looked up at him his eyes rested on the collection of sea shells in contemplation.

“What if you don’t?”

“What?”

Eskel shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile.

Coën dropped the pretence of not listening in and answered in Eskel’s stead.

“Why throw it away? I said it before and I’ll say it again: This place could be a safe haven for us in summer.”

Geralt furrowed his brows. “You had been joking.”

Coën shrugged. “Back then, of course. But being able to visit just for a day or two and have a place to go back to?” He threw a challenging glare at the wolfs. “I dare any of you to say it wasn’t the best summer any of us has had in decades.”

Sharply, Geralt sucked in his breath, his eyes darting over to Vesemir, waiting for the old sword master to lecture the griffin on what it meant to be on the Path.

But Vesemir remained quiet, the only one of them still pretending to be disinterested in the conversation.

It was as much of a blessing that they would get.

A soft touch from Eskel made Geralt release his breath again. “And when we come back, we can look after Jaskier.”

One by one his family left, off to live their own lives until one day they might meet again.

Lambert was the first to go, without so much as another glance at the grave, though Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that he would be the first to return to it. He grunted his usually gruff goodbye as he left, grumbling about finally being alone again. He had none of them fooled. They didn’t need Lambert to say it to know that he would be looking for his cat witcher.

After a short moment of hesitation, Coën ran after him, not ready to be alone quite yet.

Vesemir patted Geralt on the shoulder as he had done when Geralt had only been a boy crying because he couldn’t find his mother in the woods. “Be safe out there, son.”

Geralt nodded and watched as Vesemir disappeared in a portal, shortly followed by Triss.

Yennefer hesitated before stepping in after them. Before doing so, she gave Geralt a hug.

“Remember what we talked about,” she said quietly, “allow yourself to be happy.”

With that, she pulled away, the portal closing behind her, leaving only him and Eskel.

Without wanting to, Geralt clenched his hands into fists at his side as he waited for Eskel to leave him as well. Instead, Eskel clasped a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you going to be alright?”

The question sounded so innocent, but Geralt knew Eskel too well to fall for it. It was all there in the way he kept touching him, grounding him. Geralt was grateful for it, he really was, but Eskel was looking at him like he was preparing for something. For Geralt to fall apart.

The truth was, Geralt didn’t think he could fall apart now. Not anymore. He had already gone through every possible reaction he could have.

He had raged and sobbed and broken down. He had done his best to deny the fact that Jaskier was going to leave him. He had been angry when it had become impossible to ignore anymore; he had yelled at Jaskier and stormed away. He had done whatever he could to keep Jaskier from slipping away; had thought that if he just tried hard enough, he wouldn’t have to lose Jaskier.

He had mourned him while he had been still alive.

What more was he supposed to do? What more could he do?

There was no point in going through all of it again. At the end of the day, it had all been useless. Jaskier was gone and Geralt didn’t even have it in him to be angry at the injustice or shed even a single tear about it.

All he had left was a hollowness inside him. He was empty, barren of all feelings.

A squeeze of his shoulder made him look up.

“I am fine,” Geralt said and as much as he knew how wrong it should have felt, it wasn’t a lie. “I am not going to break down.”

Not again.

But his words didn’t seem to reassure Eskel. If anything, the lines on his forehead deepened, the frown more prominent through the twisting of his scars.

“Geralt, you don’t have to do this. I know this is hard for you. You know I don’t blame or judge you for whatever it is that you feel.” When Geralt only answered by clenching his jaw, Eskel sighed. “How about you travel with me for a while? Scorpion passed away last autumn. We could find new horses and hunt together, just until you are good to be on your own again?”

Something in Geralt’s chest tightened, urging him to accept the offer.

The thought of being alone was terrifying. He wasn’t sure he could even still remember a time when he had been well and truly on his own. He knew for certain that he didn’t want to remember.

He had grown too soft, too weak.

Seeing everyone together had made emotions flare up that he hadn’t wanted to allow himself to feel.

Jaskier’s life had touched so many people, all of them now mourning for him.

Geralt couldn’t let anyone grief for him. There was a reason why witchers hunted alone.

With every farewell Geralt had given out today, the wave of unwanted emotion had grown smaller and smaller. One by one Geralt had watched those who meant most to him disappear and with every one of them a piece of himself had fallen away.

It was a relief.

His silence must have been answer enough for Eskel, for the weight of Eskel’s hand on his shoulder and the last thread of that crushing feeling that came with it, disappeared.

“Be safe,” Eskel said just as Vesemir had. “If you ever change your mind…I’ll keep my eyes open for you.”

Witchers didn’t feel. How often Geralt had wished the rumours to be true. Now that they finally were, it felt like a betrayal of everything Jaskier had stood for.

But Jaskier wasn’t here anymore to tell Geralt that he was wrong, that he should allow himself to feel.

Jaskier was gone and it had left Geralt broken enough that there was nothing left of him to shatter.

He turned his back on Eskel who was leaving him and Jaskier whom Geralt would be leaving.

Without looking back, Geralt went into the cottage that wasn’t his home anymore, for witchers were not allowed to have such a thing, to grab his swords and get back on the loneliness of the Path where he belonged.

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pinknerdpanda · 4 years ago

Text

Reunited

Word Count: 3,530

Characters: Sam x Reader

Warnings: ANGST, fluff, a curse word or two...i mean, it IS me.

A/N: This is my (extremely late) entry for @atc74’s Duets Reboot Challenge. Sorry I didn’t get it done sooner babes! Thanks for your patience! My prompt was the song “I Knew You Were Waiting” by George Michael and Aretha Franklin and I used some of the lyrics below. They are bolded. This is also the first in a long time that I have written Sam Winchester and I realized how much I missed him. This takes place between seasons 7 and 8 in a world where the awful Amelia didn’t exist. Flashback is in italics.

Beta’d by @shy-violet-soul and my twinny @hannahindie I love you dearly. Thank you for supporting me and reading my words and loving me.

gif not mine - x

Reunited

Sam Winchester knew the taste of victory; tangy and bittersweet, and somehow a bit stale. He’d fought and won so many battles he’s lost count, and even in the darkest of times, savored the flavor on his tongue like a memory. But this was not victory. This was agony.

He’d seen Dean die many times - a fact that still perplexed him after all these years. It was always the same; excruciatingly painful to watch and powerless to stop it. But even as Dean’s last breath drained from his lungs, Sam had hope. Hope that if there was something he could do - some spell or deal or alliance - Dean could come back to life again. But Dean hadn’t died - at least not that he could prove. It was like he vanished into thin air. Nothing Sam had encountered up to that point could have prepared him for the realization that he was well and truly alone.

Dean was gone.

Leviathans, Dick Roman, Crowley, Cas’ betrayal; he could have handled it all and dealt with the fallout after the dust had settled as long as Dean was by his side. But he wasn’t and Sam couldn't.

Sam felt hollow, a battered and crumbling shell of the man he’d once been. He found himself lurking in the darkness, consumed by the shadows of his old life. What the hell was he supposed to do? Go after him? All well and good if he’d had the slightest idea of where Dean had gone. Or was he supposed to continue the work his father started all those years ago? Dean or no Dean, the monsters remained. And as far as he could tell, no matter what he did - how much he sacrificed himself and his body - the monsters would always be there. So why should he try?

And so Sam stopped, allowing the numbness to overtake him instead. He was numb in a way that brought on thoughts of frigid winter evenings and toes nearly frostbitten. Numb in a way that was so much the opposite of the humid evening air that hung heavy around him. Sweat beaded against his hairline, dampened his undershirt and collected in places he’d rather not think too hard about. But the breathtaking summer heat did nothing to thaw the frozen rock inside his chest.

Long hours of aimless driving brought him to this town and when the familiarity settled on him, Sam frowned. Out of all the places in all the world how had he ended up here? There was a reason he’d planned to keep this place in the rearview mirror, but apparently his subconscious had disagreed.

Nothing had changed much in his years since high school. The same aged brick buildings loomed hauntingly around him as his feet carried him down what has once been a well-worn path. Ancient street lamps flickered helplessly above, their lights providing the bare minimum of defense against the darkness of night.

Looking up, Sam checked his bearings as he brushed the sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. If he remembered correctly - and if nothing had changed - Sam should be coming up on the shop that…

Sam’s internal monologue came to grinding halt as his eyes roamed over the figure in the window ahead of him. Surely not. It was his mind playing another in a long line of cruel jokes on him; it must be. How else could he explain the sight of her...here?

She hadn't changed much that Sam could tell from this distance. Her hair was a little longer, but still the same shade of deep violet she had ways loved. Gauging from the fringed, lace duster, leggings, and boots, her affinity for black clothing hadn't changed either. A man approached her and Sam watched in awe as a smile bloomed on her lips; the very same one he'd fallen head over heels for long ago.

It was like the last 18 years were nothing more than a breath behind him.

Before he realized it, Sam found his long legs had carried him closer to the shop; to her. His breath hitched and his heart jumped as he opened the door.

Her lilting laugh sent chills down his spine, but the abrupt silence that followed made his hands shake. Her eyes nearly bulged from her skull and her dark purple lips parted on a bewildered gasp. The look shared between them seemed to linger for hours, both frozen in place as memories danced behind their eyes.

The man she’d been speaking with before cleared his throat and ducked his head. The sound shook Sam out of his haze enough to register the need to move from in front of the door so the man could pass. The bell tinkled as he exited, leaving them alone in a room thick with unspent tension.

“Sam,” she breathed. “Is that really you?”

Sam nodded, mesmerized by the way his name still sounded like velvet on her tongue.

Hesitant steps brought her around the counter and mere feet from him. Chipped black nails dug into the skin of her palms as she clenched her fists and released.

Sam smiled. He’d seen her face a million times in his head over their years apart, but time had slowly eroded the image he’d retained. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that his own memories had betrayed him, leaving him only a poor substitute of the exquisite beauty she was.

His heart thrumming erratically, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her before he could even process his own actions. She hummed, her own arms snaking around his waist and her face pressed against his chest. Sam’s head dropped, his nose pressed into her hair and he inhaled.

Something inside him shifted then. Weeks spent hanging on by a thread, barely able to hold himself together enough to keep putting one foot in front of the other; pain, anger, hopelessness, exhaustion, fear - it all came crashing down on him in that moment. She held him as uncontrollable sobs shook his massive frame, her palms kneading soothing patterns against his back and soft, comforting words fell from her lips in a whisper.

Only once the tears stopped and his breathing returned to something resembling a normal cadence did he pull back. She smiled up at him with sad eyes for a moment before she untangled her fingers from the fabric of his shirt. Sam watched as she moved behind him, locking the door and flipping the “open” sign. When she finished, she grabbed his hand and he let her drag her through the shop and into the back room.

The room wasn’t large, but it fit a desk, couch, small fridge and some filing cabinets. She motioned for him to take a seat before grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge and the box of tissues from the desk. She sat next to Sam, handing him a water and placing the tissues between them.

He chuckled, the sound watery to his own ears, and thanked her.

Silence lingered, but not in an uncomfortable way. Despite having not seen each other in nearly two decades, Sam found himself at ease with her as he’d once been. He felt safe.

“What brought you to town, Sam?”

Long fingers played along the lid of his water as Sam huffed a laugh.

“I’m, uh,” he pursed his lips, eyes trained on the bottle in his hands. “I’m not exactly sure, to be honest. I just kind of started driving and ended up here.”

She hummed and Sam chanced a look at her. Her brows were drawn in up consideration and she chewed absently on her lower lip.

“Not that I’m complaining,” she mused, not looking at him. “But of all the places you could have wound up, you sure picked a pretty crap town.”

Sam laughed, the sound much closer to sincere than it had been in weeks.

“I don’t know, y/n. It’s not so bad.” He met her gaze. “Some of my favorite memories are in this place.”

Y/n smiled as she ducked her head.

“What about you? I thought you were gettin’ the hell outta Dodge as soon as graduation was over?” Sam’s voice held a hint of teasing in his genuinely curious words.

Sighing, y/n sat back and tipped her head toward the ceiling. Sam wondered if it was the question in general that made her uncomfortable or the fact that it reminded her of the promise he’d broken.

“I tried. Left for a while, but you know what they say. There’s no place like home.” Rolling her head toward him, she shrugged.

“That is what they say,” Sam echoed hollowly. He was in no position to empathize, having had no real home of his own. But he tried. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh don’t be, Sam.” She laughed, sitting back up and tucking a foot under her thigh. “I’m happy, for the most part.”

Sam nodded, unsure how to respond, but needing to address the guilt weighing heavy in his mind.

“Y/n, what happened...back then...I wish...” Sam began, but she waved him off.

“Water under the bridge.” Her smile was relaxed and warm.

“No,” Sam shook his head, his eyes scanning the carpet fibers as though his thoughts were written there. “No, you deserved so much more. I never would have stood you up at prom, if I’d had a choice. I was furious with my dad for moving us that night. I begged him to let us stay one more night, or at least call you and explain, but there was nothing I could do. My family has always been a little...uh...nomadic. We never stayed in one place for too long, but it was my senior year, and Dad said it would be different…” Sam shoved his fingers through his dark hair roughly.

“I know, Sam.”

Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Not really.”

Y/n placed a hand on his forearm, drawing his attention to her. “I’m really sorry about your brother, Sam.”

Sam froze.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your brother? Dean?”

Sam nodded slowly. “Uh-huh. And?”

Narrowing her gaze, y/n bit her lip, thoughtfully. “Did you happen to notice anything different about the store when you came in?”

“Am I having a stroke or something?” Sam stared at her, his face scrunched and his eyes wide. “What does the store have to do with Dean? And what does Dean have to do with prom?”

Y/n shook her head, chuckling lightly. She stood up, hand outstretched toward Sam. He looked between her offered palm and the amused expression on her lips.

“Come on, I want to show you something.” Y/n smiled, tipping her head toward the door.

Sam took her hand and was surprised to find her actually succeeding in bringing him to his feet. He shot her a wry grin and she shrugged.

“I’m stronger than I look, Sam.” Winking at him, she pulled him back into the empty store.

He had been so intently focused on seeing y/n that evening that he really hadn’t paid any mind to the interior. Looking around now, however, he realized how much things truly had changed.

“When my dad started this shop, it was a simple used book store.”

"Yeah, it's where we met," Sam blushed.

Glancing around, he spotted a familiar brown chair and the memory of that day came flooding back.

"It is." Y/n smiled.

Sam saw the flicker of something in her eyes and he guessed she was reliving the moment in her own head as much as he was.

The first day in a new school was never easy and Sam found himself seeking the comfort in the form of paper and ink and the musty smells of adventures waiting to be had. He’d seen the bookstore on his way to school that morning, and he had a sneaking suspicion it was just the place he was needing.

The overhead bell tinkled as he walked in. The sheer number of books crammed into every inch of the shelves lining the walls was incredible. It would take him ages just to find a book in this place, and Sam couldn’t have been more excited about the prospect.

He quietly surveyed the shelves, trying to decide the best place to start his quest when his gaze fell on her.

She looked so serene with her nose buried in the yellowed pages of a worn paperback and legs sprawled sideways across an enormous, overstuffed brown chair. Sam recognized her from school earlier in the day; the shimmering violet hue of her hair, brilliant even in the dim lights of the store, was enough for her to stand out, but it was her eyes - wide and full of mischief and wonder - that he’d been drawn to first.

His first instinct was to turn around and pretend he had never been there. But before he could, those same wide eyes found his and he froze.

“Hey! You’re the new guy, right?” Her inky black lips drew up in a heart-stopping smile. "I saw you at school earlier. I think we have a class together."

Clearing his throat once, and again for good measure, he introduced himself.

“My name’s Sam,” he grimaced at the way his voice cracked slightly around the single syllable of his name. “Sam Winchester.”

“Nice to meet ya, Sam! I’m y/n.”

Y/n snapped her book closed and stood, tossing it in the now vacant seat.

“Can I help you find something? First book’s on the house,” she winked at him.

Sam opened his mouth, intending to refuse the offer when a stocky, mustached man appeared in the doorway behind the counter. The man nodded at Sam before turning his attention to y/n, a gentle chiding expression washing over his face.

“Sweet pea, you’ve gotta quit saying that,” he tsked softly. “We can’t sell any books if you give them all away!”

Y/n’s face scrunched up in guilt, but Sam noticed the playful glint in her eyes that seemed to contradict her expression.

“Sorry, Daddy. Last time, I promise.”

Sam stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Sir. I didn’t mean to...I was gonna pay for…”

The man waved him off.

“Don’t worry about it, son. Y/n’s just got a big heart and I can’t exactly fault her for that,” he huffed a laugh and shook his head lovingly. “Just like her mother.”

Y/n cleared her throat and shook her head, a smile playing at her lips.

"Anyway, a few years back, before he passed, some folks came in asking about these strange texts. Dad was never one to pass up the chance to learn something new, so he researched it a bit. It took some time, but he was able to track down a copy for them.

“A week later, a husband and wife came in saying someone had told them we might be able to help them. Jump forward six months and our little used book shop had become a hunter’s library and spell apothecary. Need a hard to come-by text? Missing that one ingredient for a binding spell? Look no further.”

Sam’s jaw went slack as she spoke, his hazel eyes growing wider and wider. Looking around now, it all made sense. Tall shelves still lined the walls, but rather than tattered paperbacks and crumbling spines, the shelves held large, leather bound books, document boxes and an assortment of glass jars lined up neatly. The space above the door was littered with faint, though recognizable protection sigils and, looking closer, he found the window sills lined with salt. Y/n gave his arm a gentle squeeze and continued.

“Imagine my surprise when I overhear a few people talking about Sam and Dean Winchester, the men the angels and demons fear,” she shrugged. “I asked around and heard all about your harrowing adventures. Starting the apocalypse, stopping the apocalypse, dying...like a lot. I kind of made it a habit to check up on you from time to time. It was strange because some days I felt just as close to you as we were in high school and others...it felt like there was this insurmountable mountain between us. Sounds kinda creepy saying it out loud, really. I can’t really explain it, but I always had this feeling that I’d see you again.”

Sam blinked, his mind desperately trying to make sense of what she’d just told him. Somehow y/n knew; about hunting, monsters, him. She knew. And at that realization Sam felt the tightness in his chest ease ever so slightly, the frost that encased his heart slowly ebbing away.

“So, all of that to say...I am really sorry about what happened to your brother.” Her brow furrowed as she met his gaze. “That Dick Roman was really aptly named, wasn’t he?”

Despite the confusion and the pain and the sheer absurdity of the whole situation, Sam laughed. Not the sad, pitiful sound he’d grown accustomed to making. No, Sam laughed. The sound rumbled through his chest and forced the dimple in his cheek to show. A small rush of warmth flooded his chest as he sucked in a breath, dabbing at the corners of his eyes.

“So you know, then? You know everything?” Sam eyed her.

“I mean obviously I don’t know everything, but thank you for assuming it’s possible that I could.” She nudged his shoulder playfully and grinned. “You flatter me, Sam Winchester.”

Sam shook his head, the gears in his brain still trying to click into place. “I can’t believe this. Any of it. I never thought I’d see you again, but now I’m here and you’re...I don’t have to make excuses or lie. You understand.” Sam frowns. “I wish I had known sooner. I have thought about you so many damn times over the years. I wanted to look you up, but I didn’t want to drag you into any of this. I wish I could go back to that day...”

Y/n stopped him.

“Listen. I don’t regret a single moment. Sure I can look back and see all those disappointments; prom, graduation. Any more, I just laugh. If any one thing had gone differently - if you’d convinced your dad to let you stay, or if you’d looked me up - I’m afraid the world would be an even darker place than it is now.”

Grabbing Sam’s hand, y/n squeezed as her eyes found his. He studied her gaze, surprised but relieved to see the mischief and wonder hadn’t waned over the years. But there was something else. Something Sam recognized, but couldn’t even begin to hope for; love.

“I believe in free will, Sam. But seeing you walk through those doors tonight? For a second it felt like we were drawn together through destiny.”

The frozen pit behind his ribs thawed - little by little - as she spoke. All this time she was just out there, waiting until they met again. Waiting for him.

Sam cupped y/n’s face, his thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. Y/n’s eyelashes fluttered at his touch and she sighed, leaning into his palm.

“Ever since Dean,” Sam paused, swallowing the lump in his throat. He closed his eyes and steeled himself before looking at her again. Her gentle gaze grounded him further and he found his voice to continue. “Ever since he disappeared, I have felt so lost. Dean was all I had left and I didn’t think I could go on without him. And then I wound up here. Finding you, knowing you understand...it’s the first time I’ve felt anywhere close to being whole.”

Y/n placed her hand over his and turned her head to kiss his palm.

“You don’t have to be lost any more, Sam. I can help you. We can find Dean together.”

Sam’s eyes burned at her words, at the promise she was offering him. “Y/n...I can’t ask you…”

Y/n cut him off with a press of her lips against his, he felt her smile into the kiss as his body went rigid. When she moved to pull away, he stopped her, his large hand cradling the back of her head and urging her closer. He kissed her back with everything he had, pouring out every emotion he’d felt in her absence from his life. She swallowed down every fear, pain, anger and frustration that Sam offered up.

When Sam broke the kiss, gasping for air, he found her smiling back up at him. Her eyes glassy and her lipstick smudged lips beautifully kiss-swollen, she traced his bottom lip with the tip of her finger.

“You’re not asking me to do anything, Sam. I’m offering.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged, this time in relief as the final dregs of ice melted away from his heart. As though she could sense his need, y/n wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. Sam pressed a kiss against her crown before she tilted her head back to look into his eyes.

“Welcome home, Sam.”

Like what you see? Want more? My SPN Masterlist is here, and MCU is here. Thanks for reading! :)

A/N 2: I am using my new and improved taglist. If you want to be added, see this post.

Weirdos:

@hannahindie @amanda-teaches @ellen-reincarnated1967 @feelmyroarrrr @masksandtruths @princessmisery666 @jamielea81 @foxyjwls007 @becs-bunker @super100012 @shy-violet-soul @emoryhemsworth @impandagrl

Hunters:

@deanwanddamons @iwantthedean @pretty-fortune @sgarrett49 @defenderrosetyler @sandlee44 @deanwanddamons @lyarr24 @akshi8278

#Sam Winchester x Reader #Sam Winchester #sam angst #supernatural fanfiction #spn fanfic #sam winchester fanfiction #panda writes

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roselen-mylady · 4 years ago

Text

In Another Life

Bucky Barnes x reader ° part seven

Summary: Waiting 88 years to find your soulmate? It was cruel. But it was a cruel fate Bucky would have to face whether he accepted it or not. Bucky was a tortured man all his life and he wasn't even granted the solace of having his soulmate at his side. All he had was the promise of one in another life. They were separated by two different times.

But the pain in their lives were connected.

Y/n had been alone ever since she could remember. All she could depend on was the soulmate that was destined to be at her side. Yet when the snap occured she lost him.

And Bucky never got to meet her.

The diner was quiet, despite the time of day. Light chatter echoed around them but Y/n could hardly notice, her gaze and attention all focused on the large, green man before her.

Bruce Banner was another idol of hers. He was one of the only brains to compete with hers, aside from Tony Stark, and she admired his work. It was his work after all that had attracted her full attention in that diner.

The once timid looking man who stood small and nervous during lectures now sat confident and relaxed upon his chair, shoveling the biggest portions of food she had ever seen into his mouth.

When Steve and Nat mentioned a genius her mind had immediately come to the much more civilized Hulk, but he wasn't their first stop. No, when they pulled up at a small cabin outside of the city, she was confused.

It was secluded so it was easy to convince herself that they had arrived at Bruce Banner's home but that idea was thrown out the window when a familiar figure stepped away from the small tent out front. She recognized him in an instant and sunk back into herself once realization struck that she was at Tony Stark's home.

"Who's the new girl?" He asked, curiously sending a glance Y/n's way as he adjusted his hold on the girl in his arms.

"Dr. Y/n L/n. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stark." Her voice cracked slightly but he didn't seem to mind as he reached out for Y/n's hand, shifting the small girl to his hip.

"Iron Man fan?" He questioned, his grip on her hand soothing in a way. Y/n offered a short shrug, sending a warm look to the girl Y/n assumed was his daughter.

"More of a 'Tony Stark the philanthropist' fan." A shy smile caked her face and Tony found himself returning it. It was new to him, the way someone admired his true persona rather than the superhero he had made himself to be. It was a welcomed feeling.

"Well, Doc, since I've got you here-there's this pain in my neck." Tony slipped his hand from her own, moving to rub a spot on his neck. His daughter let her fingers entwine with his own as he did so and the heartwarming smile he gave her reminded Y/n very much of her own father.

It seemed forever ago since she last saw his proud grin and she allowed herself to wonder what he would think of her life. What would her mother think? Would they be proud? Or would they share the same disappointment she now felt in herself for lying and cowering for so many years?

"I'd recommend a chiropractor, I'm afraid I'm a PhD type of doctor." Her tone was strained, Steve being the only one to notice it. He knew she was thinking of her past. It was a look he had seen on too many people. A look of loss. He just wished she'd finally let down her walls.

"I feel like I know you."

Tony's statement sent a chill down her spine but she did her best to ignore the feeling, allowing yet another smile to grace her lips.

"I wish." Y/n gave a short giggle, forcing away any suspicion Tony might've had. His eyes lingered on her for a moment but ultimately turned away, carrying on with their reason for visiting.

Despite their pleas, Tony rejected their idea not that they could blame him. And while Y/n would've loved to work with him, she had just been ecstatic to meet the famous Tony Stark she looked up to all her life.

He was the reason she took such an interest in science and technology. She was once trained to be the next Tony Stark after all. It was interesting seeing how different their lives had ended up, Tony choosing a life away from people while she chose to help them. She still admired him and she absolutely fell in love with his daughter, Morgan, an innocent replica of her father.

There had once been a time when she imagined her and her soulmate having the stereotypical suburban life; married with kids. However when the snap occured, any hope of that life died with her soulmate.

Yet this didn't stop her from pondering an alternative. She wondered if she and her soulmate did have a life together, what it would be like? What would he be like? Was he funny? Was he kind? Was he charming? Were his eyes really blue?

"About what we were saying…" Steve said, capturing their attention once more. Scott wore a baffled and angry look after the whole picture interaction and Y/n couldn't help but be amused as he sat next to her with a pout.

"Right. The whole time travel do-over? Guys, it's outside my area of expertise." Bruce explained. Y/n's heart sank and she sighed, her eyes subconsciously searching for Steve's. His eyes were still hopeful and he turned away from her trying to convince Bruce to help.

"Y/n said she could get it started. Couldn't that help?" He questioned, almost desperate as Y/n shared a look with Bruce. She could tell he wanted to help just as much as the next guy but their entire plan rested on something that came straight out of a movie.

"Steve, leading an experiment like this would be impossible if I don't even know where to start." Bruce tried to explain gently. Nat stared at Bruce, her expression unconvinced and even a little encouraging as a soft smirk twisted on her lips.

"Well, you pulled this off. I remember a time when that seemed pretty impossible, too." She replied. Bruce fell silent, looking down at himself as he contemplated the decision. It would be risky but they didn't really have much else to lose, right?

•••

Bruce had come back with them to the compound and after explaining the strategy she'd come up with, Y/n set off to find Steve.

He'd been quiet since she'd asked him the truth about Bucky. She regretted it, having pushed him so far. But she was also kind of relieved.

Finally she understood how her life had fallen apart. Understood why the man she feared had done what he did.

She even understood why his eyes had looked the way they did that day. The pain and suffering within them made sense and the eyes that accompanied her nightmares only filled her with heartache.

Would the guilt ever fade? Or would she just continue to find more things to feel guilt for?

After a bit of searching, she found Steve in his room, leaning against the headrest of his bed. The room was neat and if it hadn't been for the few personal effects on the dresser she would've argued it wasn't lived in. In a way that was true since a majority of his nights were spent at her apartment whether it be movie nights, game nights or simply nights spent together doing their own things.

Steve looked up from his sketchbook when she softly knocked on the door frame, leaning on it as he set down the book.

"Come in." She wordlessly padded over, climbing up to sit next to him. Their shoulders brushed and the calming effect that came with her presence uplifted his spirits causing him to look over at her with a tender smile.

"Let me guess. You wanna know what's wrong." He acknowledged. Y/n studied his thoughtful eyes, shaking her head with a brief exhale as she turned away.

"You have a way of staring into someone's soul. Did that come with the serum or has it always been like that?" She asked him, her tone teasing yet a little genuine. He shrugged letting out a small laugh.

The sound out her at ease, telling Y/n that he wasn't angry. At least not at her. Their interaction in the car had hurt both of them and Steve didn't want to continue it any longer.

"I don't know. I guess I've always been a little intense." His smile faded slowly, allowing his gaze to fall back on the sketchbook. He'd been drawing a familiar sight, unable to get his best friend out of his head.

Y/n followed his stare, landing on the drawing scribbled onto the page. Respectfully reaching over and picking it up, she looked up at Steve. He made no effort to stop her, watching as her finger traced the curve of the face upon the page.

It was a rough drawing due to Steve's lack of time to really add the details he wished to but Y/n had seen plenty of his art so he didn't mind as much. Her lips parted but she didn't speak instead creasing her brow as she intently stared at the page.

Steve had drawn Bucky plenty of times before but shamefully most had been of the Winter Soldier. He used drawing as a way to drag certain images from his head and nothing haunted him more than the monster HYDRA had made his best friend into.

Yet this drawing was different. He drew him the way he remembered Bucky, from before the snap. When he was getting better.

On the page was a tired man, a man she'd never seen before. There was a permanent crease in his brow, decades of pointed stares and menacing expressions having worn it into his very features. A bit of stubble had grown on his face and his hair was long like she remembered. Even his expression as exhausted staring back at her with a weak smile.

Y/n wondered what moment Steve had drawn this from. What had happened to make Steve catalogue this within his memories. She wondered what had caused that look in his eyes.

The eyes that stared back at her were completely different from the ones she remembered, though she knew they belonged to the same man. These were kind yet weary: eyes of a man who had broken by war and hate but still felt things like compassion. A man who saw the worst of the world but still chose to protect it. .

"This was him?" She mumbled softly, meeting Steve's uncertain gaze.

He nodded, watching as she looked away from him.

This picture seemed to be her breaking point.

All the rage and all the terror, all of it melted into the already overflowing pool of self hatred. How could she bear to think about the grudge she'd held against a man who despite everything that the world had done to him, still fought Thanos that day when the world ended.

Today she had learned all at once the man behind the one she feared and all the hate she once felt was unjust. And as much as she wanted to hold onto it, she just couldn't.

It was wrong.

"You can keep it if you want." Steve offered once she had handed him back the sketchbook. She began to shake her head, trying to reason it meant more to him than to her but Steve had already pulled out the page handing it to her.

"To remember who he really was." He reasoned.

Y/n held it tenderly in her hands, taking care to lay it in her lap as if touching the page in any rough manner might damage the man displayed on it.

When the silence came it didn't feel as suffocating as before. They sat there on his bed for an hour in that silence. Y/n was grateful for the time to think, trying desperately to come to terms with everything she'd been told.

And it wasn't until Y/n was about to get up and head home for a change of clothes that Steve spoke, breaking the silence.

"I know why you came." Steve said suddenly, making her lift her head to peer up at him. Shame flushed over him and Y/n could feel her heart drop. "You want to know why I wanted you to stay so bad. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"

"You think keeping me around was a mistake, don't you?"

Steve's expression morphed into shock and he instantly shook his head at her assumption. Allowing him to take her hand in his, she felt a bit ashamed for how hurt he was by what she had said.

"No. Never. I want you here because I sincerely believe you can help us. You can help me." Y/n sighed, her eyes landing on their outstretched legs. She let him idly circle his thumb along the back of her hand, trying to fight the urge to argue.

"I want to help, Steve. And I think I can, just..." She trailed off. "This is your thing, Steve. Not mine. I'm not equipped for this. I wish I was, I really do."

A frown tugged at his lips and his lashes brushed his skin briefly as his eyes fell on his lap. He knew it was unfair to her to bring her into this and it certainly wasn't okay to keep her against her will but he needed her.

"I know. And I'm sorry. Just-" He cut himself off, shifting on the bed to face her better. She watched with an unsure gaze as he took both of her hands. "Ever since I could remember I've done what I thought was right and for a while it worked. But the past few years, I've ruined so much."

His voice was hushed and Y/n could see how troubled he was by his furrowed brow and clouded eyes. His eyes were trained on their intertwined hands, her touch filling him with a familiar ease. One he'd known all his life.

"Things have gotten too hard. Being Captain America isn't white and black anymore and when we lost, I didn't see a point. But then I met you and things were easy again. I didn't have to be Captain America, I could just be Steve." He confessed.

He felt guilty, not that his words weren't true. If anything, this was the most honest he had been with her. But the guilt that seeped into his heart came from Bucky. He hadn't just failed the world, he failed all of his friends, all people he would fondly consider his new family. Could he really risk losing again?

"I don't know if that even makes sense but I need you here. I need to be Steve." He dared to take a glimpse at her, fearing she might condemn him. Instead a warm smile graced Y/n's features, patient and kind like Bucky always was.

"Okay." She whispered, her heart clenching as she forced the simple word. She couldn't shake the feeling that her luck hadn't yet turned. Everytime she tried to help, it destroyed everything around her. She couldn't let that happen again. "I'm gonna go get some stuff from the apartment then you have my wholehearted assistance."

Y/n carefully tucked the picture into her pocket before climbing off the bed, standing next to it as Steve swung his legs over the edge. "Do you want me to go with you?" He offered. She shook her head, pulling her hair up and tying it.

"Nah, I'll be ok. What, you scared I'll run away?" She attempted to lighten the mood. Steve chuckled as she walked over to the door running her fingers along the wall before pausing. He watched her small frame hesitate before shooting a short glance back at him. "Hey, uh- just…don't do anything stupid till I get back." She pleaded, earnest concern in her tone as he pushed off the bed.

A soft smirk came to his face and he lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you." He replied instantly, not giving it too much thought. Y/n scoffed, rolling her eyes and letting her fingers wrap around the doorframe as she stepped out into the hall.

"Grandpa's got jokes now." She offered a genuine laugh, her smile lingering upon her lips.

Then she disappeared down the hall, leaving him standing silently in the now empty room trying in vain to brush away the painful overlap.

•••

When she got back to the apartment she packed a bag of essentials for herself, making sure to stop by Steve's room and pack a few extra clothes in case he needed them. Speaking of the man, she scoffed looking at the full sink.

"Steven Rogers, I swear." A long sigh filled the quiet apartment as she set about washing the dishes he'd promised to take care of. While she was at it she took care of a few other chores since she wasn't sure when she would be back again.

There wasn't much to be abandoned at the apartment other than a few plants but they'd been dead for a couple days at that point. She never had been one to have a green thumb but Steve claimed having them around gave the apartment some life.

Ironic.

The walk back to the compound was peaceful even in the constant gloom of the city. Knowing there was a shift in the atmosphere filled her with a new type of feeling, one she hadn't experienced in a really long time.

There had been people on the street, going about their business. Everything was dulled compared to life before the snap but she hadn't noticed until she knew there was something to be done. How many times she had gone about her life while something was happening behind the scenes that she had been so painfully oblivious to? Perhaps that was why the Sokovia Accords had been created in the first place.

There were so many close calls the Avengers prevented that the public didn't even know about until it was on the news. Though she didn't agree with the Accords she understood the government's wish to be more aware and even in control.

Once reaching the compound, Nat let her in through the gate and Y/n began her trek to the building. Tugging her hair free of the hair tie, it fell loose around her face and she cringed at the grease starting to build on her scalp. Moving through the halls of the compound, she let herself really explore.

Despite years of friendship she hadn't really been at the compound for longer than a few hours at a time, most of the visit being spent in the training room with Nat. Steve explained he wanted to keep his friendship with her separate from his life as an Avenger and since she had been doing everything in her power to forget her past, she appreciated the separation.

As she continued to wonder, she hoped there'd be a shower somewhere on the large complex. But before she could ask anyone, her silent venture was cut off by the sounds of very frantic voices coming from a door to her left. Hesitantly she stepped through, finding herself in a large open space with a very odd scene.

The horrid van had been brought in and the back glowed while what looked like a portal swirled inside it. A baby, she assumed to be Scott, stood on wobbly feet in a crudely made suit as everyone turned to her with alarmed expressions. Y/n dropped her bag and rushed forward, pushing Bruce aside as she pointed for Nat.

"When I say kill the reactor, kill it!" Y/n demanded, adjusting the calculations on the panel as Nat rapidly walked over to the reactor.

"Kill it!" Y/n called. Nat's frantic hands quickly pulled down the knob, turning off the reactor before looking back over to the van. Scott had returned to his position and normal age, his face contorted in shock and confusion.

"Somebody peed my pants." Scott proclaimed making Nat sigh, walking over to them. Y/n let go of her own sigh of relief, stepping away from the control panel. Bruce looked over the work she'd done, his eyes widening for a split second before returning to Scott.

"God, I leave you guys alone for one hour! I told you not to do anything!" She cried, sending an aggravated look at Steve. He cowered under her detested glare, bringing his hand to the back of his neck.

"But I don't know if it was 'baby' me or 'old' me...or just 'me' me." Scott elaborated, earning an annoyed stare from Y/n. However Bruce did not share her agitation, holding up his hands dramatically.

"Time travel!" He announced, a proud grin on his face as he looked to the others for the same enthusiasm. Steve refused to reply instead shaking his head and stalking off toward the exit while Y/n tried to calm her racing heart. She made them promise to wait for her. She knew something like this would happen.

"What? I..I see this as an absolute win!" Bruce called after Steve. Nat and Y/n looked at one another before moving to check on Scott. He was fine other than some wet pants and suit which Y/n painfully took knowing they'd need the suit for another test run, one she knew she'd be leading.

"Here, Bruce." Y/n tossed him the suit. He caught it with a scrunched nose, holding it at arm's length with a disgusted expression.

"That's what you get for not waiting."

Part eight

Taglist:

@cancanmarvel

@jessyballet

@eldahae

@mc225g

@kissesofdeadforme

@wantingtobekorra

@sxphiiwrld

@lunaticbarnes

@indecisivedolly

@saiyanprincesswanie

@lextheflexsthings

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starswornoaths · 4 years ago

Text

Prompt 7: Nonagenarian

Oh hey, another one that got away from me. 5.0-5.3 spoilers, especially toward the end when perspectives change.

The Crystal Exarch did not have a nameday. And for little Lyna, that just would not do.

Word count: 2,222

The Crystal Exarch had long since lost track of when his nameday was, to say nothing of how many of them that had passed him by. Even long before the Crystarium rose around his tower, he had given up keeping track of his exact age. The community that turned to him for guidance didn’t ask, likely out of respect for what they recognized was a painful past of a kind man who tried to forget it all, even as he clung to all the good he had known and fought to save.

Little Lyna, however, the inquisitive little girl with bright, keen eyes and a need for familiarity with the man she viewed as a grandfather, had no hesitation in asking, even if she had already asked at least a dozen other times over the years, and had yet to receive a satisfactory answer.

“Exarch, when is your nameday?” She asked one year, as he had mentioned wanting to plan for her nameday coming up.

Her words were wrapped around a lisp, her teeth not quite grown in— soft, barely there if one wasn’t paying attention, but the Exarch always did. He always had time to listen to his granddaughter, even if he didn’t always have it in him to be honest with her. Or anyone, really.

“I don’t have one!” He replied, as he always did.

And as always, that didn’t satisfy her.

When she puffed her cheeks out in annoyance at him, he paused in pursuing their pantry shelves for cake ingredients to ruffle the hair between her ears. Batting his hand away and giving a whine in the back of her throat as she tried to fix her mussed up bangs, she scowled up at him.

“You have to have one! Everyone does!” Lyna insisted.

“I’m not everyone, and I am quite certain I do not have a nameday, little one.”

“That’s not true!” She raised her voice, startling him. “Why can’t you just tell me!”

She growled in frustration and stamped her foot, and at first he had been prepared to calm another fit, as children are wont to have, but then when he turned to face her at a soft sniffle, he realized she was legitimately upset— and worse, that he had upset her.

“Lyna—”

He knelt down to her level, hand reaching out toward her again. Not teasing this time, but comforting, a hand on her shoulder as she ducked her head. He heart squeezed— she only ever hid her face from him so when she was trying not to cry.

When she shoved his hand away with both of hers with a hiccup and scrubbed at her own eyes, he couldn’t find it in him to blame her.

“Lyna, tell me how I’ve upset you.” He requested, deliberately keeping his voice soft.

He already knew why she was upset, but it was important that she learn the words to express her upset, and that she should be able to give voice to them when she was hurt, even by family. Especially by family.

“You always lie to me.” The little Viis girl sobbed, knuckles still rubbing at her eyes. “You’re my grandpa and I don’t know anything about you!”

The Exarch paused again, hand hovering in the space between them before resting his forearm on his knee as he watched her weep, his heart twisting at the sight. Deep down, in that part of him that remembered he had once had a name and had wanted to be someone to someone stirred at being loved in such a simple, familial way. Demanded that he comply with his granddaughter’s one wish: to give him a nameday and not argue with her on the point.

He had already failed in distancing himself so she wouldn’t mourn him when he died, reasoned the part of him that remembered he had once been G’raha Tia. Would it be so awful to give her something happy to cling to? Something she could say she did?

Hadn’t that been what he had wanted more than anything as a little boy, clinging to his books of history and fairy tales alike, because they accepted him for who he was more than his tribe had?

“I’m sorry, little one.” The Exarch murmured, voice only just louder than her sniffles and hiccups. “I try to protect you from everything, but in so doing, I fear I’m only hurting you.”

When she peered up at him with wide, glassy eyes through the fringe of her bangs, he offered her a remorseful but pleading smile.

“In truth, I forgot when my nameday was.” He said, technically in truth for how he had lost track of the Eorzean calendar, and how it could translate to Norvrandt’s. “So I simply don’t have one.”

“Then I’ll give you one!” She pointed at him with another stamp of her foot. “Everyone deserves a nameday!”

A simplistic, if genuine argument. It wasn’t a matter of not deserving one, but not wanting to keep one, not wanting to know. Bad enough that he was distantly aware that he was a nonagenarian at that point, bad enough that he had to live with the guilt he had. No, having an actual nameday would be a line to cross, every year, that would remind him of how long he had lived like this, how long he had to wait to right a wrong he hadn’t even been around to try and prevent. Having such a marker would make it worse.

“Tell you what, Lyna.” The Exarch smiled, and held out the hand not yet claimed by the tower. “You can pick a day— any day of the year, any one that you like— and you can celebrate it for me.”

“...Promise?” Lyna asked, not yet accepting his handshake and giving him a suspicious side eye.

“I promise.” He swore with a firm nod.

After another moment of her examining his offered hand, a smile slowly bloomed on her face as she accepted his handshake. They shook on it, hands bobbing in one single shake. And after a moment, the Exarch offered his arms stretched wide for a hug. With a giddy laugh, Lyna leapt into them and let her grandfather scoop her up in a hug.

It was maybe a week later, maybe a mite longer, that he found a lumpy, misshapen little cake on his desk. The frosting ran off the side, more watery icing sugar than true frosting, and the cake was half burned with lumps of unmixed flour dotting the inside. Beside the child’s baking attempt, there sat a little crayon drawing of what appeared to be a very red man with triangles on his head holding hands with a little grey, stretched out stuck bunny beside him. Above the little sketch of him and Lyna, the words, “HAPPEE NAMDAY GRAMPA” were written, the letters alternating in color between what crayons she had at her disposal.

The was the best nameday cake he had ever had.

As the years wore on, and Lyna outgrew him almost one and a half times over as she matured into the strong, powerful, dignified Captain that he had always thought she could be, she never forgot. It was almost their little secret.

It was never the same day of the year— that never really mattered anyroad— but one day, each day of the year, Lyna would leave a little cake and a note for him, wishing him a happy nameday. The innocent and unskilled drawings of a youthful child gave way over the years to respectful but muted letters of well wishes and expressions of gratitude, wrapped in hopes that he had a pleasant day. Despite the ever increasin professionalism with which she carried herself, Lyna had never once lost a bit of that warmth that made people follow her into the jaws of death itself.

Then one year, decades after they had established that the Exarch got to have a nameday, that Lyna chose to deliver his cake in person.

The cake itself was her best yet. Vanilla buttercream frosting made fresh that morning piped in a perfect little mound atop a little spice cake that perfectly fit in the palm of her hand. A perfect, singular serving. She had packed a little satchel with a thick blanket, a thermos of tea to compliment the cake, (a nice black tea, strong enough to balance out the sweetness of the cake,) and set out early that morning.

She had the day off, and had found herself wanting for the Exarch’s counsel. The people had begun to turn to her more and more in recent times, and though she offered them a sturdy pillar to lean on, she wondered if this was beyond her scope as Captain of the guard. If anyone would know how best to proceed, it would be him. That, and she hadn’t gotten around to celebrating his nameday this year. She would be remiss to let it pass by— she never had before, and was not going to stop now.

The stairs were numerous, and the path not quite familiar enough that she didn’t have to take heed of where she was going, but Lyna made it to him just as she had hoped she would. The dawn was just breaking beyond the horizon, and there was a light, sweet breeze drifting between the broad crystal pillars that held up the ceiling to this platform, at the very top of the Crystal Tower. The hallway between here and where her grandfather was resting was as a yawning expanse before her, giving the already ostentacious room an even more grandiose air.

All her life, Lyna had felt small compared to the might of the Crystal Exarch. This room felt the most like him, in that regard.

“Good morning.” Lyna said quietly when at last she stopped before her grandfather. “You did not assume me neglectful of your nameday, I hope?”

She averted her eyes as she removed her satchel and rolled the blanket out beside him. It was thick enough to be comfortable when she situated herself on it, sitting with her knees crossed. She set the cake down in the space between them, on a little kerchief, and took a few moments to pour herself a cup of tea in the calm quiet of the room.

Then, she began to speak. She told him of all that was happening in the Crystarium, all that the people had come to ask of her in his absence. There were children born in recent days that had asked after the Exarch’s name to give to them. Lyna instead offered them a name from any one of the tales that her grandfather had told her growing up, names of heroes that had stood up to do the right thing, whether that had been to proffer a blade to an enemy or give comfort to a friend. Between each tale, every bit of information she had to catch him up on, she would take a bite of the cake. Resources were not so plentiful that she would waste it in offering— and if the Exarch were here, that would be the last thing he would want from her.

The sun rose higher in the sky, catching the crystal of her grandfather’s torso. She brushed the crumbs away from her blanket and stood.

“I hope my report was sufficient.” Lyna murmured, rolling the blanket back up and sticking it back in her satchel. Her thermos, emptied of tea, soon followed. “...You could do with some plants here to keep you company. I cannot always be here.” After a moment, she said, almost to herself, “Perhaps we might start a garden here. Your garden.”

She looked back at her grandfather. Enshrined forever in crystal, eyes forever facing forward, the outlines of his face gleamed in the rising sun. His expression was that same, steadfast calm she had always known him to possess. Of all the things that were a mystery of him, she never once wondered if he had the courage to face his destiny. She had learned to tackle it head on from the best, after all.

“My duties will keep me away most of the time.” She told him, and in a strange way, she made this the goodbye she didn’t get to have. Or the closest thing she could make to it, anyroad. “But I will come back— as long as I live, you have a nameday, after all, remember?”

Her eyes stung. Her satchel felt heavy, slung over her shoulder— or perhaps that was because her heart felt lighter now. She had a rather long walk down to think on it. Through the blur of her tears and the warm, bright glow of the morning light, for a moment, she saw him— not the crystal, but the man that had taught her how to bake a cake, how to wield a weapon, how to be the woman she had become, smiling at her.

When she blinked her tears away, he was gone. But then, he had never been there at all— and that was okay. He was happy, on that far flung somewhere he used to tell her stories about. Just as he had always wanted.

“Happy nameday, grandfather.” Lyna said to him, and left.

#ffxivwrite2020 #ffxiv #5.0 spoilers #5.3 spoilers #shadowbringers spoilers #Crystal Exarch #ffxiv Lyna #idk how this one ran away from me the way that it did but it Did and I'm okay with this

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heartofswords · 4 years ago

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A new beginning

Starter for @moralreflection

When Minato and Kushina fall silent, Tobirama doesn’t say anything for a long moment. It’s… It’s a lot to take in.

Well, at least they were generous enough to wait for Tobirama to heal from the wounds the Kinkaku Squad had left him and for him to settle down in his new home before approaching him.

Tobirama doesn’t know how he would have reacted if the very first thing he was told upon waking up in the future was that his fling with Hatake Miashi had not only resulted in a son, but in a grandson as well.

(Badly, that’s how he would have reacted.)

Instead, when a Konoha patrol found him, unconscious and on death’s door outside the walls, he’d thankfully been brought to the hospital, where he’d been healed and updated on what had happened in the decades he’d skipped.

Hiruzen was still Hokage, and under his rule Konoha flourished - and yet, despite that, Tobirama’s beloved Village is once again dragged into another war with the other Hidden Villages. How hilarious, that Tobirama would escape a war only to appear in another.

(His former student hesitantly tried to offer the hat back to Tobirama, but the Senju plain-out refused. His time has passed, let the new generation herald a better future. All Tobirama has ever known is war, how could he ever hope to pull his home from another?)

The seal that brought Tobirama to the future was a one-off, with no hope of creating one that could bring him back, so the former Hokage had to accept that his home now was this strange new Konoha.

Thank goodness, the Senju compound was still as he remembered it, and he happily took residence in his old house.

And that was where, two weeks after he’d appeared in the future, Namikaze Minato, the candidate for next Hokage, and his girlfriend Uzumaki Mito, distantly related to Mito, approached him.

Hiruzen had told Tobirama about them, so the Senju had no problems inviting them into his home when they said they had something important to tell him.

Over tea and biscuits, the two updated Tobirama on some minor details of what had happened over the past years… And then Kushina dropped the bomb that Hatake Miashi, a shinobi with whom Tobirama had had a brief fling, had a son by him.

For Tobirama, his brief relationship with Miashi was less than five months ago, but in this world it has been forty years ago.

Long enough for Hatake Sakumo to be born… And to die.

The son Tobirama didn't know anything about died only a month ago. He’d committed suicide over the guilt of being the casus belli of the latest shinobi war.

Not many people knew that Sakumo had been Tobirama’s son, Kushina explained. She knew only because she used to be on the man’s genin team, and he’d revealed so one night he’d gotten drunk.

Tobirama wasn’t even given the time to wrap his mind around that, muchy less grieve for the progeny he’s never known, before Minato carried on: there was more.

Sakumo had a son of his own: Hatake Kakashi, now orphaned, since his mother had died in childbirth.

Tobirama’s grandchild.

The Senju drags one hand down his face, feeling more tired than ever. He feels like the age he should have, had it not been for the timetravel.

“He lives alone, in the home where he found his father’s body, and refuses help,” Tobirama repeats, looking up at Minato as he massages his temple, feeling a headache incoming. He grew up in what had to be one of the most fucked-up times of recent history, the ‘warring Clan era’, and that’s disturbing even for Tobirama’s standards.

“Correct, Tobirama-sama,” Minato says. “He tolerates our presence, but he won’t let us help him.”

“And you’re telling me this because you hope I’ll take him in out of familial obligation.”

Kushina doesn’t like that comment and has no issues against showing it. “Because he’s a child and he deserves better! This is so fucked up, and no one will fucking help! He’s never had a normal childhood, at least he deserves some semblance of a family!”

Tobirama musters a thin smile. Classic fiery Uzumaki temper, there. “I agree with you, Kushina-san. Kakashi-kun shouldn’t be living like that.”

The former Hokage pours more tea for everyone at the table. “You know, the main reason I backed my brother in creating this Village was that I wanted no more child-soldiers. Battlefields are no place for kids.” Tobirama’s eyes narrow in simmering anger. He has words to exchange with Hiruzen.

“I’d be willing to take him in, if only to protect him from being taken advantage of. He needs to be pulled away from the field. Have time to heal.” He owes it to Miashi, too. His lover would have never tolerated such bullshit.

“If he didn’t allow you to take him, though, why do you think he’ll allow me? I’m a total stranger. Does he even know we’re related?”

Minato shakes his head. “No, he doesn’t know, Sakumo never got around to telling him. But… Forgive me, Tobirama-sama, but you’re the Nidaime Hokage. You are a hero. You were in his history books, he sees your face carved in the mountain every day. He’ll know you have no reason to lie to him, and he respects you. I think you have a solid chance.”

Tobirama hums. He drains his cup of tea, then traces the smooth edge of the porcelain with his finger as he thinks about it.

A grandchild. Of course he wants what’s best for young Kakashi - his situation sucks. He wonders if taking him in himself is the best course of action, but from Minato’s and Kushina’s words, there is simply no other option. Having been raised the way he was, Kakashi is fiercely independent and refuses to be coddled even when that’s exactly what he needs. They’re hoping that… That hero worship will allow Kakashi to lower his guard around Tobirama.

What a strange notion.

“Alright,” Tobirama says eventually, making the couple sharply look up at him. “Introduce me to Kakashi-kun, and we’ll see what I can do.” His words are rewarded with two blinding smiles.

“Thank you, Tobirama-sama!”

The former Hokage nods and stands up. “Where can we find him?”

The answer, it turns out, is a training field.

Tobirama is not surprised, given the tale he was told.

Minato approaches Kakashi, while Kushina stays behind with Tobirama at the edge of the training ground. From so far away,k Tobirama can only barely make out Minato’s words: “Hello Kakashi-kun. I want to introduce you to someone.”

#a new beginning #wow this was long

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chartedrights · 5 years ago

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Golden Age AU Masterpost

For everyone lacking context, the Golden Age AU is just me riffing on every piece of comic book media I’ve ever consumed. Here are some single-paragraph rundowns I’ve made to keep track of things as I start to write!

The Board of Directors is analogous to the Justice League- they’re pretty much entirely people with superpowers (with the exception of Carol, at first), they’re very prestigious, and they come together to ward off larger threats like the impressive super powered task force they are. Or they used to. Membership’s sort of dropped, and people with powers are getting harder to find and recruit, and the big headliner who ran it left it in the hands of some nurse, which is like. So not sexy.

PEIP is PEIP- they fit right in where they were. In the shadows, in the dark, fighting the threats that the “special people” won’t, protecting people on a lower level than “oh god, the apocalypse,” because apparently the superheroes aren’t concerned with espionage or alien meteors anymore. The pricks. Mostly run by people without superpowers- as far as they know- and deeply concerned with keeping heroes responsible for their own actions. They would be oversight, if they were allowed to be.

CCRP Technical is an interesting place. Charlotte and Ted work there, for Sam, though neither of them is quite sure what it actually does. Paul was recruited in hopes he’d grow into upper management, but he didn’t have the ambition for it. Bill has been there for a decade or two now, ever since he started attending those meetings with Becky and Mrs. Davidson. Melissa... Melissa is their rising star. Mr. Davidson isn’t sure what they found in her, but he’s glad to see her succeed! Good for her! Four for you Melissa, you go Melissa!

Hatchetfield.... is Hatchetfield. It’s small, it’s insular, it’s full of gossip and weirdness and people with eccentric ideas of morality. It might be easier to admit that superheroes and supervillains exist, but let nobody say that the citizens of Hatchetfield ever took the easy road. They will walk uphill, in the snow, denying the supernatural both ways.

Paul is a real sweetheart. He’s autistic, he’s quiet, he likes his routine and the simple pleasures in life... and he just happens to be unkillable and he maybe possibly sort of has the ability to fly. He could be an excellent addition to either team, but he refuses to be a proper superhero, making him Hatchetfield’s most obvious target. Which in turn means that he often ends up acting like a proper superhero against his own will. He thinks Emma is perfectly lovely and still hasn’t noticed her committing crimes.

Emma is Hidgens’ Lab Assistant, which is code for “committing crimes for college credit,” and she does a lot of the footwork for him. Being a henchman definitely tops food service, lets put it that way. She also gets to follow in the family business- a long line of Perkins supervillains ended when Jane broke free and became a real hero for Tom’s sake. She always wanted to be a good person, but Emma is not as opposed to violence. She also cannot wait for Hidgens to level Hatchetfield, which is made complicated by the fact that she likes Paul rather a lot, and he likes Hatchetfield.

Hidgens is a supervillain. He never leaves his house, orchestrates incidents of immense damage to the civic infrastructure, and refuses to acknowledge that just maybe putting children into the path of radioactive chemicals is not a valid scientific experiment. He’s not necessarily a bad person, it’s just that his morals refute even the idea of black and white. More like blue and red. Orange and green. He is of the opinion that world peace can only be achieved by world domination, and therefore has begun a track to world domination. He and Sam have a blood feud of indeterminate origin.

Becky Barnes, low-level healer and walking anesthetic, somehow ended up in charge of the Board of Directors. The last leader disappeared three days after handing off control, and Becky is still looking for them. Becky is very conspicuously not looking for her ex-husband, however. It makes some people suspicious, and nobody more than Sam, who is Stanley’s most obnoxious cousin. Apparently, ruining Becky’s life runs in the family. Despite these troubling events, Becky does her best to keep the city standing and the world turning- she and Bill manage what they can, Carol and PEIP manage what they can’t. She’s still in a precarious place, however, and she’s looking for help.

Frank Pricely supplies everyone with gadgets. Hero and villain alike, everyone pays. Not always the same price, but everyone pays. He’s a neutral party, and he acts the part, but everybody likes to debate his loyalties. There’s no such thing as truly neutral, right? Everyone has their price- even him. It’s just a matter of what that price is.

Lex is his cashier, which means that she learned early on in her career in retail that the panic button is not half as good a first resort as the paralysis darts Frank keeps in the cash drawer. She has the ability to manifest objects, as long as she knows where they are. She needs a concrete location to pull them away from, which means that she snoops in every house she visits, checks the staff rooms of every store she enters. She can, on command, find you just about anything you need. For a price. She’s learning a lot lately, though, and what she learns about her powers might put her at risk.

Bill is one of the few members of the Board of Directors still standing. He and Becky get coffee all the time, and commiserate about the lack of help in Hatchetfield. He has telepathy, and certain illusionary abilities, which come in especially handy when he’s talking people down or trying to sneak hostages out of hostage situations. A gentle, well-intentioned man, Bill is not outwardly very intimidating, but he’s strong. Much stronger than most people would like to think. Becky keeps trying to hand off leadership to him, and he gently hands it back every time- he’s got other problems to deal with right now.

Formerly married to the infamous Perkins family heiress, Tom tries to live a nice, quiet life. He used to be a hero- and a damn good one- but Jane defected for him, and then died for it, and he carries more guilt than he probably should. Tom never thought of himself as special, really, and he still doesn’t. He can warp matter- twist it into shape, turn it from one thing to another, and he’s a fine craftsman when he wants to be. But it’s a dangerous thing to have on hand when you’re angry or frightened, and Tom still has an awful case of PTSD hanging around his neck. He’s doing his best to wrangle with it, but he’s going to need some help.

Ethan is just a teenager. Really, he promises. He absolutely swears. Nothing special about him! He’s just real intuitive! He and Lex have been looking into that whole “experimentation” thing they did at CCRP back when they were babies and it wasn’t even interesting! He’s just a mechanic, honestly. He’s a straight C student! He hasn’t even joined the cult off the coast on that houseboat!! He’s a good kid. No reason to be concerned at all.

Ted is also Hidgens’ henchman, but definitely the lower-ranked of the two. He applied hoping he’d make some friends, but thus far all he’s managed to do is fall in love with Charlotte, who is Sam’s henchman. It’s not going badly for him, but it’s not going well, either. He and Paul still work together. Every time Hidgens asks, Ted is like “Paul? Nah. He’s totally normal.”

Gary is a mob lawyer. He used to work for Emma’s family, but now he works for Sherman and Linda. They’re technically competition, and if they ever find out that he’s playing both sides he’ll absolutely die, but in the meantime he is racking up that cash. He is so rich. He is capable of great evil, and occasionally does terrible things, but overall he’s an affable guy. He and Charlotte had an unfortunate tryst once that ended with her tying him to the Welcome to Hatchetfield sign with his own scarf, but he still pines for her. She’s the one that got away. And continues to get away. cops hate her: local woman refuses to go to jail.

MacNamara still works for PEIP, which is only slightly a different job, on account of there being very public superheroes in this world. He and Xander have been married for ten years, but they are both under the (mistaken) impression that it wasn’t a real marriage because it was done undercover. He thinks about that and is very sad about it sometimes. But they’re partners, and that’s good enough that he can be content with it. For now. He has the ability to intensify or nullify other people’s superpowers, and he does his best to keep it quiet. He thinks there’s something noble about living without superpowers, and vaguely wishes that he and Chad’s roles were swapped- until he remembers that Chad has one (1) brain cell to his name.

Xander has the ability to speak to computers. It’s not flashy, at first glance. It doesn’t have the pizzazz of Paul’s gifts or the subtle mind fuckery of John and Bill’s. But he can know whatever he wants, can hear anything, tap any phone call, look through any webcam. He doesn’t, because he’s not a fucking creep, but he can. PEIP was lucky to find him before CCRP- and so was everyone else in the world. Xander’s not flashy in general- he keeps a lot to himself. He and John have been partners for a long time, and they still haven’t said they love each other. He still hasn’t told John that he’s a member of the Board. He still hasn’t told John that he and Paul are in the same book club.

Schaffer doesn’t need powers. You think she needs powers? Her power is that she breathes and death turns away. PEIP was built by good people like Schaffer, people with principles and strong hearts and ice cold spines of steel. Normal, human people, unremarkable except that they chose to be better. She’s fourth-generation PEIP, born and raised to believe in the service they do, the protection they provide. Some of the more bitter agents will say that Schaffer benefitted from nepotism. They will never say this in front of her, because deep down they know she did not and they know that she will prove it by kicking their asses. She and Carol used to date, but the strain of crossing enemy lines in what was, essentially, a Cold War between PEIP and the Board got to them both. Schaffer is the person Hidgens called after he got struck by lightning.

Charlotte is Sam’s henchman and quietly in the running for longest con ever pulled. One day she is going to off him and take his place as the leading supervillain in Hatchetfield, but that day is not today. She likes Ted, but Sam keeps telling her to kill him, so their relationship amounts to “the inherent eroticism of trying to murder each other”. Nobody is entirely certain how she does what she does, but she’s very, very good at her job. Emma looks up to her just a little. She had a therapist once. He tried to sleep with her. She no longer has a therapist. She does have a very lovely goldfish, however.

Mr. Davidson is MacNamara’s twin brother and Hidgens’ ex. His wife is a genuine bona fide Batman-level hero in a bigger city, so he occasionally gets kidnapped or tortured. Hidgens still writes him bitter and mildly threatening love ballads that he genuinely treasures and sends very heartfelt thank you notes for. His life is so messy. There’s so much drama. He’s also completely powerless and cheerful about it. (Re: the Working Boys.... he’s Chad. Chad MacNamara Davidson.)

Alice is developing absolutely no superpowers and she’s really really annoyed about it. She used to take this out on Lex, as teenagers will, but after Lex dropped out she began to regret that. Too little and much too late, but regret is regret. She keeps trying to mend that bridge, but it’s not working. Unfortunately for her, she’s still been seen with Lex and Ethan, and that’s enough. Imminent danger perceives no difference between friend and foe. Alice is full of a very different kind of potential, however, and sooner or later all that bottled-up anger and stress will lash out.

Deb, on the other hand, is an intern at the Board of Directors’ headquarters, which is now St. Damien’s given that Becky is in charge. Interns for heroes are much less common than henchmen working for villains, but Deb has a keen interest in coordination and overseeing operations. Bill hates having her on comms for missions, but she’s just... so good at her job. She can brew a pot of Red Bull twice-steeped coffee, arrange a date with Alice, avoid an international incident, redirect PEIP and talk Bill through defusing a bomb in the same ten-minute stretch. Lesbians can do anything. This is a fact. They are the backbone of our society.

Hot Chocolate Boy is full of secrets. And hot chocolate.

And speaking of St. Damien’s, do you recall poor Bridgette, who lost her eyesight in a horrible accident? I’m not saying Hatchetfield is going to have it’s very own Matt Murdock expy, but I am saying that. She’s blind, she’s Catholic, and she’s coming for your kneecaps.

Linda is a very low-level villain who operates out of her husband’s office and sics her Boating Club on people. Gerald should technically be a threat, given that it’s the Monroe family prerogative to slaughter rising heroes with an alacrity that distinguished them from all the other families in Hatchetfield. He is not. He’s barely even a henchman. Linda got all the bloodlust between the two of them, and she is out for blood from the start. Though initially quickly defeated, she grows in seriousness over the course of time and ends up a formidable threat with a weighty grudge against Becky and Lex. She’s not much in a physical fight, Linda, but she is deeply, deeply vindictive, and she’s willing to make any deals she has to to bring Becky down. Any deals. With anyone. Anything.

Sherman Young is a mob boss, and you know it. He’s a real creep and he’s got some sick hobbies, even for a man in his line of work, but somehow the 80s jacket and the comb-over mullet make it all worse. He’s the richest man in town, and that’s saying something, but if Linda has a say in things he won’t be for long. The Youngs, the Monroes, and the Perkins have been at war since the founding of the town, and Sherman is cutting down his competition. He might have even arranged for Jane’s accident to happen, but nobody is sure. Nobody living, anyway.

Sam is a villain. He’s not super or anything. He’s just a villain. He’s top-tier Joker-level normie, but he still goes toe-to-toe with all kinds of heroes. Notable for being pretty much exactly the same as his show counterpart in regards to his proclivity for threats and violence. He once told Paul to “talk to his fucking gun” only to find that Paul is, despite all outward appearances, fucking immortal. He is still very embarrassed about it. He’s up and coming in the Hatchetfield Villain circuit, but he’s definitely a threat. To who? Who can say. Somebody, somewhere.

Papa Ed is a PEIP informant, and he has the ability to speak to animals. He’s raising Peanuts to be a very small, very enthusiastic little squirrel spy.

Man in a Hurry is a former speedster who lost his powers and compensates for it by Being In A Hurry at all times.

Homeless Man is a CCRP agent. He specializes in camouflage and compassion. He doesn’t remember what came before, but he knows something did, and finding out what it was is all he has left to hope for.

Howard Goodman does not have superpowers, but he’s got gumption. Okay, I lied. He doesn’t have gumption. But he’s a very nice man.

#black friday #starkid #tgwdlm #Golden Age AU #masterpost #long post #[finger guns] love these idiots #this is SO LONG #and i tried not to spoil everything #there’s some stuff i’m keeping in store bc :)) i can

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stillness-in-green · 4 years ago

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MLAWeek Coda: The Lore Post

Sorry this is a few days late! To the surprise of absolutely no one who has read some of my longer meta posts, I just don’t know how to shut the F up. (Spoilers: this post is only a few hundred words away from being as long as everything else I wrote for the week put together.)

Anyway, hit the jump for, in order:

A quick breakdown of the Liberation Army’s general structure.

A list of members, broken down by broad generation, including the ones we have gotten explicitly IDed in canon, the ones I based on figures we see in canon, and the ones I completely made up.

The basic tenets of the MLA and some discussion about their views on quirk supremacy. (feat. fandom salt)

An overview of the way the Advent shook up the political landscape in Japan and the Hearts & Minds Party’s place in that landscape. Pretty much the same material Trumpet’s victory speech from Day 4 covers, but modestly more in-depth, removed from the need to play well to a crowd, and with some added explanation about the structure of the Diet for readers who are less familiar with it than Trumpet’s audience would be.

A timeline (with only moderately arbitrary dates!) covering the birth of the glowing baby up to the first year of the manga. Mostly concerned with detailing the events the MLA would care about, but with a few other points of reference to contextualize things for the rest of us.

Bonus Fun Facts: discussion of the considerations that went into the timeline, a look at All For One’s actions re: the MLA, and some miscellaneous blurbs on terminology, worldbuilding and characterization.

A smattering of asides in the form of footnotes.

Note that while this material is based in and accurate to canon as much as I could remember at the time that I was doing my notes on my fills for the week, there’s a lot in here that is based entirely on supposition, interpretation and, at times, just plain-old guessing.

Thanks to @codenamesazanka and @robotlesbianjavert for their assistance in naming, brainstorming, and just generally putting up with me while the Liberation Army was completely devouring my attention.

@red-the-omnic Somewhat belatedly, here’s that list of MLA members you asked for back during the middle of the week. Sorry to make you wait so long!

Enjoy!

———– ———– ———– ———–

ORGANIZATION

Grand Commander: Destro and Destro’s line of descendants.

The First Families: Those who fought at Destro’s side and escaped to continue the fight, and their descendants. Veritably all high-ranked within the MLA, their tie to the original incarnation of the Army marks them as elites, whether or not their quirks would do so otherwise. The elders of the First Families do a certain amount of collective decision-making when and if the Grand Commander is unable to do so and has left orders otherwise.

Sanctum: “Sanctum” is a special position in the Army. The name denotes the person who’s tasked with remembering the MLA’s history, practices and lore—the position is considered contiguous, so even when someone is new to the name, they’re still considered “the longest-serving member of the Liberation Army.”. When they’re getting on in years, they select an appropriate protégé, to whom the name will pass upon their death/capture. The name must always go to a member of the First Families (though in truth, they’re only on their third one, so it’s more of a pattern so far than a hard rule).

Commanders & Lieutenants: People in charge of major operations, liberated districts, etc. Frequently, though not always, members of the First Families. Have discretion over their own assignments, but may not have much influence in the Army’s operations on the whole, depending on who they’re connected to otherwise.

Advisors: This title denotes those who are specifically tapped to give advice and aid to the MLA leadership. Levels of authority vary depending on who they’re advising. Advisors of lieutenants, if any, are a step above the rank and file, advisors of commanders are about on par with lieutenants, and advisors to the Grand Commander are considered commanders in their own right, regardless of any other rank they may hold.

Rank and File: Pretty much everyone else.

———–

KNOWN MEMBERS [1]

The original MLA—

Destro: Yotsubashi Chikara. Established the Meta Liberation Army in his mid-30s in response to the development of what he felt were overly restrictive laws on the usage of meta-abilities. Having observed evidence that meta-abilities grew stronger generationally, he was particularly concerned that no oppressive laws could be enforced by the generation that established them because the next generation would always be more powerful. Thus, he believed that establishing the use of meta-abilities as a fundamental right was the only way for society to avoid indefinite intergenerational strife. He was particularly incensed by the government co-opting the message that got his mother murdered to put a pretty, self-congratulatory sheen on laws that did the exact opposite of what she wished for. Allegedly committed suicide after some months in prison. The MLA is highly suspicious of this claim—they’re correct to be, but not for the reasons they think. His quirk, which his entire line would inherit, turns a key emotion into enhanced strength and resilience in the form of a characteristic ink-blot marking. While it would develop over time, the basic nature of the quirk remained the same. Chikara’s driving emotion was resolve.

Fathom: Destro’s lover, she dedicated a decade of her life after his capture to building up the survivors he’d left behind. It’s said her son got his drive from Destro, but his anger from Fathom. Had a large hand in raising her son to be the sort of man he was, particularly in her decision to commit what many considered to be suicide-by-hero when he was in his teens. A large part of that choice was wrapped up in her never-fully-assuaged grief over Destro’s loss (and, she believed to the end, his murder), but there was also a cold calculation to it—her making a big show of it would lead the police to believe that her attack was the last gasp of the Liberation Army, ending their investigations into MLA activities. It would also stoke the fires of her son’s rage, honing him into a stronger weapon against their enemies. Her judgement in both cases proved broadly on-point, though her death did serve to make her son more cautious than she might have hoped. Meta-Ability: Antennae. A pair of insectile feelers emerging from her forehead that give her a passel of sensory boosts, particularly in the taste and smell categories, and which also make her able to detect shifts in the air from quite some distance.)

Cascade: A man whose meta-ability lets him turn body parts into loosely controllable masses of water. Can’t transform fully. A quick-thinking type able to make hard calls.

Sweeper: A woman with a radio-scanning quirk. Caught by police in the same fight as Destro.

Sanctum I: The first bearer of the codename. Had a protective ability of some sort.

Sanctum II’s father: The same quirk as his daughter; see below. Known for getting some eight people safely out of a police raid by carrying them all out at once despite not actually having superhuman strength of any kind. (Probably tore several muscles in the process, but adrenaline is a hell of a thing.)

The Second Generation—

Destro’s son: Raised to deeply resent heroes and the government that put them in place, but he was also very cautious of them. He was profoundly aware that his death would mean the end of the dream that his father had begun and his mother had cultivated, so he was very meticulous in spreading the MLA’s influence underground, rebuilding their numbers before he even began to consider starting to make attacks again. Destro’s army had been a guerilla force; his son’s would be something much more dangerous. His driving emotion was anger, and he had two children before being killed by a cerebral aneurysm at 43. Was able to use his power to make his body larger.

Sanctum II: A woman with an unusual fondness for the traditional Japanese arts, particularly tea ceremony. Meta-ability: Stride. Teleport to any location she can directly see by taking a single step forward. Can take whoever she can carry under her own power. (First Families lineage)

Anchor: An advisor to Destro’s son. Prominent bull horns. Meta-ability: Immobilize. Similar to Lock Rock’s Lockdown quirk, except it only works on his own body. Very good at wrestling holds (and holding his breath), he tends to fight with backup that can deliver finishing blows to opponents once he has them pinned down. (First Families lineage)

The Third Generation—

Yotsubashi Kyouyuki: The elder child of Destro’s son. Deemed an unsuitable Grand Commander for his driving emotion of joy. Always presented a façade of being cheerful and upbeat, but the ever-present rhetoric that the MLA pushes about the ongoing suppression of quirks and the misery and injustice it leads to left Kyou always struggling with guilt. In college, it finally got so bad that he resolved to run away, enlisting the help of a friend with a swap-based teleport quirk to get him out of a party undetected. His fate thereafter is a secret that’s been taken to the grave by the MLA members involved in it, but given the typical reactions of illegal underground cults to members wanting to leave, it’s unlikely that he’s living somewhere in happy anonymity. (Name means Unyielding Happiness, following in his grandfather and nephew's patterns of having characters in their names meaning power/strength.)

Yotsubashi Yukie: The younger child of Destro’s son, and Rikiya’s mother. With a driving emotion of sorrow, and having been steadily losing family her entire life, Yukie wrestled with depression for most of her life. The presumptive heir to the title of Re-Destro, she spent considerably more time in training than her older brother, but she never much had the temperament for it. When her father died only a few scant years after Kyouyuki’s disappearance, she expressed her fears that she was incapable of being the leader the Army needed. This led to her becoming a mother at a relatively young age, continuing the bloodline rather than picking up the banner. For all her struggles with her grief, Yukie was very determined to at least be there for the son on whom the weight of leadership would fall. The world of My Hero Academia is a dangerous one, however, particularly before All Might established himself as Japan’s pillar, and Yukie was a casualty of the chaos of a villain attack when Rikiya was ten. (Name means Glittering Conqueror, ditto the note above about the family pattern for name kanji.)

Rampart: Guardian and general caretaker for Rikiya in his younger years. Hand-picked for the role by Yukie, who had considered him a close friend since their school days. Meta-Ability: An earth manipulation power akin to Pixie-Bob’s, though less powerful. (First Families lineage)

Shinseigi: Trumpet’s uncle, unspecified code name. Also in politics, though of a more local variety. Meta-ability: His speaking voice makes listeners suggestible. (The phonetic pronunciation of his name sounds like “New Justice,” but the kanji are “Sleeping Voice Technique.”)

The Fourth Generation—

Yotsubashi Rikiya: The current Re-Destro (42); CEO and President of Detnerat. He took up the former title when he was only 6 years old. With the succession of losses that were his uncle, grandfather and mother, the MLA has been fairly careful with him, grooming him with care and rarely leaving him without some form of supervision, be it Rampart when he was young or Trumpet in college. An extremely dutiful child grown into an urbane man whose good humor disguises a morose—and occasionally volatile—inner character. Always under a lot of stress (his MRIs are clear so far, though, haha!), but there’s only so much effort dedicated to mitigating that, since stress is his key emotion. The first in the family line to be able to separate his power from his own body, in the form of his Stress Bomb attack.

Trumpet: Hanabata Koku (44). One of Rikiya’s advisors and party leader of the Hearts & Minds Party (see below); has known Rikiya since their preteen years. The Hanabatas were a political family of old, but largely saw those fortunes crash and burn when they started manifesting quirks a few generations into the Advent. They’ve been clawing their way back into politics ever since and were an early target for the MLA’s project to infiltrate and/or start their own political party. It was decided very early on that Koku’s quirk and his family connections made him a good choice to groom for leadership of the HMP, so he and Rikiya bonded over their similar positions. They would go on to attend the same university, during which time they became romantically involved. In truth, Koku’s university was functionally chosen for him on the basis of which one Rikiya would be attending; the First Families were not about to lose another Yotsubashi to college life. Koku is more aware of this particular fact than Rikiya. Still a little wistful about their college days, his opinions regarding Re-Destro’s big starstruck crush on Shigaraki are borderline unprintable.

Sanctum III: Twice’s No. 1 advisor, the dude with the big imperial handlebar moustache and what looks an awful lot like a dress uniform for the Japanese navy. A few years older than Trumpet. (First Families lineage)

Curious: Kizuki Chitose (36). RD advisor and Shoowaysha Publishing Executive Vice President.[2] From a relatively small liberated district up near Sendai; the MLA connections plus her own profound ambition got her moving very quickly up the MLA chain of command. Daughter of a wlw couple; got her blue skin from her bio mom. One younger sibling, a sister. Masterminded the dinners we see the group having in Chapter 218, originally to make sure Rikiya was getting at least one well-apportioned meal a week and a chance to socialize with the closest thing he has to peers, but also because it proved to be an invaluable opportunity to swap information and rumors.

Skeptic: Chikazoku Tomoyasu (31). RD advisor and Feel Good Inc. board member. On the bottom end of the generation age-wise, a prodigy in every sense save his broadly terrible people skills. Recognizes Rikiya’s stress tells because he shares several of them himself, and is also the only person of Rikiya’s generation with the confidence to verbally push him around a bit. It’s regarded as borderline scandalous by their elders, but Rikiya himself finds it bracing, and anyway, Skeptic’s ability to organize a schedule for maximum efficiency is nothing less than miraculous. Got Rikiya onto fidget toys.

Toryu: Toryu is the family name of Galvanize (aka Taser Face aka Kaminari’s Dad). Mr. Compress’s No. 1, the dude who strolls out onto the lawn after Cementoss rips the hotel a new one and immediately gets his smarm repackaged and returned to sender by Kaminari and Edgeshot. Great for morale before that, though! In Rikiya’s age group, his mother’s side of the family (from which he gets the electricity powers) has been in the Army for at least as far back as her school days. (The name comes from the characters for leaping/rising and current/flow.)

Slidin’ Go: Tokoname Tatsuyuki (37). He’s Slidin’ Go! Skeptic’s No. 2, possibly because Slidin’ Go strongly resembles the puppets Skeptic is so used to barking orders at and there’s comfort in familiarity.

Aozono: Family name for another of Rikiya’s childhood peers, nothing is known but that green skin runs in the family as far back as her father. May or may not be related to Curious’s family.

The Fifth Generation—

Geten: Real name unknown. Family status unknown. Age unknown, but I’d peg him in the 18-23 area. Seems to be allowed to attend the weekly dinners without contributing anything but his incredibly terrible table manners. Can talk an impassioned game about the Liberation Army’s goals (though he pushes the quirk supremacy line a good deal harder than anyone else in the Army is shown to; it’s not even close), but it’s fairly clear that he’s more personally dedicated to Re-Destro than he is the MLA’s cause in and of itself. I’ll be honest; I have no idea what Geten’s deal is. My tentative headcanon is that he’s an orphan—the English meaning of his name, Apocrypha, refers to sacred writings of uncertain authorship/authenticity—who’s in some kind of Batman-and-Robin guardian-and-ward situation with Re-Destro, but I didn’t wind up writing enough about him to come up with much beyond that.

Nimble: Spinner’s No. 1, the woman with the weird paper-strip-esque hair who doesn’t seem to be in possession of a nose or mouth. (She absorbs air through her skin like a frog, which is why no one has ever seen her with that sweater covering both of her shoulders.) Nimble is a friendly sort, though she regards her outgoing good cheer as being a simple matter of social networking. Ambitious, but sensible about it. Meta-ability: Sky Write. Allows her to project letters and pictures into the air around her, giving her a way to communicate she would have otherwise lacked. She can create words in air she can’t see, but it takes some concentration, and the closer the better.

Scarecrow: Spinner’s No. 2, 21 years old. Born with amelia (see link in Day Two’s author’s notes) that disfigured his face and severed his arms in the womb. His quirk-based forelegs—a pair of spider legs emerging from his shoulders—can do a certain amount of basic object manipulation, but it tends to wig people out, so they push him to use his prosthetics like he’s “supposed” to (see Stray Notes section for more on this). He was viciously angry about it even as a kid, and his parents were frustrated, making them easy pickings for cult indoctrination. A family friend recommended that they look into Detnerat, where it wasn’t long before Re-Destro himself took an interest in their situation (or at least in making a good impression on them). Scarecrow joined the Army as quickly as he was allowed to—16. Meta-ability: Webbing. The bug legs can project silk like a webspinner (the insect on which he’s based), allowing him to do anything you might broadly understand Spider-Man to be able to do with his webbing, though he certainly lacks Spider-Man’s strength.

Red: Named in passing in the manga, he’s the laid-back dude with the fluffy hair who serves as Skeptic’s No. 1 post-merger. Probably invaluable in helping Skeptic maintain what bare vestiges of chill he can muster. (First Families lineage)

The Sixth Generation—

Every child currently under the age of 10 being raised in MLA households with a picture of Destro over the mantle. It’s not a small number, representing a group that neither the fandom nor the Hero Commission seem to have even realized exist.

———–

CORE TENETS & THE MATTER OF QUIRK SUPREMACY

Re-Destro is not (contrary to popular fandom belief) in favor of full-throated, might-makes-right, survival of the fittest Quirk Darwinism.[3] Destro’s will was for people to be able to use their meta-abilities as they saw fit to the extent that that freedom did not interfere with the freedoms of others. He was against the regulation of meta-abilities, but he was not—to the best of our knowledge—against the regulation of crime. His belief was that one murderer with a fire ability killing people did not justify barring everyone else with fire abilities from using those powers to fire clay, start campfires, engage in fire-themed performance art, use fire to char wood in artistic patterns for money, help park rangers set and direct controlled burns, coordinate explosions for the movie industry, light cigarettes in public, or any other of dozens of possible uses for a fire ability that don’t involve burning people alive.

The MLA do believe that meta-abilities have an impact on one’s personality, but they also believe that that’s okay; that it should be understood and accepted, not feared and repressed—Curious would not have wanted to turn Toga into a tragedy about the consequences of repression if she didn’t think that a spree of bloodletting murders was a tragedy. Their belief as an organization is that people should be free to use their powers as they see fit in the same way that they would any other natural talent or cultivated skill. They believe that people will, if free to do so, naturally gravitate to ways of improving their own lot in life via use of their meta-abilities.

Freedom from regulation and freedom from discrimination—these are the core tenets that the vast majority of the rank and file hold to. A great many of them are laborers, blue collar types who just want to be able to better support themselves and their families. Many others are those who suffered discrimination because of their quirks and want better for both themselves and their children. Of course, the further back their connections go, the more likely they are to both be higher-ranked in the cult (with attendant greater resources) and to have grown up soaking in generations’ worth of resentment, groupthink, and radicalism.

Geten, a particularly virulent and single-minded MLA attack dog, has parsed the tenets to mean that people with strong, well-trained meta-abilities will naturally be able to use their powers to do more and raise their status in the MLA’s ideal society, and thus that those who can’t or don’t choose to will not be able to live lives that Geten personally thinks are worth living. Likewise, Trumpet doesn’t fault Spinner only for his weak ability, but also for his anti-social tendencies. Of course a politician who’s deeply invested in a narrative of people uniting to throw off their chains and better themselves would be disdainful of someone who locked himself in his bedroom for years and emerged only to violently lash out at society. (Spinner’s right to call Trumpet a huge hypocrite on this, mind; terrorist cult members have no business lecturing other terrorists about the correct way to violently reform society.)

The MLA does have a problem with quirk supremacy, but it’s not quite the problem fandom thinks they do, and it’s certainly more nuanced than fandom thinks.[4] Frankly, I could write a whole post dissecting this, but rather than analyzing the canon at length in a post intending to be about my fanon for a series of slice-of-life MLA fics, let me just lay out some issues I think the MLA have. Note that these opinions may vary member to member, particularly as you work your way up the chain of command.

Many in the MLA believe that people with poor quirks are less capable of asserting their will and becoming whatever they want to be. They are not, notably, alone in that that sentiment—we hear versions of it not only from villains like Trumpet and All for One, but from the paralleled parents of Midoriya Inko and Shimura Kotarou, the would-be hero Bakugou, and even the iconic hero paragon All Might. While it’s not universal, My Hero Academia’s Japan is full of people who believe to some extent or another that people with weak or no quirks are inherently less capable of making their mark on the world. The MLA is just more blatant about it than most.

The MLA are, as a group, not concerned about the fate of the quirkless. My suspicion is that this is because they think quirklessness as a trait is on its way out—that the touted 20% of the world population that’s quirkless is hugely weighted towards the elderly, those who are from generations when quirklessness was more common. Think about it: 20% is two out of every ten people. Statistically speaking, that’s a huge portion! You only have to look at Deku’s middle school classroom in Chapter 1—thirty kids, exactly one of whom is quirkless—to begin to suspect that there’s something a bit off with the 20% figure.

Further, the MLA follows Destro’s beliefs, and we know from Destro’s manifesto that he believed meta-abilities were growing stronger over time. So to their mind, not only is quirklessness becoming a thing of the past, but so are weak quirks in general. While their clear disdain for both is damning—and certainly discredits them as a group suited to decide how society should be structured!—please understand that, “We’re not very concerned with the rights of the quirkless because we think that there won’t be any such thing as quirkless people within a few more generations,” is not the same statement as, “We are A-OK with 20% of the world’s population being second-class citizens for the entire rest of human history,” and it is really not the same statement as, “People with no quirks, or bodies that can’t handle their quirks, need to be proactively removed from the gene pool and we are actively advocating for a systemic, organized culling.”

That said, their disdain, if blown out to society at large, would absolutely lead to discrimination and, undoubtedly, incidents of the same sort of violence that the MLA themselves were forged from. That they haven’t thought or don’t care about this is one of many things that make them villains.

Further, there is an ugly strain within the MLA that still recognizes quirk marriages. Because the MLA values freedom, they’re not as ubiquitous as you might think (at least if you think the MLA is a bunch of quirk supremacists with no other goals or values)—“freedom” does nominally include the freedom to marry who you want rather than let your own meta-ability trap you in a life you hate. However, it’s equally true that in a group that believes very strongly in the value of quirks, the power of quirks in the future, and the necessity of fighting a war to bring about that future, there will obviously be members who support the practice. There are absolutely men and women who have been bullied and guilted by their families into loveless marriages for the sole purpose of producing children with powerful, desirable quirks. How likely this is in any given location mostly depends on the commander’s opinion on it, though it’s a very rare one indeed who would go so far as discouraging it entirely.

———–

THE HEARTS & MINDS PARTY

(Considerations on Japan’s political landscape.)

The current monolith of the Diet, the Liberal Democratic Party of Japan, managed to hold onto power for a full century after the Advent, but their grasp grew shakier and shakier over time. Initial measures to bar meta-humans from voting proved increasingly unpopular as the percentage of the population with meta-abilities grew both larger and older. People with easily-concealed powers gained office, sometimes being outed, sometimes not, but on the whole, decades of oppression and violence led to an ever-more-popular opinion that the LDP had mishandled the whole mess. They lost their supermajority in the Diet when their longstanding alliance with the Komeito party splintered, regained it again for a few electoral cycles, lost it again when Komeito itself fractured, and so on, their once implacable numbers shrinking year by year. Still, they managed to hold onto a coalition majority right up until Saneki Yuuichi was elected to the House of Representatives.

Saneki headed up a small party based almost entirely on the issue of meta-human basic rights. Like many meta-humans of the period, he believed that the best way for meta-humans to attain those rights was to live like so-called “normal humans,” to show that meta-humans were just like everyone else. His party advanced the ideology that meta-humans should only use their powers to help others or better society, not to advance their own self-interest. They pushed stringently for metas to be allowed equal recognition under the law as any Japanese citizen, but also supported measures such as requiring licenses for the use of meta-abilities and limiting those licenses to those actively engaged in assisting police. Deeply tied to respectability politics, Saneki’s party contained virtually all emitters, a scant number of transformers, and no heteromorphs, who the party felt were an impediment to reaching their legislative goals, but whose particular needs could be brought back up at a later, more receptive time.

Saneki’s politics gained him many supporters, but also drove many into the arms of the Meta Liberation Army, who vocally loathed him and everything he stood for. The confluence of public dissatisfaction with the spike in violence represented by the MLA, Saneki’s coalition gathering popular support among both metas and non-metas, and the rise of named, organized hate groups trying to roll back what few advances had been gained in meta-human rights finally spelled the end of the LDP’s majority.

The LDP falling apart prompted a scramble for power that would stretch on for nearly half a century. Old alliances whose only common ground had been opposing the LDP found themselves free to seek groups with more compatible goals. Young single- or dual-issue parties leapt at the chance to address their issues with more fervor. New parties sprung up across the country. Not only meta-humans, but minority groups of all kinds saw new avenues to press for substantive positive changes that had been dead in the water under the LDP. Voting numbers surged as they had not for decades.

The old, conservative elements of the Diet were not gone, of course—they remained a substantial powerhouse!—but no longer could they muster the undefeatable veto-proof numbers that they had once enjoyed.

Like everyone else, the remnants of the MLA saw opportunity in the new, ever-shifting status quo. With the place of metas secured for the time being, there was no longer a need for metas to form coalitions in the Diet merely to get their basic needs addressed. A single-issue party from its inception thirty years prior, Saneki Yuuichi’s party was fragmenting, unable to decide on a single direction now that their uniting issue had been resolved to their satisfaction. In recognition of meta-humans reaching population parity, the MLA launched a project to begin seeding the ideals of Liberation at the highest levels yet—the Hearts & Minds Party.

Beginning as a local party in a prefecture in which the MLA had gained significant underground support, the HMP campaigned on a platform championing individual freedoms and a wide range of improvements to Japan’s battered and overworked social safety nets. They made an effort to showcase diverse representation in their leadership and gave impassioned speeches promising to reach across party aisles in searching for nuanced solutions to the various difficulties facing the country.

It’s impossible to say exactly how large the Hearts & Minds Party is compared to the Meta Liberation Army, which is claimed by Re-Destro to have 116,000 action-ready warriors (the “warriors lying in wait, ready to rise to action” description presumably indicating that his count does not include uninducted children).

On the one hand, one can presume that everyone who’s a member of the MLA is voting for the HMP on every ticket they can, but not every member of the MLA—who induct combat-ready warriors as young as 16—is old enough to vote, and many probably live in districts or prefectures where the HMP has yet to establish a campaign-ready foothold. On the other hand, while the HMP certainly serves to funnel people towards the MLA, it doesn’t require membership—indeed, it’s far better for their goals for them not to do so. Therefore, it’s also probable that the Hearts & Minds Party has many supporters who are not (yet) counted among the Liberation Army’s number. Thus, for the purposes of ballparking estimates, I opted to simply suppose that the two areas lacking overlap (MLA members who can’t vote for the HMP and HMP supporters who aren’t members of the MLA) are relatively equal.

That established, we’re working with a party that has 116K voters/supporters/members. The closest thing to that number that I could find numbers for is the Japanese Communist Party (JCP), which counted 300K members as of 2017. Using their total membership compared to their representation in the Diet (as well as a willingness to viciously bastardize anything resembling reliable political math), I plugged in my estimate for the HMP’s membership and wound up with the Hearts & Minds Party holding four seats in the House of Representatives, five seats in the House of Councillors, and sixty-odd assembly members in various prefectural positions.

For some context to those numbers, the House of Representatives (more powerful, but more vulnerable to sudden electoral shifts) has 465 members, 233 of which are required for a majority, and 310 of which are required to override vetoes imposed by the House of Counsillors. The House of Counsillors (less powerful, but serving longer terms and unable to be dissolved for general elections like the House of Representatives can be) has 245 members, with 123 required for a majority.

As you can see, the HMP holding a handful of seats isn’t going to tilt the My Hero Academia world on its axis. Still, it’s more seats than any number of real-life Japanese political parties hold, and right up until the one-two punch of Shigaraki taking over the MLA and Hawks outing Trumpet’s allegiances to the Hero Commission, the Hearts & Minds Party was well on-track to continue growing its power and influence.

———–

TIMELINE

(For ease of calculation, most dates are rounded to the nearest five years.)

1980: A glowing baby is born in Qing Qing City, China, heralding the Advent of the Age of the Extraordinary. For almost two decades, meta-abilities remain rare and poorly understood—incidents are widespread and show huge variance, so most people write them off as anomalies or hoaxes. As the years go on, however, meta-abilities become more widespread, moving out of the realm of the odd headline that many people think is an elaborate hoax into an alarmed spotlight as it gradually becomes apparent that this is a thing that all humanity is undergoing. Most major technological development pivots to trying to understand, undo, document or control this new phenomenon.

2030: The child who will become All for One is born. By this time, society is breaking down into chaos. Across the globe, measures from outlawing all meta-ability use to internment are seen. Eugenics laws are discussed or put in place. Communities attempt to run out metas and, in response, groups of metas attempt to form their own communities. Infanticide rates are rising alarmingly.

2060: Yotsubashi Chikara and Ujiko (original name unknown) are born. Japan is in complete disarray, awash in mob violence, with organized groups of both metas and non-metas attacking victims indiscriminately. Developing an ability can get you disowned. Divisions among the meta minority are developing a noticeable strain of respectability politics rhetoric.

2065: AFO forces an ability on his younger brother, unintentionally creating One for All. Chikara’s mother is murdered by an anti-meta mob for attempting to speak out in defense of the normalcy of her child’s ability.

2085-2090: Saneki Yuuichi becomes the first meta-human to attain a seat in the Diet. Despite nearly a century of violence, meta-humans are becoming a larger and larger percentage of the population, and the people of Japan are tired. The prevailing sense is that it’s time to make peace; however, the peace that is being forged involves laws sharply restricting the use of meta-abilities for those who haven’t been formally licensed. These restrictions see markedly mixed reactions from metas. Chikara rallies the most vehement dissenters to create the Meta Liberation Army, calling himself Destro. Disagreement over how to handle the MLA finally finishing the job of rattling the Diet free of the death-grip of the LDP. Many years of fractious elections will follow as new coalitions form to try and seize majority power.

2095: Japan signs an international accord acknowledging the fundamental rights of meta-humans. This gesture begins to splinter both internal support and public sympathy for the MLA.

2097: Destro is captured by police and their newly designated Quirk Unit. Other surviving members of the MLA are hunted down or go into hiding.

2100: The term “Hero” is formally adopted, having been casually in use for some time. A Hero is one who is licensed to use their power to fight quirk-based crime in accordance with local and federal laws, assisting the police when requested. The Hero Commission is established as an agency with oversight in the licensing and regulation of Heros. Destro dies in prison. Though the matter is questioned, no proof of foul play is ever brought forward, and the death is ruled a suicide.

2110: Ujiko presents his paper on the Paranormal [5] Singularity Theory. The paper suggests that the power of quirks is continuing to grow with each generation and will, in time, become more powerful than the human body can control. His evidence is inconclusive, however, and his citation of some of Destro’s observations on the phenomenon becomes a particular sticking point. In a country that is finally beginning to get its feet back under it, no one wants to see another widespread panic. Ujiko is stripped of his position; having been living on campus at the time, he’s left functionally homeless and is approached by All for One not long after.

2120: The population of those with quirks and those without reaches parity in Japan. Seeing an opportunity, the MLA launches the Hearts & Minds Party as a local political party, intending to grow it over time.

(2125: Yagi Toshinori is born.)

2138: Yotsubashi Rikiya is born.

(2148: Debut of All Might.)

(2165: Shimura family tragedy.)

(2174: All Might “defeats” AFO.)

2175: Hanabata Koku is elected to the House of Representatives. He’s not the youngest party leader in the Diet, but he’s close.

2180: The events of Deku’s freshman year at UA lead the MLA to turn their attention to the League of Villains.

———–

STRAY FACTS

Why 1980/2180?—

It’s an even number for ease of calculation, triangulated between a few considerations.

Firstly, tasers are mentioned in the One for All dream, so the events of the dream (which themselves are happening far enough into the Advent that society’s had time to slide into all-out chaos) must post-date the invention of the taser, which was in 1993.

Secondly, Spider-Man’s silhouette is seen amongst the group of characters who represent the “fantasy” that became reality. If we assume that those media properties existed in-universe (since the narration is delivered by Midoriya) and were assumed to be fantastical at the time, they must predate the Advent—Spider-Man is the newest of them and his first appearance was in 1962, his material being translated into Japanese by the 1970s.

Lastly, technological and societal development crashed to a halt with the Advent. The world of My Hero Academia generally reflects a modern-ish Japan, so I wanted modern technology—and modern social reforms—to still feel modern to the characters. Thus, the point at which society stopped developing needed to predate the Digital Revolution, which really began to hit its stride in the mid-80s. Hence, 1980.

The opening period is, admittedly, fairly generous on my part, and does assume a certain amount of modern advances were probably underway, but then were lost, sidelined or rolled back as the chaos spread. You could probably trim off twenty years by stepping up how quickly quirks begin to appear and spread, but the very beginning is the best window to do so. I’d still peg the Advent at 1980 based on the calculations above (again, it has to fall somewhere between the mid-70s and 1993) but, for example, maybe All for One is from that first generation, and society only takes 30 years to reach the lowest point of its collapse instead of 80.

As to the 2180, the older characters introduce several requirements for the post-Advent timeline. Ujiko was 50 at the time that society was beginning to stabilize, while AFO dates to its days of utmost chaos. AFO also needs to be running on at least one anti-aging quirk prior to meeting Ujiko; if the only one he were running on was Ujiko’s own, then based on his appearance and the mechanics of Ujiko’s quirk, I’d peg AFO at merely 85, and he needs to be not only over 100, but far enough over 100 that he’s described that way rather than as “a century-old evil” or something to that effect.

Meanwhile, All Might can’t really be any younger than 50, and seven generations of OFA bearer predated him, even if they did all die relatively young. Destro’s mother was killed in those early chaotic days, while Re-Destro (himself no spring chicken) is told as a child that the MLA has been in hiding for generations. “Generations” implies at least two; I further suppose that Rikiya needs to be at least the original Chikara’s great-grandson for him to describe himself simply as Destro’s descendant, rather than use a more specific relationship term. All of this points to a fairly lengthy stretch of time, much more than is glossed over by Midoriya’s series-opening narration.

AFO and the MLA—

I mention in the very first story of this series that the MLA’s contacts all go “mysteriously missing” after the capture of Destro. While the police certainly did their own measure of work in tracking down the Liberation Army’s members and allies, there was another figure with a significant hand in the MLA’s downfall.

All for One, then in his early sixties, had watched the rise of the MLA in some interest. On a personal level, he admired Yotsubashi’s charisma and resolve, and, of course, he wholly supported the free use of quirks (well, his own free use of quirks, anyway)! On the other hand, All for One also sought to restore order to society, albeit order as he himself envisioned it. While he was confident that there was no one who could stand up to him no matter whose ideals won out, Saneki Yuuichi’s way promised a more stable society, and bribable and/or blackmailable bureaucrats seemed easier to manipulate than ideal-driven zealots ready to give their lives for the cause. Thus, AFO decided to help the police a bit behind the scenes, offering a few tip-offs and hints to guide their efforts to end the threat of the Liberation Army.

Of course, as long as Destro was alive, the cause of Liberation still had its focal point. And AFO was still a bit curious to meet this man, who’d inspired so very many loyal followers. It was an easy thing to arrange. An interesting man, and an interesting quirk.

Destro did commit suicide in prison. A man who had always embraced his meta-ability for motivation, and whose ability transformed that motivation into power in turn, AFO stripped him of in the same moment. Isolation from other contact, separation from his lover, his friends and allies, and his cause, a gap in his psyche like no pain he’d ever experienced--all of these piled up on one another into a fatal despair. After AFO’s visit, there was no need for anyone to arrange a convenient death for Destro.

(And if in later years, the monstrous Noumu, who are driven entirely by pre-programmed, single-minded resolve, are flint-skinned from head-to-toe, well—who would ever even think to connect those dots?)

The Mother of Quirks—

An interesting thing I observed from Re-Destro’s confrontation with Clone!Shigaraki is that, based on their exchange, it doesn’t seem to be common knowledge that the Mother of Quirks is the mother of the Meta Liberation Army’s leader? Re-Destro’s apology for assuming Shigaraki wouldn’t recognize the story suggests that it’s a matter of fairly basic historical education, but he then goes on to explain her connection to Destro at some length—if that connection were taught at the same time her story was, surely he’d see no need to do this? Clone-a-raki’s response backs this up—unlike the general existence of the Mother of Quirks, which was such basic knowledge that he was insulted that Re-Destro thought he wouldn’t know about it, her connection to Destro was unknown to him.

Re-Destro describes the connection as “an inconvenient truth.” This, in turn, suggests that the connection has been actively obscured. The MLA’s place in history is taught; the originator of the term “quirk” is taught, but the two are not connected to each other. Kids in school aren’t taught that the very child whose mother was murdered for her words hated what his country was using those words, that message, to do. It’s naked appropriation that continues to this day, and it’s no wonder that the MLA is furious about it.

The Quirk Unit—

An early term for the group that would, in relatively short order after their formation, officially be dubbed Heroes. Composed of both meta-humans already on the police force and vigilantes willing to remit themselves to legal oversight, they fought quirk-based crime in many forms, from the common mugger to the terrorists of the MLA, and even former allies in vigilantism. Well-regarded by history thanks to their efforts in reining in crime and disorder, but quite a controversial group in their early years.

MLA Age of Induction—

Being raised in the MLA means being raised with the goal of eventually being assigned a codename and tasked with supporting the Great Cause in whatever fashion your superiors think you best suited. The minimum age for this is 16, though 18, being the age at which students graduate from high school, is more common. At no point is there really a safe way to leave once you’re involved; they are, after all, a secret army. There’s no aging out of the MLA—it’s a lifetime tour—but disability, injury or general decrepitude can get you assigned to work that generally won’t expect you to see open combat. The Army is composed of a great many lifetime-of-service families, after all, which means they need teachers and caretakers; another option is dedicated work for the Hearts & Minds Party, who always have room for community organizers.

Liberated Districts—

Settlements that are at least 85% MLA-inducted. At their largest, they’re small towns; rural villages are far more common. Without exception, they’re isolated or out of the way. Tend to have unusually good access to city services compared to similarly-sized settlements. Deika was one of the largest districts the Army had, chosen for the Revival Celebration due to its combination of a sizable population and a particularly closed-off location. The MLA knew they’d need many warriors to fight the League of Villains, but they also needed a site that was not merely remote, but that had controllable points of access.

It can take well over a decade to hit the 85% saturation mark in even small villages; Deika and the MLA’s handful of other full-fledged towns are the work of generations. They begin by moving people into an area and setting up gatherings on some useful pretext or another, enthusiastically welcoming newcomers and very, very gradually indoctrinating people further into the ideology. Financial support, an accepting environment for difficult quirks or those with patchy legal histories, the odd homeless shelter or food kitchen, a robust presence in the foster care network—the MLA is very, very good at making themselves a warm, sincere, reliable presence in peoples’ lives, a group that encourages everyone under their banner to be their best selves. They think everyone deserves that kind of support!

They are also willing to shed quite a lot of blood to make sure that everyone can get it.

On the Intersection of Disability and Quirk Suppression—

There are a few factors contributing to why Scarecrow can’t use his quirk to do things others would. First, his quirk is the kind of off-putting that gets Gang Orca ranked third-most villainous-looking hero and leads Shoji to wear a mask because his face disturbs people. So Scarecrow’s quirk is already the kind of visible that makes people look at him askance. Compounding this, his prosthetics are obvious, visible to any old person, and people have a very ugly tendency towards bootstrap, “you can do it if you try” mentalities around people with disabilities. These two factors mean that people who are disturbed by his creepy articulate bug legs would much prefer that he use his significantly less-creepy prosthetics, to the degree that they’re willing to suggest that he’s being lazy if he doesn’t. They cite the quirk-use laws as a deflection tactic, but Scarecrow—whose pattern recognition functions just fine, thanks—is keenly aware of the underlying mindset.

Nimble is in much the same boat—she literally can’t talk without falling back on a visual representation of some kind (sign-language, a text-to-speech reader, etc), and why on earth shouldn’t she be able to use the fastest and most convenient one without people getting up her ass about it?

None of this is the kind of thing that would likely get either of them arrested (though Scarecrow’s creepy enough that the odds are higher for him, “villain quirk” bias being what it is), but the laws-as-written, nonetheless, are discriminatory, and that makes people justly angry. Angry people are easier to radicalize, and the Liberation Army has been working that angle since their very inception.

Re-Destro and Trumpet’s College Days—

RD’s an Engineering major with a focus in Manufacturing; Trumpet’s in PoliSci. They’re two grades apart, with Koku being the older. Those two years of greater experience shift the power balance between them significantly when Rikiya arrives for his freshman year, facing a new place, a new workload, an entirely new rhythm to his life. For the first time, Koku is not merely a friend in similar circumstances who is still—as they’re both reminded near-constantly—subordinate to Rikiya’s every word. Rather, he’s a senpai, someone with specific experience in every aspect of this new stage of life—and someone who’s had two years to become more eloquent, more well-studied, more confident, more mature.

Removed from the immediate supervision of the First Families for the first time in his life, Rikiya allows himself to lean on Koku in ways he never would have back home. Koku, for his part, has had his responsibilities here impressed on him by the First Families at some length, and has spent his entire life being groomed to devote himself to his Grand Commander. Having said Grand Commander looking to him with such glowing esteem in his eyes—well, there’s no denying that it’s pretty enticing. The two of them enter a romantic relationship that will endure for several years until Rikiya gets his head back around the idea that Koku’s ability to say no to him is fundamentally compromised.

The Bindi Connection—

I had no reason to develop them any, and thus I don’t have names to assign, but it seems that Twice’s No. 3, the smiling old woman with the gingham dress and the rough-and-ready attitude to combat, and Geten’s No. 2, the short-haired woman whose face is being devoured by her out-of-control sweater neck, are related. Note the bindi on both of them, as well as the similar hair color, particularly in the page introducing all the advisors. Mutual connection to Dabi’s No. 3, the guy who got into a fight with a hole punch and lost, is uncertain but possible based on the confronting-the-heroes page spread in which Hole Punch dude’s hand lays familiarly on Grandma Bindi’s back while Big Sis Bindi turns partly towards him as if to whisper some sarcastic observation about how lame Cementoss’s ponytail is.

———–

FOOTNOTES

1: Regarding codenames, the first generation of the MLA tended to have names that reflected their meta-ability in some way. From the second generation on, at the behest of Destro’s son, the codenames have become less literal, and thus less revealing.

2: Viz renders the job tile “Executive Director,” but having checked the raw, the Japanese term, senmu, is associated with a fairly specific level of executive authority, and it’s lower than I would peg “Executive Director,” which to my ear sounds synonymous or slightly below Chief Executive Officer. Executive Vice President is wikipedia’s translation; Google returns Senior Managing Director. In any case, she’s near the top, but not at the top.

3: At least, he wasn’t prior to meeting Shigaraki. Now he’s pretty much in favor of a very organized and coherent belief structure that can be summarized as, “Watch Shigaraki tear down the world ‘cause he’s beautiful and I love him,” and honestly, mood.

4: I’ll just come out and say it: fandom blew Geten’s words way out of proportion because a bunch of people got mad that he was being mean to Everyone’s Favorite Serial Killer Dabi.

5: An archaic term by this period. Even “meta-human” saw more use in academic parlance, while the term “quirk” had become much more widespread among the general population since its official adoption during the period of legislation twenty years prior.

#MLAweek2020 #meta liberation army #boku no hero academia #bnha #bnha spoilers #bnha meta #so much meta #my writing #my hero academia

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victoodles · 5 years ago

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Cruel World I’m Gone

A series of snapshots following life for you and Arthur after fall of the Van der Linde Gang. If you have any suggestions for future chapters (domestic fluff, meetups with the old gang, s m u t, hit a bitch up)

Find on AO3!

“I gave you all I had.”

It was his last testament to a mentor - a father - long since departed from this world.

Arthur clutches the heel of Dutch’s boot, desperately trying to hold onto the last tangible evidence that the man he remembered was still with him. Before the Devil on his shoulder known as Micah plagued them with false promises of glory.

Even that is stripped from him as the shell of a leader pulls away and retreats into the darkness, leaving a battered and broken Arthur behind in the dirt.

Alone.

Arthur hurts. Hurts in ways he’s never felt before. He is no stranger to physical pain: having being beat, shot, even tortured. But this was a newfound suffering that leaves the heart he rediscovered shattered. Everything he’s ever known is dead and turning to ash as the last remnants of the Van der Linde’s burn away with Beaver Hollow.

There’s nothing left to salvage. But at least he managed to save those who still had a chance at life, away from the depravity. John, Abigail, Jack, Tilly, Sadie.

You.

It was unbearable to part ways with such a heavy air of finality surrounding the two of you. As he lifted you onto the back of Sadie’s horse with Abigail, your anguish was palpable. To hear you plead with him so desperately, begging to let you go along with him? It was worse than any bullet to the chest.

Regardless, he wouldn’t hear any of it, caressing your hands with bruised fingers as your tears continued to fall. You then tried to reason with him, bless your heart, knowing his stubbornness all too well. Whispering such sweet things, pretty dreams of leaving it all behind and starting over together far away.

Revenge was a fool's game, he was keenly aware, but it was well beyond that at this point. Now it was about making things right, and it was something only Arthur could do. Ever the dutiful guardian - even to a fault.

He finds the inner strength to let you go and swears he’ll see you again soon, to live out those pretty dreams.

Arthur never liked lying to you.

As he drags himself over to the cliff side, inch by agonizing inch, he supposes there’s some truth to his words. Perhaps all those prayers Swanson said on Arthur’s behalf put him in God’s good graces after decades of depravity. If He’s as forgiving as the Reverend foretold, maybe he’ll allow Arthur to watch over you from wherever he winds up. He never thought himself a devout man, but in light of recent events he decides there’s no time like the present.

Redemption had been a tumultuous climb for Arthur. But as he lays at the top of the mountains overlooking Roanoke Ridge, the effort was worth the outcome. He feels lighter, no longer burdened by crosses Dutch forced upon his shoulders. A veil has been lifted, and the colors of the dawn seem so much more vibrant than before. Shades of orange and pink blend together seamlessly and cast an ethereal glow over him and the country he loves.

He almost forgets about the excruciating aches that plague his body as the cool kiss of morning mist hits his cheeks. As the gang’s - ex-gang’s - primary enforcer he never could afford submitting to fatigue. But he feels tired, so tired, and he allows himself the luxury. Just this once. There is nothing left for him to do anymore.

Oh, he muses, the sun’s coming up.

You had been riding with Abigail on one horse with Sadie taking point on the other, rifle at the ready, for what felt like hours. Arthur’s last order of business was entrusting Sadie with escorting the two of you to safety - as far the hell away from this mess as possible.

Everything felt numb, the only sensation registering in your mind was Abigail’s trembling hands against your waist as you all rode onward in silence. Tears still fresh on your face as you brought yourself further and further away from what was now a past life. And what could have potentially held a future.

Arthur.

Yet another pang in your chest as guilt wracks the very foundation of your soul. You had been compliant in sending the man you love into the wolves den. Into the company of men who would spill his blood with smiles on their faces.

You could’ve stopped him.

You could’ve gone with him.

If he dies it’s your fault.

Without a word, you pull tightly on your horse’s reins and bring it to an abrupt stop. Abigail gasps lightly in surprise, peering over your shoulder to see what was the matter. Sadie notices the interruption.

“Sugar, we have to keep moving,” Sadie urged gently, trotting her own horse up next to yours. She was right, they did have to keep moving.

But not you.

You looked at her, gaze firm. “I have to go back.” Sadie opens her mouth to interject. Arthur was a proud man, but on the verge of tears he had implored her to keep you safe - alive. She empathised with your plight, truly she did. But this was her last promise to a man she practically owed her own life to. You stop her before she can protest your obstinance.

“I need to do this, Sadie. You know that.” Your eyes soften and she bites her lip, “You would for Jake.” Sadie’s eyes widen at your mention of her departed husband, knuckles whitening around the stock of her rifle. Her impassioned devotion to Jake began to put cracks in her usually hardened resolve and now it was her turn to shed a tear. She’s quick to wipe it away and takes a moment to compose herself.

Abigail looks between the two of you, disbelief apparent on her face. “You can’t be serious, Dutch has finally lost it! You heard what happened to,” she tries to hold back a sob, “to J-John...” Abigail grips your wrist tightly, “If you go back, there's no doubt he’ll kill you too!”

You smile at her wistfully; all of you had been carrying this heavy burden of grief in one way or another. The heartbreak was insurmountable. An entire way of life, a home - a family - was nothing more than dust in the wind now. Dutch’s swansong of one more score - of a better world for the Van der Linde’s - had enchanted the lot of you. It effectively distracted you from the treacherously thin ice he was willingly leading you on.

But now the honied melody had turned rotten.

“Arthur needs me,” was all you could say. Abigail looks to Sadie for a voice of reason in all of this but she is already dismounting her horse, offering its reins up to you.

“My horse is faster," She says, looking at you expectantly. Suddenly words elude you as you struggle to express your gratitude.

Now it’s Sadie’s turn to interrupt you. “It’s okay. Now get a move on.” She promptly helps you down, holding onto your hand for a beat longer before pulling you into a tight embrace. Her arms are so warm, and it adds to your pain knowing you have to pull yourself from them soon.

“Be safe. And,” she squeezes your shoulders, “bring him home.” The gravity of her request is filled with hope. You find yourself crying again and you nod in affirmation. Sadie had done her best to follow through on her oaths, and now it’s your turn to do the same.

You look back up to Abigail who is clearly devastated with your decision but she tries to make peace with it - for your sake. Another smile tinged with sadness tugs at your lips and you offer her your hand.

“You’re just as bullheaded as that man of yours!” Despite her hard tone, her words are laced with admiration and affection. You laugh genuinely for the first time in what feels like weeks.

“I guess we were just meant to be.”

Abigail brushes her fingers softly across your own. “That you are,” she all but whispers. She finds the strength to let you go and you mount up once more. As you settle into your saddle, you regard your friends for what could possibly be the last time. You turn your horse and prepare to head back into uncertainty, but Abigail calls your name a final time.

“You,” she pauses to mull over her farewell before deciding on, “you both gotta see lil’ Jack grow up. He’s gonna be somethin’ great one day!” Her words are bittersweet but they hold so much promise. You swipe the last of your tears away; there was no room for weakness anymore.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Your heart beats wildly against your ribs but you disregard it as you urge your horse onward through the forest surrounding Beaver Hollow. Determination boils your blood, refusing to sit idly by and let Arthur walk willingly into his own grave. You curse yourself for not fighting harder with him earlier. But this was Arthur Morgan, and persuading him to take you willingly into what would be a bloodbath was always going to be a losing battle.

Arthur wasn’t the only one who could be stubborn.

You cut through every available shortcut on the trails you know; stray branches scratch at your face but you can’t bring yourself to notice or care. The sun is just beginning to peek over the tree-line as you find yourself back at what was once the Van der Linde’s final campsite.

All that remains now is a charred husk as the blaze that consumed it dwindles down to a few meager cinders. Ashes cascade down like snowfall with the morning breeze around all the ruin. What once teemed with so much life had been desecrated beyond recognition. Despite the emptiness, you leave your horse behind a tree near the precipice of Beaver Hollow, away from any lingering eyes that could still be amidst.

At your hip, the pearl-inlaid revolver gifted to you by Arthur suddenly feels heavier. You’re no stranger to a gun, but aiming it at another human in contrast to an animal is still a foreign concept. Arthur had tried to keep your hands clean of blood, but he couldn’t always protect you from the dangers of the world you both resided in. He could at least provide you with the necessary tools.

Embedded in the dirt are multiple footprints - both human and equine - and you decide that’s as good a trail to follow as any. Tentatively you approach the camp, hand hovering just over your holster as you mentally prepare yourself for the worst. You hadn’t been witness to the carnage that transpired here, but the aftermath doesn’t paint a pretty picture.

A single body lays in a crumpled heap at the center of camp. The recognition of its dress wrenches the dread you feel deeper into the pit of your stomach. Before you can begin to parse what’s in front of you, your feet are carrying you to Miss Grimshaw. You drop to your knees beside her, eyes glazed over and hands still clutching at the fatal gunshot wound that claimed her life. A thin layer of soot covers her face and you take care to brush it away with shaking hands as you close the eyes that once held so much fire.

The camp’s matriarch may not have always been the gentlest of women, but she cared for all the girls with a passion you never saw even in your own mother. It was a tough form of love she dished out, but it had emboldened you into a fierce woman much like herself during your years with the gang. For all the grief you girls gave her, all the time spent complaining about her strictness, you are forever indebted to her for teaching you how to be a woman in this harsh world.

You told yourself you wouldn’t shed another tear, but as you gather Miss Grimshaw up into your arms you can’t hold back the onslaught of anguish. Fresh tears fall onto her cheeks as you bring her closer, resting your forehead against her own. You only cry harder when you feel just how cold she is.

As much as it hurts, you have to press forward. You brush the hair off her face and place a single kiss on her forehead before laying her gently back down. You cross her hands over her chest - she looks more at peace, as if she was only sleeping. With a hand to her cheek, you promise her you’ll return for her and continue on.

You turn your attention back to the trail of footprints, following them into the cave’s mouth behind the camp. It had always exuded an ominous aura that left the hairs on the back of your neck raised, but now was not the time for petty superstitions. You have your revolver at the ready as you walk into the cave as silently as possible. Whatever shadows could be lurking within would not get the jump on you.

It’s just like a hunting trip, you tell yourself in an attempt to assuage your fear. It’s a piss poor comparison; you wished it was a simple as keeping yourself hidden from ravenous beasts on four legs. But this was a different kind of animal, one with a human face and no qualms about taking a life.

Every echo that reverberates through the extensive tunnel system has your heart lurching into your throat. But you remain tenacious, continuing onward with two sets of muddy footprints as your guide through the caves.

The trail runs cold at the start of a rusty ladder and you breathe a sigh of relief that you’ll be moving onward and upwards out of the darkness. That solace gets caught in your throat at the sound of rushed steps heading in your direction. Panic singes your nerves and you quickly find shelter behind a large boulder near the ladder’s base.

You clasp a hand over your mouth to contain your shuddering breaths, hoping you don’t give your location away from the faceless cave-dwellers. The acoustics of the tunnels distort most of what they’re saying, but you can make out two distinct voices hurriedly passing by you.

“Dutch I think we should-”

“I believe you’ve done enough ‘thinking’ for the time being, Micah.”

Distress evolves into white-hot ire at the realization of who exactly you were alone with. The betrayal you experienced was nothing in comparison to Arthur’s twenty years of loyalty being discarded, you could admit that. But it still left a hole within you that was just as deep.

You stumbled into the Van der Linde’s just a trepid young woman trying to escape the shackles of an abusive home. As a man who dreamed of fame and fortune, it would’ve all to easy for him to turn you into the numerous bounty hunters your father sent after you. Weave together some extravagant tale of the big bad outlaws holding the wealthy socialite’s runaway daughter for ransom to turn a higher profit.

But Dutch had cast that all aside without a second thought and taken you in as another one of his ragtag children. Who your family was before did not define you. He had given you the chance to change the path life had predetermined for you.

That man was gone. Perhaps he was never really there to begin with - a mere facade. The inability to adapt to a rapidly changing world had broken his spirit and instead left something warped - unrecognizable. Leaving him susceptible to the temptations of a snake’s hiss that lurked just beyond in the underbrush.

The casualties - his casualties. Everyone’s faith he continually prattled on about that smothered with his own two hands.

Arthur.

The fingers clutching your gun feel restless all of a sudden.

You peer from behind your cover as they unknowingly pass you by, an imposing chest being carried between the two of them.

Our money.

The culmination of the gang’s hard work after the mess the two of them created in Blackwater. Plans, schemes, and money that people had bled for - died for. What gives them the right to run off into the night while the remainder of them would suffer from the aftermath of their reign of destruction? You practically draw blood from how hard you bite your lip, holding back your rage.

The barrel of your revolver is quickly pointed at Dutch’s back with quivering hands. It’s a shot as clear as day. You can end everything here and now, make up for countless years of false hope. Avenge those who fell in hopes of earning their keep and Dutch’s eternal admiration.

It was all horseshit, you think bitterly with gritted teeth.

You go to pull back the gun’s hammer when all too familiar voice comes to mind.

Revenge is a fool’s game.

It causes you to hesitate, the shaking of your hands intensifying. Your eyes dart between Dutch and Micah’s silhouettes and the morning light bleeding in at the cave’s summit.

Bring him home…

The finger resting just over the trigger retreats and you lower the gun to pursue someone much more significant.

You leave them with a final sentiment.

“Your time will come,” you whisper and hope that the wind carries that declaration up as far as it can travel. You’ll let the “when” and “where” be decided by a higher authority, whoever that might be.

With haste, you grab a rung and begin to climb up the ladder as fast as your arms can carry you.

Onwards and upwards.

As you continue to push yourself to every limit possible, your body screams from exhaustion. You feel as if your legs could give out at any moment but you can’t bring yourself to care as the steep hills transition into the cliffs of Roanoke Ridge.

You’ve tracked a series of hoof prints as far as you can before they end with the body of Arthur’s precious Appaloosa, Moonstone. Yet another innocent soul taken by this path of indiscriminate bloodshed.

There’s still no sign of Arthur, and you’re too frantic to decide if that's a good sign or not. Your breathing is labored, lungs burning and heavy in your chest. But you can’t give up now, not with so much at stake.

Bring him home.

Again Sadie’s words resonate in your mind; regardless of the outcome you will find him. You have to - he deserves that.

Face me to the west so I can see the setting sun…

A sunbreak slips through the morning clouds over the horizon, saturating them in varying hues of blue and yellow. It’s captivating, drawing you to the cliff’s edge despite the exhaustion in your muscles. A gentle wind that rolls over the treetops of varying oaks and cedars envelops you. You follow its direction in a daze and it leads you around the corner of a mountainside trail.

You briefly entertain the idea that your weariness has finally dissolved into delusion. For there amongst the wild poppies, you find a figure in the shape of Arthur laying under a stone alcove facing the still rising sun. It might be the work of a cruel God, but be it reality or mirage you’re just overjoyed he’s here. You don’t even realize you’re crying again.

And you’re running. Again. Your body is wailing but you don’t feel it, and even if you could you don’t care. You just don’t fucking care.

“Arthur…” Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper but as you get closer,

“Arthur!” You cry out this time, desperate to get his attention. To get any sort of reaction.

Please. Please. PLEASE!

You collapse beside him and sob in relief when you see his eyelids flutter open weakly. He’s looks a wreck, covered in bruises and blood - a mixture of his own and god knows who else’s. Ugly splotches of red and purple are scattered across his face and his left eye is practically swollen shut. You realize he was going to lay here until he succumbed to the severity of his injuries and your heart breaks all over again. Your hands find purchase on both his cheeks as you move him carefully to look at you. Somehow he finds the energy to smile.

“An angel,” he manages to wheeze, bringing a hand up to card through your tousled hair. You let out a choked laugh and you place your own hand atop his. Keeping his touch on you to reaffirm he wasn’t just a clever hallucination.

“I...it’s me, my love. I’m here,” you bury your face in his chest. His heartbeat is faint but it’s there. By God it's there. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. Your tears keep coming with no end in sight and they mix in with the blood on his jacket.

He tries to shush you, his split lip kissing your temple tenderly. “Why are crying darlin’?” It’s asked so sweetly it practically hurts your teeth and again you let out a huff of laughter. Your amusement quickly shifts to frustration - you can’t help it.

“You stupid fool!" The words are harsh but they have no edge to them. Now it’s his turn to laugh, albeit feebly. He places another languid kiss to the crown of your head this time. “You silly man,” you pound your fists softly on his chest.

“You were just going to-“ the words get stuck painfully in your throat. “Going to d-die here?” The thought of losing him weighed heavy on you and now you’re finally free. The both of you are.

Arthur doesn’t know what to say except, “I’m sorry.” It’s enough. He’s enough. He always is.

You’re weeping openly now against him, and he finds himself starting to succumb to his own emotions. With everything said and done, his grief hits him in one tremendous wave. The both of you are sobbing as the sun rises in the East. As it has done, and will continue to do for the two of you.

And so you cry.

For the past.

For the lost.

And now for the future.

#vic's fics!#arthur morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #writing this made me sad :)))#but now it's time for FUN

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liathgray · 5 years ago

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Anyways, here’s that essay

Please keep in kind this was not written to be consumed by people familiar with the source material, it was for a class. It’s focused on weird stuff and was meant to compare and contrast the Judas Contact storyline and season two of Titans.

Okay, here we go.

In 1984, a four-part story was published as an arc in Tales of the Teen Titans titled as The Judas Contract. Since, it has become one of the most influential and well-known stories to come out of the DC publishing company for its bold story choices and permanently changing characters who had been around for decades, as well as introducing death as something that can occur in the present, not just in the mechanics of a backstory. It garnered four separate adaptations, the most recent of which being the second season of Titans, a loose live-action version of the titular team. Between the two, there are many small plot and character details that do not line up, so for the sake of simplicity, pedantic plot elements will be removed from the comparison, instead focusing on individual motivation, the importance of the setting, and how characters are impacted and changed by the actions in the narrative.

The Judas Contract proper follows a team of pre-established young heroes being unknowingly spied on by their newest superpowered member, Tara Markov. She works alongside Slade Wilson, a mercenary and personal rogue of the Teen Titans, feeding him important information in order to fulfill his contract to kidnap them, hence the title of the arc; there is a Judas among them. The contract is almost completed until Slade’s son, Joey, enters the picture, determined to prevent any more death at hands of his father, emotionally conflicting Slade enough for Tara to feel betrayed and collapse the cavern they had been in, killing herself in the process. In the end, it is her story alongside the former Robin, Dick Grayson, who is inspired to take up a new vigilante identity as a result. Titans, has the same basic idea of there being a mole in the group and the evolution of Dick from Robin to Nightwing, but the surrounding plot and progression are entirely different. The Titans had existed previously, but broke up due to a series of events involving Slade, starting with the murder of a teammate, and ending in the death of Joey. There’s much grief and trauma surrounding this, so when years later Dick decides to reopen the team’s old headquarters to house and train new young heroes he stumbled across, his old friends are a mix of angry, re-traumatized, and reluctant, especially with the re-emergence of their aforementioned enemy. In the place of Tara, there is Rose. Daughter of Slade and, again, the spy on the team who, unlike Tara, has a change of heart and reveals her betrayal in an attempt to warn her newfound friends.

The most striking element of both is the use of character, and in what direction the agents go in, especially in light of the overarching themes that they share; that of redemption, recovery, guilt, and betrayal. In the comic, the focal point for all of this is Tara. She is continually treated well by her teammates whom remain compassionate to her, despite her brashness and tendency to get violent. They know little of her, yet still welcome her into their home and personal lives. It is revealed to the audience early on that Tara is working for Slade, which makes each interaction she has with those she is deceiving all the more upsetting, even distressing to watch. Tara’s particular flavor of trauma deals with abandonment, something she acquired after being forced out of her home country, which later developed into malignant narcissism. She becomes very attached to the idea of being in a position of power and finds comfort in the presence of Slade, as he was the first person to justify her being alive. Tara, in the end, fails to redeem herself, instead the illusion she had built of stability and power came crumbling down after she spends ally after ally until there is no one, and she has no power left. Though it’s somewhat cynical, the idea here is that these cycles of betrayal and neglect cannot always be broken, that’s the point of this character; sometimes people are just too dysfunctional and if they are not willing to put in the work to get better and heal, they just won’t.

Rose, Tara’s counterpart, goes through a very different metamorphosis, despite the setup being similar. Her initial motivation was revenge for the brother she never knew, having been told it was the Titans who killed him when in fact it had been Slade, though it wasn’t intentional. Slade, however, blamed the Titans, specifically Dick, thus Rose believed him and was willing to participate as a double agent. When she encounters them for the first time, she is met with sympathy and understanding, people who didn’t value her as a weapon, creating incongruity with the story she was fed of elite fighters and master manipulators. Upon learning the truth about the circumstances under which her brother died, and who exactly killed him, she backs out. Rose realized she was lied to and manipulated, almost immediately grasping the gravity of the situation and seeing how hard she was pushing people whose greatest crime was daring to care about the very person she thought she was avenging. Later, she tells her newly acquired love interest the truth, following it up by saying, “I’d take it all back if I could. But I can’t.” (Zhang). Where Tara failed, Rose succeeded; she got rid of the poison in her life and recognized that she was the bad guy, alongside seeing the humanity of those she attempted to sabotage.

The theme of redemption and recovery doesn’t stop with Rose. It is furthered by all the other existing characters, young and old. On the basis of new beginnings for the second generation, and moving past the collective trauma and fear associated with teamwork for the first. More so than anyone else, this idea is present in the journey of Dick Grayson. In the original story, he is motivated to save his friends from an ugly fate while in the throes of a very real identity crisis involving the title of Robin, which he had recently discarded, believing that it was time for him to grow past the role and create a legacy entirely his own. Which he does do; he rebrands himself as Nightwing, rising to the occasion and overcoming the difficulties of abandoning a role that represented his culminative childhood and heritage to do save the people he loves. It is very much about the conquering of his external obstacles.

This is not the case in Titans, it is largely about his spectacular fall from grace and the struggle of building himself back up from rock bottom. He had kept a secret from all his closest friends about the death of Joey; he told them Joey was murdered before he found him, when in fact, he wasn’t. Joey died trying to protect Dick from Slade, and Dick felt so much guilt and shame in having been partially responsible that he lied about it for years. When his teammates find out, his worst nightmare comes true: they leave him. He is with next to no support, devoid of the family he fought tooth and nail to keep together, and is left in the tomb of his last chance to remain stable. While Rose and Tara had to redeem themselves to other people, Dick’s story is a redemption to himself, not anyone else. He stops doing things for other people and imagines himself of deserving the loneliness of, in essence, being re-orphaned. In a desperate attempt to find forgiveness, he seeks out Slade who, instead of offering the sought after peace of mind, says, “I sentence you to live alone (…) Forever knowing that your Titans family lives and breathes somewhere out there in the world, but you can never be with them.” (Morales). His lowest point is monumentally more devastating than his comic counterpart; he isolates himself entirely, going as far as to get himself jailed to carry out the self-imposed punishment, expecting to be abused and killed alone in a prison, the prospect of death barely startling him. In moments like this, the tragedy of the character hurts so much more because the audience knows that if he gets knocked down, he may not get back up, he has every reason not to. Which is why it is so earnest and exhilarating when he does. Dick was broken down to his factory parts, every mistake and bad trait not only was put on display, but magnified. He was made to confront those things before being able to piece himself back together, only then could he take on a new identity as Nightwing. Seeing him fall again is tangibly damaging to the character, so seeing him climb his way back up, scratching, clawing, slipping up, and struggling all the way, it’s all the more satisfying when he reaches the top.

A large part of this fall and rise, or in the case of The Judas Contract, the lack off a fall, is to do with the setting. The comic has all their main characters living in relative harmony or with their own spaces. When they are not off stopping cults from destroying political landscapes or battling supervillains, they are at home, going about their daily lives as somewhat normal people with jobs and relationships. It exemplifies that they all have a decent grasp on who they are, and even if they don’t, they have a bed to go back to and a support system to rely on. This is an established team with a running headquarters, lovingly named Titans Tower, the scene is only a part of the narrative as the backdrop, as a story punching bag that ultimately doesn’t matter, and that is all it needs to be. The story is much more interested in the series of events taking place, otherwise known as the act. Everything that goes down becomes a spoiler because there are so many plot points to cover and twists to reveal, thus the scene becomes story fuel, which in turn fuels the act, fueling the actors. There is less of a fall because they all have a home to turn to; it is built around the idea that the primary agents are at least somewhat realized people, with lives of their own. They react to the world around them as it throws obstacles, and the idea is re-enforced by the irrelevance of where the action takes place, wholly opposing the priorities of its live-action adaptation.

Not to say that Titans doesn’t jump from place to place, in fact it shifts its characters around quite a lot, but those moves are reactions to and influenced by the primary setting. The Titans operate out of, again, Titans Tower, but instead of a home and safe place, it is a monument to their old team’s sins. A ghost town that continues to haunt them, bringing back their darkest times and motivating nearly every move they make. When they first arrive, it’s tense, they’re subconsciously expecting the worst and prepare to bail at the first signs of trouble, which they eventually do. It is their return that sparks the entire story moving forward, and the presence of a looming shadow built from mistakes colours their reactions and triggers a sort of trauma response. Conversely, it is a beacon of hope and rebirth for the younger members. It is the first place wherein they have been allowed to be themselves, even at their worst, then collectively learn to get better as a group, a family even. The motif of past and present, trauma and recovery, informs the presentation of Titans Tower, making the growth visible in ways it previously hadn’t been. Using the setting as story plays into how Titans is structured; it drip-feeds the audience information, allowing the plot to meander so each development can happen and be processed before the next major plot point kicks in, and if they lose the setting, their home, there’s nothing else, thus the consequences are much steeper.

Throughout its two seasons run, Titans has been unapologetically divisive; deeply flawed characters with a universe quite different from that of the comics. It was not designed to make audiences comfortable, often forcing them to look at the worst parts of characters they might have previously idolized and showing the amount of hard work that has to be put into self-betterment. It is highly character-driven, mostly following interpersonal relationships and intimate growth. Barely anyone feels self-assured, often scrambling for any sense of identity. Though everyone goes through their fair share of change, this is ultimately Dick’s redemption story to himself. It departs from the source material, which often showed readers the best parts of people, that the downfall of heroes comes from outside sources while overall making a cynical statement about the cycle of abuse regarding Tara. These are heroes who know who they are and have no problem in the actions they make, whereas in the adaptation, almost every conflict is generated internally by lies and secrecy. The adaptation removes the halo from these supposed heroes and allows the emotions to be a bit dirty and muddled, creating an equally satisfying but very different take on a classic comic story.

#titans #DC Universe #DC comics #tara markov #rose wilson #joey wilson #jericho wilson #slade wilson #deathstroke #robin #nightwing #dick grayson #titans dcu #ceces lengthy excretes

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askiisoft · 5 years ago

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FAN ART FRIDAY: The Most Dangerous Dame

(Banner art by @ZeeboonInc.)

...And now, we return to you to your regularly scheduled programming.

This week is a tribute to Katana ZERO’s final boss, the enigmatic NULL remnant, Headhunter. So much of her story mirrored Zero’s own—a reluctant killer at the mercy of her own crippling addiction—that players exhausted every alternative to killing her as she crawled pitifully along the floor.

“Maybe you can spare her if you picked up some Chronos in the Slaughterhouse level?”

“Maybe there’s a hidden dialogue branch where she tells you what’s inside the vault instead?”

“Maybe there’s a secret if you let her kill you enough times in a row?”

Ultimately, as she predicted, only one of them could leave that bunker alive. Today we salute the warrior woman who never gave up the fight, even in the face of certain doom.

[WARNING: Contains plot spoilers for ‘Katana ZERO’]

by @moryu

“I win, fucker.”

Zero’s precognition was established early on, but seldom treated as more than an in-universe lampshading of the rapid trial-and-error formula that dated back to 2009′s Tower of Heaven.

It was Headhunter who revealed the full extent of what that power felt like: venting her anger through heinous atrocities only to reset time as if they never happened, or watching her opponent make the same blunder dozens of times, yet feeling her own willpower erode with each ‘do-over’. Her lackadaisical attitude towards death was something totally alien, and its implications re-contextualized much of the game’s earlier plot points. Even here, it seems she’s casually committing suicide just to fight the battle over again, having finally found a worthy opponent.

Just like with Zero’s purported forehead wound and The Dragon’s prototypical facial burns, fans seem to have given Headhunter a prophetic neck scar, as if taunting her foes, “yeah, cut me right here...if you can, that is”.

—

by @55_yamisan

I must confess that I’m not really into the whole “wedding dress” fetish that a lot of fans enjoy, but not even such formal wear could diminish Headhunter’s badass persona.

Someone who wears her decade-old combat fatigues and mask in public clearly doesn’t care much about fashion. Still, sometimes being an assassin requires a disguise, and I imagine this is the extent of what Headhunter was willing to put on to infiltrate her target’s fancy evening gala; take or leave it, Al-Qasim.

The juxtaposition of an an elegant neon dress and black garters with her signature beret, oversized zip-up jumper and massive fuck-off carbine is perfect for a proud, no-nonsense femme fatale who would never embarrass herself by rocking out to EDM or admitting to liking anime.

—

by @stanio_kz

In Eastern mythologies, there is a concept of the ‘red string of fate’, an invisible thread that connects every person from birth to their destined soulmate. For those fated to have their lives cut short, however, it instead links them to the source of their inexorable doom...

@stanio_kz’s illustration of this concept is both beautifully composed and intriguing in its symbolism. The cord around Headhunter’s neck obviously references her grisly fate, but could the two ends leading off-panel indicate a branching narrative, perhaps a reality in which Headhunter won her duel with Zero and lived on to take her revenge? On this subject, the artist says, “It really doesn't make any sense, I just wanted to draw them ...”

—

by @ZeeboonInc.

I don’t think it’s possible to capture the essence of Headhunter’s fighting style—constant teleporting, knife charges, and firing deadly beams from every angle—in a still image, but Zeeboon comes pretty close with these dynamic poses.

Before her shockingly pretty face made her the darling of fan artists everywhere, this interpretation of Headhunter in mask and full garb represented what NULLs everywhere must have seemed like: a gaunt, faceless harbinger of death, unable to reasoned with or defeated by anyone but another Chronos user.

—

by @DEL_streamer

Those of you who follow me on Twitter have already seen this one, but it must be re-iterated: this looks unbelievably awesome.

The sharp angles, ambient glow, and jet-black finish of Headhunter’s mask are one of the most sleek and menacing designs I’ve witnessed, and the way her cloak billows along the line of action to complement her dynamic landing pose sells the blowback from parrying Zero’s attack and makes her the clear focus of the picture.

Comparatively, Zero’s muted colors and more inert kneeling pose that suggest he can barely keep up with Headhunter’s sheer speed, despite wielding a superior weapon.Without having played the game, I might assume she was the main hero, and Zero a nondescript mook.

—

by @shaocixiezi

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call “black humor” at its finest.

At my last job, my going-away gift was a novelty USB drive of Batman, whom my co-workers knew was my favorite superhero. I use it to store backups of my art, and pulling off his head still unnerves me every time.

—

by @Kazzang3

There has been some graphic artwork of Headhunter’s decapitation, yet Kazzang’s minimalist and near-photorealistic interpretation sends chills down my spine.

The dark grey bodysuit beneath her NULL cloak is pitch-black here, leaving the eye nowhere to focus but Headhunter’s face, the outline of her forlorn expression darkened in the harsh glare of red. Such minimal detail, yet such incredible layout and resounding impact that’s impossible to forget.

—

by @spiderbirdo

Katana ZERO’s level of technology seems anachronistic at times; people still use mobile phones and watch movies on VHS tapes, and yet we encounter laser grids, flying gun drones, and cryostasis without remark. Part of Headhunter’s memorability comes from her absurdly high-tech weaponry, beyond what a wartime NULL would have wielded during the war: beam rifles, floating sticky mines, and teleportation abilities to surpass even a Gamma like Zero.

Spiderbird captures that mystique as Headhunter’s mines float around her like Gradius-style Options, bathing her in an eerie magenta glow. She appears as a time traveler might to a modern-day soldier: no face, no past, but carrying a perfect knowledge of the future and tech so advanced that any confrontation would be futile.

—

by @NagataBt

“They may seem dead to you and I, but to them they are still dying. No one to even hear their screams.“

In the weeks following Katana ZERO’s wide release, there was speculation that Headhunter’s demise had spared her from the limbo of living death that await all NULL: “She died before her withdrawal progressed that far,” or “Her death was final because her head was cut off, like how zombies work.” Anything to escape the guilt of killing one of our own for ultimately nothing.

We can only hope those theories are true, for the alternatives are far too bleak to contemplate.

—

by @zenixdd

This is just wonderful: Headhunter, a superhuman stone-cold killer, taking a moment to adjust her hairband just as any other girl would. Her tiny blue earring, mild freckles, and pale bags under her eyes from nights of exhaustion and endless Chronos hallucinations reveal the delicate vulnerability of someone who just mentioned wanting to drink your blood like a juice box.

—

May “Full Confession” play on loop at your closed-casket funeral, Headhunter. Your war, at long last, is over.

If you’d like some artwork featured on a future Fan Art Friday, just use the Submit Button on this blog!

*Gulp, gulp* by @WarioEAG

#katana zero #askiisoft #devolver digital #fan art #fan art friday #headhunter

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princessamericachavez · 6 years ago

Text

to let you know we made mistakes pt.1

It's been two years since The Traveler summoned his followers to a meeting in the outskirts of Zadash.

It's been two years since The Mighty Nein last saw Jester Lavorre.

Two years. It's been exactly two years since Fjord last saw Jester Lavorre disappear down the street, skipping cheerfully. It feels like a lifetime ago, like he has aged decades with every passing month. It also feels like just yesterday. As he looks at the luxurious entrance of the Lavish Chateau, he can feel the memory of her all around him, like a ghost made of giggles, ocean blue skin and the faint smell of cinnamon. His stomach twists into knots as he braces himself for the meeting. At least, he's not alone. Beau stands close enough to him that he can feel her shoulder brush his arm with quiet support. On his other side, Caduceus breathes calmly, his presence soothing as ever. Caleb, Nott, and Yasha stand behind them.

"I hate this," Nott sighs.

"Yeah, me too," Beau grumbles. "It sucks, but we owe it to Jessie."

"Ja," is all Caleb contributes.

Fjord won't admit it, but he agrees with Nott. As much as he knows Jester would want them to look after her mother in her absence, it doesn't make it any easier to stand there and see into the eyes of an orphaned mother. The first time was the worst, though, by far. Seeing Marion's gentle eyes as their words settled, as she understood why they were there without her daughter, as the last glimmer of hope died down and morphed into pain. They didn't see her cry, but Fjord knows there's pain that no tears can begin to express. He didn't cry after losing Vandren and he didn't cry after losing Jester, but both times felt as if something had been ripped out of his guts by a hungry gnoll.

And yet, despite the pain that he knows their visit must bring, Marion Lavorre welcomes them with a smile and warmth in her eyes. The pleasantries are short, no one is sure of what to say, they all dance ungracefully around the real subject of their visit: the anniversary of Traveler Day, how Jester had excitedly called it. Fjord takes the lead because he figures he owes it to their missing friend. He asks Marion how she's doing, makes sure no one is bothering her anymore, restates the promise he made two years ago to look after her and help her in any way they can, any way he can.

"You're as kind as ever," Marion says, smiling softly at him, "but I am alright. Having you here is already a very sweet thing to me."

Fjord ducks his head, avoiding her eyes. He can't look at them anymore, not without seeing the mirror of the pain that eats him inside, not without thinking of the promise he made and failed to keep, not without wishing he'd find anger in them rather than comprehension.

"Well, then, we won't take any more of your time," Fjord says, with a stiff bow.

"Nonsense," Marion shakes her head, "I am happy to have you here. I will see that your rooms are ready for the night."

"Ma'am, we-we wouldn't wanna abuse of your hospitality, we'll be on our way as soon as-"

"Please, none of that," behind the Ruby of the Sea's gentleness there's a hint of authority. "My Jester cared so much about you. The least I can do is make sure her friends have proper accommodations. You are welcome here for as long as you wish to stay."

"I- thank you," Fjord manages to say, biting down on every complain he has about not deserving that kind of attention from her because the last thing he wants to do is slight her.

They make their way down to the bar, sit around the very same table they used the first time they visited. Jester's sit, the one she sat on that time, stays empty for no reason other that no one can bring themselves to take the place. Their spirits are down tonight, heavy with memories and the voice missing from the circle. They try, though. Fjord makes sure to talk to everyone, at least to check on how they are doing, take care for them. Caduceus offers words of comfort and resignation, as he has been doing since the day they lost her. Beau buys round after round of drinks and makes a toast in Jester's memory, speaking sweetly of her in a way Fjord's never heard her talk about anyone else. Nott recounts old stories of their detective shenanigans, but sadness taints her voice before she can finish them and she ends up falling as quiet as Caleb and Yasha, who've been practically non-verbal since the morning.

One by one, they take their leave to go to bed, until it's only him and Beau sitting at the table, nursing new drinks.

"How you doing there, Fjord?" Beau finally asks. "I feel like you've been so busy trying to look after all of us, that you've kinda forgotten to check in on yourself. You know what I mean?"

Fjord huffs a laugh at her lack of tact and shakes his head.

"I'm fine, Beau."

"Bullshit." Her blue eyes are set on him as if she could pierce through any mask he dared put on. "Look, man, I haven't been extracting the truth from people for years for you to try such a lame lie on me now. Do I have to use my cobalt knuckles on you?"

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't," he grimaces.

"Then, talk to me."

"What do you want me to say, Beau? I'm- I can't stop thinking about it. And it's not just today, it's all the time. You'd think I'd be used to losing people by now, right? Vandrin, Molly, her... but this is different. I keep going through that day, asking myself what I could've done differently, how I could have stopped it. It's like this-this hole in my chest, and no matter what we do or where we go, it doesn't go away. Somedays... somedays I think I hear her, just talking away as she used to do on the road, and I'm pretty sure I'm losing my mind. I'm just- I can't stop thinking that I failed her."

"Fjord, you didn't fail her."

"Didn't I?"

"No, you didn't," Beau says softly, "and you gotta stop blaming yourself, man. I mean, she said 'oh, hey, I'm going to go see some followers of the traveler today, see you later!'. How were we supposed to know she was gonna fucking disappear like that?"

"We shouldn't have left her go alone," Fjord says, and those words have been eating at him for longer than he cares to admit. "I shouldn't-"

"You didn't know."

"I should have known!" He snaps, more at himself than at Beau, and is incredibly grateful that she doesn't even flinch. "I mean, fuck, Beau, she was willing to go all the way to Rexxentrum to the Academy with me, she followed me to the bottom of the goddamn ocean to activate some weird freaking temple, she was there the whole time and the one time she needed me to follow her and I... I didn't. I should've been there."

"Yeah, and then maybe you would've both gone missing," Beauregard points out, arching an eyebrow. "What good would that do?"

Plenty good, Fjord thinks. At least he would know what happened that way. At least he would be with her, able to help her if she needed him. Maybe things would've been different like that. Even disappearing into oblivion would be better than carrying this guilt inside him the rest of his life.

"Stop that!" A bullet-fast hand slaps him in the back of the head.

"What?"

"Stop thinking like that!" Beau frowns at him. "You know Jester wouldn't want you to be brooding over her, right?"

"You kidding?" Fjord laughs again, though his voice sounds broken even to his own ears. "She'd be furious at me. She would probably hate me right now. I-I mean, you remember how she got after the dragon? She hated me for disappearing on her like that. I promised myself I would never leave her like that again, and then when she needed me..."

"First of all, you didn't leave her, dude. She left us," the monk's voice is tainted by a little resentment that's all too familiar to him, but it softens immediately, anger melting into sadness. "And second, Jester loved you, Fjord. She would never hate you, no matter what. She would want you to be happy."

"Well, tough luck," he grumbles, burrowing his face into his drink.

How is he supposed to be happy like this? It's not fair, he realizes, but he's suddenly angry at Jester —at the idea of her— insisting he be happy when she isn't around. It's just cruel, like feeding a starving man and then hoping he's satisfied for the rest of his life. For her to become the source of laughter and comfort and light in his life, only to disappear on him and leave him in the dark again, it's a cruel kind of joke.

But Jester was never one for cruel pranks.

"Alright, fine," Beau stands up, "you wanna wallow about it, be my guest. Just don't pretend to be fine, okay?"

"I am alright, Beau," he assures her. "I will be. I just... I need another drink, then I'll head up to bed."

"Knock yourself out," she says, squeezing her shoulder on her way out. She probably didn't mean it literally, but it's a tempting idea nonetheless. "You know, it'd be a good start to actually be able to say her name out loud," she adds cryptically before disappearing upstairs.

With a heavy sigh, he rolls his eyes and orders another drink. The golden drink gives him a distorted version of his own reflection but he's still able to recognize the judgment in his own eyes. The Chateau is empty tonight, aside from him. Marion canceled her weekly performance, probably to mourn the memory of her daughter in private. He briefly considers joining her, hoping to offer some new words of comfort, or at the very least quiet company, but he's too much of a coward to face her again. There's something in her face that terrifies Fjord profoundly, a pain too similar to his own, a loss that he has no claim to.

"Fuck," he sighs. "I-I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to do this without you. I miss you... every day. We all do."

Fjord!

He swears he hears her voice in his head, clear as water, as if not a day had gone by. The memory makes his chest flinch with pain, like an old wound tearing back open, and he hates his brain for conjuring such a bittersweet sound to torture him. Except... that's not all. It goes on.

Hey, so I just came back from Traveler Day, but I couldn't find you guys at the inn. Did you go somewhere without me?

The world comes crashing down around him, time seems to stop, his heart forgets how to beat for half a second and then picks up at full speed. Fjord darts to his feet, knocking over the chair and nearly spills his drink, as the one word that has been banned from his lips for exactly two years returns to him, along with laughter, and blue oceans, and the smell of cinnamon:

"Jester?!"

#MERRY CRITMASS I BRING YOU ANGST #fjorester #fjord #jester lavorre #critical role #beauregard #marion lavorre #critterfic #sofia's nonsense #it's also up in ao3 but if i link it tumblr will hide the post #tlykwmm

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unsuccesscr · 5 years ago

Text

Hello and welcome to HD Wrote 3k words of Pain.

ft @invisiquirk hc that Tooru dies at 21.

Also @needlxd and @amplifyingtrace and @rrenao make an appearance bc...OC rights babey

Heroism is a profession that is, by its very nature, fraught with danger. As such, there isn’t a single hero in existence without some scars. Physical or otherwise.

Prism was one of the few that carried hers over from childhood. By the time she experienced her first battle she was already scarred. Already bent and bruised. Already prepared to look into the face of oblivion.

Tooru is the type of person to try to hide their pain. To pretend everything is fine, to focus on everyone but herself. It’s hard to tell if her wounds have begun to heal at all, or if she’s just better at shutting people out.

Izuku likes to believe he knows her well enough to tell the difference. Knows her scars, has traced over them with gentle, careful, fingers, as she has done with his own. The ones not on her skin but within her mind and soul...those are a little more difficult to detect.

He knows some. About as much as she knows about his own. They’re not quite secret, but also not the type of thing one wants to talk about in any sort of detail. The kind that bring everything rushing back in an instant. So he doesn’t know everything, every bruise her mother had left; every nasty, vile word, spoken.

But he supposes he doesn’t need to. Tooru doesn’t need someone to hate Yue Hagakure, she needs someone that loves her. Despite all of the years that she’s been told she’s unlovable, despite all the lies Yue told her about her lack of worth. That she’s loved.

Of course, Izuku Midoriya is not the only one, not by a long shot. Tooru is as well loved as she is kind. He is, however, the only one who knows how much she needs to hear it. How easily she forgets that the world would shatter without her presence.

He’s the only one who bares witness to moments like this. Woken from some unknown nightmare, with shoulders curled forward, away from him; so she won’t wake him. As if rest is more important than this, more important than the quiet sound of her sobs.

“Tooru,” Spoken in a hushed tone. Always careful because loud noises, sudden movements, they can all reopen those unseen scars.

In response there’s a hiccup, a hitch of breath followed by forced even heaves. A rustle of the sheets around them, as Tooru turns towards the source of the voice.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” her own voice shakes, sounding oh so tired. And it hurts to wonder how long she had been like that before he had noticed.

“You should. You should wake me, I want to help.” The usual reply to the usual response. It has somehow become a part of their routine. These nightmares. Slowly, hands find hers; weaving their fingers together. He would like, in this moment, to hold her tightly. But that may be too much. “Is this ok?”

“Yes,” The affirmation is just as worn as her initial response. For a few moments they lay like that. Just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing, taking in the warmth of their shared space.

“Why do you stay with someone so broken?” Tooru asks. And she may not be broken but her voice is, clearly still in the mindset of her dream.

“You’re not broken. You’ve never been broken. Just...scarred,” Silence follows Izuku’s words. The kind of silence when she doesn’t want to argue, but doesn’t believe what he said. “I don’t know...what you were dreaming about just now…”

Tooru’s breath hitches and she tenses once more.

“I won’t ask, if you don’t want to talk about it,” The tension bleeds back out, slowly. He traces circles over her palm with the pad of his thumb. “But it wasn’t real. Even if it was a memory. It’s a lie to say you’re broken.”

There is more of that silence, so he simply continues.

“You know me better than that. You know I don’t settle. I’m with you because I want to be. Because, whether or not you believe it, you deserve love. And I'm incredibly, insanely, lucky, that I get to be someone who gives it to you.”

Finally there’s a response, a snort of laughter. Not derisive, not even laced with bitterness; genuine, if somewhat sad at the same time.

“You’re so corny,” Tooru teases, when she’s done laughing.

In place of a retort, he brings her knuckles up to his lips and gives them a small kiss. She can feel his smile against her skin. Feel the nightmare melting away.

“Hey,” Izuku speaks again after a moment “You should call in, we could stay in and watch movies and eat junk. It’s been a while since we’ve had a chill night.”

“I can’t do that, I have work. Lady Hydra depends on me, we don’t have a lot of sidekicks,” What’s unspoken is that she doesn’t want to acknowledge just how much this is affecting her. Doesn’t admit that she’s tired and the idea of doing patrol work after less than an hour of sleep isn’t appealing at all. Nowhere as appealing as sleeping in and spending time with her fiance.

“It will be fine for one day. You have sick days for a reason, someone can cover for you; just this once. Sasaki will understand, she cares about you too, you know,” One of the benefits of working for an underground hero. Or perhaps Lady Hydra was a special case. “Please?”

This is selfish, he knows. Because any day Tooru is not working as a sidekick is experience missed. She prides herself on being reliable; is reliable. But she’s also exhausted and in no state to fight. Likely, it would be fine. It always is. She’s strong and smart and always comes out relatively unscathed.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t worry. And if there’s one thing Izuku has learned over the years, it’s that sometimes being selfish is the right choice.

“This could be our last chance to hang out for a while, you know,” He adds. And it’s true, what with them both working as heroes and the wedding just around the corner.

“Okay,” Tooru relents, because it does sound like exactly what she needs. Just, a quiet day at home.

…

When Izuku stirs the next morning, it’s not with a start. It’s slowly, deliberately grasping at the dream even after it fades away.

They’ve been tormenting him for months, these ‘could have been’ dreams. He can’t tell if they’re better or worse than the nightmares. Would she really have stayed, had he simply pressed harder? If he had insisted would she still be here? Questions like these were useless, but plagued him anyway.

In the end, things had happened the way they happened. Tooru had gone to work with a smile, Izuku hadn’t stopped her. And the hero Prism was no more.

No more than a dream that gave him a few hours of respite a night.

The buzzing of bedside alarm was no more relentless than the forward motion of time itself, and with a worn sigh he reached over and shut it off; blinking away the lingering wetness in his eyes.

After a dream like that, it would be a good idea to book an appointment with a grief counselor. They could tell him that it wasn’t his fault. That you can’t erase someone’s trauma with affection alone. (He knows that, of course he knows that. But he could have made her stay, made her rest). While he pretends to believe those words. Pretends that guilt isn’t festering inside along with a different, more ugly, feeling.

Izuku had been doing that for months, though, with no results. Therapy didn’t help overnight, he knew that. Was still going for things that had happened to him a decade ago. But this was different. There was something impeding any sort of progress. He couldn’t move past the moment of her death.

Holding her cold, lifeless, hand, in his own.

There were more healthy ways of grieving. His friends insisted on them. Cards with professional’s numbers on them and pamphlets for support groups. They meant well. And they were going through the same loss. Izuku wasn’t so naive as to believe that he was the only one hurting, was the only one she had left behind.

It just seemed like he was the only one unable to move on.

Somewhat reluctantly, he heaves himself out of bed and away from the comfort of the ‘what could have been’ dream and prepares for the day ahead.

…

It’s a coincidence, really, a twist of fate; that the name Hagakure passes his desk. Not Tooru Hagakure, no, there would be no reason for that name to be attached to a recent report of organized crime in Osaka.

No, this was Yue Hagakure. Cold eyes staring back through a photograph.

Funny, he’d tried to imagine this woman many times. Tried to picture the kind of person who would hold such wrath towards her own child. Somehow, she seemed even more evil than he’d assumed.

He wonders if she knows that Tooru is dead. Wonders if she knows that it's her fault. That Tooru was always a little willing to die because of what she had done.

Sick of looking at her, her name and her face, he files the folder away quickly, and moves on to the rest of the paperwork assigned to him. Not exactly glamorous work, but necessary. And informative. As Izuku files away past reports he always skims for details, learning about villains he may one day have to face.

He tries to forget what he had read about shadow manipulation, about the Yakuza branch in Osaka headed by the woman named Hagakure.

Tries to forget how long it would take him to get there from his home in Kyoto by train.

…

Iida is the first one to notice. Perhaps because he knows the feeling of wanting revenge. He sees the storm brewing before Izuku himself does. Because he’s still pretending he didn’t see that file. Ignoring all the ways he could negate shadow manipulation.

Osaka isn’t in the area covered by the Wild Wild Pussycats, anyway. It’s neighboring. The report was just about the spread of Yakuza related activity. It wasn’t a mission. He was just a sidekick.

Revenge was a dangerous path.

Iida takes him out to lunch, just the two of them. They’re friends, certainly. Izuku can even safely say that the engine hero is one of his closest friends. But they usually go out as a group. And Iida never wants to meet up on a day he has patrol, never shirks responsibility.

Izuku pretends not to see the red flags. He does an awful lot of pretending, these days.

“Midoriya,” Iida breaches the topic with an air of formality, despite their familiarity. A nervous tick Izuku knows well, but ignores. Maybe if he continues to pretend everything is fine, it will be. At the very least, he refuses to look up from his menu.

“Why haven’t you gone to the counselor?”

This gets Izuku’s attention, causing him to flinch. Appointments were made through the agency. They wouldn’t know what was discussed, but they would know if he canceled repeatedly. Which he had. Mandalay had probably relayed that detail to Iida. He wouldn’t hold it against her.

“It doesn’t help,” He opts to answer honestly. “I went a couple times, it didn’t help.

Iida frowns at the pitiful excuse for a reason, gently taking the menu from his friend’s hands and setting it down. “This kind of thing takes time. Itou still going.”

That made sense. The ex-villain was closer to Tooru than anyone. No one ever really talked about it, but Kitiara had been saved by Tooru. They were sisters, if not by blood. And if anyone knew the hole her loss had left, it would be her.

Izuku hadn’t seen her since the funeral. Not that that was her fault, he was avoiding her. Avoiding seeing that emptiness reflected back.

“I’m dealing, in my own way.” Izuku says, uncomfortable with the concerned stare of his long time friend.

“I hear there’s been a rise in Yakuza activity near Kyoto. In Osaka.” Iida says, his expression clearly stating that he sees right through the core of Izuku’s darkest thoughts.

“Yeah, I suppose so. I don’t see a lot of action, as a sidekick.” Izuku tries, in vain, to keep the conversation casual.

“Revenge won’t help.” Iida moves straight to the point.

“I know,” Izuku replies. Because he does know. But it’s getting difficult to ignore how badly he wants to make Yue Hagakure pay. At least the criminals behind Tooru’s death had already been put away. Lady Hydra had made sure of that.

Iida looks unconvinced. “I learned that lesson back at UA, you saw what happened.”

“I know. I did.” Izuku winces, trying not to look at the scar on the back of Iida’s hand. “You’re right. And I….I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

…

The next, almost as if on cue, is Todoroki. Whereas Iida has been in Izuku’s place, he has been in Tooru’s place. Has scars from the hands that were supposed to raise him gently. Had been molded into a weapon for his father’s use.

Unlike Iida, he doesn’t take no for an answer. Tells Izuku where to meet him.

Somehow, he ends up staring at the name Hagakure once more. Tooru Hagakure, engraved in stone. Early spring frost causes the grass to crunch under their feet, and Todoroki says nothing; allows Izuku to grieve in silence.

He’s not sure how long they spend there. Long enough that he can no longer feel his fingers or the tips of his ears. He’s not even sure he’s had a single thought, the entire time. Brain filled with static as he stares at the marker. Surrounded, as always, by fresh flowers.

The ice and fire user waits until they’re ready to leave to speak.

“I’ve thought about it,” Todoroki says, voice impassive “Taking down my old man for the shit he pulled.”

Izuku’s not sure how to react to this confession, looking at the unreadable expression that follows it with concern and confusion. Todoroki, in turn, looks at Tooru’s grave.

“Sometimes our demons get the best of us. When that happens...we don’t hurt only ourselves, but everyone around us. That’s why I didn’t do it. Not because he deserves forgiveness, but because I wouldn’t really be hurting him.”

Izuku swallows hard, mouth suddenly dry at the double meaning to his words.

Todoroki looks, much like Iida, directly through him when he continues. “Don’t do anything stupid, Midoriya.”

…

Predictably, the one who is able to crack through his walls, in the end, is Leia. As it so often has been since they were children.

It takes little more than her plaintive voice over the phone, telling him to get some rest.

“You haven’t taken any time off since it happened,” Leia says, in the somewhat firm (but still, oh so gentle) tone that she reserves for when either he, or Katsuki, are being particularly stubborn. “You’re going to get burnt out.”

Revenge won’t help.

Don’t do anything stupid.

“Take some time, process things. Get some rest. Please, Izuchan, i’m...worried about you. I haven’t seen you this tired since highschool.”

And she’s right. He still had nightmares, to be sure, but hadn’t outright neglected self care for years. He slept, plenty, though. It was the only time he was able to be with Tooru again.

But he’d also been working more hours than necessary. If he worked all day and slept all night he didn’t have to be alone with his thoughts. That had always been a problem for him. He’d just forgotten for a while, because for a while he wasn’t alone even when he was alone.

“I miss her.” Izuku admits for the first time out loud in a long while. “I miss her so much I...Tooru deserved better. She deserved a long, happy life. She shouldn’t have died it’s not fair.”

And he’s aware that he sounds like a child, whining about how it's not fair. But it truly wasn’t. Tooru had already been robbed of her childhood, and now she had been robbed of her future as well. She deserved so much more. A light like that shouldn’t be gone. Not when the awful woman who had hurt her still walked free.

It’s in that moment, with Leia’s words of comfort floating through the speaker of the phone, that Izuku realizes what he’s missing. Why he’s been stuck.

Closure.

…

Even if he’d tried, he didn’t forget. Didn’t forget that file on Osaka. It hadn’t contained her exact location, of course. If the police knew that, they would have brought her in already. But Izuku was smart, and he’d plenty of time on his hands; since he’d finally decided to use his time off.

Mandalay was thrilled enough that he seemed to finally be mourning in a somewhat healthy way, that she had granted the leave request without question.

From there, it was just a matter of following the trail. Yue Hagakure wasn’t as much of a ghost as she’d like to think.

…

Deku isn’t sure that Yue is surprised to see him. He doesn’t even know for sure if she knows who he is. Or, at the least, who he was to Tooru.

And he doesn’t really care. The less he has to listen to Yue Hagakure, the better. Doesn’t care what words she uses to defend herself, if any.

Instead, he focuses on what needs to be done.

Closure.

…

The battle is hard fought, and hard won. Yue, even without the use of her quirk (he’d made sure, before cornering her, that there would be no shadows to manipulate) is a skilled fighter; and not one to give up easily.

But she underestimates him. The hero without a quirk. And that, ultimately, is her downfall.

With her face in the dirt she continues to antagonize. The words she speaks foul and acidic. Towards him. Towards Tooru.

So she did know, after all, the reason why he, specifically, was here. He thinks about all the satisfying ways to shut her up.

…

When the police are called in Yue Hagakure is restrained and injured, but very much alive. Albeit with a somewhat spiteful gag, preventing any more vile insults.

Later, when Izuku is commended on his restraint; he doesn’t mention the fact that he’s still shaking with the urge to end her life when she’s taken away.

…

Yue Hagakure doesn’t exactly look the picture of regret, even in her holding cell. Pissed, certainly, but seemingly confident that she won’t be in there for long.

She has no idea, the enemy she made. Enemies, plural, because Izuku isn’t even close to the only person who wants her to suffer for what she did to Tooru.

Just because revenge was off the table doesn’t mean that she would get away with everything.

“You can escape. But I’ll find you again.” He says, voice startlingly calm even to himself. “And again. And again. And again.”

“I will do whatever it takes to make sure you rot in here like you deserve.”

Tooru wouldn’t get what she deserved, the happy life, the peace. There was nothing he could do about that now. But Yue Hagakure would get all she deserved, that much was certain.

#invisiquirk #amplifyingtrace #needlxd #rrenao #;;out of character #v;;my deku means you can do it (pro hero)#so uhhh basically this is how it goes down in main verse #Izuku still goes off the rails a bit but uh less murdery #tw;;death #tw;;child abuse #tw;;recovery

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wunderlass · 6 years ago

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Roswell episode one - notes from an under-caffeinated rewatch

For absolutely no reason, after episode six I decided to go back and rewatch the existing episodes with fresh eyes and perspective. These are my thoughts, questions etc, posted episode by episode before the new one tomorrow night.

I’m focusing less on Malex since that seems to be where the majority of meta gets directed.

(No sideblogs we post every hyperfixation on main, but here’s a tag to blacklist and a cut to save your dashboard).

Well the alien crash certainly looked like a weather balloon. Lots of tattered fabric which is very odd.

Liz is surprised that Max is still in Roswell – I guess she assumed he would have carried on with his previous travel plans when she changed hers.

Carina confirmed on Twitter that Liz has been back for holidays (she just hasn’t seen Max) which makes sense or this is a very subdued reunion between Liz and Arturo after 10 years. But I like that since then I am marginally less sad for Papa Ortecho.

Liz is very conveniently closing up on her own there. Also, considering the town hates the Ortechos, I guess the Crashdown serves great food because they apparently all kept going there.

“I’m not one of the bad guys, Liz.” Now, I really hope that doesn’t end up being a horrible piece of foreshadowing in hindsight. I don’t want to rewatch this pilot in, say, five years, and think “FUCK YOU MAX EVANS.” Yes, now we know he’s done bad things, but depending on your view of human (alien?) nature that does not fundamentally make him a bad person.

Max is genuinely surprised that Liz remembers anything about him. Guess he’s been torturing himself in that decade assuming she forgot allll about him.

His line about protecting people definitely now belies that guilt has been his primary motivator for ten years. He’s quick to change the subject – leading onto:

He tries to say he’s sorry about Rosa (the source of his guilt) – this suggests they never spoke again after the desert trip – but Liz changes the subject, providing him with an easy out.

Healing Liz is the least he could do since he is directly responsible for her being shot. In hindsight his desperation to heal her is as much motivated by that ever-present guilt as it is love. And he’s probably surprised it worked this time when it didn’t for Rosa. Has he used his powers at all since that night? Their conversation later on suggests not.

He doesn’t go back to check on Liz, leaving that to the sheriff. Avoiding her again? She seeks him out in their next encounters (not him).

“Self-righteous lecture” in the drunk tank – okay Michael but you flaunting your powers like that is dangerous for all of you. You don’t know at this point that Max has broken his own rules.

“You’ve never done anything for anyone!” is still a strange line, though oft-debated. Michael helped in the cover-up, took the fall for Isobel and gave up his chance to get out of Roswell. Hardly nothing. But maybe it does refer to Michael basically becoming a drifter after that point and not doing anything to try and put right what they did.

Max does not confide in Isobel. She has no idea he still carries a torch for Liz. I don’t think she knows much about him at all, for all the time they spend together. His emotions are buried deep.

Michael makes plenty of digs about Alex’s dad. I think something went down after the hammer attack where Alex had to choose between Michael and his father – and he chose his father. Probably still craving acceptance despite everything. Maybe Michael pushed him away deliberately, but the bitterness on Michael’s side here would make that less likely.

Rosa really wanted Liz to get out of Roswell. She might not have been the best big sister but she still wanted the best for Liz. It’s sad that what happened coloured Liz’s perceptions of Rosa and really, robbed her of her chance to grieve for her sister.

“Can you keep a secret?” “Of course.” Yep, Max is great at keeping secrets. Liz…not so much.

Max is torn but his loyalty to his siblings is just about stronger than his pull towards Liz. I think only that all-pervading guilt sways it. But Michael and Isobel were right to assume Max was the weak link all those years ago.

Was Maria Rosa or Liz’s BFF? Or both? (if she was Rosa’s it makes sense she wasn’t at prom, as she would have graduated a year or two earlier).

In ten years has Max actually tried to love again, or has he shut himself off, at least emotionally? Did he decide it’s too big a risk to get attached? Even Isobel has a distance from Noah. Maybe it’s easier for Max to not even try and therefore live in the dream of what might have happened with Liz.

“I don’t dance in this town anymore” – her last dance was with Max.

I could be team Kyliz but they just don’t have that Echo chemistry.

Jim Valenti’s brain cancer – legit or somehow induced because he knew too much?

Max is offended by Liz calling him a stranger but, like, you are.

Much has been written about that Peak Whiteness statement, and Max’s quite callous disregard for why Liz hates Roswell. The aliens are far too wrapped up in their own fear of what might happen to them to do anything about the suffering of others (and ain’t that a metaphor). But when Max says that his family are happy – are they really? Or just living that comfortable lie Isobel spoke of?

“My life is ordinary” but miserable.

So who did put the pods in the cave? (I know, I know, one big mystery at a time).

Why oh WHY did nobody question the random mute kids found near the alien crash site? I know most people will treat the crash as a local myth/hoax and not make the connection, but surely this stuff made local news? Trying to locate their families before getting them adopted out? Did Jesse Manes/Jim Valenti (the sheriff!) not hear about this and go “this is weird, maybe we should keep an eye on these kids or dig a bit more. How have they never ended up on Manes’ radar?

Also exactly why was Michael harder to place – was his power manifesting even then?

Kyle does a lot of non-surgical medicine for a surgeon.

Isobel stopped messing with minds after Rosa died and only started again in episode 3 when she was trying to influence Liz. Cue blackouts. Maybe the cause of the blackouts is something as simple as using her powers.

The almost kiss here mirrors the almost kiss in episode six and they are both things of aching beauty.

Is that hope we see in our expression, Max? Don’t get too comfortable with it.

I don’t think Jesse Manes’ is all that bothered about protecting the world. He’s just eager for war. He longs for an excuse to cause pain. The description of the aliens is a description of himself (…could it be? Surely not?)

Also, how exactly does he know all of that? If only one known alien ever survived, what makes them think the aliens are so terrible? What exactly has this project been chasing for so many decades if there’s so little evidence of the aliens being out there? (I wonder if anybody ever dug up a desert corpse with a handprint on his chest).

#roswell new mexico

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popwasabi · 5 years ago

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Remembering My Hero, Robin Williams, Five Years Later

Not terribly long ago I used to deride others for feeling sad in the wake of a famous celebrity’s death.

My argument would go something like in the grand scheme of things their deaths “didn’t matter” when compared to various other atrocities and terrible, tragic things going on in the world. I even wrote an entire opinion piece poo-pooing the general populace for being sad in the wake of Whitney Houston’s death waaay back in 2012 for my University paper back in the day all largely because since I didn’t feel anything no one else should essentially.

Then Robin Williams died.

Well, more accurately Robin Williams committed suicide then everything changed for me.

To this day, I can’t recall a single death that has affected or beat me down more than this famous, larger than life comedian’s all too early passing and it still eats me up every time I think about it even five years later. You see, Robin was something of a hero of mine, an uber talented and charismatic funny man who seemed to perform his comedy with the kinetic energy of a hurricane and his humor often brightened my darkest moments growing up.

For him to die the way he did was beyond devastating for me.

Every 90s kid grew up on his various memorable performances. Whether it was “Aladdin” as the Genie, Peter Pan in “Hook” or masquerading as a nannie to win his family back in “Mrs. Doubtfire” we all had one performance that made us all fans early on.

(For some reason I always remember “Flubber” first though haha)

I didn’t start to truly appreciate him though until high school when I discovered his comic stand-up routines from his earlier years.

Despite not growing up in 70s or 80s his humor was nonetheless electric, unlike any previous comic I had seen up until that point and his impressions of Ronald Reagan, Henry Kissinger and Richard Nixon are still among my favorites. Live at the Met is an all-time favorite comic stand-up performance and much later Live on Broadway still has one of the greatest closing jokes ever:

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(”Harder than Chinese Algebra” is definitely a line I’ve used in my college years)

What I loved most about his performances was that he could be boisterous and sincere at the same time. Being both genuine and vulgar simultaneously and in the best way. Weave bizarre character references into personal tales of his own life. Tell a multitude of hilarious stories and references at 100 miles a minute like a comedic roller-coaster ride that lasted the duration of his performances and you never wanted to get off it. It’s true when Time Magazine referred to his comedy as something all comedians loved and respected but could never in a million years duplicate. Robin was a one of a kind talent, the penultimate original, and fans loved him for it.

Robin did his performances with such natural gusto and spontaneous hilarity that it might shock you to know he always wrote virtually every line of his stand-ups before his performances. To bring that humor to life with such infectious joy takes real talent and no one can ever deny Robin was one of the best if not the best at it.

The remarkable thing is on top of his stand-up the dude was an all-time great actor on top of that displaying ranges from as absurd as “Death to Smoochie” and ��World’s Greatest Dad” to as sensitive and thought provoking as “Good Will Hunting” and “Dead Poet’s Society.” Robin wasn’t afraid to show a darker side either in famous roles such as “Insomnia” and “One Hour Photo.” His range was simply amazing.

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(Personally my favorite^)

Like many high-schoolers, I was angsty teenager prone to hormonal anger and twitches, depressed I couldn’t score girls and that I wasn’t popular but at the end of the day I always had Robin to cheer me up.

As I became more and more a fan I’d read more into his life learning I actually had quite a few things in common with the famous funny man from a love of all things sci-fi including even anime and Warhammer to a deep appreciation of video games as he famously named his daughter Zelda after the titular Nintendo princess of the same name.

He was not just a comedian to me; he was one of us. America’s favorite funny, semi-secretly nerdy uncle and I loved him for it.

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(The sweetest Nintendo commercial ever. #uglycrying)

I would carry my love of this magnificent comedian into college where I would routinely re-listen to his greatest hits when I was at my lowest of lows and boy did I have plenty of them during this period of my life and many of them revolved around suicide.

For reasons that are too personal to expand on, I had a friend who I was close with early in college who had some deep mental health and abandonment issues. She would constantly fear the worst out of others’ intentions and whether I would stick around with her to help her through it all in life. This put a heavy drain on myself and eventually it broke me enough to just attempt to cut her out of my life.

So, she threatened to kill herself when that happened.

If you’ve never tried talking someone down out of suicide before it is by far the scariest thing I have ever had to do and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. To try to reason with someone who is convinced that their life is meaningless that no one cares about them that they are better off dead than alive is unlike any terror I’ve ever experienced. What scared me the most was what I would do with myself if I failed to talk her down. Could I live with myself if I couldn’t do enough to save this person? Is the blood on my hands too since it was my actions that drove her to this point?

Well, long story short, I did succeed in talking her down but it left a tremendous mark on my soul that I don’t think I’ll ever forget (it also would not be the last time this would happen). I did eventually move on from this person (for both our sakes) but the depression it left within in me still stings.

There are limits to emotional dependency that we should all understand and in my need to fix everything for those I cared about I started not to care about myself and it damn near killed me. You should always try to feel empathy and help those who are need but you can’t forget about yourself in this regard because it will destroy you too. Painfully and slowly.

That semester I listened to probably more Robin Williams than I ever had in the past. His humor keeping me from being an unfeeling zombie and my mind from breaking from the stress of that year (there were other events that compounded what was going on.) Robin kept me going, kept me laughing in a period I didn’t have a lot to feel joyful about and I’ll always be grateful to him for that.

Then a few years later, as well know now, on August 11, 2014 Robin took his own life.

Like most everyone else I was shocked, distraught, and in total disbelief. How could a man who had seemingly endless joy and lived by all measures a far more successful life than most people ever would feel the need to kill himself?

It was tragic beyond comprehension.

The aftermath of course was an outpouring of love and support to the Williams family particularly his children but there was also the detractors as well. People who denounced him as some sort of coward for taking his own life, Christian zealots who believed he was rotting in hell for his sin and all matter of bad takes regarding him being too privileged to be depressed. It was infuriating and broke my heart all at once. Here was a man who more than most probably deserved a happy ending, dead by his own hands and now subjected to dumb moronic statements by people who probably will never understand what depression does to someone.

You’d would only need to a modest amount of research to understand where Robin’s depression could come from though. Despite growing up in an affluent household his father and mother were rarely there with him, raised practically by the maids in his household and by himself most of his childhood. He had survivor’s guilt for being in the same room John Belushi died in many decades prior (which would become a wake-up call for his own drug addictions). Also, he was great friends with the late Christopher Reeves who went to school with him Julliard and that shouldn’t require too much explaining there.

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(Personal pain never stopped Robin from lampooning himself of course)

But the real death knell probably came at the end when months prior Robin’s suicide he was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia Association and early stages of Parkinson’s disease. Now anyone being diagnosed with these conditions would be devastating by itself but if you frame it in the mind of Robin Williams, a man who’s comedy and charm relies almost entirely on spontaneous-ness, extreme attention to detail and constant joy this is like losing the very thing that made you who are, what people love you for; your core identity.

Robin was no longer going to be Robin.

I’m not asking people to like suicide or accept every instance of it but people should try to understand why and not judge others for it. Sometimes the demons are just too strong and we can’t fault others especially a mind as crippled as Robin’s was at the end.

If there’s one positive that came out of Robin’s suicide, it’s that the conversation on depression and mental health has notably shifted since that time. In the years since, it’s more acceptable now to feel sad no matter what your background is; you didn’t need to be a coal miner with black lung or a soldier with PSTD to be acceptably depressed anymore (and no, before any of you start I’m not judging those people). Athletes and celebrities alike such as Demar Derozan, Ryan Reynolds, Serena Williams, and Chris Evans have all come out about their own personal struggles with their inner demons. It’s now okay more than ever to feel inadequate even if on paper you have ever reason not to feel that way.

Though society hasn’t become completely understanding of mental health issues yet society is still a lot more open about it than it was before at least. It’s not a silver lining, don’t make that mistake with what I’m saying, but it’s comforting in a strange way knowing that even in death Robin can inspire positivity.

It’s a shame and tragic that Robin didn’t get age gracefully into his twilight years and given the current state of the country and the world as a whole we could definitely use that trademark wit to lampoon our reality right now but I’m glad that Robin helped keep me going in my most formative years.

(I mean seriously though, could you imagine Robin getting a crack at this motherfucker today on stage?)

It’s not hyperbole to call Robin Williams one of the greatest entertainers of all-time and though his time in this world was cut short by his own hand he has still left an indelible mark on myself, his fans and the rest of the world. Depression and mental health is a fact of life, generally speaking all of us will struggle with it at some point but if we can get help early and not be afraid to ask for it or even cry for it then maybe the world won’t feel so dark for us all.

So please, let’s all remember to take care of ourselves whether that’s seeking friends or professional guidance. There is strength in sadness, power in grief and love when you are lonely. You owe it to yourself to seek help and trust me, there’ll be arms open to bring you in.

Because you matter.

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Thanks, Captain.

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