#rex is a man i would trust with ANYTHING but the strain it would put on him to assassinate the chancellor because he just decomd the army

[burningfieldof-clover]

i stared at this for 10 whole minutes before i looked at my husband and gave him a whole ass TEDtalk on why each choice was good or bad. Holy shit I haven't felt this engaged with something and challenged since.... ever?

Please explain your reasoning in the tags and may the Force be with you.

[tarisilmarwen]

Rebels Rewatch: "Through Imperial Eyes"

Spy antics, infiltrations, and endless stress holy crap.

Obligatory live reaction version. Be forewarned there's a lot of incoherent screaming in that one.

IIRC from the Rebels Recon for this episode they had briefly considered doing the whole episode as a POV shot from Kallus, which would have been cool and interesting and very artistic as a narrative decision but which they probably realized very quickly would have been a crapton of work they'd never finish on time.

So a bit of a compromise with this opening shot here, still getting across the pun, as we are literally looking through an Imperial's eyes.

Poor man looks exhausted.

They still haven't started strip mining the planet surface just yet. That wouldn't happen until right when the factories were ramping up production in preparation to start shoving TIE Defenders off the line.

So Thrawn literally had his funding pulled last minute. No wonder he was so cranky in the finale lol.

Lyste has put the light carrier on full red alert for a stolen shuttle. Not the first time he'll be flaunting his authority this episode.

Hi Ezra!

Straining the limits of Kallus' poker face already lol.

Love this little uncertain look before he takes the opportunity to sass that Stormtrooper.

Troopers once again just bullying around a teenager for no reason. Ezra's literally their favorite target for this, even when the others have gotten captured they aren't manhandled nearly as much.

I mean, not that I'm complaining or anything...

I do remember thinking that this seemed a rather dangerous course of action, and it's a bit at odds with the events of "The Antilles Extraction". Despite Ezra's reassurances to Kallus that most troopers don't actually know what he looks like now, he still has a pretty recognizable face. That was why they sent in Sabine the last time.

Buuuuuuuut Sabine's not here anymore. And they can't exactly send in the aliens of the group either. Rex and Kanan could have infiltrated by themselves though. So why exactly is Ezra sent in alone with just Chopper and AP-5 as backup?

He must have insisted on being involved in the extraction plot, like he couldn't have been for Skystrike, for the same irrational emotional reasons--because his sense of hyper-responsibility means that he will deliberately take on the most danger in order to prevent any potential harm or hurt coming to the people he cares about. It has to be him, because if he takes all the risks, no one else has to, and no one else will get hurt.

This loops back into his guilt over Malachor. Ezra's been projecting his shame and fears about Maul, about his failure there, onto everything else. He's still a bit prickly and suspicious towards Kallus several times this episode, not willing to trust so easily again and repeat his mistakes.

"I have to do this, I have to destroy the Sith and fix my mess, I have to protect my friends." Ezra's been trying to take on way more than he can actually handle, and it's gotten him in trouble multiple times this season. At Reklam, when he leaves himself for the last to get out and winds up stranded and plummeting to his doom. In the krykna cave, when he insists on going in alone without Kanan and nearly gets mulched. On Dathomir, when he nearly winds up possessed by Nightsister spirits, just to get a hint at the "key to destroy the Sith".

And here, where things very nearly go completely pear-shaped due to Thrawn unexpectedly turning up, and Lyste hoping to present Ezra as a bid for the Grand Admiral's favor.

I'll talk more about this character arc, as I've said, in "Twin Suns" when we get to the end of it.

For now let me just enjoy the hysterical strain in Kallus's voice as he bitches about being rescued. David Oyelowo does "shrill and full of stress" really well.

I love this expression so much, he cannot comprehend the Rebels risking so much just for him it's so sweet.

Despite his complaining, Ezra looks very ready to maybe trust Kallus, look at this face.

Feigning prisoner mistreatment shouldn't have worked as well as it did but lajhafksfjhkjh this is the Empire.

Thrawn conveniently turning up right when the Rebels have made a move again. It's uncanny how the man can do this. It never felt like normal narrative contrivance it always held just a bit of uncertainty and paranoia about it all.

So yeah ONE THING THIS EPISODE DOES REALLY REALLY WELL IS AMP UP THAT SUSPENSE AND TENSION. I was so anxious watching this the first time, pins and needles, it was effective but horrible.

Ezra with that brief fearful flash of, "Ohhhhh crap, we did not plan for this."

Knew from the moment we panned down to Ezra's helmet on the floor there with that brief music box snippet of Thrawn's theme that it would come into play.

Ezra's hidden cheeky smiles at AP-5. <3

And a nice little callback to "A Princess On Lothal".

See, this is what I'm talking about there's literally no reason to smack his head here, they're just being petty and mean.

Love the subtle worry in Kanan's eyes here. <3

Hi Brunsen! Hi Titus! Hi Slavin!

This moment here in front of the door serves two purposes effortlessly. First, it lets Lyste kick the dog by pulling a Karen on this poor guard, so we're not as sad when he's framed for the Fulcrum deal later. (Though I was still a little bit sad, he was pitiful and didn't deserve that.) Second, it establishes the obstacle we're going to have to overcome later.

....All right, fine, the Thrawn girlies can have one cap.

I'm pretty sure this music cue is a carryover from TCW.

God the fondness and admiration in Kallus' voice at seeing Yularen, ouch. This is a man he used to look up to and now he's betraying everything his old mentor stood for.

Right, so obviously showing them the map was a ploy, but it's wonderfully clever of him. Thrawn likes to throw curveballs at his opponents to see how they react and adapt. He develops the same kind of villainous respect for Kallus that he has for Hera, though more to do with how Kallus outmaneuvered him in the mind game and spy espionage thing.

Kinda dig that Pryce wasn't in the previous meetings because her loyalty is without question.

Also yes, I do crack!ship it a little bit.

Oh hey, the moment that inspired my "Mirrorverse" AU!

Will never not laugh at Kallus' tired, "Please stop that." at Ezra on the ceiling of the cell.

It's kind of astonishing how good Ezra looks in Imperial outfits. Really too bad his interactions with Kallus are limited because they bounce off each other in one of the most interesting and entertaining ways.

"Oh good, the thankless job." AP-5 is the best and I will hear no slander.

I was... unclear on how exactly the decoy planet was supposed to have fooled Thrawn. Still am, a bit. Surely the man has a photographic memory, right?

But then maybe that was one of the things that pinged him as being too clever for Lyste to have done.

Hilarious that Kallus managed to pull a Stealth Hi Bye on a Jedi.

This scene is so well done in the tension department. The cloying silence. Thrawn calmly walking in to check the map. The sudden attack from the sentries with a flare of dramatic music. Ezra feeling like he's just barely hidden out of sight behind the retaining wall. (Once again, symbolically using Sabine's artwork as a shield, I mean what?)

And props to Thrawn, he does really well surviving against his own sentry droids. I'm down with letting the man have a little physical combat to show off his athletic prowess. As a treat.

And I dig that the override code is his bodyguard's name. :)

This expression is delightfully chilling. The man is seething.

Another episode which does a good job handling Kanan's blindness, Kanan has to ask for clarification on what Rex is "Woah"ing over and he doesn't recognize Pryce by voice so he doesn't know not to try the Mind Trick on her.

And again, the competence of other Imperials increases dramatically with Thrawn merely present. Yularen immediately finds a shuttle asking to dock right after an assassination attempt fishy. Pryce tries to arrest them immediately and recognizes the attempt at a Jedi Mind trick. Thrawn makes people smarter just by being in the room.

My girlboss just straight up Thunderdome-ing it with Rex here. I love that she's so physically tough and brutal. <3

Lyste still would have gotten in trouble for stunning Pryce here, just saying. That bit of idiocy is all on him.

Awww a snippet of the "Shenanigans" cue!

Like I said, Lyste is kind of pitiable here. I wonder if they ever let him go, at least for the "treasonous spy" thing.

Kallus you're playing it up just a little too much here, my love.

Gods, it's just instantaneous, all he has to do is look at the helmet for a second and he recognizes, "That's Sabine Wren's work."

And then immediately draws the line from "Sabine Wren painted this helmet." to "Clearly it was done for Ezra Bridger to wear."????

See, even Thrawn can tell how close they are and how important they are to each other. He must have noticed from, idk, security holos or something that Ezra likes to wear things that Sabine's painted for him.

Thrawn sounds really smug here, I think he'd long suspected Kallus for Fulcrum and is gleeful at being right.

He's such an arrogant prick. "That's why you've been deceived." oh shut up you pompous ass just because you're super smart doesn't mean you need to be condescending about it.

And the "Thrawn's Web" organs to close us out. Nice.

*points inarticulately*

This episode! Many much good! Stress! Espionage! Cat and mouse mind games! Ezra peril! Did I mention the stress?

Hhhhhnnnnnghhh I love this one so much, it's my favorite of the season, just barely eeking out "Twin Suns".

It's all hits from here, baby. (Maybe? I don't actually remember "Double Agent Droid" that well I don't rewatch it often. We'll see.)

[orphic-musings]

Characters: Zhongli x gn! adeptus! reader

Genre: Angst

Warnings: War, moderate gore, is lore a warning?

Summary: Zhongli recalls the story of his old ally, Y/N, but it is a sad tale that only brings him bitterness.

Notes: Ok so this is my first like actual fic on here. It wasn't requested but I love Zhongli and I love lore so I thought this idea would be kinda fun!

»»————-　♡　-————««

Zhongli’s POV:

He sits at the teahouse, listening to stories he knows by heart while contently sipping oolong. Today the storyteller is supposed to tell a lesser-known story, and Zhongli is quite interested to hear how he’ll tell it. But as the man begins speaking, Zhongli freezes. His tea suddenly tastes bitter, and so does his heart.

“Today I will be reciting ‘The Betrayal of The Maven of the Adepti’ a story of how Rex Lapis’ closest ally turned tail in the heat of battle.” The crowd hushes in earnest interest, for few have ever heard this tale. Most chatter nearby cedes, but the silence falls heavy on Zhongli’s heart. Of all stories, this is the one that he cannot bear to hear. He abruptly stands and leaves. Rather than taking a long stroll as usual, he instead goes straight home. The bitter flavour is still in his mouth, and it taints his heart when he swallows.

The air was strained, stiff as rock. Members of the Guili Assembly flitted about ensuring everything was planned out perfectly. There was organized chaos as adepti prepared to fight a disadvantageous battle. Chi was a force that had long grown in power since the start of the war. Keeping its territory to the north tight in its claws. It was a threat to the people of Guili plains, and Morax knew he needed to face it sooner than later. There was disquiet in the air, an anxiety that would not dissipate until the battle began. However Morax felt rather calm, because there was one he trusted, one he knew would lead them to a victory. Y/N, an adeptus of not so much physical strength, but of strength in strategy and support, an invaluable talent in such times. They were close, very close, and Morax was not afraid to put his life in their capable hands. Now he was seeking them out, to solidify one detail in the battle plan, however among the disarray it was difficult to know where they could be. No doubt many others were seeking advice or solace from them as the fight draws ever nigh. But a voiced called out. Even through all the noise it rang like a bell in the quiet. And alarm filled the encampment.

“Where are you going? You cannot leave! This battle is lost without you!” Preparations have all halted now, as heads turn to the disturbance. And there Guizhong herself was calling to Y/N who was sprinting from the camp with utter haste. Her desperate pleas fell empty as they quickly ran from sight. The inner turmoil of everyone suddenly swell as doubt takes over.

“We are doomed without them! How could they forsake us now?” One would cry.

“Never could I expect such treachery! This is a terrible blow.” Said another.

Morale plummeted, and even Guizhong seemed to despair. Morax needed to say something, but not a single sound would leave him. He was incredulous. Like a sword cleft his heart in two, he felt wounded beyond anything. But it was not only a fissure in his heart, but in the entire encampment. Rage, hurt, fear all overwhelming the adepti and people. They were faltering fast, and Morax knew there could be no victory. But, he had once said he would put his life in their hands, with no fear and no doubt. Though he is confused and pained, should he be shaken so easily? He wants to believe in them, he needs to, so that he can bring his people victory. There is no room in his mind for doubt or questions. He is the Lord of Geo, so he shall be a rock for his people, unmoved and strong, even in the face of such sudden events.

“Fellow warriors,” he called out, steadying his voice, putting confidence into his words, “we must be strong. The world is uncertain and changing, and the worst may yet be ahead of us. But we remain solid. We are a mountain, and even the strongest waves of the ocean will not erode us so easily. Keep your head held high above the water, and we will all stay afloat. Our goal is victory, and so we will use all our power to achieve it!” The crowd cheered, and even if they are still uncertain, the would not show it. They had to believe, else they would have no courage. And despite the fear, despite the rapid beating of their hearts, aught could shake them now. As Morax led them to battle, they were steady and they were determined.

The battle was unsparing, and the victory the eventually wrought was earned at a steep cost. It took nothing short of the full power of the assembly to take down the serpentine beast, and seal it away. As Morax walked among the mosaic of corpses, he couldn’t help but notice the small details, rather than the gore. A hand with a ring on it, lives that ended while reaching for their weapon, wills that were unbroken even in the very end. One of them was clutching a small keepsake close to their chest. As he looked around he saw only promises unfulfilled, contracts broken. He thought of Y/N, and the promise they made to him many years ago.

Now that it was over, and victory achieved, there was once again time to think about prior events. The betrayal was devasting not only for the battle, but also for all those who were close with Y/N, which was a great many. Only bitterness remained after the triumph, and it was not soon forgotten. The one he had cared for the most, of any he had met, abandoned him. Morax could not endure the agonizing wrenching of his heart. It was not a typical pain, not a sting or an ache. No, it was like his heart was being wrung, blood squeezed out with every emotion and care he had ever felt, until it was fully sapped, cold and empty. All this pain, all this turbulence, and for what? It was almost laughable, if it wasn’t so raw. In that moment he swore a contract to himself, never to forgive them.

Long after, their name was spoken with doleful spite, if it was spoken at all. And ever longer still thereafter, their name was stricken from history, from tales spoken and books written, until only a few held memory of it. But Zhongli’s memory was not the same as any other who might recall those events. His recollection was even more painful.

Y/N’s POV:

You scanned the scout report, as if staring harder would make new information appear. It was insufficient, and though everyone worked to make the best of the situation, it was already an unfavorable situation. Warriors and strategists met with you for reassurance or to go over the plans once more, and in the crowds you could feel fear. This battle would be a nightmare. It was on the Chi’s territory, and it would be dangerous to merely get to the ideal fighting location. And even then it would still hold the advantage. You glanced around the camp, and the business did not hide the uncertainty. You had to do something, anything to sway the outcome. But it seemed impossible, and even you were losing hope. If you lost hope, everyone would lose hope. So much pressure was beginning to weight on you, suffocating you slowly.

Looking back at the crude map of the north you noticed something curious. The scouts had not noted the nest anywhere, leaving you to wonder where it might be. The Chi is a creature of water, most of them residing in the oceans, however this territory had little areas with water. There was a shallow stream that ran through a ravine, and a waterfall that carried the water to it. The nest was not atop the mountain, so it must be somewhere. And close to water would be… in the waterfall, or behind it. You grabbed the map suddenly, and trace your finger along the rough sketch. It is possible there’s a cave where the creature could be residing. If you could ambush it before the battle, or maybe if you could quell some of it’s power. There was no time, and everyone was too occupied. Adding in another layer to the plan would only throw everyone off. You could not seek aid for this, but still it had to be done. Swiftly your feet carried you, despite the weight in your heart and the warning in your mind. You left behind any sense or rationality back in the camp with all your things.

“Where are you going? You cannot leave! This battle is lost without you!” Guizhong’s voice called to you, and your eyes watered. You pictured her face, her grace and calm demeanor shattered. They would not understand, but you were past the point of turning back. This had to be done as soon as possible, lest you forsake them to their demise. The sun waned through the sky as you journeyed northward, until at last you reached the mountain. Seldom was this region traveled, and no paths were trodden. Either going over or around the mountain would take time, and though you could’ve cleared a path with your powers, it was necessary to conserve them. In the end you scaled the mountain, and it was toilsome, but you kept going. The image of Guizhong and Morax kept you going, their faces full of worry and doubt. And all those who sought your aid, your wisdom, though your sudden departure surely caused disarray you would make sure it was worth it. You could not let them down, you could not be made out as a traitor, not to the ones you loved the most.

From the vantage point atop the plateau, you espied many waterfalls feeding stream surrounding the clove. You had no time to search every crevice, and from here on out you needed to tread carefully, quietly. Should you be discovered it would all be in vain. Instead, you let the elemental energy guide you. A powerful creature would leave many traces, and where it was strongest would likely be the nest. So you made your way down carefully, and sure enough you found one waterfall hidden in one cavity, just behind the gorge. It was far from obvious that there would be a nest there, and the cave itself was blended into the mountainside. Each step you took was deliberate and light. If the beast was home it would be resting or feasting most likely, and if it was not then it could return at any moment. You were caught between stealth and haste, both of utmost importance, and the vast amount of elemental energy was both a great danger and your savior. It would mask your own energy, but it was also volatile, and could quickly end you. You imagined yourself as Morax, the greatest warrior and solid as the very ground, and it gave you the courage to enter the cave. Creeping down the slope you felt energy radiating all around you, most likely there was a ley line along here. No wonder this Chi had gained so much power. The narrow pass opened up to a larger cavern, but it was void of any living things. It was a relief, for you were not so confident in your combat skills, should it have come to that.

At the heart of the cave was the most concentrated area of energy, so much that you could taste it in the air, and feel its buzz. Inhaling deeply, you gathered the elemental energy around you and summoned up your own adeptal energy and began to form an alter. You thrust it through the ground, like thrusting a stake through the heart, while putting as much force as you could muster into the seal. Whether it would hold for long, or at all, you could not say, and you prayed it would shift the tide of battle, even slightly. Immediately the buzz around you stopped and the elemental energy settled, at least you knew it worked. You fell to the ground, spent. The sheer amount of power you put into the seal made you dizzy, and gravity felt stronger than ever. Like a sudden earthquake, the ground shook. Without turning your head, you knew what it was. The Chi has returned home, and it was not happy. You forced yourself to stand, mustering up the last of your power. If you could manage to land even a scratch on it, you would have completed your mission. Widening your stance, you braced yourself, and you summoned your weapon. Your will turned to steel; you would buy as much time as you could.

Not even a blink, and you were on the ground again. Had you been unfocused? Did it strike while you were preparing yourself, or was it simply so fast you did not even see it move. Pain boiled within now, and a cry left your lips. The unbearable burning of your entire body made you feel ill. It was insufferable, and as you strained to lift your head you saw your wounds. Not merely a scratch, but many deep gashes covered your body. Large claws crudely lacerated your body, leaving effusive red bleeding that seeped into the ground. Your head fell back as you choked. The draconic creature would have attacked once more, easing your suffering, had it not sensed another intrusion in its territory. It bolted away as you failed to cry out or prevent its leave. You could only suffer as the life drained from you and nausea overcame you. Time lost meaning, and your thoughts floated away from you as your consciousness faded.

When he found you, the warmth had already left your ravaged body. You were motionless, but you coughed out, hoarse and faint. “No. No don’t leave. Stay with me, please! Stay!” He pleaded, desperate and afraid. The Lord of Geo, the Warrior God, felt so powerless. Even with open eyes your vision was speckled black. Your ears were full of noise, and he sounded so far away. So far… a world away.

“We won. Our people are safe now.” Tears now fell from his eyes. You barely heard. No matter how much you wanted to smile, to let him know it’s all okay, you couldn’t. The muscles in your body refused to obey. Even a tiny smile seemed an impossible feat when you were losing control of yourself. He held you tighter, and you both knew you were slipping. I need to go now, let me go, you thought, for words would not leave you. I don’t need your forgiveness, just... don’t forget me. You wished that he could hear, but it was futile. And though blood still flowed from your deep gashes, you were now hollow. Morax could not even mutter a farewell, as he sat with you in silence. Now in the cold of his room, lifetimes later, he still weeps for you. And still his contract remains. He will never forgive you for leaving him so soon.

[kyber-queen]

Someone New (Rex x Jedi!reader)

Summary: This is a lil prequel for the Like Real People Do universe, but it can be read as a stand-alone!! Shiny!Rex is completing additional training under Jedi!reader and he’s painfully in love, big brother Cody gives advice (Codywan if you squint), some mutual pining and confessions!! 

Rating: Teen

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: Mentions of blood, mentions of blasters, awkward Rex, kithes

Author’s Note: I wanted to write something happy for this series since its ending brought me so much pain. This is an elaboration of one of the memories Rex brings up in Pt. 4 -- I hope you all enjoy!! Also-- shebs means one’s backside in Mando’a if you were not aware :D

***

Shots fired off in quick succession to your left, the sheer volume of the mock battle around you rattling your brain. You were holed up behind a barricade next to Rex—the other troopers you were running the simulation with had scattered themselves behind various other blockades. Their helmets were turned expectantly towards you. You glanced over your shoulder at Rex, his visor trained on your face as he waited for your command. He’d been specifically selected to complete additional tactical training, and he had proven himself to be a fast learner and a skilled tactician. He had quickly assumed the position of your right-hand man, pointing out possible troop formations that even you might have missed. Your reliance on him during training quickly extended beyond the battlefield arena—you considered him a friend, and a good one at that. You cared about him, sometimes more than you knew a Jedi should.

“Sir, we’re bogged down from the front, and they’re looking to circle around from behind. Where do you want us?”

You acknowledged Rex with a tilt of your head, scanning the battlefield and eyeing the heavy artillery cannons protected by a row of battle droids—if you could dismantle the cannons, your troops could make a final push to the citadel under lighter fire.

“Cover me—I’m going to take out the artillery,” Rex nodded as you turned to address the rest of the men.

“Stand your ground—pick off the battle droids until we can take out the cannons,” you called.

Assuring that everyone had heard your orders, you leapt up from behind the barricade and started off towards the artillery cannons with a sprint. You made it maybe ten paces before the ground in front of you erupted with a bang.

Your vision flashed and your ears rang, and your body sailed through the air until you felt something solid collide against your back. Hands came to steady your waist, and an all-too-familiar voice sounded from behind you.

“You alright, sir?”

Rex. You absorbed the feeling of his strong hands gripping your waist, looking over your shoulder to see his masked gaze focused on your face. You shook off the momentary stun.

“I’m fine—focus on the cannons,” you shouted.

“Roger that,” he called.

Rex flexed his fingers, the sensation of your waist underneath his fingertips lingering far longer than it should have. He gulped. He trusted you—far more than the average trust built between a trooper and their commanding officer. You had singled him out on the first day he was stationed with you, mentioning that the Marshal Commander had issued a glowing report of his promise as a tactician. Since then, you and Rex had become near inseparable. Somewhere in between the late nights spent developing complex battle strategies and running over military codes, Rex found you invading more and more of his thoughts. It grew beyond just friendly trust—it’s like you put some Jedi curse on him. Your face plagued him during mess, while he was sleeping, in the kriffing refresher—every kind smile and friendly touch played over in his head tenfold. He knew the butterflies in his stomach were traitorous, but when you said his name with that sweet smile on your lips, every rule and regulation went out the window.

“Rex, blast it!” You gestured your saber at an approaching battle droid, still charging ahead to the cannons.

Rex shook himself from his ruminations, silently berating himself for his distraction as he fired at the droid. He was well and truly fucked.

***

“You did well today,” you smiled, bumping your shoulder against Rex’s pauldron. “Keep that up and you’ll be an ARC in no time,”.

Rex preened at your praise, punching in the code to enter the locker room with a grin. The door slid open with a clank.

“Keep an eye on those detonators, by the way,” he teased. “Almost had to scrape you off the duracrete,”.

You rolled your eyes as he followed you into the locker room.

You made a beeline to the sink, splashing water onto your face, which was still flushed with exertion from the training simulation. The locker room buzzed with excitement at a battle well-won. You glanced up from your reflection in the mirror, watching as a few straggling troopers stripped off their armor before heading to the refresher. You turned back to the sink, scrubbing your face and neck clean.

When you next looked up from the sink, your gaze was returned by a certain bleach-blond trooper.

His towel was slung low over his hips, and your eyes widened as you traced a bead of water from his temple all the way down to his chest. You followed it across his abdomen, watching as the water droplet slipped underneath the towel. Your cheeks flushed. Rex was your friend. Every single thought racing through your mind at that moment crossed every line drawn by your friendship, not to mention the regulations specified for the clones and the creed of the Jedi order. You were ashamed to admit to yourself that this wasn’t the first time you had considered him in that way, either. The crease in his brow when he focused, his gentle smile when the two of you organized a successful strategy, his voice low in your ear as he leaned over your shoulder to point out a stray troop formation you had missed—he drew you in, no matter how much you resisted. On the day you met him, his force signature reached out to yours. Since then, neither meditation nor mindfulness was enough to keep him out of your head. It was just your luck that you were certain he would never feel the same.

Your eyes flashed back up to Rex’s reflection in the mirror. You both looked away.

Rex was trained to be observant—he didn’t miss the way your eyes traced his body. Your gaze was electrifying. You were a Jedi. You had enchanted him within the first week of training, and now, Rex was certain he’d do just about anything you’d ask. You had no business falling for a shiny, yet the fire behind your eyes gave Rex hope. You treated him like a person, not an expendable soldier. With every evening you spent at his side reading tactical manuals and discussing new techniques, he found himself becoming more and more entangled with you.

***

“Cody—can we talk?”

Cody looked up from his paperwork, shuffling a large stack into place.

“What do you need, Rex?”

Rex entered the room fully, shuffling over to the desk and leaning rather awkwardly against it. Cody noted Rex’s strained expression with a deep sigh.

“It’s not the Jedi, is it?”

Rex nodded apologetically.

Cody took a deep breath, drumming his fingertips across the other side of the desk.

“You know their code, right? No attachments?”

Rex nodded again.

“Rex—vod’ika—almost every trooper I know has had a crush on a Jedi. It works out maybe one out of 100,000 times, if at all,”.

Rex’s brow furrowed.

“I know, Cody, I just—”

He trailed off. Cody shook his head with a sigh, meeting Rex’s eyes with a sad look on his face. Cody knew the second Rex had mentioned his additional training sessions with the pretty Jedi knight that nothing good could come of it. It was dangerous for Rex and the Jedi, both—Cody knew firsthand. Still, Rex was his brother, and Cody would help him where he could.

“Alright, here. Use Mando’a—natborns’ll go wild for it. And remember, you’re a man of action. A soldier. If you think they care about you the way you care about them, do something before they lose interest,”.

Rex nodded, listening intently. His head tilted in curiosity.

“Does that work for you?”

Cody smiled softly.

“Almost always,”. The smile disappeared. “And Rex?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t do anything stupid. It’s been a while since I’ve heard about a brother being reconditioned, but—” He trailed off, looking intently at Rex, before placing a strong hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Just—be careful,”.

Rex nodded, uttering a quiet ‘thank you’ before walking back out the door.

***

You leaned against the wall of the locker room, drumming your fingertips absentmindedly. You waited patiently for the troopers to clear out of the refresher so you could take a shower with some semblance of privacy. Almost all the clones had left for the barracks—except for Rex. He had lingered around the locker room today, for whatever reason. He’d been off recently, you had noticed. More skittish, less talkative. At least he wasn’t darting off to the barracks without a second glance, today. He emerged from the ‘fresher stall in the bottom half of his blacks, a towel tossed over his broad shoulders. You watched his back tense up as he reached for his blacks top in his locker.

Rex’s gaze met yours for a split second as he pulled his shirt over his head—his face was flushed bright red. You were perplexed. Rex was your closest real friend on base, and he had been acting downright strange the past few days. Did you offend him in some way? Had you managed to screw up your friendship without even saying a word? At your training session today, he had just about choked on his tongue when you got him pinned while sparring.

“Rex, you alright?”

The trooper met your gaze with a hushed breath of air that might have been a chuckle were he not so damn nervous. Cody told him to do something, right? He needed to make a move.

Rex closed the gap between the two of you with three quick strides, reaching a calloused hand up to cup your face.

“Cyare,”. His voice was hushed, almost reverent. Butterflies erupted in your stomach.

You opened your mouth slightly, but before you could respond, his lips crashed into yours. His teeth caught painfully at your bottom lip, and you jolted away with a gasp of surprise and pain.

He had kissed you.

You brought two tentative fingers to your mouth, pulling them away to reveal a tiny drop of blood. Your hand dropped to your side.

You met Rex’s eyes—it seemed as if all the color had disappeared from his face.

Rex knew he had fucked up. You were staring at him, silently, with an entirely unreadable expression across your face. This was it, he was going to get reconditioned. Cody’s words echoed through his mind. Don’t do anything stupid. And what did he do? He kissed his Jedi commanding officer, and not only that, he busted their lip open. Cody could tell him he told him so while hauling his defective shebs all the way back to Kamino.

“I-I’m sorry,”. Rex’s voice was barely a whisper.

You heard the tremor in his voice. Your heart ached, and the concern melted from your brow. Cyare—that meant beloved in Mando’a, you thought. He cared for you, too. You reached up to Rex’s face, curling your fingers around his jaw. You pulled him down to your height and into a kiss far gentler than the one before. Your lips slid softly against his, reveling in the warmth of his mouth on yours. His hands circled your waist lightly as he continued to press those soft, gentle kisses against your lips. He certainly was a quick learner. You felt his contented sigh against your cheek as you traced his jaw with your thumb. You could get drunk on kissing him. You pulled away slowly, Rex’s lips chasing yours as he stole just one more kiss from your smiling mouth.

His hands lingered on your waist, so light that you could barely feel them touching you. You rested your forehead against his. His force signature was warm and bright—more so than you had ever felt before. Rex’s unsteady voice broke the silence.

“I wanted you to know,”.

You hummed in response, your hands cupping his face as he melted into your touch.

“I care about you too, Rex,”.

His hands strengthened in their grip around your waist as he held you closer to him.

“So, what happens now?”

you searched his eyes, and warmth blossomed in your chest. All you knew was that you cared about him, and that was enough. You’d have to be careful, you noted. Pursuing this was going to be dangerous, for the both of you, and possibly painful. Your future was clouded—the force offered neither judgement nor advice.

Your thumb coasted over the apple of his cheek, and Rex let his eyes flutter closed for just a moment at the gentleness of your touch. When you next spoke, your voice was soft and hopeful.

“We’ll figure it out as we go,”.

***

Like Real People Do Taglist: @pinkiemme @callme-eds @porgnugget @obi-robi-kenobi

[dccomicrants]

The JSA and Masks

Comic Issues Involved: The Flash vol 2 161, Pat McGreal, Paul Pelletier

Content Warnings: Drug and Substance Addiction Mentions

Summary: An analysis of a conversation that happened at Jay Garrick's Honeymoon which is talked about here.

Transcript of Dialogue that is analyzed:

Alan Scott (Green Lantern): ... So Jay, I know there aren't supposed to be any secrets between a man and his wife, but... Al Pratt (Atom): Joan's known who the Flash really is for some time now, hasn't she? Jay Garrick (Flash): Well, yeah. sure. Ted Grant (Wildcat): I dunno, it seems like a... a violation of the who secret identity concept. Jay Garrick (Flash): Are you telling me that none of you have ever considered letting your girlfriends in on the game? Alan Scott (GL): Uh... no... Ted Grant (WC): [guilty facial expression] Al Pratt (Atom): I guess I thought about telling Mary once. Rex Tyler (Hourman): Of course not. Charles McNider (Dr. Mid-Nite): Not me. Jay Garrick (Flash): Sheesh. Sometimes I think guys in our line of work suffer from arrested development. Alan Scott (GL): Hmm. Jay Garrick (Flash): Oh Heck. You've probably got the right idea. Anyway, all I wear is a helmet and Joan's no dummy. She figured it out long before I ever told her

Let's break this down systematically now- Charles McNider never married his sweetheart (fans thought he was gay but no he just really wanted to protect her from his nightlife and she ended up murdered anyways so how'd that work for him?). Alan has had 2 divorces generally. With DC Pride, his lover Jimmy died in the same train crash that led to him making his lantern and that's a whole separate thing. Alan has 2 kids he didn't know about until they were adults since they were given up for adoption by his ex-wife who was also a supervillain (what is it with Gotham Heroes and marrying villains?). Ted Grant never canonically married, he had a son with a girlfriend, and after his identity was discovered his son was kidnapped and was killed in experimentation by his nemesis. He has another son that he didn't know about until Tom was an adult. Rex stayed married to Wendi but they had a very strained marriage due to the fact that miraclo was addictive and he was very much addicted to the drug. Rex's son eventually would go on to be the second Hourman. Al Pratt married his girlfriend but she was murdered when she was pregnant with their son because his identity was compromised.

At this point in time, none of that has happened. They're all in the prime of their crime-fighting careers. Nothing too major has rocked the boat.

Alan Scott was a closeted gay man who ended up having two failed marriages while being a crime fighter and before he started his career, he lost his lover to a tragedy. To Alan, ever talking about who he really is would be a giant risk because it was the 40s and he was a newsman. He had to stay respectable and he was under scrutiny.

Ted Grant was the Heavy Weight Boxing champion, a known fighter. But he also had a scandal due to other managers paying boxers to throw fights which lead to an innocent man's death causing him to put the costume on in the first place. His name was cleared but he kept suiting up because Alan inspired him. He would already be in the spotlight but he would also be safer to share his identity because he's a known fighter that people knew better than to mess with.

Rex Tyler ran a company and developed miraclo- a drug that gave him super strength for an hour that he could only take once every twenty-four hours. He had an okay reason to not say anything about his identity to try to protect Wendi because he was just some chemist.

Charles McNider was a respected doctor who was blinded in an accident- he could have told his long-time love interest his secret identity because who would ever make the connection between a blind man and a crime fighter? She would have been the safest.

Al Pratt was a college student at the time, he's the youngest person in the room and he admitted to thinking about telling his secret identity to his girlfriend. He also for the longest time didn't have any powers.

This is all very important so hang in there.

Jay unintentionally strikes a nerve because Joan knows who he is. These are all men that Jay trusts with his life and to an extent, Joan's life. They all know his identity, he knows their identities. More importantly, they're friends, and he's genuinely surprised that he's the only one who trusts the person he loves enough with his secret identity. Alan is clearly uncomfortable (on several levels), as are Ted and Charles. Rex and Al handle it the best and drop it, but in the panels, you can see that Ted, Alan, and Charles are the most uncomfortable with what they've just discussed, with Alan actually voicing it with an uncomfortable Hmm. Jay salvages the night by admitting that Alan (and thus everyone else) may be right about keeping their identities secrets but he also admits that Joan figured it out, which likely leaves the others wondering if their girlfriends may have figured out their identities already as well.

Jay Garrick because of his honesty with Joan has the healthiest marriage out of all of the JSA, even when his identity becomes public knowledge, there's never an attempt on Joan's life because she's his wife. And everyone else for one reason or another due to the lack of honesty has either a strained relationship or loses the ones they loved because they didn't share their secret identities.

In other comics, the point is brought up that they wear the masks to protect their loved ones yet their loved ones end up endangered because of the secrets of the masks.

Their reactions to Jay not keeping any secrets from Joan when contrasted with the fact that his honesty meant the longest lasting and healthiest marriage whereas their secrets while wise in the short term ultimately ended in tragedy for all of the other men present is something I think about a lot.

[dottiechan]

Spare bunk

Pairing: Captain Rex x reader

Word count: 2008

Warnings: TCW S7 spoilers below cut

Summary: After discovering a strange signal at the cyber station on Anaxes, Captain Rex calls an old ally for help.

Having just arrived back to Fort Anaxes from the Separatist cyber station, Rex feels drained. Drained might actually be a poor description of what he is going through – being overwhelmed by all his newfound feelings might be a better way to capture his inner sufferings. Sufferings he cannot share with anyone truly. No one who would understand, no one who would fully believe him.

Because he knows Echo is alive, damn all who think otherwise.

Tup, Dogma, Hardcase and Fives are all gone – no more than distant memories and smiling faces on holo images tucked away carefully in crates of 501st military gear and equipment. Cody is injured, moaning incoherently in his sleep while his face is scrunched up in pain despite all the kolto circulating in his bloodstream, with Jesse and Kix tending to him, watching over him.

There’s General Skywalker, of course, but one need not be Force sensitive to feel he’s reluctant, filled to the brim with disbelief and concerns to his own. And the Bad Batch may have proven themselves as allies and warriors, but none of them knew Echo. None of them would share his pain, feel his grief, and support his blind hope.

There is one another, his mind reminds Rex as he sits alone in his barracks, the white-blue shells of his armour lying discarded on the floor more carelessly than how he usually leaves them, knees hugged tightly to his chest. Another who’s survived the Citadel, another who was broken by the loss of Echo, so broken she walked straight out the Jedi Order, maybe even the Republic. Another who could potentially help, potentially understand. Also across the Galaxy, probably, but that is beside the point. Rex is aching to hear her voice, feel her compassion, feel like something, anything that isn’t just plain miserable. Anyone who says clones are engineered to not be afraid, to focus only on duty, can go straight to hell according to the Captain.

Rex moves slowly, not trusting his limbs as he unravels himself, plants his feet firmly on the ground as if he didn’t trust his own body. He pushes aside the pieces of his chestplate to fish out the utility belt underneath. There’s an encryption only he and her know, the one he constantly aches to use and yet never once dared to actually use to make a call. Now there is no hesitation in his fingers as he keys it into his holoprojector and waits for you to answer on the other end.

...

Sskoora growls, but you know him well enough to decipher the meaning behind the Trandoshan’s hisses – the one he emitted just now is the equivalent of a sigh, and you know you’ve won when the hunter brushes past you to enter the cockpit of your ship.

“Scorekeeper won’t accept droids as Jagannath points. A waste of time; a hunt not worthy of our time and our talents.”

But your old friend is already entering the coordinates of Fort Anaxes into the navicomputer and you can’t help but smile softly. He isn’t like most Trandoshans. He is a seasoned warrior, but he has honour, and the friendship you established over the last year after surviving the harsh sands of Tatooine together is one you will cherish until you die. Your attachment to Sskoora is yet another reminder why you kept failing as a Jedi. And another is waiting for you at the end of your destination.

“I owe you one, old friend.”

“You owe me a hunt,” he corrects you calmly, his red scaled face a mask of perfect tranquillity.

“Find the burliest rancor by the time we’ve rescued my friend, Sskoora.”

The Trandoshan wants to say he knows it’s about more than just Echo, more than just a friend lost and found again. He knows you want to be reunited with your mate, but he keeps his mouth shut. You’re still young in his eyes, and he will respect the rashness of youth just like the wisdom of old age.

“The burliest I will, little hunter.”

...

When a Trandoshan appears on the ramp of the ship that just landed in Fort Anaxes, all the perimeter guards are on alert, guns aimed and ready to fire. Until a Jedi appears behind, waving her arms to show their harmlessness. It takes General Skywalker to break the state of emergency, but the great hunter seems to be regarded with distrust even afterwards. Anakin is upset when he finds out why you’re here, but he cannot truly be mad. He stalks off in the night after showing you the direction in which Rex’s barracks are. You bring back too many painful memories – the Citadel, the way you got out of the Order to live your life, the same way Ahsoka did. You don’t blame him for not wanting to speak to you more. So you send Sskoora back to the ship and ask him to prepare for a fight, pacifying him enough to know his preparations for the hunt will quell any desire in him to cause trouble. And then you take a deep breath and go, trying not to reach out with the Force so eagerly to where you suspect Rex to be. The man you so innocently loved as a Jedi, and then agreed to let go for the sake of the Republic.

You’re not a Jedi anymore. And though you wish nothing more than to throw your arms around him like he used to allow you, what you truly wish is to make him happy, to console him, to trust him when no one else does. You tell your little heart beating so fast that the man asked for your help only to bring Echo back, not for any other reason, and the sour lie helps you restrain your emotions as you enter the dark building.

“I got your message. Rex?”

You can sense him – his anguish and thoughtfulness draws your focus immediately, but you cannot see him until he moves. He’s partly in his blacks, the circular emblem of the Republic visible on his chest. His kama and boots are on, however, and you’ve caught him in the act of fastening his belt around his hips.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come, if I’m honest.”

“Oh... I can wait outside, if you’d like.”

“With our shared history?” Rex snorts, shaking his head. “You’ve seen more while you were still a Jedi.”

“A fair point,” you admit, usurping a bed and perching on top of it cross-legged. “Why weren’t you sure I’d come?”

“That message encryption we cooked up was during... well, you know,” he sighs, sitting across from you as he fidgets with his bracers.

“Yeah. I know,” you breathe, voice quiet and strained.

It was during the prime of your love, before you both agreed to put an end to it for the greater good. Not long after, the mission to the Citadel came, and all your hopes of ever loving him again where shattered by the most painful decision you’ve ever had to make. Echo was a friend, a member of your weird little family, and you realised you were tired of losing them all one by one under your command, as you led them to countless battles knowing full well many of them would die. Echo’s death was the last straw, the awakening you needed to stop being a hypocrite by enslaving an army of clones and spouting wisdom about the wrongness of oppressing the weak.

You never lost hope and you never stopped helping wherever you could, wherever the Republic would still let you, but you mostly did it for the same reason you didn’t delete the encryption from your datapad all this time – Rex. It is well beyond your capabilities to say no to the man, to do anything that would harm him, anything that would go against his beliefs. Even if those beliefs in the GAR and the Senate had shaky underpinnings at best these days.

“I haven’t seen you since you left,” he says suddenly, eyes not rising to meet yours, but voice so full of suppressed yearning that it makes your head spin.

“I hope you understand why it had to happen this way, Rex...”

“You never told me. So no, I don’t really. But you’re not a Separatist, so I wouldn’t mind hearing you out.”

“I left because of you.”

“Me?” he asks, looking up with a face full of shock that makes the corners of your lips lift into a small smile that disappears quickly from your face. Rex’s eyes chase after it, wishing it lasted more than that split second.

“In a way, yes. I refused to be part of an Order that would willingly enslave you and your brothers, forcing you to fight in a war you have nothing to do with. And I don’t see a way winning would make your situation any better. You’re men, and yet you’re treated as property. So much for the Jedi values.”

“It’s the Senate, not the Jedi,” Rex argues back meekly, knowing your words to hold more truth than he’d like to admit.

“Well, now I’m not bound to either. Speaking of being bound, I have a spare bunk on the ship... Sskoora takes up two, but the top bunk is all free,” you joke, trying to lighten both your moods momentarily. It works for a little while as Rex snorts, shaking his head a little as he concentrates on slipping his gloves back on.

“Sharing sleeping quarters with a Trandoshan sounds fun, but I might just pass on that.”

“You could share mine. Captain’s quarters are quite spacious, you know. More comfortable, less... Trandoshan, I suppose.”

“Now that is a tempting offer. Think you could extend it to the end of the war?”

“Let’s just extend it until we find Echo now,” you sigh, both your moods souring considerably as you think of your friend. “You really think he’s out there?”

“It was his voice. I know it. It couldn’t have been anything else.”

You slowly stand and sit next to him, casually letting your elbows touch. When Rex doesn’t pull back, you let your shoulder lean against his, a small encouraging smile gracing your lips as you lean closer. “I believe you. We’ll find him tomorrow. I’ll help. Even if the Republic does not want me to. You just send me the coordinates, and I and Sskoora will be there on Skako Minor to back you up.”

Rex, struggling with his tears at the prospect of seeing Echo again, and moved by your devotion to him, stares at his fingers and nods. “Thank you. For believing in me.”

“I never stopped doing that, and I never will. Oh come here, you,” you sigh, drawing him in for a hug which he gratefully accepts. Despite all the heartache, the war, the constant terror the Galaxy lives in, you find peace in Rex’s arms, and he in yours. It’s both extraordinary and just so natural at the same time, your minds joined in a synchrony you’ve terribly missed. Even if he cannot feel it through the Force, there’s a bond that intertwines your fates so much that there is no escaping one another.

“There was a time I would have scolded you for even suggesting something like that, you know. About the spare bunk thing. But now all I’m saying – no, all I’m asking – is that you hold onto that question until we find Echo and win this war. And then I’ll say yes, if you still want me. Stars know I’m more than ready for that.”

You nod against his shoulder, letting your heart rejoice at the notion that the man you used to love, the man you still do, has grown so much in your absence. Maybe your separation was not for good, but only a temporary setback, a lesson for you to learn that there is no life without one another.

“I’ll be waiting patiently until then. Like I have been all this time.”

[nureyevv]

Rita Detective Agency vs The Man Without A Name

When Rita first joins the crime crew doesn’t trust Peter Nureyev one bit

Of course back in those days she knew him by another name: Rex Glass

She hadn’t seen him since he’d stolen that Martian mask all those months ago

And, though the boss had found him annoying, she’d thought he was plenty charming. Sure he was a criminal, but there was no reason to be so judgmental!

She watched Mistah Steel’s face when they saw each other again, though, just before they left mars, and she was quick to figure out what had taken place between them, though

See, there were these face stealin’ moon dogs that lived near jupeter— she’d learned about em in one of her shows— and basically they could mimic any face they saw in order to trick unsuspecting people into becoming their dinner— in one episode a face stealer had taken the face of someone’s beloved BUT when it saw how much Justin (that’s the hero’s name of course) loved his husband the face stealer ended up Falling! In! Love! with Justin instead of eating him and it was all so tragic and romantic, but of course Justin couldn’t go on without the real Mika—

Anyway OBVIOUSLY mistah glass had been mimicked by a face stealer and sworn the boss to secrecy, but even if he fooled everyone else, he couldn’t trick Rita!

So she got straight to work. At first she just tried to use some of those classic face stealer catchin questions, ya know, how many limbs did your mom’s mom have, how do ya feel about boiled eye balls, the usual. Not-Glass was good though, too good

Plan B was less exciting. She just hacked his comms to check his search history for face stealer forums. That was easy enough.

Or at least, it should have been easy enough. Even though she knew Glass hadn’t been involved with Dark Matters for over a year, gettin into his comms reminded her of patching the boss through to that old friend of his who worked with them now. Every time she got through a layer of security codes another popped up in its place. She almost couldn’t make it through.

But she was Rita, so of course she did. Glass’s comms themselves were even stranger than his security, though, mostly because there was nothing there. Who went through all that trouble to hide nothing? She didn’t know, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t find out.

Even if the guy had virtually no viral footprint, there was one footprint everyone had. The real kind! So maybe it wasn’t the most “formally worked in law enforcement” thing to do to break into Glass’s room on the ship but... well she was curious! What else could she do?

Hacking the ships door system was easy enough, but figuring out when Glass would be out of the way was much more difficult. Eventually, though, Buddy sent Glass with the boss to stock up on supplies on a nearby planet. They pained look on mistah steel’s face wasn’t lost on her, but she liked to take things one mystery at a time.

Glass’s rooms were.... well they were something. For such a well groomed man he was quite the slob if she was honest. Little papers scattered the room, crumpled up into loose balls. Upon further investigation she found that most of them were just pen doodles, and she could appriciate a fellow artist. She even found a couple that reminded her vaguely of the crew. One stick lady had Vespa’s bright green hair, the next was marked by jet’s enormous stature. She found a few of the boss and even one of herself, which she pocketed.

She moved on to investigate Glass’s desk. Oddly enough, most of the drawers were as empty as his comms. One had a tube of red lipstick, another held a couple of creds. The most interesting thing she found was a book that she saw, when she opened it, had been hollowed out to hold a single knife. It wasn’t a completely unexpected thing to come across on a ship of criminals but still. This guy was weird.

Maybe a bit sad too, though. His room was cluttered, but mostly by trash. It didn’t seem like he actually had a lot of anything except maybe clothes and makeup. It wasn’t a big room, and Glass— or whoever he really was— still couldn’t fill it.

It was as she contemplated this that she noticed a note left haphazardly on the desk. It was written in elaborate cursive script, but the bottom half of it had been scribbled over till it was no long legible. What she could read, however, was enough to grab her attention.

“Juno, my love—“

She had just put two and two together when she heard the sound of footsteps outside the room.

“We aren’t going to be able to work together like this, Peter,” said a familiar voice through the wall. She recognized Mistah Steel’s distinctive tone.

The response was so cutting she almost couldn’t place it. “We’ll have to figure something out I suppose, because I’ve said I don’t want to discuss it. Goodbye, detective.”

The owner of the second voice— Peter according to the boss, though her mind yelled another name— did not wait around for a response. The door to Mr. Glass’s room slid open and her face stealing suspect slid inside. He let out a tired sigh and rubbed his temples. Then, he saw her.

His eyes were wide, but his voice was calm, albeit a bit strained. “Oh, Mrs. Rita. I wasn’t expecting you... Pardon me, but just how much of that did you hear?”

She gaped at him. “It really is just like Justin and Mika!”

His stolen eyebrows furrowed together. “Excuse me?”

“You’re Mika, ya know from the shows! Except you’re not Mika! And you ain’t whoever that Peter is either!”

“I can’t say I’m following—”

“Hush! You won’t trick me with your face stealin tricks! I ain’t gonna let ya fool the boss either, bub, so don’t even try it! No wonder Mistah Steel’s been so distressed, with you walkin around with his beloved face and stolen love notes!”

At that, the thief seemed to flush as his eyes darted towards the paper on the desk. “I knew I should have gotten rid of that... no matter now, though, I suppose the secret is out. I am still curious about the ‘face stealer’ comment, however.”

Gracious as she was, Rita provided him with an extensive description of Justin and Mika’s tragedy. She was used to the boss being so uncultured, but even for a people eatin trickster it was hard to believe he’d never seen it. Unlike Mistah Steel, however, Fake-Peter listened intently and never even cut in with a sarcastic comment. She had to admit, it was pretty refreshing.

When she’d finished, he regarded her with quiet amusement. “Well. That is very exciting, but I’m afraid the actual story is much less interesting. With the cat out of the bag, though, I might as well enlighten you.”

Rita wished she had brought snacks with her cause Mistah Peter’s story was almost as good as any of her shows. Martian artifacts and death trains, a tragic romance— the drama of it all was too much! But most shocking of all was that everything he said made sense with what the boss had told her about his disappearance the year before.

“Huh. So no face stealers then?”

“I’m afraid not,” he answered.

“Well that’s pretty unfortunate.”

Mr. Peter nodded in solemn agreement, but Rita didn’t intend to let her snooping go to waste. “Well, face stealer or not, you have GOT to tell me where ya got this color” she said, holding up a vial of nail polish she’d come across.

He grinned, apparently happy to brag about his collection. “It’s from earth— made from snake venom they say,” he explained. Then, when he saw her excitement, suggested: “you could try it if you’d like. I happen to be a certified nail technician on six planets.”

She grabbed his wrist and led him to the table, the theif letting out a small yelp as she exclaimed “oh boy I thought you’d never ask! I can show you some of that face stealer show too— I got it downloaded on my comms of course. And I expect more inside secrets on the boss, he drives me crazy with the whole mystery man thing, like jeez Mistah Steel I didn’t know your favorite color was such a sore spot—“

She went on in that manner for about fifteen minutes.

Peter it seemed, was a very good listener. Rita liked that in a person since she considered herself a very good talker.

“Oh dear! He didn’t just— Miss. Rita this is quite the show!”

“I know!!” She exclaimed, grinning. She could get used to this, and by the looks of it, so could Peter.

[adambstingus]

Cristiano Ronaldo film captures giant ego and strange, lonely world of being CR7

Ronaldos rivalry with Messi and extraordinary self-regard are to the fore in this vanity project but the suffering his success has brought his mother and the forwards sheer competitive drive also catch the eye

As a snapshot of what life must be like for Cristiano Ronaldo, there is one clip in the new film Ronaldo when his godson is being baptised and there is a small gathering around the font. The babys head has just been wet when the priest looks over to the tanned guy with the gelled hair and whips out a mobile phone. Any chance of a quick selfie? he wants to know.

Then there is the moment Portugals team are training at Estádio Moisés Lucarelli in São Paulo during the last World Cup and a sobbing girl breaks the cordon to run across the pitch in a desperate attempt to reach her hero. She is shaking, crying, close to hysteria and caught by one of the security guards. It is The Beatles at Shea Stadium all over again. Ronaldo hugs her and she looks as if she might pass out. He knows I exist, she wails, when a television reporter stops her a few moments later. What did he say? He asked me to stay calm and stop crying. And what did you say back? I asked him to follow me on Twitter.

It must be suffocating at times even if, for the most part, Ronaldo gives the impression that fame is his comfort blanket. The film is a remarkable vanity project and, even more than before, it is difficult not to come away with the feeling that Ronaldo must shout his own name during sex. He and his agent, Jorge Mendes, appear to have a relationship of mutual worship. Mendes, Ronaldo says, is the best, the Cristiano Ronaldo of agents and it is difficult to keep count of the number of times they get lost in each others eyes, reminding one another of their success and wealth and shiny brilliance.

Mendes sharp black suit, Rolex, phone almost permanently to his ear seems almost as hung up about Ronaldo winning the Ballon dOr as CR7 himself. It is a 24-7, twitching obsession, on both their parts, given far more relevance throughout the film than Real Madrids Décima or anything else, and it is a telling moment when Mendes and one of his associates can be heard muttering darkly from one of the Bernabéus executive boxes about the possibility the other guy might destroy everything.

That other guy is Lionel Messi, cast in a slightly villainous Ivan Drago-style role that he probably does not deserve. Its a card inside an envelope that can change so much, Ronaldo says of the Ballon dOr, describing what it is like being expected to fake a smile on behalf of his old adversary. To see Messi win four in a row was difficult for me. After he won the second and third I thought to myself: Im not coming here again. Watching this film, it becomes clear just how difficult it must be for Gareth Bale, signing for Madrid as the most expensive player in history, to deal with that planet-sized ego.

Other scenes are strategically laced with soft-focus Hello! magazine-style moments where Ronaldo can be seen playing with his son, Cristiano Jr, or dropping him off at school, but there is not always a great deal of charm elsewhere. Muhammad Ali and Brian Clough had great humour to go with all the braggadocio. Ronaldos style is not so attractive. Im not going to lie to you, he says, explaining why he went to the World Cup with an injury. If we had two or three Cristiano Ronaldos in the team I would feel more comfortable. But we dont.

A touch of humility every now and then would make Ronaldo much more appealing. Equally, he is as good as he is because of the way he is and a documentary of this nature, filmed over 14 months in his company, does show the enormous strains that come with the territory.

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Ronaldo: watch a trailer for the film.

At one point his mother, Dolores, is filmed inside a chemists handing in a prescription for sedatives because she can barely take the stress of watching him play. Ronaldo rings and asks if she has taken her tranquillisers yet, as if he is quite used to it. Its quite complicated to be the mother of a player who needs to win, Dolores explains. I suffer a lot. When he is playing in the World Cup she asks for her flip-flops and then walks up the hill rather than watch with the rest of the family.

It is this insight into the inner circle that reminds us it has not been straightforward for Ronaldo, and not just because of the fact he left his family in Madeira at the age of 12 to join Sporting Lisbon, with his first pimples on his forehead and braces on his teeth. Hugo, his older brother, now runs Museu CR7, the Ronaldo museum, in Funchal but, at 20, was spiralling into alcoholism. Hugo says it could have been him who played football. Instead, he worked in construction, and he says everyone drank in that game, particularly as he was used to seeing his father, Dinis, knocking it back every night.It isnt in the film but Dinis and Hugo resorted to selling Ronaldos Manchester United shirts so they could pay for more booze.

Dinis, we learn, was never the same after being called up to fight in the Portuguese colonial war in Angola. He came back very angry, Dolores explains. His head was filled with images of the war and though she says he always cared for his children she also says she became his victim. Dinis drank himself into an early grave, dying in 2005 when Ronaldo was 19. He was drunk nearly every day and when that happens it became hard to have a conversation, his younger son recalls. I didnt get to know my father for real.

As for Cristiano Jr, possibly the star of the film, Ronaldo explains that he always wanted my successor without going into any other details. His son is five, already doing sit-ups and still working on his pronunciation of Lamborghini, and Dolores takes care of him while Ronaldo is away. The mother? Its anyones guess. People speculate that it was with this girl or the other or a surrogate mother, Ronaldo says. Ive never told anybody and I never will. How a man in his position has managed to keep it secret is remarkable and, unorthodox as it might be, fair play to him.

Cristiano Ronaldo talks of his pain at seeing Lionel Messi win the Ballon dOr four times in a row: After he won the second and third I thought to myself: Im not coming here again. Photograph: Action Press/Rex

These parts are fascinating and, at times, Ronaldo comes across as so lonely it is a good job he enjoys his own company so much. In football I dont have a lot of friends. People I really trust? Not many. Most of the time Im alone. I consider myself an isolated person. It pains him that his father is not around to see his success but Mendes, he says, is like a father and a brother rolled into one. In Guillem Balagués new book about Ronaldo he writes how, to feed the competitive beast, the players entourage quickly came to realise they must keep criticism at a distance, or control it, create the narrative and keep him on his pedestal. Mendes is always there to fluff that ego and tell him he is better than Messi, and everybody else. It is far more than just the usual player-agent relationship.

Here, too, is the revelation that there was very nearly no Cristiano Ronaldo either. He was an unwanted child, Dolores explains. She considered an abortion and, on a neighbours advice, drank boiled black beer before running until she was on the verge of fainting, hoping to force a miscarriage. It didnt work and she seems pretty happy about that.

Thirty years on, the film released on Monday and put together by the people behind Senna does at least help us understand Ronaldo some more and the incredible drive that is needed to reach the top of his profession. It is not Ronaldos talent that stands out the most. It is his competitive courage, his absolute refusal to believe anyone can possibly outdo him and a level of self-obsession that makes one wonder how he will cope now he is approaching the age two years older than Messi when the powers gradually start to decline.

In recent years, he says, he and Messi have started talking to one another in a way they never did previously, asking about each others families and other polite small-talk. Ive started seeing him as a person, not a rival, he says. But we are always busting our balls to see who is better.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/cristiano-ronaldo-film-captures-giant-ego-and-strange-lonely-world-of-being-cr7/ from All of Beer https://allofbeercom.tumblr.com/post/181635934402

[samanthasroberts]

Cristiano Ronaldo film captures giant ego and strange, lonely world of being CR7

Ronaldos rivalry with Messi and extraordinary self-regard are to the fore in this vanity project but the suffering his success has brought his mother and the forwards sheer competitive drive also catch the eye

As a snapshot of what life must be like for Cristiano Ronaldo, there is one clip in the new film Ronaldo when his godson is being baptised and there is a small gathering around the font. The babys head has just been wet when the priest looks over to the tanned guy with the gelled hair and whips out a mobile phone. Any chance of a quick selfie? he wants to know.

Then there is the moment Portugals team are training at Estádio Moisés Lucarelli in São Paulo during the last World Cup and a sobbing girl breaks the cordon to run across the pitch in a desperate attempt to reach her hero. She is shaking, crying, close to hysteria and caught by one of the security guards. It is The Beatles at Shea Stadium all over again. Ronaldo hugs her and she looks as if she might pass out. He knows I exist, she wails, when a television reporter stops her a few moments later. What did he say? He asked me to stay calm and stop crying. And what did you say back? I asked him to follow me on Twitter.

It must be suffocating at times even if, for the most part, Ronaldo gives the impression that fame is his comfort blanket. The film is a remarkable vanity project and, even more than before, it is difficult not to come away with the feeling that Ronaldo must shout his own name during sex. He and his agent, Jorge Mendes, appear to have a relationship of mutual worship. Mendes, Ronaldo says, is the best, the Cristiano Ronaldo of agents and it is difficult to keep count of the number of times they get lost in each others eyes, reminding one another of their success and wealth and shiny brilliance.

Mendes sharp black suit, Rolex, phone almost permanently to his ear seems almost as hung up about Ronaldo winning the Ballon dOr as CR7 himself. It is a 24-7, twitching obsession, on both their parts, given far more relevance throughout the film than Real Madrids Décima or anything else, and it is a telling moment when Mendes and one of his associates can be heard muttering darkly from one of the Bernabéus executive boxes about the possibility the other guy might destroy everything.

That other guy is Lionel Messi, cast in a slightly villainous Ivan Drago-style role that he probably does not deserve. Its a card inside an envelope that can change so much, Ronaldo says of the Ballon dOr, describing what it is like being expected to fake a smile on behalf of his old adversary. To see Messi win four in a row was difficult for me. After he won the second and third I thought to myself: Im not coming here again. Watching this film, it becomes clear just how difficult it must be for Gareth Bale, signing for Madrid as the most expensive player in history, to deal with that planet-sized ego.

Other scenes are strategically laced with soft-focus Hello! magazine-style moments where Ronaldo can be seen playing with his son, Cristiano Jr, or dropping him off at school, but there is not always a great deal of charm elsewhere. Muhammad Ali and Brian Clough had great humour to go with all the braggadocio. Ronaldos style is not so attractive. Im not going to lie to you, he says, explaining why he went to the World Cup with an injury. If we had two or three Cristiano Ronaldos in the team I would feel more comfortable. But we dont.

A touch of humility every now and then would make Ronaldo much more appealing. Equally, he is as good as he is because of the way he is and a documentary of this nature, filmed over 14 months in his company, does show the enormous strains that come with the territory.

Sorry, your browser is unable to play this video.

Ronaldo: watch a trailer for the film.

At one point his mother, Dolores, is filmed inside a chemists handing in a prescription for sedatives because she can barely take the stress of watching him play. Ronaldo rings and asks if she has taken her tranquillisers yet, as if he is quite used to it. Its quite complicated to be the mother of a player who needs to win, Dolores explains. I suffer a lot. When he is playing in the World Cup she asks for her flip-flops and then walks up the hill rather than watch with the rest of the family.

It is this insight into the inner circle that reminds us it has not been straightforward for Ronaldo, and not just because of the fact he left his family in Madeira at the age of 12 to join Sporting Lisbon, with his first pimples on his forehead and braces on his teeth. Hugo, his older brother, now runs Museu CR7, the Ronaldo museum, in Funchal but, at 20, was spiralling into alcoholism. Hugo says it could have been him who played football. Instead, he worked in construction, and he says everyone drank in that game, particularly as he was used to seeing his father, Dinis, knocking it back every night.It isnt in the film but Dinis and Hugo resorted to selling Ronaldos Manchester United shirts so they could pay for more booze.

Dinis, we learn, was never the same after being called up to fight in the Portuguese colonial war in Angola. He came back very angry, Dolores explains. His head was filled with images of the war and though she says he always cared for his children she also says she became his victim. Dinis drank himself into an early grave, dying in 2005 when Ronaldo was 19. He was drunk nearly every day and when that happens it became hard to have a conversation, his younger son recalls. I didnt get to know my father for real.

As for Cristiano Jr, possibly the star of the film, Ronaldo explains that he always wanted my successor without going into any other details. His son is five, already doing sit-ups and still working on his pronunciation of Lamborghini, and Dolores takes care of him while Ronaldo is away. The mother? Its anyones guess. People speculate that it was with this girl or the other or a surrogate mother, Ronaldo says. Ive never told anybody and I never will. How a man in his position has managed to keep it secret is remarkable and, unorthodox as it might be, fair play to him.

Cristiano Ronaldo talks of his pain at seeing Lionel Messi win the Ballon dOr four times in a row: After he won the second and third I thought to myself: Im not coming here again. Photograph: Action Press/Rex

These parts are fascinating and, at times, Ronaldo comes across as so lonely it is a good job he enjoys his own company so much. In football I dont have a lot of friends. People I really trust? Not many. Most of the time Im alone. I consider myself an isolated person. It pains him that his father is not around to see his success but Mendes, he says, is like a father and a brother rolled into one. In Guillem Balagués new book about Ronaldo he writes how, to feed the competitive beast, the players entourage quickly came to realise they must keep criticism at a distance, or control it, create the narrative and keep him on his pedestal. Mendes is always there to fluff that ego and tell him he is better than Messi, and everybody else. It is far more than just the usual player-agent relationship.

Here, too, is the revelation that there was very nearly no Cristiano Ronaldo either. He was an unwanted child, Dolores explains. She considered an abortion and, on a neighbours advice, drank boiled black beer before running until she was on the verge of fainting, hoping to force a miscarriage. It didnt work and she seems pretty happy about that.

Thirty years on, the film released on Monday and put together by the people behind Senna does at least help us understand Ronaldo some more and the incredible drive that is needed to reach the top of his profession. It is not Ronaldos talent that stands out the most. It is his competitive courage, his absolute refusal to believe anyone can possibly outdo him and a level of self-obsession that makes one wonder how he will cope now he is approaching the age two years older than Messi when the powers gradually start to decline.

In recent years, he says, he and Messi have started talking to one another in a way they never did previously, asking about each others families and other polite small-talk. Ive started seeing him as a person, not a rival, he says. But we are always busting our balls to see who is better.

Source: http://allofbeer.com/cristiano-ronaldo-film-captures-giant-ego-and-strange-lonely-world-of-being-cr7/

from All of Beer https://allofbeer.wordpress.com/2019/01/02/cristiano-ronaldo-film-captures-giant-ego-and-strange-lonely-world-of-being-cr7/

[allofbeercom]

Cristiano Ronaldo film captures giant ego and strange, lonely world of being CR7

Ronaldos rivalry with Messi and extraordinary self-regard are to the fore in this vanity project but the suffering his success has brought his mother and the forwards sheer competitive drive also catch the eye

As a snapshot of what life must be like for Cristiano Ronaldo, there is one clip in the new film Ronaldo when his godson is being baptised and there is a small gathering around the font. The babys head has just been wet when the priest looks over to the tanned guy with the gelled hair and whips out a mobile phone. Any chance of a quick selfie? he wants to know.

Then there is the moment Portugals team are training at Estádio Moisés Lucarelli in São Paulo during the last World Cup and a sobbing girl breaks the cordon to run across the pitch in a desperate attempt to reach her hero. She is shaking, crying, close to hysteria and caught by one of the security guards. It is The Beatles at Shea Stadium all over again. Ronaldo hugs her and she looks as if she might pass out. He knows I exist, she wails, when a television reporter stops her a few moments later. What did he say? He asked me to stay calm and stop crying. And what did you say back? I asked him to follow me on Twitter.

It must be suffocating at times even if, for the most part, Ronaldo gives the impression that fame is his comfort blanket. The film is a remarkable vanity project and, even more than before, it is difficult not to come away with the feeling that Ronaldo must shout his own name during sex. He and his agent, Jorge Mendes, appear to have a relationship of mutual worship. Mendes, Ronaldo says, is the best, the Cristiano Ronaldo of agents and it is difficult to keep count of the number of times they get lost in each others eyes, reminding one another of their success and wealth and shiny brilliance.

Mendes sharp black suit, Rolex, phone almost permanently to his ear seems almost as hung up about Ronaldo winning the Ballon dOr as CR7 himself. It is a 24-7, twitching obsession, on both their parts, given far more relevance throughout the film than Real Madrids Décima or anything else, and it is a telling moment when Mendes and one of his associates can be heard muttering darkly from one of the Bernabéus executive boxes about the possibility the other guy might destroy everything.

That other guy is Lionel Messi, cast in a slightly villainous Ivan Drago-style role that he probably does not deserve. Its a card inside an envelope that can change so much, Ronaldo says of the Ballon dOr, describing what it is like being expected to fake a smile on behalf of his old adversary. To see Messi win four in a row was difficult for me. After he won the second and third I thought to myself: Im not coming here again. Watching this film, it becomes clear just how difficult it must be for Gareth Bale, signing for Madrid as the most expensive player in history, to deal with that planet-sized ego.

Other scenes are strategically laced with soft-focus Hello! magazine-style moments where Ronaldo can be seen playing with his son, Cristiano Jr, or dropping him off at school, but there is not always a great deal of charm elsewhere. Muhammad Ali and Brian Clough had great humour to go with all the braggadocio. Ronaldos style is not so attractive. Im not going to lie to you, he says, explaining why he went to the World Cup with an injury. If we had two or three Cristiano Ronaldos in the team I would feel more comfortable. But we dont.

A touch of humility every now and then would make Ronaldo much more appealing. Equally, he is as good as he is because of the way he is and a documentary of this nature, filmed over 14 months in his company, does show the enormous strains that come with the territory.

Sorry, your browser is unable to play this video.

Ronaldo: watch a trailer for the film.

At one point his mother, Dolores, is filmed inside a chemists handing in a prescription for sedatives because she can barely take the stress of watching him play. Ronaldo rings and asks if she has taken her tranquillisers yet, as if he is quite used to it. Its quite complicated to be the mother of a player who needs to win, Dolores explains. I suffer a lot. When he is playing in the World Cup she asks for her flip-flops and then walks up the hill rather than watch with the rest of the family.

It is this insight into the inner circle that reminds us it has not been straightforward for Ronaldo, and not just because of the fact he left his family in Madeira at the age of 12 to join Sporting Lisbon, with his first pimples on his forehead and braces on his teeth. Hugo, his older brother, now runs Museu CR7, the Ronaldo museum, in Funchal but, at 20, was spiralling into alcoholism. Hugo says it could have been him who played football. Instead, he worked in construction, and he says everyone drank in that game, particularly as he was used to seeing his father, Dinis, knocking it back every night.It isnt in the film but Dinis and Hugo resorted to selling Ronaldos Manchester United shirts so they could pay for more booze.

Dinis, we learn, was never the same after being called up to fight in the Portuguese colonial war in Angola. He came back very angry, Dolores explains. His head was filled with images of the war and though she says he always cared for his children she also says she became his victim. Dinis drank himself into an early grave, dying in 2005 when Ronaldo was 19. He was drunk nearly every day and when that happens it became hard to have a conversation, his younger son recalls. I didnt get to know my father for real.

As for Cristiano Jr, possibly the star of the film, Ronaldo explains that he always wanted my successor without going into any other details. His son is five, already doing sit-ups and still working on his pronunciation of Lamborghini, and Dolores takes care of him while Ronaldo is away. The mother? Its anyones guess. People speculate that it was with this girl or the other or a surrogate mother, Ronaldo says. Ive never told anybody and I never will. How a man in his position has managed to keep it secret is remarkable and, unorthodox as it might be, fair play to him.

Cristiano Ronaldo talks of his pain at seeing Lionel Messi win the Ballon dOr four times in a row: After he won the second and third I thought to myself: Im not coming here again. Photograph: Action Press/Rex

These parts are fascinating and, at times, Ronaldo comes across as so lonely it is a good job he enjoys his own company so much. In football I dont have a lot of friends. People I really trust? Not many. Most of the time Im alone. I consider myself an isolated person. It pains him that his father is not around to see his success but Mendes, he says, is like a father and a brother rolled into one. In Guillem Balagués new book about Ronaldo he writes how, to feed the competitive beast, the players entourage quickly came to realise they must keep criticism at a distance, or control it, create the narrative and keep him on his pedestal. Mendes is always there to fluff that ego and tell him he is better than Messi, and everybody else. It is far more than just the usual player-agent relationship.

Here, too, is the revelation that there was very nearly no Cristiano Ronaldo either. He was an unwanted child, Dolores explains. She considered an abortion and, on a neighbours advice, drank boiled black beer before running until she was on the verge of fainting, hoping to force a miscarriage. It didnt work and she seems pretty happy about that.

Thirty years on, the film released on Monday and put together by the people behind Senna does at least help us understand Ronaldo some more and the incredible drive that is needed to reach the top of his profession. It is not Ronaldos talent that stands out the most. It is his competitive courage, his absolute refusal to believe anyone can possibly outdo him and a level of self-obsession that makes one wonder how he will cope now he is approaching the age two years older than Messi when the powers gradually start to decline.

In recent years, he says, he and Messi have started talking to one another in a way they never did previously, asking about each others families and other polite small-talk. Ive started seeing him as a person, not a rival, he says. But we are always busting our balls to see who is better.

from All Of Beer http://allofbeer.com/cristiano-ronaldo-film-captures-giant-ego-and-strange-lonely-world-of-being-cr7/

[amyrlintrump]

Chapter 1

The Wheel of Time is the intellectual property of Robert Jordan, this is merely a parody based on his work. Donald J Trump absently fingered the long, seven-striped stole about his shoulders, the stole of the Amyrlin Seat, as he sat behind his wide writing table. Many would have accounted him paunchy and unimposing at first glance despite his resplendent gown of gold and scarlet silk, but a second look made it clear that the severity of his craggy, Aes Sedai face was not a momentary matter. Today there was something more, a light of anger in his dark eyes. If anyone had noticed. He barely listened to the cabinet arrayed on stools before him. Their dresses were every color from white to the darkest red, in silk or wool as each staffer's taste dictated, yet all but one wore their formal shawls, embroidered White Flame of Tar Valon centered on their backs, colored fringe proclaiming their Ajahs, as though this were a meeting of the Hall of the Tower. They discussed reports and rumors of events in the world, trying to sift fact from fancy, trying to decide the Tower’s course of action, but they seldom even glanced at the man behind the table, the man they had sworn to obey. Donald could not keep his full attention on them. They did not know what was really important. Or rather, they knew and feared to speak of it. “There is apparently something happening in Shienar.” That was Stephen Miller, skinny and balding, the only Brown sister present. Green and Yellow also had only one sister apiece, and none of the three Ajahs was pleased about that. There were no Blues. Now Miller's beady eyes looked thoughtfully inward; an unnoticed ink smudge stained his cheek, and his dark gray wool dress was rumpled. “There are rumors of skirmishes. Not with Mexicans, and not Muslims, though raids through the Niamh Passes appear to have increased. Between Shienarans. Unusual for the Borderlands. They rarely fight each other.” “If they intend to have a civil war, they have chosen the proper time for it,” Steve Bannon said coolly. Pink and corpulent and all in white silk, he was the only one without a shawl. The stole of the Keeper around his shoulders was white also, to show he had been raised from the White Ajah. Not Red, Donald's former Ajah, as tradition held. Whites were always cool. “The Mexicans might as well have vanished. The entire Mexican border seems quiet enough for two farmers and a novice to guard.” Michael Flynn's bony fingers shuffled papers on his lap, though he did not look at them. One of four Red sisters there—more than any other Ajah—he ran Donald a close second for severity, though no one had ever thought him plump. “Better perhaps if it did not be so quiet,” Flynn said, his Illianer accent strong. “I did receive a message this morning that the Marshal-General of Saldaea does have an army on the move. No toward Mexico, but in the opposite direction. He would no ever have done that if Mexico did no seem to be asleep.” “Then word of Mazrim Taim is seeping out.” Bannon could have been discussing the weather or the price of carpets instead of a potential disaster. Much effort had gone into capturing Taim, and as much into hiding his escape. No good to the Tower if the world learned they could not hold on to a false Dragon once he was taken. “And it seems that Queen Tenobia, or Davram Bashere, or both, thinks we cannot be trusted to deal with him again.” Dead quiet fell at the mention of Taim. The man could channel—he had been on his way to Tar Valon to be stilled, cut off from the One Power forever, when he was broken free—yet that was not what curbed tongues. Once the existence of a man able to channel the One Power had been the deepest anathema; hunting such men down was the main reason of existence for the Red, and every Ajah helped as it could. But now most of the cabinet beyond the table shifted on their stools, refusing to meet each other’s eyes, because speaking of Taim brought them too close to another subject they did not want to speak aloud. Even Donald felt bile rise in his stomach. Apparently Bannon experienced no such reluctance. One corner of his mouth quirked momentarily in what might have been a smile or grimace. “I will redouble our efforts to retake Taim. And I suggest that a sister be dispatched to counsel Tenobia. Someone used to overcoming the sort of resistance that young woman will put up.” Others rushed to help fill the silence. Rex Tillerson shifted his green-fringed shawl on slender shoulders and smiled, though it seemed a bit forced. “Yes. She needs an Aes Sedai at her shoulder. Someone able to handle Bashere. He has excessive influence with Tenobia. He must move his army back where it can be used if Mexico wakes up.” Too much bosom showed in the gap of his shawl, and his pale green silk was too snug, too clinging. And he smiled too much for Donald's liking. Especially at men. Greens always did. “The last thing we need now is another army on the march,” Sean Spicer, the Yellow sister, said quickly. A slightly plump man, he had somehow never really managed the outward calm of Aes Sedai; there was often a strain of anxiety around his eyes, and more so of late. “And someone to Shienar,” added KellyAnn Conway, another Red. Despite smooth cheeks, her angular face was hard enough to hammer nails. Her voice was harsh. “I don’t like trouble of this sort in the Borderlands. The last thing we need is Shienar weakening itself to the point where a Mexican army could break through.” “Perhaps.” Bannon nodded, considering. “But there are agents in Shienar—Red, I am sure, and perhaps others?—” The four Red sisters nodded tightly, reluctantly; no one else did. “—who can warn us if these small clashes become anything to worry us.” It was an open secret that every Ajah except the White, devoted to logic and philosophy as it was, had watchers and listeners scattered through the nations to varying degrees, though the Yellow network was believed to be a pitiful thing. There was nothing of sickness or Healing they could learn from those who could not channel. Some individual sisters had their own eyes-and-ears, though perhaps even more closely guarded than agents of the Ajahs. The Blues had had the most extensive, both Ajah and personal. “As for Tenobia and Davram Bashere,” Bannon went on, “are we agreed that they must be dealt with by sisters?” He hardly waited for heads to nod. “Good. It is done. Now. Does anyone have fresh word out of Arad Doman or Tarabon? If we do not do something there soon, we may find that Pedron Niall and the Whitecloaks have sway from Bandar Eban to the Shadow Coast. Jeff Sessions, you have something?” Arad Doman and Tarabon were racked by civil wars, and worse. There was no order anywhere. Elaida was surprised they would bring it up. “Only a rumor,” the Gray sister replied. His silk dress, matching the fringe on his shawl, was finely cut and scooped low at the neck. Often Donald thought the man should have been Green, so concerned was he with his looks and clothes. “Almost everyone in those poor lands is a refugee, including those who might send news. The Panarch Amathera has apparently vanished, and it seems an Aes Sedai may have been involved . . . ” Donald's hand tightened on his stole. Nothing touched his face, but his eyes smoldered. The matter of the Saldaean army was done. But they had not even asked his opinion. It was done. The startling possibility that an Aes Sedai was involved in the disappearance of the Panarch—if this was not another of the thousand improbable tales that drifted from the western coast—could not take Donald's mind from that. There were Aes Sedai scattered from the Aryth Ocean to the Spine of the World, and the Blues at least might do anything. Less than two months since they had all knelt to swear fealty to him as the embodiment of the White Tower, and now the decision was made without so much as a glance in his direction. The Amyrlin’s study sat only a few levels up in the White Tower, yet this room was the heart of the Tower as surely as the Tower itself, the color of bleached bone, was the heart of the great island city of Tar Valon, cradled in the River Erinin. And Tar Valon was, or should be, the heart of the world. The room spoke of the power wielded by the long line of men who had occupied it, floor of polished redstone from the Mountains of Mist, tall fireplace of golden Kandori marble, walls paneled in pale, oddly striped wood marvelously carved with unknown birds and beasts more than a thousand years ago. Stone like glittering pearls framed the tall, arched windows that let onto the balcony overlooking the Amyrlin’s private garden, the only stone like it known, salvaged from a nameless city swallowed by the Sea of Storms during the Breaking of the World. A room of power, a reflection of Amyrlins who had made thrones dance to their calling for nearly three thousand years. And they did not even ask his opinion. It happened too often, this slighting. Worst—most bitter of all, perhaps—they usurped his authority without even thinking of it. They knew how he had come to the stole, knew Comey's and Russia's aid had put it on his shoulders. He himself had been too much aware of that. But they presumed too far. It would soon be time to do something about that. But not quite yet. He had put his own stamp on the room, as much as possible, with a writing table ornately carved in triple-linked rings and a heavy chair that raised an inlaid ivory Flame of Tar Valon above his puff of golden hair like a large snowy teardrop. Three boxes of Altaran lacquerwork were arranged on the table, precisely equidistant from each other; one held the finest of his collection of carved miniatures. A white vase on a simple plinth against one wall held golden roses that filled the room with sweet fragrance. There had been no rain since he was raised, but fine blossoms were always available with the Power; he had always liked golden roses. They could be so easily pruned and trained to produce beauty. Two paintings hung where, seated, he could see them merely by lifting her head. The others avoided looking at them; among all the Aes Sedai who came to Donald's study, only Bannon ever so much as glanced at them. “Is there any news of Elayne?” Sessions asked diffidently. “Or Galad? If Morgase discovers that we have lost her stepson, she may begin to ask more questions concerning the whereabouts of her daughter, yes? And if she learns we have lost the Daughter-Heir, Andor may become as closed to us as Amadicia.” A few men shook their heads—there was no news, and Conway said, “A Red sister is in place in the Royal Palace. Newly raised, so she can easily pass for other than Aes Sedai.  She is well trained, though, quite strong, and a good observer. Morgase is absorbed in putting forward her claim to the Cairhienin throne.” Several advisers shifted on their stools, and as if realizing he had stepped close to dangerous ground, Conway hurried on. “And her new lover, Lord Gaebril, seems to be keeping her occupied otherwise.” Her thin mouth narrowed even further. “She is completely besotted with the man.” “He keeps her concentrated on Cairhien,” Bannon said. “The situation there is nearly as bad as in Tarabon and Arad Doman, with every House contending for the Sun Throne, and famine everywhere. Morgase will reestablish order, but it will take time for her to have the throne secure. Until that is done, she will have little energy left to worry about other matters, even the Daughter-Heir. And I set a clerk the task of sending occasional letters; the woman does a good imitation of Elayne’s hand. Morgase will keep until we can secure proper control of her again.” “At least we still have her son in hand.” Tillerson smiled. “Gawyn do hardly be in hand,” Flynn said sharply. “Those Younglings of his do skirmish with Whitecloaks on both sides of the river. He does act on his own as much as at our direction.” “He will be brought under control,” Bannon said. Donald was beginning to find that constant cool composure hateful. “Speaking of the Whitecloaks,” Miller put in, “it appears that Pedron Niall is conducting secret negotiations, trying to convince Altara and Murandy to cede land to Illian, and thus keep the Council of Nine from invading one or both.” Safely back from the precipice, the women on the other side of the table nattered on, deciding whether the Lord Captain Commander’s negotiations might gain too much influence for the Children of the Light. Perhaps they should be disrupted so the Tower could step in and replace him. Trump's mouth twisted. The Tower had often in its history been cautious of necessity—too many feared them, too many distrusted them—but it had never feared anything or anyone. Now, it feared. He raised his eyes to the paintings. One consisted of three wooden panels depicting Nixon, the last Red to have been raised to the Amyrlin Seat, a thousand years before, and the reason no Red had worn the stole since. Until Donald. Nixon, tall and proud, ordering Aes Sedai in their manipulations of Artur Hawkwing; Nixon, defiant, on the white walls of Tar Valon, under siege by Hawkwing’s forces; and Nixon, kneeling and humbled, before the Hall of the Tower as they stripped him of stole and staff for nearly destroying the Tower. Many wondered why Donald had had the triptych retrieved from the storerooms where it had lain covered in dust; if none spoke openly, he had still heard the whispers. They did not understand that constant reminder of the price of failure was necessary. The second painting was in the new fashion, on stretched canvas, a copy of a street artist’s sketch from the distant west. That one caused even more unease among the Aes Sedai who saw it. It was of a black man parasailing, tall and dark, with graying hair. It was the negro who caused the fear, who made even Donald's teeth clench. He was not sure if it was in anger, or to keep them from chattering. But fear could and must be controlled. Control was all. “We are done, then,” Bannon said, rising smoothly from his stool. The others copied him, adjusting skirts and shawls in preparation for leaving. “In three days, I will expect—” “Have I given you leave to go, daughters?” Those were the first words Donald had spoken since telling them to be seated. They looked at him in surprise. Surprise! Some moved back toward the stools, but not with any haste. And not a word of apology. He had let this go on much too long. “Since you are standing, you will remain so until I am done.” A moment of confusion caught those half-seated, and he continued as they straightened again uncertainly. “I have heard no mention of the search for that woman and her companions.” No need to name that woman, Donald's former opponent. They knew who he meant, and Donald found it harder every day even to think the former rival's name. All of his current problems—all!—could be laid at that woman’s feet. “It is difficult,” Bannon said evenly, “since we have bolstered the rumors that she died of pneumonia.” The man had ice for blood. Donald met his eyes firmly until he added a belated “Mother,” but it too was placid, even casual. Donald swung his gaze to the others, made his voice steel. “Tillerson, you have charge of that search, and of the investigation of her escape. In both cases I hear of nothing but difficulties. Perhaps a daily penance will help you increase your diligence, daughter. Write out what you think suitable and submit it to me. Should I find it—less than suitable, I will triple it.” Tillerson's ever-present smile faded in satisfactory fashion. He opened his mouth, then closed it again under Donald's steady stare. Finally, he curtsied deeply. “As you command, Mother.” The words were tight, the meekness forced, but it would do. For now. “And what of trying to bring back those who fled?” If anything, Donald's tone was even harder. The return of the Aes Sedai who had run away when that woman was defeated meant the return of Blues to the Tower. He was not sure he could ever trust any Blue. But then, he was not sure he could ever bring himself to trust any who had fled instead of hailing his ascension. Yet the Tower must be whole again. Conway was overseeing that task. “Again, there are difficulties.” Her features remained as severe as ever, but she licked her lips quickly at the storm that swept silently across Donald's face. “Mother.” Donald shook his head. “I will not hear of difficulties, daughter. Tomorrow you will place before me a list of everything you have done, including all measures taken to see the world does not learn of any dissension in the Tower.” That was deadly important; there was a new Amyrlin, but the world must see the Tower as united and strong as ever. “If you do not have enough time for the work I give you, perhaps you should give up your place as Sitter for the Red in the Hall. I must consider it.” “That will not be necessary, Mother,” the hard-faced woman said hurriedly. “You will have the report you require tomorrow. I am sure many will start returning soon.” Donald was not so certain; however much he wanted it—the Tower must be strong; it must!—but his point was made. Troubled thoughtfulness marked every eye but Bannon’s. If Donald was ready to come down on one of his own former Ajah, and even harder on a Green who had been with him from the first day, perhaps they had made a mistake in treating him as a ceremonial effigy. Perhaps they had helped put him on the Amyrlin Seat, but now he was the Amyrlin. A few more examples in the coming days should drive it home. If necessary, he would have everyone here doing penance till they begged mercy. “There are Tairen soldiers in Cairhien, as well as Andoran,” he went on, ignoring averted eyes. “Tairen soldiers sent by the man who took the Stone of Tear.” Spicer clasped his plump hands tight, and Flynn flinched. Only Bannon remained unruffled as a frozen pond. Donald flung out his hand and pointed to the painting of black man parasailing. “Look at it. Look! Or I will have every last one of you on hands and knees scrubbing floors! If you have not the backbone even to look at a painting, what courage can you have for what is to come? Cowards are no use to the Tower!” Slowly they raised their eyes, shuffling feet like nervous girls instead of Aes Sedai. Only Bannon merely looked, and only he appeared untouched. Spicer wrung his hands, and tears actually welled in his eyes. Something would have to be done about Spicer. “Barack Hussein Obama. A man who can channel.” The words left Donald's mouth like a whip. They made his own stomach knot up till he feared he might vomit. Somehow he kept his face smooth and pressed on, pushed the words out, stones from a sling. “A man fated to go mad and wreak horror with the Power before he dies. But more than that. Arad Doman and Tarabon and everything between is a ruin of rebellion because of him. If the war and famine in Cairhien cannot be tied to him of a certainty, he surely precipitates a greater war there, between Tear and Andor, when the Tower needs peace! In Ghealdan, some mad Shienaran preaches of him to crowds too great for Alliandre’s army to contain. The greatest danger the Tower has ever faced, the greatest threat the world has ever faced, and you cannot make yourselves speak of him? You cannot gaze at his image?” Silence answered him. All save Bannon looked as though their tongues were frozen. Most stared at the black man in the painting, birds hypnotized by a snake. “Barack Hussein Obama.” The name tasted bitter on Donald's lips. Once he had had that man, so innocent in appearance, within arm’s reach. And he had not seen what he was. His rival had known—had known for the Light alone knew how long, and had left him to run wild. That woman had told him a great deal before escaping, had said things, when put hard to the question, that Donald would not let himself believe—if the Forsaken were truly free, all might be lost—but somehow she had managed to refuse some answers. And then escaped before she could be put to the question again. That woman and the Blue had known all along. Donald intended to have her both back in the Tower. She would tell every last scrap of what she knew. She would plead on her knees for death before he was done. He forced himself to go on, though the words curdled in his mouth. “Barack Hussein Obama is the Dragon Reborn, daughters.” Spicer's knees gave way, and he sat down hard on the floor. Some of the others appeared to have weak knees as well. Donald's eyes flogged them with scorn. “There can be no doubt of it. He is the one spoken of in the Prophecies. The Dark One is breaking free of his prison, the Last Battle is coming, and the Dragon Reborn must be there to face him or the world is doomed to fire and destruction so long as the Wheel of Time turns. And he runs free, daughters. We do not know where he is. We know a dozen places he is not. He is no longer in Tear. He is not here in the Tower, safely shielded, as he should be. He brings the whirlwind down on the world, and we must stop it if there is to be any hope of surviving Tarmon Gai’don. We must have him in hand to see he fights in the Last Battle. Or do any of you believe he will go willingly to his prophesied death to save the world? A man who must be going mad already? We must have him in control!” “Mother,” Bannon began with that irritating lack of emotion, but Donald stopped him with a glare. “Putting our hands on Obama is more important by far than skirmishes in Shienar or whether Mexico is quiet, more important than finding Elayne or Galad, more important even than Mazrim Taim. You will find him. You will! When next I see you, each of you will be ready to tell me in detail what you have done to make it so. Now you may leave me, daughters.” A ripple of unsteady curtsies, breathy murmurs of “As you command, Mother,” and they came close to running, Tillerson helping Spicer wobbling to his feet. The Yellow sister would do nicely for the next example; some would be necessary, to make sure none of them slid back, and he was too weak to be allowed in this council. Of course, this council would not be allowed to continue much longer in any case. The Hall would hear his words, and leap. All save Bannon went. For a long moment after the door had closed behind the others, the two men met each other’s eyes. Bannon had been the first, the very first, to hear and agree with the charges against his then-rival. And Bannon knew full well why he wore the Keeper’s stole instead of someone from the Red. The Red Ajah had favored Donald unanimously, but the White had not done so, and without wholehearted support from the White, many others might not have come round, in which case Donald would have been in a cell instead of sitting on the Amyrlin Seat. That is, if the remains of his head were not decorating a spike for the ravens to play with. Bannon would not be so easily intimidated as the others. If he could be intimidated at all. There was a disturbing feel of equal-to-equal in Bannon’s unwavering gaze. A tap at the door sounded loud in the quiet. “Come!” Donald snapped. One of the Accepted, a pale, slender girl, stepped hesitantly into the room and immediately dropped a curtsy so low her white skirt with its seven bands of color at the hem made a wide pool around her on the floor. From the wideness of her blue eyes and the way she kept them on the floor, she had caught the mood of the staffers leaving. Where Aes Sedai left shaking, an Accepted went at great peril. “M-Mother, Master P-Putin is here. He said you w-would see him at th-this hour.” The girl swayed in her crouch, on the point of falling over from stark fear. “Then send him in, girl, instead of keeping him waiting,” Donald growled, but he would have had the girl’s hide if she had not kept the man outside. The anger he held back from Bannon—he would not let himself think that he did not dare show it—that anger welled up. “And if you cannot learn to speak properly, perhaps the kitchens are a better place for you than the Amyrlin’s anteroom. Well? Are you going to do as you were told? Move, girl! And tell the Mistress of Novices you need to be taught to obey with alacrity!” The girl squeaked something that might have been a correct response and darted out. With an effort, Donald got hold of himself. It did not concern him whether Becky DeVos, the new Mistress of Novices, beat the girl to incoherence or let her off with a lecture. He barely saw novices or Accepted unless they intruded on him, and cared less. It was Bannon he wanted humbled and on his knees. But Putin, now. He tapped one finger against his puffy lips. A stoic, powerful man, who had appeared at the Tower only days earlier in heavy military boots and camo pants, his meaty bare chest glistening with man-sweat, seeking audience with the Amyrlin. Oh how masculine he was, with his riveting accent and cool eyes.  If not for the long list of pillow-friends Donald kept he would have peppered Putin's chiseled jaw with gilded kisses. Bannon was still looking at him, so icily complacent, just a hint in his eyes of the questions he must have about Putin. Donald's face hardened. Almost he reached for saidar, the female half of the True Source, to teach the man his place with the Power. But that was not the way. Bannon might even resist, and fighting like a farmgirl in a stableyard was no method for the Amyrlin to make his authority plain. Yet Bannon would learn to yield to him as surely as the others would. The first step would be leaving Bannon in the dark concerning Master Putin. __________ Vladamir Putin put the frantic young Accepted out of his mind as he stepped into the Amyrlin’s study; he was a toothsome bit, and Putin liked them fluttering like birds in the hand, but there were more important matters to concentrate on now. Smearing another dollop of baby oil on his chest, he ducked his head suitably low, suitably humbly, but the two awaiting him seemed unaware of his presence at first, locked eye-to-eye as they were. It was all he could do not to stretch out a hand to caress the tension between them. Tension and division wove everywhere through the White Tower. All to the good. Tension could be tweaked, division exploited, as need be. He had been surprised to find Donald Trump on the Amyrlin Seat. Better than what he had expected, though. In many ways he was not so tough, he had heard, as the woman who had sought the stole before him. Harder, yes, and more cruel, but more brittle, too. More difficult to bend, likely, but easier to break. If either became necessary. Still, one Aes Sedai, one Amyrlin even, was much like another to him. Fools. Dangerous fools, true, but useful dupes at times. Finally they realized he was there, the Amyrlin frowning slightly at being taken by surprise, the Keeper of the Chronicles unchanging. “You may go now, daughter,” Trump said firmly, a slight but definite emphasis on “now.” Oh, yes. The tensions, the cracks in power. Cracks where seeds could be planted. Putin caught himself on the point of giggling. Steve Bannon hesitated before giving the briefest of curtsies. As he swept out of the room, his eyes brushed across Putin, expressionless yet disconcerting. Unconsciously he huddled, bunching his shoulders protectively; his upper lip fluttered in a half-snarl at his flabby back. On occasion he had the feeling, just for an instant, that he knew too much about him, but he could not have said why. Bannon's cool face, cool eyes, they never changed. At those times he wanted to make them change. Fear. Agony. Pleading. He nearly laughed at the thought. No point, of course. Bannon could know nothing. Patience, and he could be done with him and his never-changing eyes. The Tower held things worth a little patience in its strong rooms. The Horn of Valere was there, the fabled Horn made to call dead heroes back from the grave for the Last Battle. Even most of the Aes Sedai were ignorant of that, but he knew how to sniff out things. The dagger was there. He felt its pull where he stood. He could have pointed to it. It was his, a part of him, stolen and mired away here by these Aes Sedai. Having the dagger would make up for so much lost; he was not sure how, but he was sure it would. For Aridhol lost. Too dangerous to return to Aridhol, perchance to be trapped there again. He shivered. So long trapped. Not again. Of course, no one called it Aridhol any longer, but Shadar Logoth. Where the Shadow Waits. An apt name. So much had changed. Even himself. Vladamir Putin. Mordeth. Ordeith. Sometimes he was uncertain which name was really his, who he really was. One thing was sure. He was not what anyone thought. Those who believed they knew him were badly mistaken. He was transfigured, now. A force unto himself, and beyond any other power. They would all learn, eventually. Suddenly he realized with a start that the Amyrlin had said something. Casting about in his mind, he found it. “Yes, Mother, the pants suit me very well.” He ran a hand down the mottled pattern of green and brown and gray to show how fine he found it, as if garments mattered. “ ’Tis a very good pair. I am thanking you kindly, Mother.” He was prepared to suffer more of Trump trying to make him feel at ease, ready to kneel and kiss his ring, but this time he went straight to the heart. “Tell me more of what you know of Barack Obama, Master Putin.” Putin's eyes went to the painting of the parasailing black man, and as he gazed at it, his back straightened. Obama's portrait tugged at him almost as much as the man would, sent rage and hate roiling along his veins. Because of that man he had suffered pain beyond remembering, pain he did not let himself remember, suffered far worse than pain. He had been broken and remade because of Obama. Of course, that remaking gave him the means of revenge, but that was beside the point. Beside his desire for Obama's destruction, everything else dimmed from sight. When he turned back to the Trump, he did not realize his manner was as commanding as the Amyrlin's, meeting him stare for stare. “Barack Hussein Obama is devious and sly, uncaring of anyone or anything but his own power.” Fool man. “He’s never a one to do what you expect.” But if he could put Obama in his hands . . . “He is difficult to lead—very difficult—but I believe it can be done. First you must tie a string to one of the few he trusts . . . ” If Trump gave him Obama, Putin might leave him alive when he finally went, even if he was Aes Sedai.