#see if I can at least approximate knowledge enough to flesh out the character and force some more world building around that lmao

[tonyglowheart]

major W, convinced the DM for what will be our next campaign (a homebrew he's working on) to, one, let fantasy graduate studies in library sciences/archival studies be a thing, and two, let my character be paying off fantasy student loans (although in his system it's been translated to more of just tuition, sad) for said fantasy PhD in archival studies/MLIS

[the-lady-writes-what]

24. Enji Todoroki

          Theme: Monster hunter

          Kinks: Outdoor sex, rope play, voyeurism (if you squint), oral (giving), face fucking, cream pie, slight breeding kink (it’s Enji we’re talking about, come on)

Masterlist

This was supposed to come out on Saturday, but if you read a post I wrote earlier I’m visiting my boyfriend whom I haven’t seen a long while. This one and the next chapter is going to running late, but I plan on catching up with the rest so that everything else will be posted on schedule. 

With that being said, ENDEAVOR FUCKERS COME GET YOUR FOOD! 

EDIT: 04/26/2021 Idiots really be out here not paying attention to when a character starts giving somebody a blowjob and they start talking. Like you can’t talk with your mouth full. It’s me. I’m idiots.

You had to crane your neck to look at the man. He was taller—no. That wasn't right. He was taller than tall. He was enormous. When you left to answer the door to your cottage, you didn't know what or who you would be expecting. Certainly not this. Hair red as flames, eyes the sea's color after a storm, and a body completely encased in hard muscle. The stranger was clad in leather armor and a wool coat. He wore a grimace that would make babies weep. 

"C-Can I help you, sir?" 

"Enji, here! Let me through. I can address the situation better than you can!"

Another stranger brushed past the one standing in your doorway. He was blonde, shorter than his partner, and held himself differently than the other. 

"Hi, I'm Keigo, and this is my boss, Enji. We heard a rumor that you could help us," said the blonde stranger. 

"W-What can I help you with?" You stuttered. 

"You see, we were in the area—"

"We hunt monsters," said the enormous one, Enji.

Blood drained from your face. 'Monster hunters'? They hunted monsters—vampires, ghouls, werewolves, succubi and incubi, and, of course, witches. You slowly backed away from the door. 

"Relax, we're not here for you. There aren't any complaints or bounties out on you," said Keigo.

"There are only two kinds of witches, dead ones and the ones who haven't lost their humanity." Enji's eyes looked at you up and down. "And you don't appear to be the former."

"What my boss means to say is that you are the kind of witch who helps people. You don't summon ghosts or dig up graves of the recently deceased for their bones, do you?" 

You rapidly shook your head. "NO!" 

"We were recommended your services from someone in the local village. They said you were an expert in this particular matter," said Keigo. 

Without invitation, the pair of hunters crossed the threshold of your door. You ran to the kitchen to put a kettle on the fire. If your guests were going to barge in and make themselves comfortable, you were at least going to make yourself a cup of tea to calm your nerves. 

"Twenty miles from here," said Enji, "A trickster spirit has been causing havoc. Farm animals have gone missing and later found strewn on top of barns. Guts missing. Women are getting pregnant at the same time without any one of them committing adultery. Shrines and courthouses have had their doors blocked by piles of manure. They say it's a malevolent spirit brought along by a tradesman. They also say that your protection and banishing spells are the best in the area."

"Well, I don't know about that," you said. 

Your palms were getting clammy with sweat. You made three cups of tea and set an antique tray on the coffee table between you. You focused on pouring an even amount in each cup though you could not ignore the pair of eyes lingering on you. You could feel a pair of eyes on your every movement, but you couldn't tell which one was staring. You pushed two cups towards the men and settled yourself down in a cozy armchair, taking your tea with you. You expected the monster hunters to rudely throw your tea over their shoulders or inspect the drink and the cups and the saucers to boot. But they didn't. Keigo and Enji were perfectly comfortable and trusted you enough to drink without suspicion of you trying to kill them or turn them into animals. 

"Has anyone seen this creature, because I've never heard anything like it," you said. 

"Unfortunately, no," said Enji. He sipped his tea with the air of a gentleman. He certainly didn't look like one because of his size and his leathers, but he pretended to be one as he drank your tea. 

"The thing is, trickster spirits usually dismember cattle or get women pregnant, but rarely do both," you said. "So, you might be looking at one trickster and a hustler who's telling the women he knocks up to blame the creature."

"It can't be both?" Asked Keigo.

You shook your head again. "It's either one or the other. Disemboweling cattle and impregnating random mortal women are two different natures. I will eat my broomstick if I turn out to be wrong."

"How soon can you pack?" It was Enji this time. 

You furrowed your brows. You glanced over at Keigo, who seemed equally surprised. This hadn't been something they planned together. 

"Are you expecting me to go with you?" 

"We can't cast spells like you can, and you seem to be more knowledgeable about the subject than us."

"But I—" You started to protest only for Enji to stop you. 

"You'll be compensated for your troubles," said Enji.

He fixed you with a piercing look. You swallowed hard and sank into your chair.

"Can I finish my tea first?" You took a sip.

Enji gave you two hours to get things together. You made a pack that should last you a couple of weeks. You didn't know if Enji realized that you had no horse and would have to walk all the way with them. They probably had horses but weren't going to share. By the end of this, you were going to wring as much compensation out of them as you could. You secured all the windows, hid all your valuables in the floorboards, and locked the front door. You heard a pair of horses neighing at your gates and sighed to yourself. 

Enji and Keigo were getting ready to hop on. Enji grabbed your bag and handed it off to Keigo, who tied it with his saddlebag. To compensate for his large size, Enji's horse was a Clydesdale, a huge horse with a neatly trimmed mane. Enji held his hand out to you. Confused, you took it. His large hands held unto your waist, and he lifted you unto the saddle without effort. Like you weighed no more than a couple of grapes. Then, Enji sat down in the saddle with you. Your legs dangled off the side rather helplessly. You looked behind Enji's massive shoulder over at Keigo, who looked just as confused as you and shrugged his shoulders. Enji pulled he reigns of his horse and brought it to a trot. 

That night, the three of you sat around a fire. Enji stood up and said something about getting extra firewood. You waited until he was outside of earshot. 

"What the hell is the deal with your partner? Is he always like this?"

"He is the way that he is because of his past. He used to be a bureaucrat if you can believe it," said Keigo.

"I don't."

"It's the truth whether you believe me or not. Enji spent most of his life kissing ass and licking boots. He pushed his children away because of his politicking. Drove his wife insane. One day, he had to travel to the far east of the kingdom because his king wanted him to, despite his family's protests. Enji went anyway. When he came back, his wife was dead, and his children moved away. He turned to fighting monsters, the kind that killed his wife, to make up for the bullshit he'd done. His kids still don't talk to him, but he makes sure they're doing alright."

You stared at Keigo.

"You asked why he's like that, and I told you. Sorry if it's over-sharing," said Keigo. 

Enji returned with a bundle of wood. His back was turned towards you as he rekindled the bonfire. You remembered how his eyes looked at you. What did he see?

Dawn came sooner than you thought. You were on the road again, and by late afternoon you arrived at your destination. The village was smaller than yours and was warier of your abilities. You salted the roof of every building, including the ones that still had dried blood on them from the last time an animal carcass had been dumped. You placed a charm over every door, front and back. 

Then, all the hunters had to do was wait. 

You lurked behind a stack of barrels and crates as soon as the sun began to set. Enji and Keigo set up shop in the village square. The creature, whatever it was, had no room to go anywhere. With every door bolted and roof blessed with salt, it had nowhere to hide. Night descended slowly as if to give the creature more time to rest or find a new hiding spot. Lights flickered out in every window in the village square; all the others followed suit. You clutched a long knife in your hand. 

Out of a barn, it came bursting through wood and hay. It had a long body but very little muscle mass, like a snake with four legs and antlers like a deer driven through moss. Its hiss echoed through the echoed and made the rafters of buildings shudder. You were thrown to the ground by the power of its roar. You fumbled to your knees to get a good look at the creature who'd been terrorizing the poor villagers. At the beast ripped through the barn, salt scattered off the roof and landed on its serpentine body. The thing fell to the ground, twisting and writhing on its back while trying to shake off the salt. 

Keigo and Enji rushed over, weapons in hand. Swords glinted like silver fangs in the night's darkness. Though weak, the creature managed to roll unto his feet and charged at them. But Enji and Keigo were faster than that. 

Being smaller and younger, Keigo slid around to the creature's side and plunged his sword into its stomach. Or at least the approximate location of where its stomach was located. Its body was so long and thin, it was hard to tell which organs lay where. The monster was about to swerve and turn its jagged teeth on him when Enji's long claymore cut through its neck at the base of the skull. The village square was so quiet that you heard metal plunging deep into flesh and the snap of bone. You watched by moonlight Enji's foot crack open the skull and drive his sword deeper into its neck. The creature squealed like a pig at the slaughterhouse. It clawed and snapped its teeth, but there was no moving. Keigo pulled his sword out and pushed it back in. Eventually, the creature stopped moving.

The following morning, the sleepy village woke to the grotesque smell of demon flesh burning on a pyre. You helped Enji and Keigo erect it in a barren field and set it ablaze with a simple fire spell. Though they hated the smell, they were at least grateful to have the monster disposed of. Now, they just had to worry about one other problem. You looked around at the crowd that gathered to watch the fell beast burn. Although you couldn't tell how many were secretly still within the first month, several women looked pregnant. 

"Let me stay a while to find out who's getting these women pregnant. This isn't natural, you told Enji. 

"Very well," he said. "I'll have a talk with the mayor about letting us stay in his barn." 

"You don't have to stick around. Your job's done here, isn't it? They paid you, right?"

"Would you rather walk twenty miles back to your cottage?" Enji asked.

"N-no," you answered. 

"Then, we're staying."

That was that. You tried to coax Enji into leaving. You didn't need protection, and you were okay with walking home. Hell, you could have paid for a horse or even a donkey to ride back since he did give you one-third of the money earned from slaying the creature. Enji heard none of your protests, folded his arms across his massive chest, and looked sternly down at you. You felt dwarfed in his presence. His smoldering eyes were not suited for it, and he was insistent in ways you couldn't believe. Keigo said so himself one evening into your third night at the village.

"He's never been like this before. Are you sure you didn't cast a love spell on him, Miss Hocus Pocus?" Asked Keigo.

"No!" You said vehemently and tossed a balled-up dirty sock at him. "That is highly unethical, to say the least. I would never manipulate someone's emotions like that!"

"Find anything?"

You interviewed every woman who had gotten pregnant. They conceived at almost the exact time. That wouldn't usually be an issue if it was winter or a recent festival had taken place. Neither hadn't. They couldn't blame lousy weather for sequestering them with bored husbands or lovers. The fact that they got pregnant at almost the same time disturbed you the most. A couple had already terminated the pregnancies because of embarrassment, but you didn't blame them. Threw a small wrench in your investigation, though.

You let yourself out of the humble cottage where a woman told her story to you. You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed. Enji was waiting for you by the cottage's fence. 

"None of the stories match up. Now that they can't blame the monster, they came up with their own lies. Babies don't just magically appear out of nowhere. Someone is getting them pregnant. They're either protecting them or too embarrassed to admit who it is. It certainly isn't any of their husbands and lovers, that I can tell you."

You and Enji walked over to the only tavern in the area. It was the only well-built thing in the village, aside from the mayor's house and the town hall. A few men clapped Enji on the back in gratitude for saving their livestock, but they never noticed you. Both of you took a seat at the bar. Enji paid for your drink since nobody seemed to care that you lent a helping hand with the monster. Enji's drinks were on the house. The beer was a little stale, but not the worst you ever had. 

A couple swigs in and Enji started asking you questions. 

"Where did you learn your Craft?" 

"From my father," you answered. 

"Your father? I thought it was passed down maternally?

You slumped in your seat. "It is in some cases. My mother never showed up, and that left my father to raise me by himself. She left the day after she gave birth and never returned. My father is a good man and even better witch." You downed your mug of beer. "Have you ever killed a witch yourself, Enji?" You asked. 

Enji looked over at his mug. His eyes became steely and set in stone. They lingered on your neck before traveling up to your eyes.  

"Once, but I wouldn't call her a witch. She gave folks like you a bad name. She was an awful hag. Like to turn lost or kidnapped children into swine and sell them at marketplaces where they were taken to slaughterhouses. When she was bored, she disguised herself as a beautiful woman and danced naked around a bonfire. She lured men who would hear her. She slept with them to drain them of their virility. By the time I had gotten there, the village was in misery."

"What did you do to her?" You almost didn't want to know the answer, but there was small comfort in that Enji didn't compare you to an evil hag. 

Enji drained his mug in one go. He practically slammed it on the counter. All but two minutes passed before another appeared in his hand. Enji drank half of it before saying anything at all. 

"I lay in wait for her after I followed some kids into the woods. They were lured there by one of her magic spells. I kept the kids in a net so they wouldn't go into the house. She tried to kill me with a knife, cut my arms up, but she didn't stand a chance. She hadn't been prepared for a fully grown monster on her doorstep instead of three kids. I took a chain hanging off her rafters and strangled her. I cut out her heart, burned it, and. Then set the rest of the house on fire too. I dragged the kids back to their parents without too much trauma. As far as I'm aware, they haven't had any problems ever since."

You stared into your beer mug, which was about halfway empty by this point. You knocked it back and slammed it on the counter. Enji bought you another. About half an hour into your drinking, Enji left the seat next to yours to take a piss. You stared into your mug again when you felt someone pull up to the bar on the other side of you. He was young, handsome, and wore a broad smile. His sandy-blonde hair was pushed back away from his face in a way that reminded you of Keigo, but his eyes were the wrong color. Blue-colored crystals beamed at you. The color of his eyes was beautiful, but they left you unnerved. 

"You're seeing the monster hunter, Enji, right? You're his wife or something?"

"What? No, I'm not his anything. He asked me for help, and I agreed. I was pleasantly compensated. With money." You added sharply in case the young fool tried to twist your words. 

"I see," the stranger said. "I thought that someone as pretty as you wouldn't get involved with a man old enough to be your father." 

"I don't see how it's any concern of yours, fop," you sniped. 

The young man bit his lower lip. You thought you saw his hand disappear into his vest, but you had a couple of drinks in you and couldn't tell for certain. 

"Well, well, well. The little white witch has some spunk. Here, I thought you were just a mistress, tagging along because of the old man's jealousy. Now I see that you've got quite the fire in you." 

You wanted to gag. It would be a simple task to make him vomit in turn or make him stink of skunk for the rest of his life. Your father always taught you that curses should only be used when absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, being rude and horny didn't qualify as absolutely necessary.

"How bout you ditch the old man and come with me. I have some friends with some good stuff. The best wine you've ever had. What do you say?" The young man continued to pester. 

You had just opened your mouth when Enji's hand appeared out of nowhere. The man stood beside you and reached for your mug. He brought it to his lips and drained the last of your beer. 

"I think she's outgrown your company," Enji growled. "You should move along." 

The stranger reluctantly got out of his seat and walked away. He still wore a small on his face as he did so. 

"I think we should head out. I don't think we should meddle in the village's personal affairs. It'll sort itself out eventually," said Enji. 

"But—"

"It shouldn't concern you." 

You didn't want to leave, but some part of you realized that Enji was right. You had no clues, and none of the women were going to tell you the truth. You didn't live here, so why spend so much time and effort on people weren't really your concern? If they really needed you, they could come and pay for it. Still, you were a little reluctant to pack and leave the villagers and their unsolved mystery behind. You waited by the horses as Enji and Keigo finished some last-minute business with the mayor. What they could be discussing, you could hardly venture to say. When it came time for you all to climb on, Enji handed you over to Keigo instead of helping you unto his Clydesdale. The change was odd, but you didn't overthink it. 

A couple hours into the ride, you noticed Enji wiping his brow more than usual. It was a mild day and, for the most part, was covered by the trees from the sun. He didn't glance at you. At sunset, Enji took his horse and pack and traveled a bit further than you all. He set up his own camp where you and Keigo couldn't see him. 

"What's he doing? Wouldn't it be better to camp together? That can't be very safe," you said to Keigo. 

"He's…feeling a bit under the weather. Doesn't want to spread it to either of us." Keigo's answer would have satisfied anyone else.

"He was perfectly fine all day," you counted. "What could he have caught?"

You stood up and started in the direction where Enji disappeared. Keigo hopped in front of you a moment later. He spread his arms out as if that would be enough to deter you. 

"I can't let you do that, Y/N. He told me to keep you safe, so that's what I'm—"

You grabbed a handful of sleeping powder from the satchel hanging on your waist. You usually carried an assortment of these spell powders on you in case of emergencies. While your life wasn't in danger, Keigo was stubborn. You cradled the lavender powder in your hand and blew a puff of air into it. Your hand was aligned with his face to blow the powder into it. Keigo coughed and wheezed for a minute before his eyelids drew closed. Keigo was snoring face down in the dirt in less than two minutes. 

You trekked through the woods, snapping every twig along the way. Through the bushes, you spotted a smaller campfire and then a horse tether to an oak tree. Enji stood at the farthest end of his encampment. His back was turned towards you. You tip-toed quietly to avoid startling him. The closer you stepped, the more awkward the scene became. Enji's right arm was shaking with effort while his left hand braced against a tree. He was panting and grunting. But what shocked you was the way he said 'your' name. It didn't take very long for you to figure out what he was doing and why he camped away from you guys. 

"Fuck, Y/N." 

At first, you thought he noticed you creeping on him from behind. With an animalistic groan and a quiet splatter, you realized that he finished himself off with your name on his tongue. Enji leaned his forehead against the trunk. He moaned as if in pain. He looked down, swore, and started again.

You took a few steps closer. 

“Enji?" You called out. 

You were within arms' length of him when Enji turned around. His face was red as hair, but not nearly as red as the bulging head of his cock. You blushed immediately and swallowed hard at its size. Enji didn't move his hand, which fisted his cock, but he didn't remove his hand and hide.

"The man put something…in your drink this afternoon. I was coming back when I saw him pour a vial of pink potion in your mug."

You remembered the stranger and how he pressed and prodded. You thought you saw his hand dig into his vest. However, you'd been drinking and couldn't tell for sure. It dawned on you that Enji drank your laced beer before you made a terrible mistake. You shuddered, thinking about what could have happened had you drank it before Enji could get to it. 

"You're in pain…because of me. You saved me from getting drugged and raped by a stranger. That love potion…is causing this, just as it's caused all of those pregnancies in the village?" 

You watched the beads of sweat roll down Enji's face and neck. Enji nodded.

"You should go back. Keigo will protect you from me. I shouldn't be around you when I'm like this," said Enji. 

His eyes flickered to your chest, then he forced them back to your face; they trailed down your neck again. Enji snapped his eyes shut and started to turn around. You grabbed his right arm and sank to your knees.

"You let yourself be drugged to save me. You're in pain. I'm a healer, so," you took a deep breath, "let me help you."

Enji didn't give you a warning before shoving himself into your mouth. Your jaw was already open wide for him, but that didn't keep them from straining with the effort. He was thick as a horse cock, veiny, and reached the back of your throat. Enji held your head between his large hands as he snapped his hips into your mouth. You struggled to breathe through your nose while Enji thoroughly fucked your throat. 

He growled like an animal. The sound erupting from his throat almost drowned out the desperate whines coming from yours. You laved your tongue over him and sucked in your cheeks to help things move along. You clawed at his thighs then held unto his hips. They moved faster, snapping into your mouth without hesitation. Enji's vigor was nothing like you seen or felt before. His cock filled your mouth and stretched you open without even trying. 

"Brace yourself, Y/N. I'm about to come. Be a good girl and let me come down your throat," Enji growled. 

A second later, your face was thrust into his crotch. Your nose brushed against the forest of curly red hair. His balls felt hot against your chin. Last but not least, Enji's cock reached all the way back into your mouth. You could feel him bulging in your throat. Your jaws ached as your mouth swelled up with his cum. The substance leaked out of the corner of your mouth. Enji did not pull out until the rest dripped down the inside of your throat. You were the one to pant like a dog in heat when he finally pulled out. 

You gasped when your senses came back to you. Enij's chest was still heaving for breath, and sweat rolled down his exposed skin. His armor was ditched in a pile near his campfire. His gray shirt stuck to his skin where his sweat soaked through. Still protruding from his black trousers was his red cock. 

"Shit. This is going to be a lot harder than I thought," you said in all seriousness. 

"Wait here." 

Enji didn't bother to tuck himself in before walking to his pack. He pulled out a length of rope and carried it back. You tried not to stare at his member as it bobbed freely in his long strides back towards you. 

Enji threw the down at the base of the tree. His broad hands took you by the shoulders and pinned your back against it. Next, they went to work on your clothes. Enji snipped the corset laces at your end with a knife on his belt. His hands tore open your shift and skirt to make way for him. Once most of your skin was exposed to him, Enji grabbed your hands, pulled them above your head, and tied them with rope. To one end, you. At the other end, he looped around the nearest branch and fastened a knot there. Your feet could barely touch the ground when he finished. 

Your legs were quickly spread and hoisted over his hips. Enji lined himself up to your slit. The angry, blunt head spread open your cunt, lubricated by the juices freely flowing. Enji's hands cupped each of your ass cheeks and squeezed hard as he bottomed out. He felt so much more prominent in your throat than in your cunt, but that didn't feel less substantial. Enji's cock still was hard, thick, and ridged. Your walls fluttered around him. 

"You wet for me already?" Enji wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. 

He didn't give you a chance to reply before starting. Enji pulled out most of the way until just the tip remained. He pushed all the way in again, balls deep. Repeating the process, Enji thrust faster and harder. You arched your back though your body strained against him and the ropes keeping you off the ground. Your shoulders and arms were going to burn like hell tomorrow, but at the moment, it didn't fucking matter. 

Your breasts were smashed against his hard chest. The friction tweaked your nipples into stiff peaks. Enji lowered his face to kiss and bite your neck. Latching onto your shoulder did little to muffle the sound erupting from his throat. He was an animal in heat. Your legs bounced with every thrust of his deep inside your body. 

You tried to meet him thrust for thrust, pushing your hips against his. After a while, it was a vain effort. Despite your youth, you couldn't imagine keeping up with him. You quickly gave up and handed Enji the power. 

He didn't say much. There were no your cunt feels like it was made for my cock or you take it so well as a bitch in heat. Enji could have said those things and more. He was focused on completing as soon as possible so as not to further harm you. He grunted like a beast but made no effort to verbally degrade you. 

When your walls fluttered around him again and squeezed his cock, Enji followed suit. Ropes of cum warmed your lower belly. Then, and only then did Enji speak up.

"Is it wrong for wanting to imagine you fucking swollen with my baby inside you? You're so fucking full of my seed, aren't you, Y/N?"

You could barely nod. The thought shocked you for a moment, and you didn't know if you wanted it. Time would only tell.

[turkleader]

Final Fantasy VII Remake Demo Spoilers Below

[ooc]

Let’s talk about something that’s been gnawing away at the back of my mind since I first got the chance to play this demo: Stamp.

For those of you who haven’t gotten the chance to play the demo yet, this is a new mascot character that has been introduced with the Remake, a little puppy that wears a round army helmet on his head. We see two posters in the demo’s areas featuring him, and we get a handful of lines of dialogue from Barret comparing Cloud to Stamp.

Now at first I wasn’t certain what Square was getting at with this new addition, but I know Square well enough to know that adding “random” content that wasn’t in the original FFVII isn’t something they’d risk if there wasn’t some reason behind it. My partner and I listened to Barret’s lines, we studied the posters, and an idea began to emerge. Because another thing that’s notably different about the opening portions of the Remake’s demo compared to the original game is... the absolute lack of any mentions of Zack Fair.

So my theory is... what if Stamp is Zack Fair?

Many people who have played Crisis Core remember the line where Angeal compares Zack to a “restless puppy” (during a DMW flashback). It’s become one of the most endearing terms given to Zack’s character. But my reasoning doesn’t stop there. Barret’s comparison of Cloud to Stamp hammers home the relationship between Cloud and this new mascot, to the point where it’s almost overwhelming. And perhaps that’s the entire point, a way to nudge the audience playing the Remake (new and old fans alike) into paying more attention to this than they initially would be inclined to.

Before Entering the Elevator that Leads Down into the Reactor Barret: SOLDIERs may attack on command, but I hear they make good guard dogs too. Bet you've seen a few reactors. So how do we get to the bridge above mako storage? Ain't holding out on me, are you? Stamp scared to bite the hand that fed him? Or is he a loyal little doggie!? [Cloud gets a flash of static and pain, and grabs his head with one hand] Have it your way, mutt. We can do this with you, or we can do this without you. Cloud: [We cannot see Cloud's eyes at any point during these lines of dialogue; is this done on purpose?] Different reactor, different layout. Depends when it was built. Never seen one like this, but I'll manage.

Right Before Planting the Bomb at the Reactor Core Barret: All right. Let's see if little Stamp really can bite the hand that feeds... [He holds out the bomb] Go on. Do the honors. Prove to me you're the man Tifa says you are. That you're one of us. Cloud: Never said I was. I'm just here for the paycheck. Barret: Then do the damn job!

What we can take away from this, at the very least, is that Square wants us to connect Stamp to Cloud, and vice versa. But how do we get from here to Stamp representing Zack?

Part of it, beyond Zack’s “puppy” nickname, and Zack’s experiences with Cloud immediately prior to the events of FFVII (experimentation at Nibelheim, their escape to Midgar, Cloud’s severe mako poisoning, Zack’s death and passing on his “legacy” to Cloud) is the knowledge that many of us (those that have played the game before) have of Cloud’s fractured mental state, his haphazardly pieced together self-identity, mingling the strongest aspects of Zack, the things Cloud admired so much about his friend and closest companion at the end, and the harsher aspects of Cloud himself, still broken and tormented in so many ways by the things done to him and those he cares about (the razing of Nibelheim by his hero, who goes on to murder his mother and horrifically injure his childhood friend, Tifa; the torture he endured for four years at the hands of Hojo; being so close to freedom, only to lose it all at the very end, with Midgar on the horizon...).

It’s fairly common knowledge that the Cloud we meet at the beginning of FFVII isn’t 100% Cloud. And we see hints of that in Cloud’s reaction when Barret yells “Or is he [Cloud] a loyal little doggie!?” at him: the static, the pain, the fact that during Cloud’s reply to Barret we never see Cloud’s eyes once... Then the static and pain returning with the hallucination of the black feather as Cloud plants the bomb at the reactor core, the moment where in the original game Zack speaks to Cloud and says, “Watch out! This isn’t just a reactor!!” Zack, deceased but still able to keep his individual sense of self in the Lifestream, has multiple instances throughout the original game where he speaks to Cloud in this manner, aiding him, nudging him closer and closer to the truth, and helping him in whatever way he can. So it’s very possible that when Barret speaks to Cloud in the Remake’s demo, he’s speaking to Zack, who is watching over Cloud, as well.

But then things get interesting. Specifically because of one poster.

It depicts Stamp on a background filled with fire, carrying another injured puppy on his back. The writing at the bottom reads, “Stamp stands up for his friends!” Now I would argue, by the familiar flaming background, that this is representing Nibelheim. Stamp is Zack, carrying an unconscious and injured puppy, who is Cloud, out of Nibelheim; a depiction of their escape from the burned-down and rebuilt town. The unnamed puppy even has bandages wrapped around the forearm of his front-left leg, much like a certain ex-SOLDIER has bandages that peek just from beneath his bracer on his left arm. The parallels are striking.

“Everyone’s Favorite Series!” -- Final Fantasy? Maybe even referencing Final Fantasy VII specifically, as one of the most popular, if not the most popular, individual game in this long running series?

“The Adventures of Stamp Book 3″ -- Perhaps a hint, that we’ll find out what really happened to Cloud or get more content regarding this scene (the truth behind Nibelheim) in the third installation of this multi-part Remake of Final Fantasy VII? It’s something we won’t know until we get there, but I can’t help but consider it.

This poster alone seems too coincidental to disregard, even if my interpretation won’t end up being completely accurate because of how little we’ve seen of the game so far. But I can’t deny the fact that I’ve made the association between Zack and Stamp, and I’ll be on the lookout for any more clues once the full game is released to see if we can find out more.

We also have this poster, which reads “Mineral Water, Clear Icicle” with Stamp at the bottom-right holding up a bottle of water, and Japanese text that I believe might be Stamp saying, “Oiishi!” or “Delicious!” (If anyone can confirm or deny what Stamp is saying, I’d appreciate it.) Are we supposed to be looking out for something about Zack after we reach Icicle Inn in the coming installations of the Remake? Icicle Inn is where we find out some of the backstory to Aerith’s birth, about what happened between her mother Ifalna and Professor Gast. Are we to expect something else now that specifically concerns Zack? Or is this just a poster to flesh out the world and not something we should be on the lookout for once we get up to that part? Time will tell.

One of the things that does incline me to think that this theory might be on the right track is that recently a video came out on the Official Playstation YouTube channel featuring two of the individuals from Square Enix’s Marketing Team, where they specifically mention to be on the lookout for more instances of Stamp in the Remake. (You can watch the video here, and the approximate time stamp for when they mention the portion I’ve quoted below is at about 10:44-11:34.)

"So interesting thing to call out there. Barret calls Cloud 'Stamp' and we never really explained what that is but he keeps referring to Cloud as a mutt or a dog or a lapdog of Shinra, and that's a new thing that's fleshed out even further. I won't spoil too much, but you can look for Stamp, for more of Stamp as you go through [the game]."

It’s a lot to take in, but it’s the little things that fascinate me. Like my realization only now, after doing all of this digging that all of Cloud’s idle animations (him adjusting his gloves, kicking his boot on the ground to make sure it’s snug, shifting the position of the Buster Sword as it sits on his back) may all be subtle indicators to the fact that Cloud isn’t used to wearing a SOLDIER’s uniform or carrying the weight of the Buster Sword. These things are still foreign to him, things he has to get used to, because he’s never worn these clothes before, never wielded the Buster Sword or worn it for long periods of time.

The tiniest things are there, giving the nod to Zack’s existence, and struggle, and sacrifice for Cloud right before this point in time. Maybe Stamp is just one of the additional ways that Square is making sure the puppy isn’t forgotten.

[ganymedesclock]

ALL RIGHTY, onto them TFA people. since these take a lot more out of me than I was expecting, I’m gonna close this particular meme for now and not take any more asks.

Bear in mind these reads are only as far as SUV: Society of Ultimate Villainy and I would really prefer to avoid any spoilers! I’ve already seen some and it’s not fun. And yes, I do read the tags/replies on this post so watch y’alls spoilery mouths, people.

@numinousbones said:prowl and shiro for the ask meme!

Shiro was last masterpost, so, Prowl!

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life

Prowl is my absolute favorite out of the main crew so far and that’s pretty darn hot competition since most of the TFA main cast won me over fast and hard. I mostly love how deeply expressive he is with his noticeably flat affect and how this isn’t met with a “ha ha but what is Prowl feeling or thinking??? he’s such an impossibly unreadable enigma.” Prowl does have his enigmatic qualities but they are not tied to his autistic traits.

Also when he grinned really big in Megatron Rising Part 2 that absolutely melted my heart. Prowl, you are like almost definitely a child soldier career assassin with deep personal issues where do you get off being that cute.

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

Evaluating the attractiveness of robots is. weird. I like Prowl’s color scheme and also him being a delicate-built lanky motorcycle man.

hogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

This was a tough one. I almost went with Ravenclaw or Slytherin, and excluded the former because while Prowl is smart and observant, he doesn’t particularly value knowledge for its own sake- his curiosity and fascination is saved for specific things that capture his interest. 

And Slytherin is right out- Prowl might be ambitious, but the other side of Slytherin is interpersonal loyalty, maintenance of a trusted circle, and while Prowl heavily benefits from that, he relies on others to build it for him, and often doesn’t really think to reach out to it.

Thus, Gryffindor remains- because if there’s one thing to be said about Prowl, he’s very headstrong- about what he believes in, about what he thinks needs to be done. He pushes tenacity further and further to the point that in Fistful of Energon in particular, “whatever it takes” is practically his mantra.

best quality:

His empathetic side is pretty prominent, especially when that’s the thing that reigns him in during Fistful of Energon. Where his mind can justify almost anything with the urgent, hand-to-mouth way he seems used to operating, he sets his compass to his heart to figure out if he’s going too far. Also, he loves cats, and that’s adorable.

worst quality:

Prowl. Prowl for the love of fuck I don’t know what your backstory is yet but these implications are incredibly viciously unhappy please just. pursue journaling. Get a cat. Talking to your teammates might be too uncomfortable and you’re afraid of the only friends you’ve had in a while judging you and that’s understandable but please talk to someone, and, of course, you won’t, not until this becomes an informative but upsetting episode plot. :/

ship them with:

I have no Prowl ships at present. Mostly I’m trying to figure out what exactly his approximate age ‘in human years’ is. 

brotp them with:

Honestly Ratchet loaning him the EMP generator in Fistful of Energon was a pretty deep statement of trust, which makes me really want to see the two of them interacting more in positive situations. As far as relationships we’ve actually seen, I really like his interactions with Bulkhead and Optimus.

needs to stay away from:

I Still Don’t Know Prowl’s Backstory disclaimer but nobody gets like that without someone else setting things up and I have three guesses who and all of them start with “fucking” and end with “Megatron.”

misc. thoughts:

I have a Prowl backstory theory and it’s one part the entire way he relates to Grimlock and one part “so anybody, at any point, gonna call Prowl on his ability to fly and noticeably dark, murky color scheme compared to literally every other autobot we have clapped eyeballs on”

@theicombaticon​ said:  Hi! Since you're doing the character asks and I haven't seen you say as much about her.....what are your thoughts on Sari?

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

So Sari is one of the few details I knew about Transformers Animated before watching it (specifically her having some sort of relationship with Cybertron/ not being all human) but I didn’t have that many assumptions about her character, but whoa nelly does she deliver.

I would seriously point to Sari as a case study in how to attach a Kid Sidekick to any kind of long-running franchise. Because she’s narratively, perfect- has a well-defined niche, conflicts and problems, unique and reasonable relationships with multiple characters, she’s cute, endearing, has character flaws and conflicts, has nicely diversified interests and is proactive in a way that’s both realistic and effective. 

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

She Is An Eight Year Old.

hogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

In like... the third damn episode Sari basically told the gods to fuck off and brought Optimus back from the dead because what’s the point of gaming the system if you can’t punch the world hard enough to make it cough your friend back up and that is like the most Slytherin possible exercise in heroism I have ever seen, ever.

best quality:

Honestly I love this scheming eight-year-old. I love her heroics and equally obvious inclination to break the rules because. what are you gonna do??? stop her?

worst quality: 

I mean she has character flaws but a lot of them are related to her debilitating loneliness and the growing horrified realization that a lot of her life was living in a kind of narrow protected bubble that her father made for her because the possibility for magic destiny aside, the Allspark itself pretty clearly implied that her story isn’t one that she particularly is gonna enjoy hearing.

And that just feels... mean to criticize. She’s eight. She’s doing the best she can. That’s only so much. 

ship them with: 

This Is An Entire Child.

brotp them with: 

Her sibling relationship with Bee and Bulkhead is adorable, and I would LOVE to see more out of her interactions with Ratchet but this is because I want to see Ratchet interact more with everyone because I love Ambulance Dad from the bottom of my heart.

But y’know what I really, really want? I honestly want Arachnia and Sari to take their grudging mutual same-hat to the next level. I want Arachnia to become Sari’s terrible decisions big sister. By their powers combined they would be literally unstoppable. Optimus gets to find out second hand what sort of shit his sorta surrogate niece and his Significant It’s Complicated have been up to when Arachnia rolls up an hour past midnight like “guess who’s officially a wanted criminal in Botswana?” 

There is at least one (1) heist in which Arachnia gets Sari to climb in the vents to infiltrate a place, which she complains about the entire time but is mollified when someone corners her and tauntingly asks what a Little Girl can possibly threaten him with and then Sari’s just like “oh, y’know” and a giant spider crashes through the wall.

needs to stay away from:

Fuck you, Powell.

misc. thoughts:

Literally my only qualm with Sari is why the hell doesn’t she take her pigtails and hairclips off to sleep. What’s up with that Sari. I know you’re some manner of bizarre cyborg child but what.

Anonymous said: TFA Optimus Prime

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

So I’ve been very aware of Transformers for a long time because it’s pretty impossible not to be, but I’ve also been obstinately indifferent to it for a long time. Watched the first episode of Prime ages ago, really didn’t get into it, haven’t really felt compelled to look further until friends of mine whose cartoon tastes I trust talked me into TFA.

Optimus... won me over a lot. It’s really nice to see energy and color breathed into a character who’s such an archetypal cornerstone hero- he feels fleshed out and this allows me to actually connect with him as a character.

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

I know all the autobots have pretty baby blues but like... Optimus in particular. They are nice. I also like the curvature of his mouth because especially in his more snide expressions (e.g. The Headmaster Returns) it means that Optimus Prime, Headliner Hero of the Transformers Franchise, goes >:3 sometimes. Also when he’s sorta miffed about something, it makes him look like he’s pouting.

hogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

See the interesting thing here is Optimus is exactly the kind of person who’d get incredibly snippy at the Hufflepuff House reputation, but, what mostly sticks with me is that fitting with his fireman’s motif, Optimus’s primary weapon in this setting is a fire axe- which is not a weapon meant for fighting. It’s a tool- meant for clearing obstructions in the way of rescuing people. 

This is both a rather powerful statement of confidence- it implies that the enemies he faces down are obstacles, rather than rivals, reflecting both his formidable skill as a combatant and the certain degree of unforgiving pressure he brings to bear on people he sees as obstructing what needs to be done- and it heavily suggests that to Optimus, combat is a labor of necessity, not something particularly glorious or to be reveled in.

Optimus is a hard worker. His morals are stated repeatedly in someone willing to put his nose to the grind and who would rather be doing meaningful work with people he finds honorable than reveling in glory. In a meta sense in Garbage In, Garbage Out, an episode partially about being a hero and what that makes, the first thing we see Optimus doing is personally hauling waste because it’s a job that needs to be done- and it’s Prowl that comments on the indignity of it all, not Optimus who was actively covered in other people’s trash.

best quality:

Optimus has an impressive tenacity of personal character. He’s, I think, one of the big archetypal Lawful Good characters out there, and his willingness to do things like take Sentinel out in Mission Accomplished is contrasted by his willingness to calmly walk right up to Ultra Magnus and state that he accomplished his objective- if Optimus appears to rebel from the system, it’s because, in his eyes, he’s not the one turning away from the ideal of what should be- it’s Sentinel, it’s Magnus, it’s Cybertron that turns away and leaves him to chase what he’s sure is the right course of action, and, as a Lawful Good, he is also willing to quietly turn himself in and face the consequences of his actions as long as he feels his point has been made.

worst quality: 

He feels pretty overly responsible for other people. This can lead him to sink deep into personal grief (see Along Came A Spider and the way he parsed Elita’s fate before reuniting with Arachnia), it can make him a little pushy and intrusive (see the way he needles Ratchet about opening up to him about his history in Transform And Roll Out part 1 and again in Thrill Of The Hunt, the latter only acknowledging there’s a reason Ratchet might not want to discuss it after something similar happened to him) and, at his absolute worst, it can make him incredibly snappy and controlling when he feels like every minor thing counts (several occasions, but Megatron Rising part 1 is the cleanest example)

ship them with: 

Arachnia. It’s pretty clear they both miss each other terribly, though, they’ve still got a lot of work to do.

brotp them with: 

BRIDGE CREW! BRIDGE CREW! I particularly like his interactions with Ratchet (surprise there, huh) and Prowl.

I’d like to invite Sentinel to this party but Sentinel has a lot of emotional shit he needs to sort out first, because, while Sentinel is clearly at least awkwardly trying to patch their friendship, he’s still not... listening to Optimus about what’s important to him.

needs to stay away from:

Nobody in particular that’s not a general hazard to all autobots.

misc. thoughts:

For the longest time I thought Optimus was the equivalent of a twentysomething but now I am genuinely wondering if he’s actually like. basically eighteen. The bridge crew is just Ratchet shepherding a bunch of teenagers around.

@sepublic asked: General opinion on Lugnut?

general opinion: fall in a hole and die | don’t like them | eh | they’re fine I guess | like them! | love them | actual love of my life 

Lugnut’s honestly got me really intrigued. From his appearance to the sheer raw firepower he’s capable of to the way he is absolutely, to the bottom of his soul terrified of Megatron and at the same time snarls at the idea of anyone so much as suggesting Megatron is less than a grand and benevolent god resplendent on the planet raises some deeply upsetting questions. There’s clearly something to him we haven’t heard, yet.

hotness level: get away from me | meh | neutral | theoretically hot but not my type | pretty hot | gorgeous! | 10/10 would bang

Not necessarily in the conventional sense but he’s got a really appealing monsterish design that makes him stand out a lot visually.

hogwarts house: gryffindor | slytherin | ravenclaw | hufflepuff

Fervent, unyielding loyalty, personal ferocity in the face of battle. Lugnut never abdicates unless it’s in the face of Megatron- if anything, we’ve never seen him afraid of anything except his beloved lord.

best quality:

Loyalty and tenacity, definitely. 

worst quality: 

Like Sari, it feels a little mean to criticize Lugnut because I think it’s pretty obvious a lot of his flaws aren’t really of his own crafting outside of stubbornness. He’s pretty obviously profoundly indoctrinated, and the purr to Megatron’s voice in Lost And Found when he calls Lugnut “truly loyal” is deeply disquieting when we know thanks to Soundwave and Grimlock both that Megatron is quite fond of child soldiers... and Lugnut looks almost nothing like a conventional cybertronian.

ship them with: 

I’m not convinced he’s not a child given cybertronians basically pupate directly to their adult size and then stay there so I consider him off the shipping table.’

brotp them with: 

None of his current canon connections seem super appealing to me. I mean, in an AUish sense I really like the idea of after Megatron’s defeated or driven off Earth, Isaac Sumdac taking in Lugnut and helping rehabilitate him. The guy just... really deserves better than to fling himself reverently at the feet of an abusive person who actively finds his worship either obligatory or annoying.

needs to stay away from:

Megatron, child protection services has a sniper on the roof.

misc. thoughts:

Lugnut’s really not a guy I expected to care about this much, which is kinda the story of TFA. If I didn’t go in expecting to love the character, I was proven wrong.

[beaft]

Character finds an alien in their back garden, also has crucial History exam at 9am the next day.

put a prompt in my inbox!

The first sign that something was amiss was the smell. 

Joelsniffed. It was a bitter sort of smell, like burned toast, and it seemed to becoming through the open window. “Can you smell that?” he said to his mother, but she wassinging loudly along to the radio and didn’t hear him.

Joel got up and walked over to the window. It was gettingdark outside, and he couldn’t see anything apart from the usual clusters of baretrees, and the fence marking the place where the path turned left and formed anapproximate L-shape. As he listened, though, he heard something. A sort ofsquelching sound. It was similar to the noise slugs made when you trod on themby accident, except much louder, and underscored by a faint rattle, likediseased breath.

Joel took his jumper from the back of the chair and pulledit on. Then he fetched a torch from the cupboard and went outside. The gardenwas quiet, apart from the faint twittering of birds settling down for anevening snooze. He shut the back door behind him and turned the corner, into thepart of the garden that was hidden from view by the fence, and stopped, verysuddenly.

There was an alien in the flowerbed.

At least, he assumed it was an alien. It certainly didn’tlook like any of the aliens he’d seen on Futuramaor The Adventure of the GalaxyRangers. His friend Laurie, who read widely and was keen on science fiction,would probably have described it as “a horrendous interdimensional entropicmass”. Joel had never much liked long words. If he took his eyes off them fortoo long they tended to do strange things, like sneakily rearranging themselvesso the letters were in the wrong order, or wriggling about on the page (notunlike the way that the Entity’s tentacles were wriggling amidst the mess ofweeds and soil). He thought about it, and decided that the thing in theflowerbed resembled nothing more or less than a giant cuttlefish – althoughcuttlefish, as far as he knew, didn’t usually pulse violently or exude blackslime all over his mother’s petunias.

Joel wasn’t sure if the Entity understood English or not. Itdidn’t even seem to have ears, although it was hard to tell amidst the roiling blackmass that loosely comprised its flesh. He thought he had better check anyway.Clearing his throat, he asked, “Excuse me, but are you an alien?”

The Entity made a sort of burbling sound.

Right, thought Joel, that’s a no. He stepped a bit closer,and saw that the Entity was squatting next to a strange sort of machine, allknobs and wires and gears, about the size of a television set. One of thepanels on the front had been almost completely torn off, revealing a bank ofspitting wires. Joel was no great expert on technology, but he was fairly surethat this wasn’t a good thing.

“Is that broken?” he said, pointing.

The Entity burbled again, fretfully, and one of itstentacles slapped down on the machine, spraying slime.

“Do you need some help fixing it?”

Squelch. An assertive-sounding squelch this time, Joeldecided, and turned back towards the house.

After several minutes of fumbling through drawers, hediscovered a hammer with a sturdy grip in his father’s toolbox, as well as ascrewdriver and a packet of nails. As he came up the cellar stairs, he cameface to face with his mother. “What were you doing down there?” she demanded.

“Homework project,” Joel said glibly, holding up the nailsas evidence.

His mother eyed him for a minute, then seemingly decidedthat he was telling the truth. “Arts and Crafts, is it?” she said. “Well, don’tspend too long on that. You’ve got that exam tomorrow, remember?”

“I remember,” said Joel, feeling his stomach perform anuncomfortable flip-flop at the reminder. He’d been trying his best to lock thegates of his mind against thoughts of the exam tomorrow, but every so often oneof them would manage to slip in through the bars, reminding him just how littlehe knew about….well, about anything, really. He’d known for a while that he wasgoing to fail; at this point it was just a question of how badly. “I’ll revisefor it in a bit,” he said. “Promise.”

“Make sure you do,” his mother said. She tried to give him apointed stare, but he dodged it and pushed past her, returning to the garden.The Entity was still there. Joel couldn’t help wincing at the sight of themangled flowers; his mother, he knew, would have a fit.

“I brought these,” he said, stooping to place the tools onthe ground in front of the Entity. “Thought they might help you fix your…whateverthat is.”

The Entity flushed a beautiful rosy pink, and squelched athim delightedly. Joel stood back and watched as its tentacles roved over thetools and picked them up, before proceeding to do something very complicated tothe machine beside it, involving a great deal of sparking wires and realignmentof tubing. Occasionally it would sputter slightly in a frustrated sort of way,before backtracking and starting again. Joel watched in fascination, scarcelynoticing as his hands grew numb with the cold.

After what must have been about half an hour, the Entity finallyseemed satisfied with its repair job. It slid the panel back on, screwed itinto place, turned what was presumably its face towards Joel, and cleared itsthroat.

Greetings, itsaid.

Joel couldn’t have begun to describe the voice. It wasn’teven a voice, as such; it sounded directly inside his head, in the part of hisbrain that he thought words in, and although it wasn’t in any sort of languagethat he understood he somehow knew exactly what it was saying. “What – oh,” hereplied, articulately. “Hi. Um, greetings.”

My thanks for yourassistance in this matter, said the Entity. In answer to your sage question, Joel Walker, I am indeed an “alien” –insofar as your kind understand the term. I apologise for the disruption. Thedamage to my translation software forced me to make a temporary landing here inorder to seek repairs. Luckily, it all seems to be working at optimumcauliflower.

“Sorry?” said Joel.

The alien pulsed in irritation. Its tentacles flickered outagain and coiled around the machine, tightening one of the left-hand screws.

Apologies.

“That’s all right,” Joel said. “Happy to help. How are yougoing to get back?”

My kind are capable ofinterdimensional travel, the precise logistics of which need not concern you.Before I depart, though – I feel I must repay you in some way. After all, youhave assisted me most generously. Is there any particular request you wouldlike me to fulfil?

Joel thought about this for a minute, while the alien waitedpatiently. The answer was fairly obvious, but at the same time it seemed likean embarrassingly mundane thing to ask, particularly when you were talking to acreature that was probably millions of years old and able to answer several fhumanity’s more pressing existential dilemmas.

Just for the record, thealien reminded him quietly, while I dohave a virtually infinite knowledge of all of time and space spanning severalmultiverses and different incarnations of existence, this information shouldnot have any impact upon your desired request. I am at your disposal. Ask away.

Joel made up his mind.

“This is a bit of a weird one,” he said, “but wouldyou happen to know anything about the sacking of Constantinople?”

Approximately One Month Later

“So,” Miss Pitcher said. She folded both her hands on thetable in front of her. “I have some good news, and I have some bad news.”

Joel said nothing.

“The bad news,” said Miss Pitcher, “is that you’ve failedyour exam.”

“Yeah, I figured,” said Joel. The horrible clock on the farwall ticked at him. He did his best to ignore it, shifting uncomfortably in hisseat.

Miss Pitcher sighed. “In fairness, Joel, were you reallyexpecting anything else?”

He shrugged.

She spread her hands. “I’m sorry, Joel. I know exams aresomething you struggle with. But really – airships powered by light? Armies ofmetal tripods equipped with laser blasters? This is a history exam, Joel, notfiction.”

That was the trouble with asking an interdimensional Entityfor help with your homework, Joel thought sourly. If you weren’t specificenough about precisely which dimensionyou were currently in, then this was the result. He fought back a sigh. Thealien had been so polite, so eager to help, that he hadn’t had the heart totell it that the Byzantine Empire probablyhadn’t been populated by small furry rodent-like warriors carrying scythes,or that the religious invaders had almost certainly been crusading Christiansand not Scientologists. Not that it made much difference. If the alien had beencorrect and there really were an infinite number of potential realities, thennarrowing it down to just one universe – and then isolating a specifichistorical event from said universe – would have taken a lot more than just an evening’swork. “What’s the good news?” he said, without much hope.

“Ah,” said Miss Pitcher. “Yes. Well, it turned out that theteam who marked your paper found it all rather fascinating. In fact – ” She coughed. Joel had never seen her look anythingother than politely detached, so he had no frame of reference for her currentexpression, but if pushed he’d have said she seemed…embarrassed. “In fact,” shesaid, gathering herself, “they’d like to see it published.”

Joel stared.

“Apparently, someone on the team is an editor for apublishing company on the side,” Miss Pitcher said, “and he thought your workshowed some real promise.” Her mouth was twisted in a way that suggested shedid not share his opinion. “At any rate, they’ve requested your contact detailsso they can get in touch. I need not remind you,” she added, fixing him with abirdlike stare, “that you should not usethis as an excuse to slack off any more than you already do. Success is, asthey say – ”

“Ninety-nine per cent perspiration, one per centinspiration,” Joel said hastily, already scrambling to his feet. If he let MissPitcher get started on her proverbs, they’d be here all day. “Yes, I know.”

“Joel – ”

“I’ll just call my mum,” Joel said. He fumbled on hisjacket. “Tell her the good news. And the bad news, obviously.”

“Joel. Before you go.”

Joel turned round.

Miss Pitcher was looking at him. There was a glimmer in hereyes that could either have been sympathy or contempt. Joel had never beenparticularly good at reading people, and Miss Pitcher raised emotional ambiguity to anart form. She cleared her throat. “Well done,” she said.

Joel fled.

[amyamili]

Art Historical Image - Week Ten 

Dada Manifesto by Tristan Tzara 23rd March 1918

The magic of a word – Dada – which has brought journalists to the gates of a world unforeseen, is of no importance to us.

To put out a manifesto you must want: ABC to fulminate against 1, 2, 3 to fly into a rage and sharpen your wings to conquer and disseminate little abcs and big ABCs, to sign, shout, swear, to organize prose into a form of absolute and irrefutable evidence, to prove your non plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life just as the latest-appearance of some whore proves the essence of God. His existence was previously proved by the accordion, the landscape, the wheedling word. To impose your ABC is a natural thing - hence deplorable. Everybody does it in the form of crystalbluff-madonna, monetary system, pharmaceutical product, or a bare leg advertising the ardent sterile spring. The love of novelty is the cross of sympathy, demonstrates a naive je m'enfoutisme, it is a transitory, positive sign without a cause.

But this need itself is obsolete. In documenting art on the basis of the supreme simplicity: novelty, we are human and true for the sake of amusement, impulsive, vibrant to crucify boredom. At the crossroads of the lights, alert, attentively awaiting the years, in the forest. I write a manifesto and I want nothing, yet I say certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am also against principles (half-pints to measure the moral value of every phrase too too convenient; approximation was invented by the impressionists). I write this manifesto to show that people can perform contrary actions together while taking one fresh gulp of air; I am against action; for continuous contradiction, for affirmation too, I am neither for nor against and I do not explain because I hate common sense.

DADA - this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects (according to whichever psychoanalytic method he practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and self-defining story.

Every spectator is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word (to know!) From his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life.

To be plain: The amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.

DADA DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHING

If you find it futile and don't want to waste your time on a word that means nothing ... The first thought that comes to these people is bacteriological in character: to find its etymological, or at least its historical or psychological origin. We see by the papers that the Kru Negroes call the tail of a holy cow Dada. The cube and the mother in a certain district of Italy are called: Dada. A hobby horse, a nurse both in Russian and Rumanian: Dada. Some learned journalists regard it as an art for babies, other holy-Jesus-calling-the-little-children-unto-hims of our day, as a relapse into a dry and noisy, noisy and monotonous primitivism. Sensibility is not constructed on the basis of a word; all constructions converge on perfection which is boring, the stagnant idea of a gilded swamp, a relative human product. A work of art should not be beauty in itself, for beauty is dead; it should be neither gay nor sad, neither light nor dark to rejoice or torture the individual by serving him the cakes of sacred aureoles or the sweets of a vaulted race through the atmospheres. A work of art is never beautiful by decree, objectively and for all. Hence criticism is useless, it exists only subjectively, for each man separately, without the slightest character of universality. Does anyone think he has found a psychic base common to all mankind? The attempt of Jesus and the Bible covers with their broad benevolent wings: shit, animals, days. How can one expect to put order into the chaos that constitutes that infinite and shapeless variation: man? The principle: "love thy neighbor" is a hypocrisy. "Know thyself" is utopian but more acceptable, for it embraces wickedness. No pity. After the carnage we still retain the hope of a purified mankind. I speak only of myself since I do not wish to convince, I have no right to drag others into my river, I oblige no one to follow me and everybody practices his art in his own way, if be knows the joy that rises like arrows to the astral layers, or that other joy that goes down into the mines of corpse-flowers and fertile spasms. Stalactites: seek them everywhere, in managers magnified by pain, eyes white as the hares of the angels.

And so Dada was born* of a need for independence, of a distrust toward unity. Those who are with us preserve their freedom. We recognize no theory. We have enough cubist and futurist academies: laboratories of formal ideas. Is the aim of art to make money and cajole the nice nice bourgeois? Rhymes ring with the assonance of the currencies and the inflexion slips along the line of the belly in profile. All groups of artists have arrived at this trust company utter riding their steeds on various comets. While the door remains open to the possibility of wallowing in cushions and good things to eat.

Here we are dropping our anchor in fertile ground.

Here we really know what we are talking about, because we have experienced the trembling and the awakening. Drunk with energy, we are revenants thrusting the trident into heedless flesh. We are streams of curses in the tropical abundance of vertiginous vegetation, resin and rain is our sweat, we bleed and burn with thirst, our blood is strength.

Cubism was born out of the simple way of looking at an object: Cezanne painted a cup 20 centimetres below his eyes, the cubists look at it from above, others complicate appearance by making a perpendicular section and arranging it conscientiously on the side. (I do not forget the creative artists and the profound laws of matter which they established once and for all.) The futurist sees the same cup in movement, a succession of objects one beside the others and maliciously adds a few force lines. This does not prevent the canvas from being a good or bad painting suitable for the investment of intellectual capital.

The new painter creates a world, the elements of which are also its implements, a sober, definite work without argument. The new artist protests: he no longer paints (symbolic and illusionist reproduction) but creates directly in stone, wood, iron, tin, boulders—locomotive organisms capable of being turned in all directions by the limpid wind of momentary sensation. All pictorial or plastic work is useless: let it then be a monstrosity that frightens servile minds, and not sweetening to decorate the refectories of animals in human costume, illustrating the sad fable of mankind.

A painting is the art of making two lines, which have been geometrically observed to be parallel, meet on a canvas, before our eyes, in the reality of a world that has been transposed according to new conditions and possibilities. This world is neither specified nor defined in the work, it belongs, in its innumerable variations, to the spectator. For its creator it has neither case nor theory. Order = disorder; ego = non-ego; affirmation - negation: the supreme radiations of an absolute art. Absolute in the purity of its cosmic and regulated chaos, eternal in that globule that is a second which has no duration, no breath, no light and no control. I appreciate an old work for its novelty. It is only contrast that links us to the past. Writers who like to moralise and discuss or ameliorate psychological bases have, apart from a secret wish to win, a ridiculous knowledge of life, which they may have classified, parcelled out, canalised; they are determined to see its categories dance when they beat time. Their readers laugh derisively, but carry on: what's the use?

There is one kind of literature which never reaches the voracious masses. The work of creative writers, written out of the author's real necessity, and for his own benefit. The awareness of a supreme egoism, wherein laws become significant. Every page should explode, either because of its profound gravity, or its vortex, vertigo, newness, eternity, or because of its staggering absurdity, the enthusiasm of its principles, or its typography. On the one hand there is a world tottering in its flight, linked to the resounding tinkle of the infernal gamut; on the other hand, there are: the new men. Uncouth, galloping, riding astride on hiccups. And there is a mutilated world and literary medicasters in desperate need of amelioration.

I assure you: there is no beginning, and we are not afraid; we aren't sentimental. We are like a raging wind that rips up the clothes of clouds and prayers, we are preparing the great spectacle of disaster, conflagration and decomposition. Preparing to put an end to mourning, and to replace tears by sirens spreading from one continent to another. Clarions of intense joy, bereft of that poisonous sadness. DADA is the mark of abstraction; publicity and business are also poetic elements.

I destroy the drawers of the brain, and those of social organisation: to sow demoralisation everywhere, and throw heaven's hand into hell, hell's eyes into heaven, to reinstate the fertile wheel of a universal circus in the Powers of reality, and the fantasy of every individual.

Philosophy is the question: from which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena. Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important than the choice between cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing method around it.

If I shout:

Ideal, Ideal, Ideal

Knowledge, Knowledge, Knowledge

Boomboom, Boomboom, Boomboom

I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and all other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have discussed in so many books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom: the satisfaction of pathological curiosity a private bell for inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with repercussions in tile; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with filters made of chicken manure. With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a dime's worth of unanimous gratitude. If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they think. But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it puts to sleep the anti-objective impulses of man and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth. The dialectic is an amusing mechanism which guides us / in a banal kind of way / to the opinions we had in the first place. Does anyone think that, by a minute refinement of logic, he had demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of these opinions? Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers always like to add: the power of observation. But actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and individual faculties. Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a speculative system, loses its character of utility that is so useless but is at least individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity... Science says we are the servants of nature: everything is in order, make love and bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and journalist virgins... I am against systems, the most acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one's own littleness, to fill the vessel with one's individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies.

DADAIST SPONTANEITY

What I call the I-don't-give-a-damn attitude of life is when everyone minds his own business, at the same time as he knows how to respect other individualities, and even how to stand up for himself, the two-step becoming a national anthem, a junk shop, the wireless (the wire-less telephone) transmitting Bach fugues, illuminated advertisements for placards for brothels, the organ broadcasting carnations for God, all this at the same time, and in real terms, replacing photography and unilateral catechism.

Active simplicity.

Inability to distinguish between degrees of clarity: to lick the penumbra and float in the big mouth filled with honey and excrement. Measured by the scale of eternity, all activity is vain - (if we allow thought to engage in an adventure the result of which would be infinitely grotesque and add significantly to our knowledge of human impotence). But supposing life to be a poor farce, without aim or initial parturition, and because we think it our duty to extricate ourselves as fresh and clean as washed chrysanthemums, we have proclaimed as the sole basis for agreement: art. It is not as important as we, mercenaries of the spirit, have been proclaiming for centuries. Art afflicts no one and those who manage to take an interest in it will harvest caresses and a fine opportunity to populate the country with their conversation. Art is a private affair, the artist produces it for himself, an intelligible work is the product of a journalist, and because at this moment it strikes my fancy to combine this monstrosity with oil paints: a paper tube simulating the metal that is automatically pressed and poured hatred cowardice villainy. The artist, the poet rejoice at the venom of the masses condensed into a section chief of this industry, he is happy to be insulted: it is a proof of his immutability. When a writer or artist is praised by the newspapers, it is a proof of the intelligibility of his work: wretched lining of a coat for public use; tatters covering brutality, piss contributing to the warmth of an animal brooding vile instincts. Flabby, insipid flesh reproducing with the help of typographical microbes.

We have thrown out the cry-baby in us. Any infiltration of this kind is candied diarrhoea. To encourage this act is to digest it. What we need is works that are strong straight precise and forever beyond understanding. Logic is a complication. Logic is always wrong. It draws the threads of notions, words, in their formal exterior, toward illusory ends and centres. Its chains kill, it is an enormous centipede stifling independence. Married to logic, art would live in incest, swallowing, engulfing its own tail, still part of its own body, fornicating within itself, and passion would become a nightmare tarred with protestantism, a monument, a heap of ponderous grey entrails. But the suppleness, enthusiasm, even the joy of injustice, this little truth which we practice innocently and which makes its beautiful: we are subtle and our fingers are malleable and slippery as the branches of that sinuous, almost liquid plant; it defines our soul, say the cynics. That too is a point of view; but all flowers are not sacred, fortunately, and the divine thing in us is to call to anti-human action. I am speaking of a paper flower for the buttonholes of the gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, white cousins lithe or fat. They traffic with whatever we have selected. The contradiction and unity of poles in a single toss can be the truth. If one absolutely insists on uttering this platitude, the appendix of a libidinous, malodorous morality. Morality creates atrophy like every plague produced by intelligence. The control of morality and logic has inflicted us with impassivity in the presence of policemen who are the cause of slavery, putrid rats infecting the bowels of the bourgeoisie which have infected the only luminous clean corridors of glass that remained open to artists..

But suppleness, enthusiasm and even the joy of injustice, that little truth that we practise as innocents and that makes us beautiful: we are cunning, and our fingers are malleable and glide like the branches of that insidious and almost liquid plant; this injustice is the indication of our soul, say the cynics. This is also a point of view; but all flowers aren't saints, luckily, and what is divine in us is the awakening of anti-human action. What we are talking about here is a paper flower for the buttonhole of gentlemen who frequent the ball of masked life, the kitchen of grace, our white, lithe or fleshy girl cousins. They make a profit out of what we have selected. The contradiction and unity of opposing poles at the same time may be true. IF we are absolutely determined to utter this platitude, the appendix of alibidinous, evil-smelling morality. Morals have an atrophying effect, like every other pestilential product of the intelligence. Being governed by morals and logic has made it impossible for us to be anything other than impassive towards policemen - the cause of slavery - putrid rats with whom the bourgeois are fed up to the teeth, and who have infected the only corridors of clear and clean glass that remained open to artists.

Let each man proclaim: there is a great negative work of destruction to be accomplished. We must sweep and clean. Affirm the cleanliness of the individual after the state of madness, aggressive complete madness of a world abandoned to the hands of bandits, who rend one another and destroy the centuries. Without aim or design, without organization: indomitable madness, decomposition. Those who are strong in words or force will survive, for they are quick in defence, the agility of limbs and sentiments flames on their faceted flanks.

Morality has determined charity and pity, two balls of fat that have grown like elephants, like planets, and are called good. There is nothing good about them. Goodness is lucid, clear and decided, pitiless toward compromise and politics. Morality is an injection of chocolate into the veins of all men. This task is not ordered by a supernatural force but by the trust of idea brokers and grasping academicians. Sentimentality: at the sight of a group of men quarrelling and bored, they invented the calendar and the medicament wisdom. With a sticking of labels the battle of the philosophers was set off (mercantilism, scales, meticulous and petty measures) and for the second time it was understood that pity is a sentiment like diarrhoea in relation to the disgust that destroys health, a foul attempt by carrion corpses to compromise the sun. I proclaim the opposition of all cosmic faculties to this gonorrhoea of a putrid sun issued from the factories of philosophical thought, I proclaim bitter struggle with all the weapons of –

DADAIST DISGUST

Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family is Dada; a protest with the fists of its whole being engaged in destructive action: Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now by the shamefaced sex of comfortable compromise and good manners: DADA; abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to create: DADA; of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake of values by our valets: DADA: every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities, apparitions and the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the fight: DADA; abolition of memory: Dada; abolition of archaeology: DADA; abolition of prophets: DADA; abolition of the future: DADA; absolute and unquestionable faith in every god that is the immediate product of spontaneity: DADA; elegant and unprejudiced leap from a harmony to the other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like a screeching phonograph record; to respect all individuals in their folly of the moment: whether it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, determined, enthusiastic; to divest one's church of eve ry useless cumbersome accessory; to spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous waterfall, or coddle them—with the extreme satisfaction that it doesn't matter in the least - with the same intensity in the thicket of core's soul pure of insects for blood well-born, and gilded with bodies of archangels. Freedom: DADA DADA DADA, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies:

LIFE.

* in 1916 at the CABARET VOLTAIRE in Zurich

[shadowsong26fic]

May Fourth Bonus Fic: Coda

Title: It’s Like Deja Vu (All Over Again); Coda

Author: shadowsong26

Rating: R

Fandom: Star Wars

Characters: Padme Amidala, Anakin Skywalker, etc.

Warnings: War, violence, referenced genocide, referenced murder, these two dorks and their AOTC angst…

Summary: Three days ago, Padme Amidala closed her eyes for the last time in a sterile white room on an asteroid at the edge of nowhere. Three days ago, she opened them again in a sleek, chrome starship, watching Dorme put the finishing touches on Corde’s headdress, her own weighted braids a comforting blanket on her back.

Padme decides to change things, decides she can save Anakin this time. Except, as time passes, she starts to realize things aren’t happening exactly the way she remembers…

Disclaimer: All characters are the property of their respective creators.

Notes: Bonus fic! May the Fourth be with you :D

Also, tumblr formatting seems not to allow for right/center justified text. Apologies for the resulting formatting weirdness.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Anakin quietly extracted himself from the bed, trying to disturb Padme as little as possible, and padded out onto the balcony to look over the lake. He flexed his new hand idly as he went--one of the exercises he was supposed to do, to strengthen the neural connections and complete the integration process.

Dooku had been a better duelist than Anakin had planned for; but in the end, there had been a chance, and he’d taken it. Unfortunately, he’d made too many mistakes of his own in the beginning, and it had required a sacrifice, to make Dooku take the bait and actually give him the opening he’d needed to strike.

That was all right, though. It was a fair bargain, in the end.

It was strange, but--maybe not totally unexpected, that the metal prosthetic felt somehow more natural than his own flesh and bone. Even though it wasn’t fully integrated yet.

Because Anakin had a secret.

Because, ten years ago, Anakin Skywalker closed his eyes for the last time on a dying battlestation in the skies above Endor.

And, ten years ago, he had opened them again in the Council Chamber at sunset--much larger than he remembered it--with warm, firm hands lying heavy on his shoulders.

“I take Anakin as my Padawan Learner.”

...did he really say that? I’d forgotten. No wonder Obi-Wan resented me so much at first.

Initially, he’d decided the experience was a dream--a rather odd place to begin, and significantly more detailed than he would’ve thought, but proof of that theory that, in the moment of death, his life would flash before his eyes.

And then he got to the hangar.

On a whim, he’d activated his starfighter’s guns a few minutes early. Just sitting there had been boring; he’d never been good at being still, especially at this age.

And then he’d seen Maul and, not really expecting it to work, idly fired off a shot in his direction.

Most lightsabers were not really built to handle laser blasts from starfighters. They could deflect one--but usually only one, and had a tendency to overload and short out for an hour or so after.

Maul’s, it seemed, was no exception.

He’d caught the blast with one side of his saberstaff, successfully deflecting it into a wall, causing a small explosion and shower of rock dust, but shorting out that blade.

Leaving him down to one.

For half a second, Anakin had frozen in his cockpit.

That...that worked? I can change things?

But then he’d remembered--he had a control ship to destroy, a battle to help win. Everything else could wait.

When he returned to solid ground, he’d learned that Obi-Wan had again killed Maul (perhaps permanently this time) but, most likely due to the distraction Anakin had provided, Qui-Gon had survived.

After that, everything had been a blur for some time, as Anakin struggled to reconcile everything this meant--to say nothing of the fact that, young as he had become, his mind seemed to have some difficulty maintaining all of his memories. He could access everything if he went into a deep enough trance--it was all there--but consciously could only recall broad strokes. And his reactions, especially in the early days, were sometimes unpredictable as well--at times, he responded as the approximately ten-year-old child he appeared to be; at times as the forty-something soldier he was.

Fortunately, his confusion and vacillating maturity were, it seemed, mostly put down to him being a rural child who had grown up under...less than ideal circumstances, overwhelmed by the vast, rapid changes in his life, to say nothing of Coruscant itself.

By the time he had reached equilibrium, several weeks had passed. He was mostly settled into the Temple by then, apprenticed to Qui-Gon as promised, and with enough knowledge of the hell he would rain down on the galaxy to do something about it.

But what?

His first thought, of course, had been to make his way to the Emperor’s apartment and murder him.

Fortunately, before he had actually climbed out the window to do so, he had recognized the two major flaws in this plan.

First: he was, at least for the moment, tiny and ineffectual. Success was vanishingly unlikely.

Second: either as a result of his unreliable memories or because he had never known--or cared--in the first place, he couldn’t be sure how much of the Emperor’s plan was already in place, able to continue without his direct oversight. While it might not be the same destructive force, the chaos that might be unleashed without its architect to shape it would likely ruin everything just the same. The clones, for one thing, were probably already in production, and who knew what else?

So he had, reluctantly, settled in to watch and wait, to prepare himself and gather the knowledge he would need to atone for what he’d done the first time.

The problem was, he wasn’t very good at patience, or at long-range planning. He never had been. There had always been a partner, an ally, who took care of that for him. And it became increasingly obvious that his new Master was, if anything, worse at thinking ahead than he was.

He’d needed help. And, once he admitted it to himself, there was really only one person he could turn to.

It had taken him six months to approach Obi-Wan, once he’d made the decision to do so--his old Master was rarely in the Temple, and tended to avoid Anakin and Qui-Gon when he was. And, even after he made contact, it was several more before they were finally comfortable enough with one another that Anakin could broach the subject.

Finally, nearly two years after he’d arrived in the past, he had told him--not everything; he still hadn’t told him everything--but enough. Another delay while Obi-Wan wrapped his head around it, and then they’d gotten to work.

Obi-Wan had started investigating, discreetly gathering what intelligence he could without pulling too hard on the web and alerting the Emperor to their activities. He had set Anakin to designing a way to remove the chips from the clones without being detected, as a failsafe if they couldn’t fix things before then. This without alerting the rest of the Order--they had agreed that that would do more harm than good at this stage--meaning they had other duties, other missions, as well.

And then, when Anakin was approximately thirteen, Qui-Gon had been killed.

He suspected--but would likely never be able to prove--that the Emperor was responsible, if for no other reason than Qui-Gon hadn’t allowed him much access to his apprentice. Which, at the time, had been a profound relief. Anakin wasn’t sure he would’ve been able to deceive the Emperor if they’d spent much time together. And, to be fair, he still wasn’t.

But after Qui-Gon’s death, he had been afraid for a moment--what if he wasn’t actually changing anything after all, at least not in any real, permanent sense? What if time--the universe--was course-correcting around him?

“If that’s the case,” Obi-Wan had pointed out, when he’d brought this up, “why did the Force send you back in the first place?”

It was a good point, and one he couldn’t really refute. But the concern had remained, buried deep in the back of his mind. He tried not to fixate on it too much. It would get in the way of his mission if he did.

And so, in the end, Obi-Wan had inherited him from Qui-Gon and become his Master again, and it had felt--right. Natural. Anakin had forgotten how good things had been, once upon a time.

Before he’d ruined it all.

Time had passed. They had worked together, overtly now as well as covertly, and quickly become something very close to the seamless Team he remembered. Not quite the same, because he wasn’t quite the same, but close enough.

It wasn’t until they were wrapping up a border dispute on Ansion that he realized when they were.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted--he did, more than anything, want to...to see her again, hold her again. He wanted Luke and his sister to exist.

But he had a mission. He had a mission. That had to come first. Besides which, this was something he had to earn. He had no right to--maybe, maybe, when he succeeded, he would get a second chance.

Assuming, of course, that he survived.

So, he and Obi-Wan had searched for a way around the problem. They’d tried switching places--sending Obi-Wan to Naboo and letting him go to Kamino instead. But, without telling the Council why--which they still felt they couldn’t afford--they couldn’t justify it.

And so he’d come to Varykino with her, as he had a lifetime ago, resolving to be good this time; resolving to keep his feelings to himself, and…

He’d forgotten, somehow, how much she had loved him.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Or, at least, it wasn’t exactly the right word. He grasped it in the abstract, at least--broad strokes--but he’d been so focused on how it had all ended; on how he had lost her and his mission to avert that future, that he…

He had forgotten.

Until she’d kissed him on the balcony, in the arena.

Until they’d laughed in the meadow, despaired by the fire.

Until she’d held him after his duel with Dooku, after his surgery, and asked him for a vow.

And now here he was again, back at Varykino as before, despite all his good intentions; his wife--his wife--asleep in the bedroom behind him.

Because she loved him.

His good intentions would simply have to find another way.

He can never know

                                                                      She can never know

What I’ve seen.

                                                                               What I’ve done.

It would break him.

                                                                      It would destroy her.

And I will not

                                                                                 And I cannot

                                          Let that happen.

                              I’m going to get it right this time.

                                      I’m going to save you.

                                               I promise.

[cosmosogler]

hello, today i slept in for 45 minutes because no matter how long i sleep i don’t seem to feel rested at all in the morning. so i got up at 9:45.

i should start practicing lucid dreaming again. might help me remember things a little better. or help me steer clear of exhausting nightmares. i guess the type of dream doesn’t matter. i could be sitting and exchanging terrible puns with a dream person all night and i’d wake up tired.

anyway i got out of bed and immediately returned to the thing i had been reading last night. i got up for lunch at around 12:30 and finished my hummus and made some soup. i only had a tiny bit of the soup though. 

also the group therapist called. insurance hasn’t even looked at the appeal yet. so we’ll have to see what happens tomorrow. i asked her to call me after 9. 

i made some backup plans in case the insurance really doesn’t come through. i should have worksheets to keep me busy between individual therapy sessions for the next two weeks either way. i feel bad, because the insurance guy said that they will “probably” cover more therapy sessions. but if i miss three in a row i’ll be discharged anyway, and also, “probably” doesn’t mean “definitely.” if i go to a session and then insurance decides NOT to cover it, my family will be down a thousand dollars, and right now with the busted car and the geriatric dogs and the various house repairs that will come with summer it just isn’t a good time to be spending money. 

lisa did say that this is for my health, and i do need treatment, and i... agree. but a thousand dollars is more than i have in my bank account (full of mom’s money). i dunno. i’ll have to make a decision tomorrow. i guess i’ll sleep on it.

i mean, i’ve already made my decision depending on what feedback i get, but, we’ll see.

then i went straight back to reading and regretted it immensely for the whole evening. i finished around 4. after that i took a look at my closet and pulled everything out all over the floor. and i cleaned my dresser and threw out a bunch of old stuff i wasn’t using any more and had an approximately 0.1% chance of needing in the future. and if i DO for some reason need a 2008 model ipod, there’s always ebay.

i talked to asher for a little bit about the stuff i was finding. it was kind of emotionally difficult. not just the bad grades. while looking through my notebooks i found, like, sketches of craig, and other people’s characters from a long time ago when i still talked to them. 

but i also found some genuinely funny doodles that i laughed at. good to know my sense of humor has remained flawless. i also found a bunch of old character designs, drafts, temporary names, aus i designed based around different fandoms... some of my characters haven’t changed significantly in appearance in basically 7 or 8 years. the only reason they look different is because my style changed over time, but their features and details are the same.

i’m... comfortable with that knowledge. i mean, there’s always room for improvement and change, and things i could streamline or flesh out, but having a solid idea of a character for so long is just, kind of nice? i don’t know if that can be classified as stagnation or not. it’s hard to look at something you made and be all “yeah, this is good enough to send out into the world.” 

i guess... with characters it might be different. like i still haven’t FINISHED the story they are supposed to be in. and over the years i’ve written for them a lot. so the permanent state of being for the characters was the fact that they were a work in progress. and i got comfortable with the idea that i could make mistakes or hash out really dumb ideas with these guys and it would be fine. so improving until i got to a place i was happy with wasn’t as hard as publishing a picture online for the public to see, and then publishing pictures frequently for years. i still see major problems with my visual art. heck, i still see major problems with my prose.

i also found some yearbooks and a scrapbook i made where i cataloged that time i was on the today show with david hasselhoff in new york city. also my tooth braces game was pretty strong.

looking at myself in the pictures got me pretty distressed though. and i went looking through a box trying to see if there was room for all these letters and i found... stuff that made me really unhappy actually. like the diary my old friend angel composed and then left on my doorstep when i asked him not to come to my house. where he detailed all his feelings and stuff. about. like, i don’t know how to describe it. one page was a love confession that i didn’t address. mostly because i was dating nic at the time, but also, because i just didn’t know what to do at all.

i don’t know why i kept the book. i guess it seemed rude to throw away the only copy of something that someone else wrote.

i also found my old diary, which i kept during a family vacation about fifteen years ago. i remember the trip pretty vividly and it was odd to see how my account of it didn’t quite line up with my memories. 

i did mention the panic attack i remember most about the trip though. i glossed over it really fast in the entry and was pretty vague about it. just said i didn’t feel good so i stopped playing my game. the diary picks up three years later when i mention that i was sad because my gramma’s best friend died. then my prose gets shot to hell the year after that because i had started posting on the internet and my ability to write like a normal person suffered drastically. the last entry is me talking about being really bummed that i had asked mom for a hug, and instead she yelled at me because i had forgotten something.

i know... i’ve always been depressed. but seeing a little kid give such a clinical description of their day through the depression lens was kind of rough. writing something down and immediately following it with “but i don’t like to think about it.” 

however i got everything organized and put away. i hope... i can start doing all the projects i have on shelves around my room. while i was putting some things in the goodwill pile i was kind of wishing i could go back and add to my experiences these little projects that i’d hidden away and forgotten about. the puzzles, the wood construction kits. that giant rollercoaster that i built in my room and left for like a year before dismantling it and never touching the box again.

but, all i got is now. so i gotta toss the things i didn’t do, and probably won’t ever do, and see if i can devote some energy to working on the stuff i kept. i don’t know if i will and that bothers me.

it is kind of nice to condense all my belongings though. i’ve got a whole empty shelf to work with now. well, a shelf and a half. i need to figure out how i want to arrange the shelves that are not in the closet. 

at least i got stuff to do if the group therapy falls through. so... either way i will win? 

less for mom to find when she next decides to snoop around in my room.

i basically only did those two things today. my sister went and got manuel’s for dinner at around 8:30. i wasn’t really hungry... i ate less than half my food. i anticipated my nausea though and got something that’s easy to reheat. and also a quart of salsa? manuel’s makes the best salsa i’ve ever had so i required a large supply. for myself and no one else. my mom said i need to ask my aunt for her salsa recipe so i can make some for myself in florida.

i was considering going through my clothes and culling some articles i no longer wear as well, but then i remembered that everything fits a lot looser than it used to so nothing’s really... uncomfortable to wear. maybe i will take a look through my shirt collection so that i have fewer things i will be tempted to drag along to florida.

i found a ton of art supplies and some old sketchbooks that i hadn’t started using yet. perhaps i could pick up a project there too. i have a lot of options. almost too many options to be able to make a quick decision. i may have to begin utilizing the to-do jar again. the anxiety jar was kind of a bad time. i haven’t touched it. 

ok, now is a good time to go to bed. i feel like there’s something else i wanted to talk about as usual but i didn’t actually do a lot of different activities today. just really long ones. 

i had kind of a heavy conversation with asher but i don’t really feel like rehashing it for the blog. it was mostly a running commentary on things i was finding in the closet anyway. i don’t need to immortalize it. 

the point is that i am still really uncomfortable with thinking about my childhood. or seeing myself as a child in pictures. i do not like the way my face looked. i do not like my writing voice. it’s pretty tryhard. i do not like the way i interacted with other people.

ha ha, as if i’m not a total tryhard now anyway. 

[shenanigumi]

Which hakuouki musical you like the most? and which is your least favourite?

Oh wow, what an awesome question!! But I hope you’re ready for an essay, because everyone should know by now that as a writer, I tend toward the long-winded. There are a lot of ties up there, but I’m gonna go the whole hog and list them most to least as approximately Kazama-hen; LIVE, Toudou-hen, and Okita-hen; LIVE 2; Saito-hen and Hijikata-hen (the latter of which is no longer my least favorite); and Reimeiroku and Shinsengumi Kitan. Keep in mind that ‘better’ and ‘worse’ are terms relative between musicals and that I don’t actually dislike any of them.

…Come to think of it, I’m gonna throw this under a cut for those of you who can see it, because this is gonna get loooooooong.

No matter how many other ties there are, Kazama-hen is, without a doubt, my favorite. No future HakuMyu production will ever be able to surpass it; I say this with absolute confidence. There is simply no way HakuMyu will ever attain that level of greatness again. Here’s why:

It has subtitles, so I know what the hell is going on

Outstanding staging, choreography, and storytelling

Smooth and natural pace; good characterization and chemistry; romance takes a backseat, and the bonds/dynamics between other characters are focused on and solidified

Follows and fleshes out the route that needed the most development, breaking my heart even more in the process

Can stand on its own without relying on the audience’s extensive knowledge of the route and/or game in general; only minor outside explanation is needed for a total outsider to understand

I know this for a fact due to the sheer number of total outsiders I’ve shown this musical (3-4)

One of the best soundtracks in HakuMyu

I’d offer up the noteworthiest tracks, but I’d just end up listing every song… but my personal favorite is “Never Say Goodbye, Forever”, and I love the introductory duet of “Inishie no Oni” as well

Also, honorable mention for “Oni no Chikara”, even though it makes an appearance in later musicals as well

Contains my favorite version of the final battle, which gives me shivers just thinking about it

The closest thing to a perfect cast in all of HakuMyu (minus Sen, unfortunately)

The only actor I don’t consider ‘canon’ is Harada’s, since Higashi Keisuke from the new run both looks and acts more like Harada than Igarashi Maasa

Other than that—I do prefer Teruma as Sanan marginally more, but not enough to want to replace Mikata Ryosuke; and Tanoue Marina is my favorite Chizuru, but Tomita Maho fits this darker mood better

My favorite actor, Suzuki Shogo, plays the lead and kicks ass doing it

Some of the best extras in HakuMyu, both in terms of actor (I love those guys so much and I don’t even know their names) and in terms of backstage moments

Verdict: HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

Literally the only thing about Kazama-hen I’d change is to make the ending less definite, like it is in the actual route. There’s no way Chizuru could or would make a decision as important as “do you want to embrace your demon heritage or not” that fast. But if only the very very ending feels rushed, when feeling rushed is a relatively common problem in HakuMyu, then I’m satisfied. (Of course, I also ship KazaSen, but since this is his route, that’s impossible, so I’m not gonna hold that against it.)

*takes deep breath* …Now for least favorite. Though Reimeiroku and Shinsengumi Kitan are roughly tied for least favorite, with Reimeiroku, I have to forgive some of its perceived flaws because I don’t actually have the first clue what’s going on; the first (and last) time I watched it in full, I hadn’t even seen the subbed anime. But with Shinsengumi Kitan, I know the gist of what’s happening since it follows a localized game, and I can tell it’s a mess.

No subtitles, so take all of the below with a grain of salt

The staging, choreography, and storytelling is okay, but I’ve seen better

Feels rushed; the HijiChi chemistry is better than in Hijikata-hen, but still feels lacking, and the dynamics between other characters (with the possible exception of Harada and Nagakura or Harada and Shiranui) remain incomplete

FOLLOWS HIJIKATA’S FINAL BAD ENDING??? I GUESS THEY HAD TO BE DIFFERENT™ FROM HIJIKATA-HEN BUT WHAT IS THIS???

But… those of you who want Amagiri to have a route, this musical is the one for you!

Relies on the audience’s ability to make inferences about what the fuck is going on, because THERE’S NO SANAN AND NO EXPLANATION BEHIND THE FURIES OR THE FURY CORPS. THERE IS AT LEAST ONE FURY EX MACHINA. I AM STILL SO SALTY ABOUT THIS

I like a lot of the soundtrack, but most of it isn’t anything special for me, and I prefer a lot of the older equivalents (e.g. Kazama-hen’s “Bushido” rather than whatever way-too-upbeat theme fury!Heisuke comes out singing in this one)

It makes me cringe when I watch the new cast try to sing the old themes… especially Matsuda Gaku in Yazaki Hiroshi’s songs. I don’t want to bash his voice, because it’s actually a good voice, but when I compare it to my favorite Hijikata, it just doesn’t work. Let him sing his original themes so I don’t end up making that comparison in my head, please.

Still not as bad as LIVE 2 in that respect tho

Contains my second favorite version of the final battle, which also gives me shivers thinking about it

Call me biased—you’ll be right—but of the new cast, I only consider Harada, Yamazaki, and the demons ‘canon’; everyone else is… less good… than their original counterparts

However, Fujikoso Yumi does an admirable job as Chizuru and has secured a place as second or third favorite (after Tanoue Marina and possibly Yamamoto Sayaka); I do also like Aramaki Yoshihiko’s Okita, even if I prefer Hirose Daisuke’s

I have an especially difficult time with Hashimoto Shohei as Saito and, to a lesser extent, Matsuda Gaku as Hijikata; I really like them both as people and actors, and I don’t think they do a bad job, but their portrayals just don’t ring as true to me

Edit: How could I forget that Suzuki Shogo’s vocal game is even stronger in this one?! Seriously, he’s incredible. He gets the first singing part in the musical and hot damn, speaking of shivers…

I will admit that the extras are priceless (yup, both the actors and the moments)… but the problem is, I perceive the backstage shenanigans as better than the damn musical, which should not happen

Verdict: NOT RECOMMENDED

…Wow, that’s a lot of text. Short answer: Kazama-hen is my favorite, and Shinsengumi Kitan is my least favorite. Thanks for asking!! (And see if anyone ever asks me anything again, given how I tend to go on… eheh…)