#she invented secrets its true

[metalscarecrow]

ygor headcanons because im obsessed

i need to share my thoughts about him hrghdgdg

i feel like this dude gets no sleep. ever. but honestly i think he probably wouldnt need it? i mean being around for hundreds of years and being brought back from the dead several times, youd think victoria would give him some upgrades (one of them being not requiring sleep)

i could still see him like napping if he got the chance but its rare. victoria always needs something from him

definitely just talks to the monsters when he gets bored in the catacombs. do they respond? usually no. when they do its usually not friendly

ughujgh him and victorias relationship makes me sickkkk they definitely have like a very toxic friendship. ygor relies on her and is very dependent on victoria, he wouldnt know what to do without her. she takes advantage of this and is usually pretty mean to him, knowing that he wont retaliate

huggeeeeee animal lover!!! names all the bats and rats. this is actually true not just a headcanon. i think hed prefer to test his inventions on people rather than subject animals to it (me too)

tells the rats and the bats all the stories of everything hes experienced over his several centuries of life. theyre the only ones that listen

probably has a little box where he stores all his gifts from visitors of darkmoor :) and he likes to keep his friendship bracelets on the body parts he isnt currently using. he just likes to keep them on display!

kinda in the same vein as that but he definitely likes to collect little things. cool rocks, buttons, fingers and toes, the usual stuff.

knows that the bride is sneaking the monster out of the manor but keeps it a secret from victoria. he understands the need to get away from her

would have honestly liked to learn from dr griffin but bro is just so full of himself and hatesssssss ygor (and of course victoria) so ygor stays away from him. im the number 1 ygor and jack griffin fan so this feels like that picture of the furry family fighting with the small furry child cowering in the corner 

-bro doesnt shower 💔💔🥀 sorry thats just genuinely true

get this man a 3 in 1 please. and maybe a bath and body works lotion while youre at it just not japanese cherry blossom

despite being around for hundreds of years adapting to new technology wasnt hard for him at all. hes very smart honestly (only a little bit dense) and he uses new technology to his advantage during his experiments (cough cough watches youtube tutorials)

i really do think he enjoys when victoria lets him leave the catacombs to go out and about in darkmoor (and yes, i did learn from a cast member that hes only allowed up there when victoria says so) i think that he enjoys other human interactions that arent just "find body parts for me" and "the monster needs adjustments" and "ygor why did you eat my lunch"

thats all i have atm but maybe more soon ehehehe

[shannonsketches]

Okay I'm back to talk about headcanons that this ask made me think about because like I said yesterday I think we have very similar but adjacent thoughts and I wanna blabber

So the tl;dr of it is that I fully agree that Bulma terrifies Vegeta and that's part of her charm but our reasons for why differ a bit.

My headcanons are very heavily based on the manga, so in my mind he really didn't see much of her on Namek to compare with her Earth behavior. She and Krillin were both the correct amount of afraid of him, and then the Ginyu force showed up.

I do definitely agree that he's very impressed with the dragon radar -- but Vegeta's grown up in a super high-tech empire full of Freeza's personally curated collection of brilliant minds. While it is crazy that Bulma essentially reinvented scouter tech as a teenager, and hyper-specified it to pick up only the energy that the Dragon Balls were putting out, I think it's also important to recognize that Dragon Balls are a myth at best to almost every non-deity being in the universe, and a closely guarded secret for Namekians.

Bulma invented the radar because she found real ones in her attic (which, why do we never talk about why Dr B and his lovely wife just. Had two dragon balls? Chillin in the attic? This whole time?) and decided to see if the legends were true. Freeza had never seen one, and didn't know anyone who had ever seen one, and wouldn't have had any reason to invest R&D into a device that could detect them.

Don't get me wrong it's still CRAZY impressive that she did that, and something I fully agree Vegeta acknowledges as crazy impressive, especially having done it at sixteen because she was Bored, but for me I think that detection and tracking tech is kind of standard where he comes from (if others didn't already have proof that they work and weren't always in a race to make their wish, which kills their energy signature, they might too take the time to study them for the same result) -- so the time machine would be a much wilder truth to learn for him imo

But I feel Dr B impressed him first because, outside of Capsules, in terms of technology, Earth is VERY primitive to Vegeta. Even for as rock-carved as a lot of the low-ranked neighborhoods on planet Vegeta were, they still had space-faring ships (and potentially also the rearing pods) before they were taken over by King Cold. Bulma and her father -- and even Gero, who is collectively acknowledged as the most superior scientific mind on Earth -- didn't have access to the kind of tech and fuel that can do that effectively. In the Saiyan saga Bulma even talks about how the fastest engine her father ever built would take over four thousand years to go where Vegeta can in a matter of months (in an autopiloted pod, no less).

Bulma and Dr B can, however, utilize alien tech to create things that suit their needs, which is its own brand of impressive. In the manga, there is no second ship. Vegeta asks Dr Brief to build him a gravity room, so I personally hc it's him Vegeta's impressed with initially. I enjoy the thought that Bulma's capacity is one he learns more about just spending time with them developing the room to suit Vegeta's needs and standards, which are almost certainly annoyingly high (as it's established in the manga that Freeza's bases had training rooms too, and it may be safe to assume there is gravity tech in use, considering those fighters have to be prepared for battle on various planets of various sizes and atmospheres).

But again, that this earthling is able to replicate that technology without access to the base alien tech is crazy impressive.

I like to think that Vegeta's mind impressed both of them too, having spent so much time around fighters who are not scientific or tech-savvy at all, and suddenly an alien who knows wtf he's talking about and specifically what he's looking for and can troubleshoot and do minor QA on tech and explain in great detail how how something works (he can report in real time what's happening to him physiologically while it's happening to him, even if it's happening to him for the very first time, which is insane). One of my favorite long-time inside jokes with friends is that Capsule Corp didn't have hover cars until Vegeta moved in. I also just love that Dr B calls him Vegeta-kun in the JPN.

With Bulma though, especially in the manga, she's very much like everyone else -- she's brilliant, but imperfect, and still learning from her mentor (her dad). The bit in Daima where she works so hard on the ship just to have the launch fail feels very much like a callback to this joke where she VERY confidently tries to call Nappa's pod and self-destructs it because she mixed up the buttons, for example:

"Krillin, who's the genius here?" [fails immediately] "Dammit." my love for this fictional woman cannot be overstated why do we even have that lever

So like, while I VERY MUCH AGREE that Vegeta finds her intellect deeply impressive and hot and dangerous, in my personal opinion that is a part of her that intrigues him but it's not the part of her that terrifies him.

To me, it's that despite the fact that she is so smart, and so clever, and so quick-witted -- she is so brazenly authentic.

When Vegeta gets to Namek, he's at the tail end of a poker game he's been playing for years inside the Freeza force. Everyone's running a clever game, everyone's got an ace up their sleeve, everyone's bluffing, everyone is looking for a tell, and everyone's got a loaded gun under the table pointed at someone else.

Freeza notes that their confrontation was inevitable, but is surprised Vegeta's rebellion happened so soon. The thing is that Vegeta is also surprised that it happened so soon -- he was planning to go back to Earth when Cui told him Freeza had already left for Namek. The table got flipped and a 30-Year game turned into a standoff overnight. Vegeta's living on earth fresh from this lifelong cultural experience of "Loyalty is a strategy, everyone is playing to win, and no one is ever really on your team. The only way to save your neck is to keep your head low and your mouth shut."

Then there's Bulma, who -- despite her housing every ability (and reason, as the most wealthy heiress on her planet) to be extremely cut-throat and manipulative and shady and mysterious -- is not only extremely open about her flaws, her feelings, and her insecurities, but extremely LOUD about them.

Bulma will just cry. Bulma will just scream. Bulma will just be passively peer pressured into changing her clothes and then announce that what other people are wearing made her feel stupid.

Bulma is not just vulgar, she's transparent about all of her weaknesses. She plays damn near nothing close to the chest. She announces her suspicions. She announces her plans. She announces her observations, as if they can't be used against her. She's messy and unpleasant, out loud, where people can see her being messy and unpleasant. That's horrifying when you're used to everyone posturing and cooing and kissing ass to get what they want.

She's openly afraid, and also openly curious, and also openly lacking a sole singular fuck about what you think, and also loudly giving a fuck about what other people think. She's both deeply predictable and impossible to track. She thinks we should just kill that guy before he becomes a problem, she also thinks that even though everyone saw how dangerous this guy is he seems uncomfortable so we should leave him alone.

For lack of a better word, from where Vegeta's standing -- Bulma's fucking insane. This woman is crazy. She's got whims like the goddamn weather, but in the exact opposite way that Freeza did. Freeza would smile at you and wish you the sweetest condolences while running a knife through your chest, Bulma will wish you dead at the top of her lungs and then ask what you want for dinner because it's punishment enough being stupid you don't need to be hungry too.

Bulma has all of the same ingredients he's used to being around, but hers combine into something so radically The Opposite of that, and I think that's destabilizing in a way that was very very good for him (likewise, I think Vegeta's absolute lack of GiveAShit about being exactly who he is and dressing however the fuck he's dressed and doing exactly what the fuck he's gonna do no matter who's got opinions about it or what those opinions are (bless Toriyama for describing his personality as 'aloof superiority') was destabilizing in a way that was very very good for her).

I also definitely agree that seeing so much of Bulma's personality in Trunks as he grew up was not only endearing but kind of reassuring. Although I personally think Trunks is terrifying in his own special way. The combined parentage made the boy too confident. Now he's an unbridled weirdo (absolute joy, overwhelming praise).

tl;dr Part 2: I really really enjoy Bulma as a genius in terms of maths and metallurgy and machinery, but I like to think that Vegeta's got a better head for biological and social sciences and strategic operations (when his pride is not in the way), just as a matter of that being where his primary work experience lies.

I love the idea that Dr Brief was a bridge for them, and is a wildly fluctuating polymath who can kind of do all of it with exceptional comprehension, and would be a much bigger problem for everyone if he didn't have the personality of a career stoner.

Bonus: Dr B being awed and happy that there are people out there in the universe doing things better than he can while his daughter reminds them they're on a deadline.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Astro - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Jinx tries her hand at superstardom...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

In the summer, the Baron's Bugle published a puff-piece: 10 Things We Love About Jinx!

It was no cheeky little write-up, but a full five-page photo spread devoted to Jinx's accomplishments as a Fissure prodigy: her gadgetry, her artistry, her style. There was a listicle ranking her top outfits (#1 was a gold-spangled cocktail dress, #2 a frilled acid green coattails-and-miniskirt combo, and #3 a pink-sequined bustier, black leather hot pants, and fishnet stockings because why the fuck not?). There were streetside interviews where every stratum of Zaunite gushed about Jinx's evolution from gun-toting terror to a glamourpuss heartthrob. There was a featurette on Jinx's collaborations with up-and-coming inventors from across Runeterra, the highlight being an article on Viktor, whom the reporter dubbed the "Hangman of Zaun", which Vitya loathed.

And then there was the pièce de résistance: a double-spread photo-essay complete with a candid interview by none other than B. Goode, who, after quarreling with The Sun & Tower's editor over certain journalistic ethics (a.k.a the refusal to peddle lies), had jumped ship for the Bugle, and was in the process of winning a Golden Quill with their meticulous coverage of Zaun's rise.

"Goodie-Gumshoe!" Jinx crowed when they'd reunited in the Laguna Lounge under Silco's watchful eye. "Back for round two, huh?"

Goode, for reasons unknown, glanced Silco's way, then blushed.

The spread chronicled the arc of Jinx's soaring comet from penury to privilege, and the series of brutalities that had each served to fuel the fire that forged her. Goode was a pro: armed with hard-hitting questions, each one geared to evoke Jinx's resilience and charm. The narrative didn't shy away from Jinx's history, either, and wasn't afraid to address the controversial issues—the Day of Ash, the Siege, Shimmer.

But, true to form, Goode did not sensationalize the story, or reduce it to a salacious slideshow.

Jinx kept the interview blithe, bantering, breezy. Goode quizzed her on everything from her first successful invention (Buttons), her latest project (an aerial filtration system for toxic miasma), the secret to her skincare regimen (sump-vole grease, duh!), to any special man in her life.

Jinx deftly sidestepped that sticky subject: "I'm too busy to get busy. But I'm open to applicants! Just submit your CV to Daddy's goon squad, and duck the barrage of gunshots."

When Goode asked how Jinx felt about Zaun's future, she'd replied, "Zaun's gonna eat it for breakfast. And I'm not talking metaphorical. We've got a new recipe cooking. It'll change your life, or blow it clean up."

And she'd tipped a wink, leaving Goode in stitches.

"The Girl from the Bottom is no longer Zaun's rising star," Goode summed up, "but its symbol. In a world that has so often sought to diminish her, Jinx has grown larger than life, a shining example of the resolute spirit that has made Zaun, once a mere annex to Piltover, a nation to be reckoned with."

The edition was a smash hit. Nearly three-million copies flew off the press. The circulation numbers were stratospheric. The Bugle's editor was in raptures. So were the readers. Jinx had been Zaun's unofficial postergirl for ages. But the endorsement of a premium publisher elevated her to the status of a powerhouse. A flesh-and-blood icon.

Bonus: she looked super cute.

For Zaunite entrepreneurs eager to expand overseas, the next step was a no-brainer. Who better to carry the torch as a brand ambassador than the city's very own firebrand?

Jinx's likeness, once charmingly ubiquitous, was suddenly inescapable. It started with the storefronts in the Trade District of the Sumps. Then it spread across the billboards at Entresol and along the boulevards on the Promenade. Jinx's face, whether in caricature or cameo: emblazoned on the signboards of cafes or blown up big as life across skyscrapers. Zaun-themed cookbooks with her visage printed on their covers appeared on bookstores' front displays, as restaurants serving the latest "Fissure cuisine" boasted lines out the door. Luxury brands like the Vyx were keen to get a piece of the action: their new collections featured "J-Chic" couture inspired by Jinx's punky, gritty, carnivalesque aesthetic: ripped mesh leggings, studded belts, leather jackets, and—most importantly—lots of poppy neons. Even the music scene was jumping aboard. 'Get Jinxed' was enjoying a renaissance across the airwaves. On weekends, the nightlife was dominated by discotheques where 'Jinx-a-thons' kept Trencher teens grooving till dawn. And a brand-new club banger—a bawdy, upbeat remix called "Boom Boom"—began burning up the airwaves all the way to Topside.

Soon, even old blowhards like Councilor Hoskel, who couldn't tell a bass from his ass, knew all the lyrics.

The phenomenon transcended borders; Zaun shrank into the mere nucleus. Jinx, and her blues: a force of nature that could not be denied. A silhouette to embody the wild, ungovernable spirit of change that crossed Zaun's skyline, like a shooting star, and left fragments scattered all the way from Piltover's gilded skyline to Shurima's dusty plains.

A symbol whose reach was so broad, and whose potential for disruption so powerful, that not even the most cynical could deny its call.

A spark, igniting.

Naturally, her popularity had detractors. In Piltover, the conservatives had long deemed her a nuisance. The prospect of her becoming a global icon was alarming. As was the growing trend among the Piltovan youth to dye their hair blue, or wear t-shirts with her monkey-symbol on the front, or blast her song while riding the public transport. To counter the rebellious streak, The Sun & Tower begun publishing a series of starch-collared articles, all purportedly authored by an "insider", to paint Jinx as a threat to good-old-fashioned stability.

Anarchist, madwoman, agent of chaos—the epithets ran the gamut.

And yet, for the youth, it only lent Jinx a brighter luster. For so long, she'd been the villain of their bedtime stories. But as time passed, and Topside rubbed shoulders more and more with Zaunites, they began to see her through a different lens.

A story could have many sides, after all.

And isn't there always a ring of darkness, whenever a star burns brightest?

The feather in Jinx's cap, ironically, was her induction into Piltover's premiere publication: Astro.

The journal had a longstanding reputation as a trendsetter: a single mention could catapult a nobody into notoriety, or turn a fledgling business into a booming success. Jinx was the youngest—only—Zaunite to be considered for the front cover.

The publication had to seek Silco's permission; her Big Nineteenth was just around the corner, but she was technically a minor under Zaunite law. The proposed photospread would feature Jinx in a baby blue halter and matching blue aviators, with her hair coiffed in the victory-roll bob popularized by Zaun's restoration propaganda; flirtily windswept to evoke that free-wheeling whimsy.

The shoot would be themed around Zaun's rising generation of wunderkinds: a burst of fresh energy, with Jinx as its spearhead.

Their only caveat: her tattoos, and the tattoos only, would be airbrushed.

"We understand, in Zaun, body art is a rite of passage," the editor explained, after having done the impossible: secured a meeting with the Eye of Zaun. Dream-come-true or deathwish, that remained to be seen. "But we don't want our audience to associate Zaun with a gangland. It's not in line with the message of this shoot."

"Which is?"

"Youth. Vitality. Hope."

Silco, two-toned eyes piercing behind a steeple of fingers, took in each buzzword. Silence stretched between him and his guest: chokingly tight.

Finally, he cut to the chase.

"Surely," he drawled, "progress implies more than that? An appreciation, for instance, of what came before."

The editor, sweating bullets, mustered an appeasing smile.

"I don't mean it wouldn't be appreciated. But it could be, ah, misinterpreted."

"As?"

"Well—a history of conflict. Violence. Deviance."

Silco's smile widened to show razored teeth. It was charm without an iota of mercy: the shark that devoured whatever foolish fish wandered past its fangs.

"We are Zaun," he said. "Conflict, violence and deviance are the sum of our ethos."

"But..." The editor floundered, but forged on. "With respect, Your Excellency. The audience, if Jinx were to grace the cover, would not be confined to Zaun. Astro celebrates readership from far-flung shores, including Demacia and Noxus. Nations that may not share your...your..."

"Deviation?"

"...Quite." A delicate cough. "It's one thing, to say, feature Zaun's black-market trade, and the pride it takes in bringing people together in defiance of prejudice and societal expectation. That's a feel-good story. We'd happily run that, if only to thumb our own noses at the Council's conservative bloc."

Silco's lips ticked upward. Amused, not by the joke, but the fellow's chutzpah.

"But a culture that equates survival with the barrel of a gun?" Another cough. "That can easily become divisive. Even destructive. If readers who dislike Zaun, use Jinx to vilify the nation she represents—or worse, her father..." The editor bowed slightly, as if paying homage, "I fear it might have far-reaching consequences beyond Astro. And a polarizing outcome for international relations."

"Namely—" the drawl disarmed; the subtext disemboweled, "—you'll market Zaun's free spirit, but elide its context."

The editor flinched; a gutted man, clinging to his innards as they slopped across the carpet. But he was, whatever else, a professional.

"Astro is progressive," he emphasized, "but progress takes patience, Your Excellency. Jinx is an opportunity that deserves to be nurtured."

"How do you propose to 'nurture' a message nipped in the bud?"

"By understanding that this edition is not about yesterday, or today. It is about Tomorrow." The editor leaned in. "What birthed Zaun was a violent struggle. But that message will resonate with few except Zaunites. Instead of focusing on Zaun's bitter beginnings, it is wiser to concentrate on what we all share in common."

Silco's arched brow was the non-verbal equivalent of Go on, pull the other one.

"Respectfully, Excellency, you have said the same in your speeches! We bleed for the right to live. Don't we all? We breathe in spite of our shackles. Don't we all? We yearn to be free. Don't we all?" The editor clapped his hands together: an exhortation. "Zaun has suffered. I acknowledge that. So do many Piltovans. But we cannot fully appreciate how you have suffered. Not unless we meet each other halfway. When we do, compromise becomes nuance."

"Compromise." Silco's head canted to one side. "Through the death of my daughter's character?"

"Not—not necessarily!" The editor backtracked. "Our readers admire authenticity. But authenticity is raw; it cuts bone-deep. I'm asking if we can translate the past into something that... connects... rather than alienates. Rest assured! Our work would celebrate the Zaunite renaissance. Highlight luminaries like Jinx, born in Zaun's slums, who have now seen their dreams come true. Inventions given wings; homes given hearts. Startups rising sky-high. And best of all: children with no doors to walk through, promised new thresholds toward success." Another cough. "It'd be an inspiring narrative. One could even—" A flash of inspiration at metaphoric knifepoint, "—call it a renewal of Zaun's innocence!"

Silco's mismatched eyes held the editor in their crosshairs.

One: unnervingly cold. The other: unnaturally ablaze.

"A strange defense," the trademark tenor dipped lethally low, "given Zaun lost its innocence in the cradle."

The editor opened his mouth; reconsidered. His shoulders slumped.

"Be honest," Silco said. "This is censorship dressed up as conciliation."

"No." The editor shook his head. "Simply the opportunity to unite, rather than divide. And, let's be frank, seize control over Jinx's rising-star narrative before other papers do."

"Of course."

"With respect, Your Excellency. You've had a marvelous hand in sculpting her story thus far. But though you are the, ah, Eye of Zaun, you are also her father. Inevitably, there is bias. For you, she remains a girl-child. A cherished daughter. But to Runeterra, she is becoming a phenomenon. Not to mention: a woman. The combination holds appeal. Power. And others will want that power, badly enough to take it."

Silco, face darkening like the sky before an incursion, spoke slowly: "You're suggesting we preempt her exploitation."

"Yes! And—I realize the irony here!—preempt it by capitalizing on her allure." He broke off, cleared his throat. "Because better us—with Zaun's consent—showcasing her potential, than competitors motivated by more... base... incentives."

Silence hung. Broken only by the metronomic tick-tock.

Not of the clock, but Silco's slow-climbing temper.

"You're proposing," he said, and the steeple of fingers unfurled to separate into two deathly-white fists, "to exploit the very element that endangers her."

"No, your Excellency! To establish her, not as a victim, but a fully fledged sensation!"

"She is already a sensation."

"But with our platform, she'd be celebrated across Runeterra! No Zaunite has ever garnered such spotlight. An icon of unprecedented proportions, shaping discourse from politics to fashion."

"At the expense of her father's will."

"If the choice of clothing offends, we can work through alternatives—"

As abruptly as he'd agreed to the confab, Silco cut it short. "Good day. My blackguards will escort you out."

"But—"

"Your proposal, quite frankly, is above your pay-grade. Leave the diplomacy to the diplomats. And the flesh-peddling to the pimps. I trust Astro with neither. Especially involving my child. But—" He unfolded to his feet, silhouette framed in blood-red by the sunrays cutting through the window, "—if I'm in need of poisonous piffle to prop up my country's black market, you'll be first to know."

There was nothing left to argue.

The editor, with the silence of the condemned, withdrew.

It was only after Silco had returned to his desk, pouring a fifth of whiskey into his cut-crystal glass, that the eavesdropper in the rafters unfolded itself to pour in a shadowy slither across the carpet: soundless, as if weightless, or winged.

"Sheesh," Jinx drawled, hands laced behind her back as she prowled between the armchairs. "And I thought I had rage-issues."

Silco said nothing. The smolder didn't abate.

"Although," she went on, perching on the armrest on his empty chair, "calling him a pimp? Harsh, Daddy-o. Like flesh-peddling isn't a proud Zaunite tradition."

Silco, downing the shot of whiskey, made no comment. His anger—and Jinx had seen him plenty angry, plenty of times, usually with a blade brandished in one fist and a corpse congealing in the corner—was always explosive. A riot, too, given how quiet he was in other respects: suave, smooth, searingly understated. But so were flash-floods before they raged beyond control: insidious, imperceptible, then overwhelming.

This was different.

This was a wrath that manifested as ice: remote, silent, terrible. It set Jinx's teeth on edge the way nothing else could.

"What gives?" She spilled sideways into the empty chair, legs dangling over one armrest, arm slung over the other. "Sure, the guy's a bozo. And his rag makes a clown-show look classy. Plus: the no-ink policy? Total drag. But the bottom-line's what matters, right? A chance to pitch Zaun's brand-new beginning to the masses. Our star power gone interstellar!"

Silco poured himself a second measure. He wasn't really listening, and Jinx bristled. Where did he keep drifting off to? And why, when everything he—they—had worked for was on the cusp of glory?

Or was glory the problem?

(Too short of legacy? Too wide of perfection?)

"Anyway," she went on, determined to sell what couldn't be bought, " Astro's cookie-cutter as hell. But it's got major global juice. Just picture it: pageant spreads highlighting Zaun's greatest achievements. Kitchens stocked with pickled paradise; arc-lit street lamps that turn midnight into high noon; Shimmer-infused lip glosses for killer smooches on steamy summer nights. Everything Zaun prides itself on: making do, making bank, and making a little mischief on the side!"

The dark-spirited silence persisted. Tipping his glass, Silco downed the drink. Jinx mimed along, saluting with a non-existent glass of her own.

No dice. Not even a smile.

Gods, his moods were becoming a zigzag: up, down, left, right. It was disorienting. She'd once thought she knew Silco like the back of her hand—his pettiness, his ruthlessness, the razor-sharp intellect and the bone-dry humor, plus the deadly-soft underbelly that he bared just for her.

But these last few weeks were like wandering through a minefield. One wrong move, and: blam.

Sometimes, Jinx wondered if this was the natural course of things. If, as her ambitions soared, his own would stay tethered, down in the depths that'd birthed him.

In the darkness where he'd dwell alone: stubbornly solitary, killingly self-contained.

And grumpier by the day.

"So," he said at length, "you find their project worthwhile."

Jinx snagged her bottom-lip between her teeth. So he had been listening. More than that: he'd sussed out that Astro's editor would never have successfully navigated past Zaun's bureaucratic labyrinth without inside help.

"Well—yeah," she hedged, tipping a shoulder. "I might've pointed him in the right direction. Helped with the elevator ride up."

Silence, and another pour. Third shot, which meant dangerous territory lay ahead.

But Jinx was nothing if not a daredevil.

"I figured, y'know, it was time to broaden our horizons," she went on. "Reach beyond our comfort zones. Shake a few peaches before they rotted on the tree."

"Peaches?" Ice-cold, and bloody-bare: the glare cutting her way. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"Oh, c'mon!" Jinx, playing footsie with the pile of trade edicts on his desktop, held firm. "You always say Zaun deserves international legitimacy. Well, here's our chance. Piltover's premiere press on our doorstep! Practically begging me to flaunt my ass—er, assets. Not to mention, boost your profile by proxy! Think of all Zaun'll gain—the trade, the tourists, the fat wallets jingling their coinage..."

"With our history stripped wholesale, and the rest sanitized beyond recognition." Silco swirled the dregs of whiskey. In the sunset, a scarlet wash filmed the glass like blood from a fresh-cut throat. "There are less tedious ways of selling Zaun's soul than by whoring yourself out, Jinx."

It was the first time he'd used anything remotely resembling vulgarity in her presence. A measure, perhaps, of just how deeply Topside's overture had bruised his ego.

Or was it something deeper, prickling the undercurrents of their bond?

Punishment, even if unmeant.

"Whore, s'more." Jinx sat up, hoping a little sass would break his funk. "My likeness is already stamped all across Zaun's backyard! So why blow your fuse 'cause some lame-o rag wants a few bits edited out? The guy's just doing his job: keeping his brand vanilla."

"You," Silco cut in, "are not a brand. You are the high Zaunite ideal. Topside has no say in your self-determinism."

But you do, Jinx thought, and felt oddly hollow.

She didn't say it. She didn't need to. Zaun owned her, top to toe, as a symbol. And Silco, her father, held exclusive rights to the rest. Since independence, she'd been serving both masters with boundless vigor, as if she'd been born to the role.

And maybe she was: the girl who'd kickstarted a revolution, and been crowned its queen.

But every shard of her life that Zaun swallowed was a chunk Jinx never had a chance to reclaim. Until, little by little, the resentment became a fierce bright itch under her skin. Until the wanderlust, the soul-deep disconnection, became a fuse fizzing its way to ignition.

Once, it would've ended in self-immolation. Not to mention, city-wide catastrophe. This time, it would be different. No cataclysm, but a comet's trajectory from rock-bottom straight into the stratosphere.

And comets always ate whatever got in their way.

"Maybe," she said, quieter, "it's not about self-determinism, but autonomy."

"Scant difference, if both require compromise."

"That depends."

"On?"

"Mine," she said, "versus ours."

Silco, glass halfway to his lips, stilled.

"Think about it. Five years ago, no Trench-wench would've dreamed of strutting her stuff in Astro's hoity-toity frontispiece. Now, they're here, hat in hand, at our door. And sure, they're fussposts. But change takes time, right? One baby step, then a sprint, and pretty soon it's running marathons!"

"You'd let Topside profit from your erasure to prove a point?"

"I'd prove to the Fissurefolk that nothing's outta bounds. They don't need to flaunt their suffering on their skins. Our ink ain't proof of principle: just our pride. And that pride runs deeper than any tattooist's needle. No matter how far we reach or how high we soar, nothing can take that away." Her chin tipped. "And if Topside's calling the shots on what's acceptable today? Tomorrow it'll be us. Because once a movement like this gains momentum, there's no going backward."

"Can't put the genie back in her bottle, hm?"

"Exactly!" She dropped the playful pretense. Her eyes locked on his. "The tipping point doesn't come easy, Silco. But when it does? It's a critical hit. The kinda stuff they'll write about in the schoolbooks. The kinda stuff every starry-eyed, scabby-kneed, snot-nosed little sumpsnipe will read about, and realize, hell. I could make that leap too. And if ol Jinx can get the ball rollin,' well. Ain't that worth a little sacrifice?"

"A little sacrifice," Silco repeated, witheringly neutral. "Until the next. And the next. Until we're back to square one, with no boundaries left to claim."

Jinx refused to be cowed. "Until one article becomes ten. Then fifty. Then a hundred! Until talk of Zaun's as commonplace as a handshake. Until the dialogue's shifted from, Wow, that terrorist sure looks hot, to Wow, what drove this girl to go war? And if they don't want the same war spreading to their streets, what can they do to help us help ourselves?"

"We didn't fight for help. We fought to be free."

"And maybe it's the talking," she countered, "that'll make it happen."

"Utopian drivel."

"Nope!" Jinx popped the syllable. "Pure chess. You say it yourself: the Council's terrified of losing face. And once Zaun's gained clout on the global stage, we'll be a threat to their pride instead of a dirty open secret. They'll have to widen the embrace—not as partners-in-crime, but as in-laws. Even siblings. Once they do? The average Piltie starts asking questions. Important questions! Questions like, hey, maybe reparations aren't enough? Maybe restitution's the way to go? Maybe re-establishing bonds is the path to salvation—not to mention the influx of sweet-ass Zaunite tech! All this in exchange for—"

"—for selling yourself like a sweetmeat to the highest bidder?"

"They're asking me to pose for a magazine," Jinx snapped, temper flaring at the condescension. "Not suck their dicks!"

A vulgarism for a vulgarism: fair trade in a city founded upon theft.

Silco's jaw tightened. The infamous temper held. Only his face spoke: a subtle shift from simple anger to a more complex emotion. And Jinx, with a sudden arrowing to the heart of the target—a smoothness that, like in firefights, verged on Zen-like—understood precisely why he hated the idea of her starring in Astro.

A refusal to play by their rules, yes. But also the refusal to relinquish what lay deepest at stake.

Her choice versus his own.

"What're you so afraid of?" she challenged, more slowly. "That I'll kickstart a new epoch for Zaun, but forget to pay my dues?"

"Forget how many they butchered us for daring to stand tall?" Silco retorted, silken as a silver garrote. "Forget that your wages of acceptance equate to surrendering their lifeblood: brutalized, subjugated, buried wholesale? Forget the murder that marks our very foundation?"

His vehemence brooked zero room for disagreement; no latitude for compromise. Because it wasn't just Jinx's choice that was the crux of the issue. It was the principle he'd built the city upon. Forward but never forget. An article of faith that underlined everything they'd suffered together. The root cause that'd led them, hand-in-hand, down the road to revolution.

And left thousands of bodies in their wake.

But Jinx refused to be browbeaten. She'd had her fill of ghosts: theirs, hers. All those decades, with nothing but bitterness to nurse their dreams. Surely, now that they'd made it, it was time for brighter beginnings? Time to write a chapter for those yet to come; something to wash the aftertaste of blood away?

Time to build bridges, if it meant stopping someone else from burning them down.

Or drowning in their shadow.

"No one's denying where we come from," she said flatly. "No one's forgetting why we fight. But I want Zaun to endure beyond the past, Silco. We're gonna change the world. And all of us—every single one, no matter what our past or future—will stand stronger if we go out there as whole. Not shattered to shit."

"Progress," Silco intoned, "at any price."

"Weighed up and worth it. Isn't that what you taught me?"

Silco set his glass back on the desk: cut-crystal met mahogany with a brittle clink.

Something changed, imperceptibly, in his stance. Still frigid as death; still simmering below the surface. But now an undercurrent ran through. Sorrow, perhaps. Scorn.

Or a subspecies of both: tender to the last, like a wound that never healed.

"Such grand justifications," he said, softly, "for a little girl's plea."

Jinx didn't flinch; the insinuation hurt too much.

"What do you think?" he went on, fingertip idly tracing the rim of the glass. "That selling out will win your sister over? That her side—their side—will forget your sins if you're willing to forgive their own?"

The sting of that rebuke—succinct, searing—sent tears pricking at the corners of Jinx's eyes. Because of course he knew. He knew, same way he knew her. Because they were both so fucking alike: born of a common flame that would not be doused.

Both clinging to a conviction that somehow, someday, the razing of their past would give way to a bloodless future.

And leaving, always, ashes behind.

"Maybe we could forgive," Jinx said, refusing to bleed. "Even if we never forget. Or maybe it's pointless, and instead of burying the hatchet, it's better to bury the bodies and burn all bridges forever. But if the dead can't let the past go, how can the living rebuild, Silco? If we stop trying, we'll stagnate. And then, everything we fought for—everything we deserve—it's all gone. A monument to our own hubris."

Something shifted again: the coldness yielding. But his eyes stayed hard.

"So," he murmured, "you would offer yourself up? A lamb at the slaughter."

"Call it whatever you want," Jinx retorted. "But every moment we spend in Zaun's past, is another moment our future's forfeit."

"And this forfeiture? Will it earn you the vindication you seek?"

Jinx shook her head. In a single fluid motion, she'd slid off the chair, skirting the desk with a dancer's grace. They came face-to-face: two shadows poised in a pool of bloody light.

"This," she said, "is nothing more—nothing less—than what Zaun deserves."

"That being?"

"The chance to move forward."

And, she tipped forward to drop a kiss to Silco's scarred cheekbone.

The sun sank scarlet: arterial-rich, slow and deep. In the glow, Silco's eyes were two black mirrors. Reflecting the incandescence of his daughter's dreams, even as his pale hands tangled in the tassels of her blue hair.

Twisting, ever-so-slightly, tighter.

[cherryheairt]

The Weight of Us

Viktor x reader

set in pre Act 1

Thanks anon ily 🩷

No desc, given a last name for 'House', fMC

part 1 of a series?

kind of an au? only because the academy is now a college that offers more than science studies/majors everything is normal otherwise

Even after hailing from Piltover, you'd never truly been accepted by its people. House Roycen had been an established and renowned house since its founders helped to build Piltover to what it is now. Ernesto Roycen, its founder and 'father', had been one of the leaders during the pillage to the sister cities, firm in his belief that magic was unnatural and should have no place in this world.

You, however, had always been fascinated by the unnatural. In your eyes, magic was another part of nature, though it was shunned by the 'people of progress' in Piltover. You spent rainy days locked away in your chambers, tinkering away at the latest interest that caught your younger self's eye. Although there was no magic to learn about or practice, the fascinating world of craft and gadgetry indulged your curious mind perfectly.

You made moving little wind-up ducks from reading of the inner workings of mechas. You decorated your room with twinkling stars that were charged by the sunlight pouring in during the day. A hundred other, unfortunately small, creations were made throughout your youthful years of secret rebellion. While keeping these all a secret, you had to be creative to make your own goggles, which had multiple settings to see the tiniest details of gears and clogs. All 'inventions' were hidden beneath bedframes and in drawers the moment footsteps were heard echoing throughout the empty halls.

Your father, a man who took pride in his work and could find no love in his heart for anything else, did not visit the estate often. Most of the time, he stayed in a townhouse near the center of the city to breeze to and fro as he needed. Your mother, holding a place on the council like her ancestor did, visited only slightly more than he. Meetings were few far and between in the council, and unpredictable at that. She stayed at the estate and took a carriage to the inner city every time a letter arrived to summon her. You grew used to days without word nor sight or either parent.

Instead, this hole was filled by Claus Kosphere, the Roycen estate's head butler. The elderly man had worked for your family long before you were born. And though he seemed stern and unfeeling when you were a child, you quickly learned that the man raised and cared for you in every way that a true parent could.

You also learned of his daughter along the way. A bright young girl who spent her final years bedridden in a hospital. Claus took the loss with the most grace a father could bare and instead poured his knowledge into you. He curated your secret education of technology when your parents were away, and though you both knew you could never do anything with it, you were more than happy to at least learn of it.

Neither parents spent much time with you. When at home, they were in their studies. During meals, the main topic of discussion was how your tutoring sessions went that morning. Due to your father's anxieties about public or private schooling not being able to attend to you personally enough, all of your studies were done from your home. Every day, three people deemed worthy enough to teach would visit like clockwork and run you through the lessons. You never bothered to pay much attention to them or their teachings. Every day was boring and dull.

Every lesson had been learned years ago through independent reading. Every new chord the pianist struck was like a dull ring in your ears as you imitated it. Every history and English lesson was completed within minutes. Upon seeing the rare mind you possessed and aptitude for learning, your teachers suggested an acceleration in your studies.

Geography, economics, and political science exercises beyond what an average teenager was fathoming in Piltover, all breezed through with ease. College was clearly the next step, and although you saw it as the perfect opportunity to find your wings and use the independence to begin the studies you wanted—your parents decided to perfectly curate your entire schedule for you instead. The subjects that you truly had interest in, including maths, scientific discoveries, engineering, or anything related, were all but forgotten to your parents. As if they didn't exist or had extremely little importance to them—they had no place in your education. What use did a political figure have with the menial details like those? In the words of your father, those jobs were filled by the faceless nobodies of society.

Nerves and excitement ran through you on that first day. You'd never attended a standard school like most of the students—and were thus set behind them in terms of social norms and connections. Everyone knew you as the heir to House Roycen, but none knew you.

The excitement quickly gave way to humiliation. Every attempt to form a friendship was shot down, and quickly, you realized how cruel people were to those seen as strange. No lesson or book could prepare you for the reality of privileged young people who had nothing better to do with their time than gossip. You spent your first years entirely alone, only accompanied by professors and servants. In your commutes to and from home, the window of the carriage could only serve you more grief as the passing picture showed carefree, perfect families.

You could not leave Piltover and start fresh, not anywhere that you would be undiscovered. Your parents would surely track you down and strap you to a chair if need be. Nowhere in Runeterra would offer you anything better than what Piltover did.

Whispers of you already being groomed for the position of Councilor were up in the air, not at all helped by the fact that your mother occasionally brought you along on days off to shadow her during meetings. You had no true days off anymore. No rainy days huddled away in your room when an instructor could not make the trip in the downpour. Your trinkets sat abandoned and dusty in the coldest parts of your room.

When your father passed away, the steadiness in your own mind tormented you more than the loss itself. How could you not mourn your own father's death? On one hand, the man had spent more time away from you than anything else. You were barely more than acquainted in all ways that mattered. The most he spoke to you were scoldings for your apparent laziness and unfocused mind. On the other hand, that was the man who had a big part in housing and feeding you your entire life. In the back of your mind, you briefly thought that he seemed more like a sponsor than a parent. For months, the thoughts that something was truly wrong with you, either in the head or the heart, plagued you.

Solitude became your blanket of security and familiarity.

The sole heir to the Roycen House, born two hundred years after the founding of it, you were meant to carry the torch just like all the ancestors before. Expected to attend Piltover's finest university for political science and law, and eventually 'earn' your place on the council, though no Roycen ever truly did and only ever got there through connection. You had the world on your shoulders.

🪞

When Viktor thought of native Piltovians, he admitted he had a prejudiced way of thinking. His first impressions with the majority had been less than satisfactory to say the least. When meeting in business terms, sent by Heimerdinger, those who knew the Dean knew that his assistant was 'Undercity born' and thus did not greet him with the same standards they greeted those deemed equal.

Those who didn't know him, like baristas at the local cafe or librarians writing out his books as 'checked out', did not treat him any specific way. Sure, they often eyed his cane and scrawny figure, but a fleeting moment of judgment had been something Viktor long grew out of caring about.

This was his life for years, during his time in university and after graduation when his job was being an assistant. A high-end job, compared to what 99% of the Undercity's offers, and one he could not complain about. He was paid well, treated fairly by the Dean, and provided housing near the office Heimerdinger presided in. He could not complain, no, but he could not find it in him to be content either.

When he was given the opportunity to be something more than the Undercity could ever allow him to be, he was both grateful and eager to improve the lives of his kin and people.

It had been years since he was so bright-eyed.

Life had gained a monotone routine. He was safe in the city, didn't have to worry about keeping his head down or pissing off the wrong folk, but he lived the same day every day.

Write letters for Heimerdinger.

Deliver packages for Heimerdinger.

Stand in at meetings for Heimerdinger.

Take notes in council meetings for Heimerdinger.

Eat, sleep, repeat.

His mind had not been challenged since his school days. He had not built anything since senior class. Viktor itched to do more. To be more.

For now, he stuck to his routine. Raising a dexterous hand to knock on a freshly polished door, his eye was caught by the symbol adorning its iron knocker. An ornate yet softly elegant thing, one that he would personally consider too gaudy to decorate his home with, but fit the rich and lavishness of Piltovian homes. It was a peacock, surrounded by a wreath of striking white and black anemonies. Taking it in his hand, Viktor felt like he was almost committing a crime by sullying such an expensive piece of artwork. He knocked twice, clear and curt.

Tucked under his elbow was a small brown package for the recipient from Heimerdinger himself, who muttered his apologies that he could not personally deliver a birthday gift.

"Humans celebrate birthdays so often that it feels like I'm spending more time planning gifts and letters of congratulations than working. Would you deliver this one for me, my dear boy?" The yordle asked as he scurried around.

Viktor was quite envious at times of his immortality. He didn't have to celebrate birthdays like it may be his last. He barely even counted the years he'd been alive. Viktor considered himself lucky to make it to adulthood.

He nearly flinched as the door swung open. An older man, adorned in a pristine black and white suit, raised a brow at the younger man. "State your business, young man." He spoke finely.

Lifting the simple package, Viktor replied: "A gift for Miss Delarose Roycen."

The older relaxed. Nodding, he bowed slightly as he opened the door wider for Viktor to enter. "Come this way, sir."

Viktor almost groaned at the invitation. He had hoped the gift might be taken, and he'd be promptly dismissed like he usually was. He'd never be that lucky, he supposed. Sitting in the foyer awkwardly, Viktor fiddled with the thin twine holding the paper together in a neat bow. The inside of the house perfectly matched the outside. Gold, black, and white seemed to blend together in arrays of wealthy display. Any smudges on the white leather had him praying that he wouldn't be sent a bill that cost more than his entire apartment.

The Roycen family was one he had only observed from afar til now. Delarose Roycen sat within the council at every meeting while Viktor stood in the 'peanut gallery' and jotted down any important notes for Heimerdinger (which was almost never). The lady was an intimidating picture of elegance and traditional values. Though her husband passed fairly recently, she held her head high and never faultered publicly.

While waiting, Viktor took time to inspect the room. It seemed void of any personal attachments like portraits, trophys, or certificates. All but one, which had be to over ten feet tall and five wide hanging over the mantle. A simple and impersonal work of art, displaying two firm-faced adults and a youthful woman. Pretty was an afterthought compared to the strikingly detached look on her face. Her eyes held a faraway look that plainly stated she'd rather be anywhere but in that room and posing for a photo.

He almost rolled his eyes at the notion. A spoilt rotten young lady like a Roycen must be painfully unaware of those in the Undercity who would give their lives to be bored and safe.

We all want what we do not have. He reminded himself as he shifted in his place. And right now, he wanted to end his afternoon by heading home and indulging himself in his newest library find, Armature Winding and Motor Repair.

When a door clicked open, the man in black revealed himself again. This time, followed by the young miss from the painting. "Missus Delarose is occupied in the moment. The young Mistress will keep you company while Lady Roycen finishes up." He bowed out and left behind a swinging door on the other side of the room, presumably to the kitchens for refreshments.

Now that he saw her in person and not just by the painting, he recognized her. The girl had flitted around campus when he attended, a mousy thing that seemed to float around groups instead of within them. After he graduated, he had also seen her a few times in the council room itself. Now, he finally had a name to the face. For years, he thought that she was just another assistant, perhaps to Cassandra Kiramman or Delarose Roycen as they preferred having women assistants that he acquainted himself with. Mel Merdarda did the same, and Viktor attuned it to women trusting other women easier. The resemblance had slipped past his head before, but now it was clearer.

The young lady looked exactly how Viktor felt. The silence was thick in the air as she sat stiffly on the couch, looking a stranger in her home as much as he did. "I can leave it here. The package—I mean. It is only a gift from Heimerdinger."

The woman was quiet for a few ticks in front of him, opening her mouth a few times to begin but closing it just as fast. Eventually, she shook her head. "Claus will be unhappy that I could not entertain a guest for a mere few minutes. Please, just stay until you've had tea."

"Claus?" Viktor asked, looking towards the kitchens to confirm.

She hummed affirmatively, biting the inside of her cheek. "Our butler. He likes to keep everything orderly. No unsatisfied people, you know?" She shrugged, finding her perfectly manicured nailbeds more interesting than looking Viktor in the eye. Uninterested wholely, or just feeling disrespected that a Zaunite was in her home and on her furniture.

"I understand." He trailed curtly. Claus strided back in with a silver tray of tea and small edibles. Placing it on the coffee table, he promptly poured Viktor's tea first.

"I hope earl grey is suitable to your tastes, sir." He said, moving to pour the woman's next. She immediately dumped a concerning amount of sugar cubes into the steaming liquid, finishing it off with sweet cream that lightened it to a milky color. Viktor raised a brow, and thanked the butler for the generous display.

He placed a few sugar cubes and a splash of milk in, stirring idly as he watched the clock with a sharp eye. He, of course, preferred his beverages sweet as can be too, but some hesitation kept him from wanting to be 'unseemly' in front of the councilor's daughter.

Claus tapped her back once, immediately making her sit straight up, back not even grazing the couch and still having picture-perfect posture. Viktor hadn't even noticed her slouching in the first place. She didn't, either, from the brief annoyed scowl he spotted cross her face. Or perhaps she did and was trying to get away with it.

"How is Professor Heimerdinger, these days?" Claus asked with a genial but tight smile.

"He's...Heimerdinger." Viktor answered lamely, lifting the package as if that said everything for him. "Always running around trying to be in a hundred places at once."

The man smiled, more gently now. "I see. It's been a few years since I've seen him. I can't imagine he remembers much of me, though, with how many people he's met in that grand lifespan of his." Claus folded his gloved hands behind his back from his place behind the young lady. She was tense in her seat under the watchful eye, perhaps even more so than Viktor was. The pastries went untouched by both parties.

"You were colleagues?" Viktor asked.

He nodded. "Once, for a few years after my time in university. More like his pupil, to be honest. He saw my plans for the Undercity to be given water cleansing and filtration throughout the city. We started collaboration on making it a reality, and he was willing to sponsor the entire idea—but life got in the way, and now I'm not even sure the blueprints are around anymore."

Viktor was surprised at the revelation. A Piltover citizen working to improve the lives of Zaunites as a whole? Water and air pollution was one of the Undercity's top problems. Most of the population gained major health problems from having no choice but to consume both—himself included.

"How long ago was this?"

"It's been over forty years now since I started working for the Roycens. So, forty years since the project was abandoned."

Forty?

Heimerdinger had left a life-changing project to collect dust in a file cabinet for forty years? Longer than Viktor had lived. His parents could have benefited from filtration systems in their homes, would maybe even be alive to this day if sickness hadn't caught them first.

"I see." Was all he could muster. "Pardon me asking this, but if you were working on such a prestigious project with a sponsor, then why are you working here?"

The Roycen's eyes finally shot up to meet his. Guilt and grief lay in her faraway expression. Sipping her lukewarm tea, she quickly hid half of her face from his observation.

Claus never faultered. In Viktor's experience, those who have lived longer lives often had little qualms about sharing details of their past, whether they were good or bad. "I quit my work with Heimerdinger to cover expenses for my daughter. Her medical bills were quite high at the time, much more than what I was afforded back then. I was alloted housing, food, and everything needed for my work to come to life, but nothing extra for personal expenses."

He lived to work and nothing else. Much like most of Viktor's former peers who went off to their intended fields of work. With such time-consuming jobs, there was no room for the luxuries of pleasure. Even as an assistant, Viktor had no time to do anything but work. Every morning, at dawn, he reminded himself that he was doing this for a brighter future and better opportunities. After all, who wouldn't want to hire a direct pupil of Cecil Heimerdinger?

"And you never went back?"

"I found something that needed me more than those dusty old blueprints." Claus glanced down to the head of hair on the couch below him, who seemed to sink further into it at the implication. "Anyone can continue my previous work in the Undercity. But no one could have replaced me here."

It clicked in his mind very easily. Claus took care of the Roycen girl since the day she was born. Wealthy parents never truly raised their kids, but their staff often presented a replacement for that affection and care lost in empty halls. But, his own daughter? The medical bills in Piltover were extreme for those not born to generational wealth like House families were. For the common folk of Piltover, still rich compared to the average Zaunite, one might drown in debt.

Viktor was lucky enough to have the mind able to accommodate his own disability. He made new canes throughout his childhood every time he grew out of the old. Recently, he made his own leg brace that lies beneath his uniformed slacks—something that helps tremendously. Being able to help himself was a blessing—he was fortunate not to have an abundance of medications to buy monthly.

If not debt, then death. Seeing as Claus had taken such a fatherly role in this woman's life, it was easy to assume he had eventually lost his own. Perhaps they needed each other.

Viktor couldn't feel too much for the loveless children of Piltover. While their parents were hardly around and their educators were their baselines for raising themselves up as respectable citizens, they still grew up in lavish homes with plentiful food and abundant health. The Roycen girl might feel guilty for 'stealing' a genius' future away from him, he knew that it wouldn't change the reality. Emotions held little value unless they were acted upon.

Heels clicking interrupted the silence between the three. Viktor's eyes followed the graceful figure of Delarose Roycen as she strided into the room. Much like the symbol of her house, she held the poise of a peacock and the colors to match. With her curly black hair surrounding her head like a dark halo, eyes as sharp as they were intelligent, her pant suit the shimmering iridescence colors of deep blue, green, and yellow, the councilor was more than intimidating. Always listening more than she spoke during meetings, Delarose seemed to keep tabs on everyone around her for future reference.

One time, Viktor recalled her not saying a single word during a heating debate on the stationary tariffs rising in Piltover. He watched on as her dark gaze turned this way and that to follow along with the few that were discussing the tariffs with little care for their decorum around fellow councilors. When the meeting wrapped up, she simply excused herself and walked right out of the open doors. The very next meeting a week later, she began the discussion without so much as a note card. The councilors were silent as they listened to her bring forth the solution for the imported goods. The little country of Lospine, which resided between Piltover the New and Noxus up in the rocky mountains, would accept an influx of Piltover's rich fruits for their plentiful coffers of ink. With the matter settled, the tariffs returned back to their regular price and have not fluctuated since.

Delarose was the type of person Viktor admired. Certainly the easier choice over ones like Salo and Hoskel, who spoke just to hear their own voices prevail. Though, the admiration was done from afar, in Viktor's place with the other assistants. The last thing he wanted was her keen eyes seeing more than he was willing to tell.

"Viktor." She greeted with a plain face. He was more than just surprised to know that she knew his name. "Here on behalf of Heimerdinger, I assume?" Amusement laced her tone. She did not apologize for her tardiness in her own home.

He stood from his seat, feeling a strange urge to bow his head like a peasent greeting their king. "Councilor Roycen, I have a package from Heimerdinger. Along with his hopes that your birthday went well." He managed, throat suddenly feeling dry.

Across from him, the girl eyed him from her seat. She did not stand to greet her mother or even glance her way. Setting down her empty cup, her eyes set on Viktor in a way most opposite to her mother's. Her gaze was curious and soft, not at all scrutinizing or judgemental like her peers in the university.

She nodded once with a finality. "Send him my thanks." Taking the parcel, she left the room with no other regards. Viktor was momentarily stunned. All this waiting and awkwardness for her to appear for a mere second? Claus might as well have taken it from him at the door. The wealthy's ways of life never failed to bemuse him.

The girl took a moment of waiting for the heel clicks to retreat before laughing. The sound was quiet and almost muted but clear to Viktor's keen senses. After a moment of chuckling to herself, she stood gracelessly and almost seemed giddy. "You've lived in Piltover for how many years and you can't hide your expressions still?" She asked, a gleam in her eye.

Viktor was taken aback by her bluntness. He had grown accustomed to holding his tongue to save trouble, but his honesty came through on his face more often than not. A trait given to him by his mother. "What do you mean?" He played dumb.

"If looks could kill, my mother wouldn't have made it five feet from the couch." She glanced to Claus, who had a frankly unamused look on his face. "Watch out, maybe she'll put a curse on you for looking at her the wrong way."

He smiled slightly despite himself. Councilor Roycen had certainly looked like she could put a spell or curse on him—but luckily for him, she was too busy for such hobbies. "I didn't mean to callous. I only mourn the time wasted."

"Am I horrible company?"

Kissing his teeth, Viktor cringed at the offense. Turning to defend himself, he was met with a playful grin from the woman instead. Sighing, he shook his head half with relief and half with exasperation. The whole family were eccentrics.

"I'll see you at the council meeting next week, I presume, miss Roycen." He dipped his head a bit and ambled towards the door. The late hours of the afternoon showed the golden hour's light through stained glass, leaving the room pleasently lit. He thought for a moment what a nice and quiet place this would be to work in, especially compared to his current cramped office filled with artificial light and thin walls.

Claus moved like a ghost to open the door for Viktor. "Have a nice evening, sir."

Sir. What a joke.

🪞

The next time you saw the lanky man with the pretty face and intriguing accent was exactly a week later. The first official meeting on your mother's birthday had been awkward at best and offensive at worst. You feared that he left the house feeling insulted from your mother, as most did but kept quiet about, and from your comment about his honest face.

But, time had to pass anyway. You were far from dwelling on the past like you used to, especially with how fast-paced lift became in college. It was your third year, and balancing life, shadowing meetings, and school work became harder and harder yet.

The students didn't make it any easier.

Since your first year, being ostracized was your new norm. 'The spoilt nepo baby' was who you were known to be, even to those with the same favoritism provided for them on a silver spoon. Hundreds of nepo babies attended the college—your mother just happened to be above their's.

Your current misfortune lied within your class, History of Piltover: The New and Old. Specifically, Gideon Bamford. Your professor assigned partners at the beginning of the semester for final projects, the very one worth 50% of your grade. Gideon had apparently made it his life's goal to make your own a living nightmare in the little time you spent together in class and out.

"I can just retake the class next semester. But will the council want someone who failed something as simple as a history class on their ranks?" He had sneered during their first study session in the library. While he sat back doing absolutely nothing, her attempts at getting things done alone were futile as he distracted her or ripped up papers as soon as they were filled.

After three weeks straight of dealing with him and complaining to your professor to no avail, the final solution was to go straight to the Dean.

Your only problem? Finding the guy.

Heimerdinger was famously elusive to those needing to meet with him. Whether this was intentional or not was still up to debate. Heimerdinger had a way of showing himself only when things caught his interest, not the other way around.

Viktor was your closest and fastest shot to schedule a meeting. During the meetings, Heimerdinger was always in attendance at the head of the council, but he made a point to scurry out of the room right as the doors opened. You had zero chance of stopping him with a yell and physically attempting to would be seen as hostile by the guards. You couldn't even imagine being so uncouth in front of your mother, let alone the entire council of Piltover. So, while you had the chance to stand alongside Viktor, you had to seize it. There were only a few weeks left before the final project's deadline was here.

Truthfully, you hadn't noticed him much before. He blended into the crowd seamlessly, with a practiced ease that suited his cool demeanor. Everyone knew he was Heimerdinger's assistant but not much else. Though that ignorance made you feel slightly guilty, you had a suspicion that he didn't bother to get to know the other assistants of the councilors either.

You, for one, disliked quite a few of them. All except for Viktor and Elora. Mel Merdarda's assistant had been working for her since before you started attending the meetings. It was easy to assume she'd been working for the Noxian for many years, considering how close the two were compared to the other boss-assistant relationships.

The other councilors did not have more than a symbiotic relationship. They pay the assistants: the assistants do their bare minimum work. Simple and straightforward. Though their attitudes left much to be desired.

Salo and Hoskel's assistants, Benny and Gasper respectively, were almost snobby and dim as their bosses. Shoola's singular secretary, Ponk, was sharp but did not speak a word nor try to communicate with others. Cassandra had two assistants, Siam and Dina, who tailed behind her everywhere, women of course (as the Kiramman matriarchs usually staffed), who were both friendly but tight as theives. Bolbok, the ever-mysterious figure, had no such attendents who were involved in meetings.

You had never spoken directly to any of them. Most of them either regarded you as a ghost in the corner of the room or the Roycen girl who had no place anywhere near them. Either way, it made things easier for you to be ignored rather than called out.

Sighing softly, you shifted in place at the edge of the group. Never fully involved in it, you tended to stay near the back and observe the entire room, assistants and guards included.

As Heimerdinger nodded firmly, ears and bushy head flopping as he did, the meeting had concluded. With the conclusion confirmed, the yordle was off like lightning. Long discussions of menial amendments had long been tuned out at the beginning. Your sole focus had been at the back of Viktor's head. At times, you wondered if he felt the eyes drilling into him with the way his knuckles on the cane's handle would occasionally turn white.

People filtered out of the room briskly, wasting no time to prepare for their busy weekends.

You were the last ones in the room.

And your mother, unfortunately.

She stood after everyone else departed. The slightest clinks of her jewlery filled the room as she grabbed up her belongings. Her eyes met yours and she glanced at Viktor for the slightest moment. "The carriage is downstairs." She stated.

You nodded, "I'll walk home today. I have some class work to finish up at the library."

She left promptly afterwards.

Your focus returned to Viktor, who slightly hutched over the table and appeared to be fingering through a planner.

"Ah—Viktor?" You started, unsure of his last name or whether he minded being addressed so casually.

Viktor straightened the book in hand and closed it with a sharp 'slap!'. When he turned to look at you and said your name in the tilted lilt of his, your name sounded brand new. But maybe that was just the accent.

"Is there something you need from me or did my one-time visit last week invoke a familiarity between us that I was unaware of?" He asked, raising a thick brown brow.

The passive-aggressive comment damn near sent you running back downstairs with your tail between your legs, hoping that your mother's ride hadn't left yet. But, you had no choice except to suck it up. "Sorry to bother you. It's just..." You picked at the skin of your cuticles, trying to avoid his intense gaze.

"You want to ask me to schedule a meeting with Heimerdinger." He said flatly.

Shit.

Of course he knew. It was written all over your guilty face.

Unable to muster up the words, you simply nodded.

"Everyone wants a second with the Dean. What could he possibly help you with that Councilor Roycen cannot?" He asked, folding his arms as he leaned against the table.

"I want to resolve this myself." You said assuredly. "My mother doesn't solve problems for me."

"That's a surprise." He mused, humming to himself. "What is the problem?"

"My final project for a history class is due soon and I need permission to work solo."

"That's it? Your professor could do that, no need to waste Heimerdinger's time."

You shook your head, rubbing the space between your eyebrows briefly. "I wouldn't come to Heimerdinger, or to you, if it wasn't my last resort. My partner, my professor, and even my guidance councilor all refuse to listen."

Viktor stayed quiet in front of you, analyzing you in a way you were unused to. Scrutinized, sure, but not anything beyond the shallow tastes of Piltover's elite.

"Please, Viktor. I have to pass this class." You pleaded, unknowing of what kind of effect a pathos appeal might have on someone you are hardly even acquainted with, but your best chance was relying on the assumption that Viktor had empathy for a student who is in the shoes he once was.

"You don't truly believe that, right?"

"That I have to pass my courses?" You asked, puzzled.

"One conversation with your professor and you'd pass with flying colors." He shrugged.

"I have flying colors." You bit, frustrated at his close-minded attitude. "I'm not willing to lose all my hard work for some dickhead who thinks the same as you. Everything since starting college has been my own hard work—no one else's."

Something in Viktor's eyes flickered. He stood up, grabbing his cane with a newfound haste. "I can find a slot for you. Maybe." He said. You visibly lit up, nodding and bouncing on your heels like a hyperactive pup. "That's not a guarantee."

"I understand." You bit your cheek, containing your giddiness.

"Come, my office isn't far. We'll find a date." He offered, nodding for you to follow beside him. It wasn't hard to fall into place at his side going down the elevator. In fact, the casualness almost felt natural.

Thinking on it now, this might have been the longest conversation you'd had with someone that wasn't working with you on a group project or working for you in months. Though, you did seek him out for help. Perhaps it still didn't count when it was his job to complete Heimerdinger's menial tasks. Still, your heart felt lighter at the interaction, even through Viktor's standoffishness.

A part of you felt hopeful for the near future. To pass your history class, then later on the entire school year. In years, you would be a respected figure in Piltover, known for political and peace achievements just like your forefathers were. The tinge in the back of your heart told you otherwise, but your mind had long come to terms with your set fate.

"Are you going to stand there, or is there another assistant you have to bother in the building?" Viktor's voice cut through. He waited outside of the elevator doors, holding his elbow out for it to stay open.

"Coming!" You said breathlessly, hopping out of the lift and towards the lobby doors.

🪞

My first time ever writing in second person. I wanted this to kind of be a test for that so I can write better 'reader' povs because third person is so much harder to do without a name attached.

Yes, the peanut gallery was for trials only and only council members attend actual meetings, but I think assistants are exceptions for that.

sorry if my terms for engineering or robotics or whatever these people do are so repetitive I do not participate in STEM lmao

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Stolen Moments: A Fairy Tale

A spur-of-the-moment story for @inklings-challenge

The princess steps into the center of a whirling masquerade. She is resplendent in green as the Queen of May. A man slips through the crowd and stands before her, dressed all in brown as the Autumn King. He bows with a flourish, silently asking for a dance.

She stands like stone. “You should not be here,” she says.

“Can I not dance with my wife?”

He reaches for her hand. She pulls it away. “I have no husband.”

“In this place, no. Yet I remember otherwise,” he says. “And so do you.”

She turns on her heel and strides away. He follows, quick as ever. The dancers part around them like water. She scowls. He was always too clever for her, always too quick. Even a world of her making bends to accommodate him.

“Do you know what I’ve done to find you?” he asks. “The countries I’ve crossed? The mountains I’ve climbed? I’ve fought gryphons and giants. Searched for treasures lost since the invention of time. Flown to the moon and tunneled to the center of the earth.”

“I’m sure you enjoyed yourself immensely.”

“I bargained with the four winds, gave up my shadow, traded three days of my life just to have this moment with you.”

“I am sorry you wasted your time,” she says. “Do what you will, you cannot take me from here.”

“No,” he agrees. “You are trapped here by your own will, and only by your will can you escape.”

She chose this day well when she arranged her escape. The grandest ball the Mountain King ever held, the day of her sixteenth birthday. Long before she ever met that too-curious trickster who stole away her heart with cheap promises. Here there is music, beauty, bounty, every pleasure she can imagine. She will gladly live in this day forever if it means freedom from her ties to him.

“You think you can persuade me,” she sneers.

He laughs. “No one in the twelve worlds can do that.”

“You think you can steal me.”

Even behind his mask, she can see his gaze darken. She has offended him. “I will not steal a wife.”

“What do you call our wedding day?”

“You chose me.”

“Do you call it choosing, when you hid your true face behind so many lies?”

“You had your own secrets.”

“Do you blame me for hiding them?”

“No,” he says.

She stops. Of all the things she imagined him saying, this was not one of them.

“No,” he says again. “You were right to keep your secrets. I was wrong to seek them out.”

She turns to look at him. He removes his mask, revealing his deceptively young face. His eyes, once blue, have turned greenish-gray. His face has three jagged scars.

“You hid from me,” he said. “As I hid from you. I should have been patient--proved that you could trust me. Instead, I forced my way into your secrets and destroyed everything. I'm sorry.”

She is speechless. She expected excuses. Dazzling explanations.She had never expected contrition.

He reaches beneath his jacket and removes a small glass pendant. It shines the same bright blue his eyes had once been.

“This is yours,” he said.

Her heart. Taken from her in a childhood curse so long ago. Only her husband could put it in its proper place, if it remained unbroken during five years of marriage. Prince of thieves that he once had been, he had found it and broken it on the eve of their second anniversary.

“You repaired it,” she said.

“I replaced it. With mine.”

She has seen him in a million lies. This is not one of them.

“You may stay here if you wish,” he says. “I came only to atone. I do not expect you to forgive me.”

He places the pendant in her hand, bows, then turns away.

When he leaves, she knows she need never see him again.

“Wait,” she says. She removes her mask. “Don’t leave without your wife."

He stops. The other dancers disappear.She puts her hand in his and kisses him as she did on their wedding day.

He is alight with joy as she pulls away. "Does this mean--?"

“I forgive you,” she says.

He laughs aloud.

The heart he gave to her, she freely gives to him. The blue returns to his eyes as their hearts are restored, new and whole.

As the curse crumbles around them, they leave the ballroom behind.

[naferty]

It's been a minute, but I'm happy to say I wrote something stony! And avac stony to boot.

This was heavily inspired by an old BL manga I read many years ago.

~~~

Tony wouldn’t say his time in Avengers Academy was bad. He wouldn’t say it was good either. As the son of a SHIELD agent and a HYDRA double agent, it was hard to find people to hang out with, let alone have any friends. What with the whole ‘he could be a double agent waiting to reveal secrets for his own benefit,’ thing looming over him thanks to his father. 

It didn’t matter that his mother had been a dedicated agent who left his father the moment she learned he was double-crossing and raised him herself to be a good person. All her efforts were ignored and Tony was lucky to be called a backstabber at worst and a turncoat at best. 

At least this school accepted him with minimal difficulty. Granted, he was ignored by the two main affiliates he was associated with, but at least he was able to study and hey! He was given permission to use the engineering room. He had that going for him.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom though. Sure, the one individual who managed to overlook his whole conflicted birth was not exactly a person to write home about, but Loki had a sense of fashion compared to most and always made sure Tony looked his best. 

“No Asgardian prince will share common space with a pauper,” were Loki’s everyday words when he found Tony wearing his admittedly cheap outfits. Conveniently forgetting Tony wasn’t exactly carrying a nation’s treasury in his back pocket like the prince. 

All in all, it wasn’t so bad. He had a sort-of friend but really an acquaintance who found his presence less annoying than most. He was given permission to tinker and experiment with tech and invent whatever he wanted. Within reason. He was given his education. He even managed to share space with some of the greatest names known! Both on Earth and from space. 

Captain Marvel, the Hulk, Falcon, heck, he even managed to catch a glimpse of Moon Girl and had Iron Woman look at him once! The last one had made Tony’s entire day. What he would give to share, like, ten minutes with Iron Woman and pick at her brain. See how she worked. A dream come true. 

Often, he would daydream of one day joining any of their groups. Just once. Even if it was only a minute or two. He would daydream of perhaps making a difference somewhere, even if small. Invent life-changing tech. Maybe even become a hero in his own right? Anything to show he wasn’t just a simple agent who was ready to turn their friends over at a moment’s notice.

What he would give for just a glimpse of what that would feel. Not having everyone watch your every move. 

Well, not much to be done there. He just had to buckle down and work harder than most to go against the whole school’s expectations of him. Every day he attended his classes, completed his extracurricular activities, worked on his shabby attempt at an AI and daydreamed about what-ifs.

“Yo, Clint, hurry up. You’re already late!” 

Tony turned to look behind him where the Hawkeye and the Falcon were casually waving at each other. Going about their day like usual and walking around as if they didn’t carry big names on them. 

He sighed and went back to his work. He was finishing up his coding for another attempt at Friday’s calculating. He was alone at Club A. The engineering room having been taken up in its entirety by up-and-coming SHIELD agents wanting to be the next big shot. As Tony was not in the mood to be constantly stared or pointed at, he decided to finish his coding in the one building devoid of bodies this time of day. 

However, even if alone with nothing to distract him, he couldn’t help his mind wandering around the place. In particular, a rumor that had begun circulating around the Academy recently. A rumor involving the golden boy. Captain America himself. 

What was the rumor? Why, apparently Captain America had a crush. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t exactly something worth talking about, but if one was following Captain America’s career closely, it was big news. 

Captain America was a big name, and the person responsible for it wasn’t someone to ignore. Steve Rogers was kind, respectful, brave and a very, very private person. Especially with his romantic aspect of it. It was rare to ever see the guy go on dates or show even a lick of interest to anyone. One could say if he ever found love again the person lucky enough wouldn’t have to ever worry about his eyes straying. 

Peggy Carter was a very lucky woman, or had been lucky, he would say. If the rumor held any truth, the founder of SHIELD was no longer the one holding the Captain’s heart. 

According to hearsay, Steve Rogers had a crush on someone in the engineering club, and while Peggy Carter was a genius in her own right, she wasn’t exactly tech savy for the club. This left a few possible contenders. Excluding the SHIELD agents – because come on, why would Captain America go for a lowly SHIELD agent? – the heroes at the top of the list were Moon Girl, Ironheart, Shuri, Spider-Gwen and, of course, Iron Woman. There were more, sure, but the rumor listed these specifically. 

Tony sighed again, tapping the end of his pen against the wooden surface he was working on top of. He should probably stop thinking about this particular rumor, but he couldn’t help it. Ever since growing up, he looked up to the idea of Captain America. Going against all odds to be the hero he was today. Tony couldn’t help but compare himself and his hardships with the guy, and somewhere along the way he kind of, sort of, maybe had gained a little bit of a crush on the hero, so hearing about the hero liking someone was a little painful. 

If he had to guess, the one the Captain was crushing on was probably Iron Woman. The one and only Natasha Stark. He often saw the two hanging out with each other. Always together with their ‘click.’ It was only natural Steve would catch some feelings if they hung out every day. 

Didn’t hurt any less though. 

“Okay,” he said to no one. “Focus. Focus.” He couldn’t waste his hour of free time away thinking about this. He had coding to finish and nobody was going to help him with it. Loki was useless when it came to tech and didn’t exactly make for encouraging company, so it was now or never. 

He slammed his pen down, harder than necessary, but the paper had no feelings to hurt so he didn’t particularly care, but he did utter a soft ‘sorry’ for disrespecting the code. 

He got to work and made good progress. His calculations might be a little off but he could hammer it down once he had access to the engineering labs again. The important thing was he had the base to work with. 

He decided to stop when he got stuck. He needed to test out his idea, but with no access right now to the computers at the labs, it was pointless to continue. He shuffled the papers together and stuffed them in his backpack. He still had twenty minutes left to kill time before his next class, meaning his next destination was the park. There, he was left alone and he could sit with his thoughts.

Ah, perhaps that wasn’t the best idea. The last thing he needed was time to think about the rumor again. Then again, he was thinking about it now as he attempted not to think about it. A vicious cycle.

As he was busy with his inner turmoil, he failed to notice someone getting closer from behind and by the time they caught his attention, Tony was left staring blankly at a flower in his face. 

It was a rose. Very red and very much smelling of a rose. It was jammed right in front of Tony’s nose and he went a little cockeyed looking at it. The person at the other end of the rose was none other than Steve Rogers. 

Whoa, Tony thought. He had never seen the Captain America standing so close before. Had his eyes always been that blue? 

So enraptured by those eyes, Tony could do nothing as the Captain reached out to cup the side of his face and pulled him forward. Tony went wide-eyed when the hero placed a small kiss on his mouth. A peck, really. Tony barely felt it. 

The hero pulled back and gave a blinding smile. Then, just as quickly as he appeared, he left the rose on his lap and disappeared, leaving Tony alone once more in Club A. 

Tony placed his good hand over his mouth unconsciously, and as his thoughts started catching up he went bright red. 

He just – he just – he – k-kissed -

A squeak he would deny for the rest of his life escaped him and Tony quickly scrambled to run back to his dorm to hide. 

[gghostwriter]

Pau’s Library

I’ve always liked to talk about books so I might as well keep an open logbook here. The list is a mixture of rereads, top favorites, and books read this 2025.

I won’t give a definite rating as it’s not conducive to getting anyone to read any of these. Instead I’ll be leaving a favorite quote of mine from the book, one that I wrote thoughts about in my reading journal and hope that entices you to check it out. Personal favorites will have 🌸 as its mark.

My ask box is open to any recommendations or any conversations about my list and your list too!

Yearly Re-reads

East of Eden by John Steinbeck 🌸 ↳ “It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we invented them.” Breast & Eggs by Mieko Kawakami 🌸 ↳ “My monolithic expectation of what a woman’s body was supposed to look like had no bearing on what actually happened to my body. The two things were wholly unrelated. I never became the woman I imagined. And what was I expecting?” Chess Story by Stefan Zweig 🌸 ↳ “People and events don't disappoint us, our models of reality do. It is my model of reality that determines my happiness or disappointments.”

2025 in books

So Late in the Day by Claire Keegan ↳ “You know what is at the heart of misogyny? When it comes down to it?’ ‘So I’m a misogynist now?’ ‘It’s simply about not giving.” Small Things Like These by Claire Keegan ↳ “What would life be like, he wondered, if they were given time to think and reflect over things.” The Hour of the Star by Clarice Lispector ↳ “She had no idea how to cope with life and she was only vaguely aware of her own inner emptiness.” The Lottery & Other Stories by Shirley Jackson ↳ “No one even noticed me, she thought with reassurance, everyone who saw me has gone by long ago.” [Pillar of Salt] Flush by Virginia Woolf 🌸 ↳ “She was too just not to realise that it was for her that he had sacrificed his courage, as it was for her that he had sacrificed the sun and the air.” The Eye by Vladimir Nabokov [tw: su*cid*] ↳ “After all, in order to live happily, a man must know now and then a few moments of blankness. Yet I was always exposed, always wide-eyed; even in sleep I did not cease to watch over myself, understanding nothing of my existence, growing crazy at the thought of of not being able to stop being aware of myself.” The Six Death of the Saint by Alix E Harrow 🌸 ↳ “But in the end, there was no saint, just a lonely girl telling secrets to herself in a dark mirror.” Journey Into The Past by Stefan Zweig 🌸 ↳ “Madness,” he exclaimed to himself, in astonishment, faltering. “Madness! What do they want? Once again, once again!” War once again, war that had so recently shattered his whole life?” Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky ↳ “Man only likes counting his grief, he doesn’t count his happiness. But if he were to count properly, he’d see that there’s enough of both lots for him.” The Double by Fyodor Dostoevsky ↳ “Sorrow is concealed in gilded palaces, and there’s no escaping it.” Divine Rivals by Rebecca Ross ↳ “I don’t want to wake up when I’m seventy-four only to realize I haven’t lived.” The Door by Magda Szabó ↳ "When the sands run out for someone, don't stop them from going." ↳ "You can't give them anything to replace life. Do you think I didn't love Polett? That it it meant nothing to me when she'd had enough and wanted out? It's just that , as well as love, you also have to know how to kill. It won't do you any harm to remember that." Human Acts by Han Kang ↳ “Is it true that human beings are fundamentally cruel? Is the experience of cruelty the only thing we share as a species? Is the dignity that we cling to nothing but self-delusion, masking from ourselves the single truth: that each one of us is capable of being reduced to an insect, a ravening beast, a lump of meat? To be degraded, slaughtered—is this the essential of humankind, one which history has confirmed inevitable?” The Book of Goose by Yiyun Li ↳ “Often I imagine that living is a game of rock-paper-scissors: fate beats hope, hope beats ignorance, and ignorance beats fate. Or in a version that has preoccupied me: the fatalistic attracts the hopeful, the hopeful attracts the ignorant , and the ignorant, the fatalistic.” Ella Minnow Pea: A Novel in Letters by Mark Dunn ↳ “For the present, it is easier for us to turn away. Our repulsion, you see, will not spur us to revolt until this plague moves much closer to home.” Confusion by Stefan Zweig ↳ “We live through myriads of seconds, yet it is always one, just one, that casts our entire inner world into turmoil…” The Art Thief by Michael Finkel [Non-fic] ↳ “Art signals our freedom. It exists because we’ve won the evolutionary war.” Brave New World by Aldous Huxley [re-read] ↳ “But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” Heaven by Mieko Kawakami ↳ “For people to actually live by some golden rule, we’d have to be living in a world with no contradictions. But we don’t live in a world like that. No one does.” …

2025 in essays

Verdigris: The Color of Oxidation, Statues, and Impermanence by Katy Kelleher Notes on “Taste” by Brie Wolfson Why Are We Tormented by the Future? By Joshua Rothman Writing As Transformation by Louise Gluck What Do We Do with the Art of Monstrous Men? By Claire Dederer 🌸 What’s A Fact, Anyway? By Fergus McIntosh The Disappearance of Literary Men Should Worry Everyone by David J Morris Womanhood is the Process of Understanding Your Mother by Caitlyn 🌸 In Defense of Pretension by Ayan Artan 🌸 I Want to Look Like I’ve Lived by Amelia 🌸 The End of Our Extremely Online Era by Tommy Dixon oh so you’re a thought daughter now? Should I call Joan Didion? by Sarah Cucchiara Stop trying to make Melania happen by Sarah Cucchiara Facing My Own Mediocrity by Brock Covington Women hate women who go for what they want by Ali Kriegsman I want to everything, so I do nothing by Luisa The Art of Reading like a translator by Lily Meyer In Purging Language About Trans People, Donald Trump & Elon Musk are Trying to Purge the People Themselves The New Literalism Plaguing Today’s Biggest Movies

[floatingcatacombs]

Anaheim Gals Being Anaheim Pals

12 Days of Aniblogging 2024, Day 2

Zeta Gundam has a real lurching, strange start by design. In the time between the One Year War and the Gryps Conflict, things have gone terribly! Not only did a good amount of Zeon’s forces escape to the asteroid belt and start rebuilding, the Earth Federation is getting taken over from within by the ruthless Titans. But wait, the Titans are still feddies at the end of the day, so why are they the ones piloting Hizacks and other Zeon-style designs at the start of the show?

The answer to this is brilliant and sadly relegated to a narrative footnote. You see, after the One Year War, Zeonic’s personnel and blueprints got absorbed into Gundam manufacturer Anaheim Electronics, as part of an Operation Paperclip-style deal. This leaves Anaheim's mobile suit aesthetics during the interwar period a total hodgepodge, iterating on both GM and Zaku style designs while also moving forward with plenty of secret prototype successors to the RX-78 Gundam. Maybe it’s just the OL in me, but this particular era and company really pique my interest! The culture shock and office politics that would follow from Anaheim folding in the engineers from the other side of the last war, the competition between rival design teams, the back-channel deals of an arms manufacturer now compelled to play both sides…

I’d been told that the Gundam OVA entitled Stardust Memory was vaguely about this, but I’d also been told that Stardust Memory was terrible and just plain not worth watching, so I steered away from it. Instead, my prayers were answered in the form of a lovely 2009 yuri doujin visual novel called Anaheim Girl’s Love Story.

I don't feel like cropping the screenshots, so peep my VM setup. it'll add to the vibe

First things first, I would like to simply acknowledge the joy of being alive, and alive at this exact moment in time. It is so wonderful that a group of dedicated fans made a complete visual novel starring lesbian office workers at the Mecha War Crime Engineering Company. And not only did they realize this dream in the first place, a separate group translated the script into English in 2013, and then another team reverse-engineered the game’s engine and released a patch in 2020 so that now the translation can be experienced in its original format. Each and every one of you is a true yuri warrior.

Anaheim Girl’s Love Story is a passion project through and through, extrapolating from all the bits and pieces of lore we get about Anaheim Electronics across various shows and crafting a believable setting, while still making it feel like a Gundam story on some level. It’s also fully voice acted? I don’t know what typical doujin VN production values were like in 2009, but still, color me impressed. We play as Rinne, a new recruit to Anaheim and a mecha otaku through and through. She loves these mobile suits, just like you and me! And she wants nothing more than to work for the company who invented the Gundam. Anaheim is a tech company through and through – most of the workers on the ground really believe in what they’re doing and put their whole heart into it, even as their leadership takes on increasingly shady and secretive contracts. But it’s also implied, in the VN and in the Gundam shows, that the company is staffed by mostly women. Great! I really do like when a setting asserts that being invested in mecha is primarily something that women do. After all, girls were the ones that kept 0079 popular in the first place according to Tomino.

All of the Anaheim girls have pale blue double-breasted suit jackets and long pencil skirts, culminating in an extremely 80’s look. AGLS also covers its blurry background photos with a dark blue filter, resulting in a fairly monochrome game where the character expressions really pop out from everything else. The mecha CGs are surprisingly well done, even if they suffer a bit from 2000’s shading syndrome, when everyone went a little too hard on the airbrush. The character portraits holds up a lot better in comparison. All of this to say that the presentation is fairly minimal, as they were clearly working with limited resources, but it gets the job done.

Rinne likes milk tea and is equal amounts excited and anxious about her job. This is the sort of milquetoast relatable protagonist traits you’d find in any dating sim, so the fun twist here is that when she’s feeling down about her work, she’ll go to the hanger where an RX-78 (the RX-78? It’s left unclear) is being stored and start talking to it. Rubber-ducking your mobile suit designs with an actual mobile suit is cute!! Things unfold as you’d expect, with Rinne befriending her hacker kouhai, starting a rivalry with the office villainess, and getting intimidated by her boss Sophie. It’s nothing revolutionary, but that’s fine, because the setting alone does a ton of the lifting. While no named characters from any official Gundam series appear, they’re namedropped ever so occasionally, and there’s plenty of cameos and lore sprinkled about for a Universal Centuryhead to lap up.

Of course, Rinne invites her boss over for dinner a bunch and discovers her soft and vulnerable side, and the two of them engage in a slowburn office situationship while trying to also trying to win the Gundam Development Project, an internal competition to develop next-generation experimental mobile suits. And wouldn’t you know it, office politics are afoot. She’s been keeping it from Rinne, but Sophie was originally an engineer from Zeonic. Trust issues ensue, as do complicated feelings about being in love with someone who designed the weapons that nearly killed you. The leadership of Anaheim has a clear bias towards Federation-style suits, and still views the Zeonic hires with scorn and suspicion, even if they bring useful perspectives in design philosophy. Sophie wants to design every part with cost and performance in mind! That’s what enabled the Zakus, after all. But if we skip ahead and look at the results, the end goal of this intra-office competition seems to have been extravagance bordering on wastefulness. Rinne and Sophie’s team produce a fairly standard but combat-versatile Gundam, while the other teams contributed a hyper-flexible Gundam, a hilariously overinflated mobile armor that you can stick a Gundam into, and a Gundam with a fucking nuke attached to it.

Most romance VNs and stories in general have some sort of last-act plot development that threatens to end things so the couple can bounce back and have a narrative climax. Sickness, family, trauma, a breakup feint, really anything is fair game. Anaheim Girl’s Love Story pulls out the most brutal one yet – “Stardust Memory happened”. It turns out that Anaheim has been playing both sides of the emerging Delaz conflict, and was planning on giving your team’s ship to a particularly unhinged Zeon commander as a gift of goodwill and temporary alliance. In doing so, they dismantle the iconic Gundam armor from the mobile suit frame, replacing it with a new and undeniably Zeonic red outer shell. It’s a genuinely fucked-up moment! To see your child ripped away from you and corrupted into being the other kind of war crimes monster, and your boss/girlfriend knew this was going to happen and was too ashamed to tell you. Rinne runs out of oxygen while trying to stop the Gebera Tetra from deploying, and falls into a coma afterwards. By the time she wakes up, the events of Stardust Memory have all played out, and things are in the process of returning to normal. Our protagonist ends up on a research vessel to Jupiter to test cutting-edge mobile suits, but promises to meet up with Sophie again when she returns. One wonders if she got recruited into joining Paptimus’ crew while on Jupiter, and was subsequently killed by Kamille. The timelines just barely overlap to make it possible!

Anyways, that’s Anaheim Girl’s Love Story. I’m not sure how fleshed out the hacker girl’s route is, or if there are different endings I could have gotten on mine. Maybe I’ll give it another shot next year. This game is by no means amazing. It is on some level just a softcore lesbian eroge with a Gundam coat of paint. But the delicacy with which it fits itself into the UC chronology without messing things up or being a fully irrelevant plot, the care put into having these ladies fall in love and do the usual OL yuri rituals, the honesty with which it carries itself… I’m so charmed by it all. I don’t know if I’d recommend it outright (you’d want to already be very invested in this slice of Gundam, and you need a VM with an older version of Windows to play it, and I think the website linking to the patch went down earlier this year), but I’m so happy that this exists in the first place and that I got to play it.

What I am less happy about is that this visual novel made me trick myself into watching Gundam 0083: Stardust Memory. This is entirely on me, mind. Most lesbians are fooled into watching Stardust Memory because they saw images of Cima Garahau online, but I was ready for that trick. No, I genuinely wanted to fill in the finer plot details of the 6.5/10 visual novel I just played. Oopsies.

[occasionalflicker]

Happy Father's Day!

The promised creation, Transcendent, is not only that which would fulfill Worldless’s desire for his own disappearance — it is a part of himself, a secret longing.

All iterations, including Starfolk, to some extent represent their creators. Each iteration reflected some part of them and gradually took shape until it acquired the ideal form that conveys the entire nature of the creators. Lightfolk embody Worldless’s stability, his strength and beauty, his constancy and unchangeability, whereas Darkfolk represent LUCA’s fragility, her desire for change and inventiveness, as well as endurance and persistence.

Yet this happened by accident; they weren’t created with the initial goal of resembling their creators in any way. Worldless is not a very far-sighted planner. When he comes up with ideas, he overlooks many nuances and mechanisms by which his creations should exist — which sometimes would have led to situations where no iteration could have survived. For example, Worldless might forget that they need to move, or even if they do move, they face obstacles because Worldless did not think through how their muscles should work.

But that never happened, because LUCA filled in these gaps. When Worldless, so to speak, presents his initial draft, forming new life in the neutral lands, LUCA, over time, mentally senses what Worldless intends — though he has not fully completed the design. LUCA then takes on that task, embedding everything necessary into the sparks, which are then put into the next generation of the iteration. But Worldless is unaware of this, because he believes that each iteration develops something new on its own. This is not far from the truth. Although LUCA ensures functionality, she also does not look far ahead in her plan, as she allows life to exist independently and to develop without their involvement.

Mostly, after incident with the spear, LUCA strives not only to free herself and Worldless, but also to free life and give it a chance to continue to exist. In her view, they are not needed — all living things will find their own path to perfection, carving out their own purpose without them.

As for the emergence of Transcendent — this is another part of them both, their shared desire. They both longed for something that would be born from them, different from them, and at the same time a joint creation. The union of Lightfolk and Darkfolk into the Transcendent is precisely a manifestation of the form of that desire.

Regarding the case of Edda and Aven — no Transcendent has yet appeared from them; one could say it does not yet exist. It will not be a merging of them into a single Starfolk or coexistence with it on the same plane. They represent their creators, a part of the shared path, their true nature and desires. Their transcendence is the birth of a new world.

[norazingrid]

Testmic analysis because people don’t get their relationship, like, at all

I’ll go over these points below

why test tube and microphone aren’t actually toxic

test tubes character arc and how it involves mic

their great potential and similarities with each other

conclusion

OKAY FIRST UP I WANT TO GET SOME THINGS CLEAR

I do NOT ship these two because they’re both “girls” and I am NOT picturing them as “what if they didn’t hate each other”

I've always considered their complex relationship and so called “hatred” towards each other, but I’ll explain more of it below

Test tube and microphone don’t actually have a “toxic” relationship

Now the word “toxic” can be a very strong word when describing a dynamic and I personally think that it is not the right one to use when describing their relationship because the both of them haven’t shown actual deep hatred towards each other. Sure, their dynamic isn’t exactly on “good terms” and test tube has made it pretty clear that she hates microphone, but has microphone actually shown any hatred back? No. She has always stayed quiet whenever test tube complains about her, which could be a sign on guilt. That means microphone knows the reason why she hurt test tube and understands why she’s upset about that. The lab and inventions were very dear to test tube, and microphone was convinced to steal from her and somehow “leak” her secret lab, but its pretty clear microphone regrets all of those things, and therefore she does not hate test tube.

And I would like to talk about how test tube would actually be able to forgive microphone at some point in the future, I’ll go over it in-

test tubes character arc and how it involves mic

Test tube’s character is very interesting to me because it has changed a lot during the seasons, but I’ll try to summarise it as quickly as possible. In s3 she has been seen to be pretty average and calmed down from the events that happened in episode 14, which is understandable since it happened a long time ago, but this started to change when cabby and test tube started to develop their rivalry. I’m not gonna dig too deep into this but I want to focus on how test tube STILL forgave cabby after learning her true intentions at the end of the season and I believe this could be a sign of how test tube stars acknowledging that she could learn not to judge everyone right away if they did something wrong, and I believe test tube could be starting to feel guilty aswell, not only for how she treated microphone but basically all bad moments she has had in past situations with other contestants. May I also remind u guys that test tube is stated to be socially awkward, so I don’t want to blame her for the way she acted with other contestants, but there’s always room for improvement and I would be happy to see test tube prove herself more, just like she did after forgiving cabby and voting for her to win iii.

their great potential and similarities with each other

Now I personally think that their arc could be one of the most interesting ones in the series if just given some more chance, because these two are actually very similar if you think about it. They both have been somewhat been turned down by their teammates, which gives them more willingness to prove them wrong. Test tube has been seen to be too “into the role” especially in episode 14, which might also be because her best friend was literally kidnapped by aliens, but when fan was saved, she was still not satisfied, which destroyed her respect she had from others. And the reason why she wasn’t satisfied is because microphone got all the credit. But microphone didn’t mean to steal her reputation, since she was against hurting anyone in the first place. The plot-twists in their arc’s are so entertaining, it makes it even more fun to study. And if we get to see these two characters making up somewhere in the future, it would complete their arc perfectly. Happy ending yay

Conclusion

Microphone doesn’t hate test tube, but rather feels guilty for what she did to her.

Test tube has now proved us that she is willing to forgive someone if knowing all point of views.

Their arc hasn’t ended yet, and much more depth could come out in the future between these two characters.

thanx for reading please correct me if there were any mistakes in my takes 😁

end of analysis✌️

[invis-o-william]

Day 7: Mind Control

With a start, Tucker woke up, the memory of sand and pyramids fresh in his mind. After looking around his darkened room for a moment, he sighed and settled back into his pillow.

Ever since his encounter with the staff of Duul Aman, he kept having odd dreams. Of Egypt, ancient temples, and strange foreign words he could almost decipher but kept escaping his grasp.

Turning, Tucker looked at his bedside clock. It was 3:35 A.M. and there was no way he would be able to fall asleep again after his dream. He knew from experience that if he did the dreams would only grow in intensity. So instead he flicked on the light and grabbed his PDA from its stand.

He opened its journal app, and after tapping for a new entry began typing out what he could remember from his dream. It wasn’t much this time; a river boat on the Nile, an image of the Great Pyramids, and a few odd hieroglyphs, but nevertheless he recorded all he could. The journal was full of these dream entries. Sometimes Tucker could manage to decipher the hieroglyphs he saw in his dreams, but most of the time there were too few to gain any real meaning from them.

From what he could learn though, most of them were from spells. Spells reserved for only the highest priests to perform, often in secret. Spells that Tucker couldn’t help but wonder if he could use. He had used ancient Egyptian magic before hadn’t he? While it had been when his mind was in the grips of Duul Aman, it was still his body, his abilities. But he was still nervous to try. To do so would mean using the staff, letting its power course through him again, and Tucker wasn’t sure he could handle it.

He had long accepted that he was somehow the reincarnation of Duul Aman, living once more in the modern age. While that was true though, he also wasn’t Duul Aman anymore. He wasn’t a tyrant bent on power and immortality through any means, and he valued his family and friends more than anything else. What bothered him though was that version of himself still existed, at least within the staff.

Whenever he held it, it was hard not to lose his mind to the power that it contained. The staff would so easily overtake him and make him into the man he didn’t ever want to be that he was nervous to go near it.

If these dreams kept up though, he might just have to try. They were growing in frequency and intensity and Tucker desperately wanted to understand what they meant. Mulling it over in his mind, he sent a text out in his group chat with Danny and Sam which was appropriately titled “Boo Buddies” before beginning his research on the hieroglyphs from this night's dream.

. . .

The next morning at school he ran into Sam first, which was typical. Danny usually either ran into a minor ghost on the way to school, or was otherwise held up by his parents’ insane inventions.

“What did you mean by past life dreams Tuck? And in the middle of the night?” she asked straight to the point. Tucker sighed, he had been hoping she would at least wait for Danny to get there.

“Well, it's Duul Aman. Ever since the whole staff thing I keep getting dreams about him, and I want to try something." He kept his wording intentionally vague, half worried about her response and half worried about getting to class on time. “I’ll tell both you guys more about it at lunch, we should get to class.”

Sam narrowed her eyes at him, but followed to homeroom regardless as she saw Danny rounding the corner.

. . .

“You want to try what?!” Danny’s yell was swallowed by the cacophony of sound produced by the cafeteria.

“Keep it down will ya?” Tucker hushed him, “It’s not that big of a deal!”

Danny ran a hand through his hair, “Not a big deal? Tucker we’re talking about messing with Duul Aman’s powers. You know, the guy who kinda turned you into a megalomaniac for a bit? I’d say that’s pretty big.”

Sam shrugged, “I don’t know, I think it might be worth a shot.”

Tucker huffed a laugh. Of course, leave it to the goth to be interested in spells.

“But what if he takes over Tucker’s mind again and goes all Pharaoh-ey!” Danny said, waving his hand in a mimicry of Tucker using the staff.

“That’s why you guys will be staying with me.” Tucker swallowed, “Just in case I can’t fight it off, I want you guys to knock me out before I start going nuts.”

Danny looked at Sam for help, but she shut him down.

“You know if we don’t help he’ll just end up trying it by himself.” she said, and Danny couldn’t help but agree that she had a point there.

“Fine,” he sighed, “but I still think this is a bad idea.”

. . .

They met that night in Jackson Park by the treeline, Sam and Tucker on foot and Danny in ghost form with the staff. Ever since the Duul Aman incident he had kept it stored in the Ghost Zone with Pandora since she seemed the type to know how to care for ancient cursed artifacts.

“Ok,” said Tucker, rubbing his hands together nervously. “Did you bring a book Sam?”

Sam replied by pulling out a black leather-bound journal from her coat.

“Good, good. Ok so now I just need…the staff.” he looked hesitantly at the scarab topped staff in Danny’s hand.

“Uh, what spells exactly are you going to try? Just in case something goes wrong.” Danny asked, well aware of how the staff thrummed with power when Tucker looked at it.

“Right, um well, first I’m going to try a book protection spell that I found. I figure that should be pretty safe. And then, uh, there’s this one spell that’s for ‘opening up the west’. I think that one is to make a temporary portal to the afterlife, so like, it'll lead to the Ghost Zone? At least that’s if I read everything right.” Tucker’s nerves were really starting to get to him, but he had to try to do this and see if he was right. See if he could actually do it.

“I figure if I can make a portal then I could use it to help you when you’re fighting ghosts?” he asked.

Danny considered this for a moment. “The first one, yeah I can understand. The Ghost Zone though? I don’t know, there’s a lot of things that could go wrong there.”

“Which is why you’re here just in case!” Tucker said with as confident a smile he could muster. “Just, let’s try the first one and go from there.” he reached his hand out for the staff which Danny reluctantly handed over.

As soon as it was in his hand Tucker felt a wave of energy wash over him. That was okay though, he was prepared for it this time. Pushing back mentally against the power he cleared his mind and reached for his PDA. “See, I’m alright. Now Sam, we should probably have the book on the ground. Just in case.”

Sam nodded, “Right. Be careful with it, that’s my favorite copy of Dracula.” and laid the book carefully on the grass.

Tucker breathed deeply, feeling the staff’s power flow through him, pulled up the ancient text from his phone, and began reciting the words.

As he read, Danny and Sam exchanged a look. Tucker’s eyes had begun to glow golden but neither wanted to break his concentration by noting it aloud. Soon though that disappeared as he finished the incantation.

“Ok then,” Tucker said shakily, “that was manageable. Also, I think it worked. Danny, you should try and open it.”

Danny nodded and bent down to pick up the book. It seemed normal to him, however when he went to open it the thing felt like it had been glued shut. Raising his eyebrows he handed it over to Sam who was able to easily open the cover.

Tucker smiled, “Cool right, now only Sam should be able to actually open it!”

Danny had to agree that it was pretty impressive, and something he might think about using for his journal of ghost attacks as well. While he had hidden it in his wall for safekeeping from his parents he still wanted some extra security, just in case.

“Do you think you’re okay to try the next one? It’s okay if you need a break.” Sam said, both awe and concern evident in her voice.

Tucker thought about it for a moment. While it was exhausting trying to hold the power back from overwhelming him, he also couldn’t resist seeing what else he could do with this power. “I’m going to give the portal a try.” he said, and before Danny could protest he began the incantation.

Danny was more apprehensive about this spell. The book one was cool and pretty useful, but conjuring a portal to the Ghost Zone? That seemed like a huge leap forward for Tucker. But he wanted to be a good friend and trust in his abilities, so he watched as his friend started the next spell.

Tucker felt confident. He could do this, the first spell was a success and he was sure this one would be as well. As he spoke the ancient words he felt the power emanating from the staff increase, and as it washed over him he felt his mind slip to the power of Duul Aman.

Well, at least he had his friends there to stop him from creating another sphinx.

[royalsleuth]

BMFM ‘06 Revamped Infodump (Part 1)

Wanted to take the time to talk about some of my ideas concerning BMFM ‘06 Revamped as I started having a little bit of a rundown of how it would go:

- A major change to the latest art I posted is that the context behind it will be scrapped. Even though it wasn’t exactly going to make the final cut, I didn’t want to steer anyone to the wrong direction. Although I don’t mind too much of it being overused, the cats vs. mice trope is pretty uninteresting and it’s about time to give it a rest. I originally had Cataclysm be the Supreme Ruler and Commander of the Catatonians since despite being second in command to Hairball, he was the one calling the shots which didn’t make sense because it should’ve been his brother's job. He could still be included while the rest of the cats are discarded by being a part of the "Villain of the Week" shenanigans, but I think it'd be better to keep the Plutarkians as the main antagonists along with the rats and the Sand Raiders.

- I don’t know how many years this would take place after the events of the ‘93 series, but it would be somewhere between 4-10 years. Within that period of time, Mars would be in the process of recovery known as “the Martian Rebirth”, meant to restore the planet back to its original glory along with improving the technology and weaponry.

- Aside from some changes, Stoker's role in the story remains the same. He invents the Regenerator as a way to speed up the Martian Rebirth’s progress. Nobody knows about the device, not even the government, although Stoker prefers to keep it a secret until it’s finished and successfully tested. The only thing keeping the Regenerator from completion is it lacked a power source. It was then that Stoker tried out the first option: tetra-hydrocarbons. He proceeds to work on the Regenerator, further lengthening his absence to the point where everyone began worrying about his whereabouts (and no, he will not be regarded as a traitor; that concept has been passed to another character who I’ll explain in the next section). Soon enough, the countless hours he spent cooped up in his underground base, experimenting and modifying his invention, led to him getting overexposed to the power source without him realizing until later on (that being him mutating into a wererat in broad daylight). As a result, he operates at night and wears a heavy layered outfit and his helmet to shield himself from sunlight around daytime. Stoker spends the rest of the time helping the Biker Mice stop Plutark and searching for a new power source for the Regenerator. And of course, Limburger steals the invention to redesign it into a weapon of mass destruction to finish what the failed Tug Transformer started. During Plutark’s defeat, the Regenerator sadly gets destroyed before it could annihilate Mars and Earth. Despite everyone's dismay, Stoker reassures them, having learned that healing takes time and shouldn't be rushed as the device was doomed to fail the second the tetra-hydrocarbons began to affect him.

- Harley rarely got much screen time as she has only appeared in four episodes out of the 93 in total and I feel like she deserves some more spotlight. If you’ve seen the very last episode of ‘93 BMFM, then you know that she gets captured by Mace. A search mission was held soon after, but got discontinued months later. The only people that didn’t give up were the ones who witnessed it, that being the Biker Mice, Stoker, and Rimfire. Harley serves as Plutark’s and the rats’ spy (against her will) under her alter ego “Nightshift”. Like the Masked Motorcyclist (aka Charley), she appears every now and then to help out the Biker Mice whilst never speaking a word and secretly gaining information to send to the enemy. At one point, Harley escapes the clutches of evil and makes way to the good side where she reveals her true identity and warns them about Limburger’s master plan. Before the good guys could jump to conclusions, they get ambushed by Limburger’s goons. Harley buys them time to escape as a series of missiles strike the hideout and she gets the left side of her face blown off. After getting captured (again), Karbunkle uses the rebuilt Mind Bender Beam to brainwash Harley into being completely loyal to Plutark. The Biker Mice and Stoker break into the laboratory to save Harley, but the damage had already been done. As Harley begins to wreak havoc, Stoker chases after her to try and break her out of Plutarkian control. The two have a massive brawl until Stoker hits Harley with the good old “I know that brain of yours, it’s too stubborn to get brainwashed" and it snaps her back to reality. Harley helps defeat Plutark, and if I were really silly, sacrifices her life in the process with her last words being along the lines of how her main goal was to help Mars and the people she loved, yet she has done nothing but wasted it and it’s time she’d accomplished it while she still can.

- At first, I had no ideas on what to do with Rump considering I couldn’t care less about him, but after some thinking, I came up with an episode idea. His origin was the only interesting part about him, going from a car salesman to a corrupt millionaire, and I think it would be nice to have him be brought up by Limburger as a way for one to carry out the schemes while the other distracts the Biker Mice.

- In the end, Charley wants to go to Mars with the Biker Mice but has a heart-to-heart talk with Vinnie where he convinces her to stay on Earth to act as a satellite for when the planet gets into danger again. What they do next is all up for debate, have a bittersweet hug, kiss, etc. I do think it’d be cute for Charley to say, “You better write this time” and Vinnie happily responding “As you wish” or something like that.

That’s all I got for today, sorry if any of my ideas are ass. Again, feel free to ask questions, share your thoughts, or even pitch in on the fun.

[bethammfetameen]

ULTRAKILL oc!

To clarify:

1. The "34" means its unsafe to be with a 34m radius of her once the atomic core is turned on. It causes bots to malfunction, and anything biological... well, they die or get sick depending on how close. With 1 meter, that's over 20Sv dose radiation.

2. The reason for the dome covering is one, to protect it--she dies if it's harmed--and two, it's based off the shape of the plutonium Demon Core.

3. The nickname 0.PAL is is based off ANSTOs OPAL reactor. (Lightwater reactor. It's also why she can glow blue)

IF YOU WANNA READ THE LORE ETC:

She--along with the many like her-- was designed to be a nuclear rescue bot. Not long before the fall of humanity, where nuclear warfare was extremely prevalent, she was designed and build so she could go into excessively radiated zones where humans couldn't go. Act as a liquidator, collect and incinerate irradiated materials, kill off surviving things that could migrate and spread radiation as a means of keeping cleanliness of safe zones, etc. Many of her type were also used for evil. Being sentient AI built with radioactive material, they could give fascist/extremeist military scientists insight to even more dangerous knowledge on the subject--which increased nuclear warfare rapidly. After humanity had fallen, she went rogue. Not understanding that she was initially built as a safety protocol, and seeing what nuclear energy has done- she took on her growing belief that radiation could only be used for bad, and being made of it, she turned herself into what she believed was her true use.

FACTS:

1. Like humans hearts beat faster when they're nervous or feeling strong emotions--her atomic core makes sounds like a Geiger counter.

2. Despite being in solitude, she hates being lonely. The main reason for her self-induced solitude is fear of her core activating accidentally when she's with people.

3. Despite being a safety protocol machine... the designer scientists of her type had a secret. They were also made to be POTENTIAL doomsday machines. One press of a button, and hundreds of thousands of her kind would activate their atomic cores, while hundreds of nuclear bombs would go off. She learnt this later in life. It fueled a lot of hatred.

4. Since the invention of her kind, cancer rates increased by 10%

5. Her atomic core glows brighter when she's happy

6. She actually loves animals. She was sad when she had to kill rodents and bugs etc when humanity was alive, and is now sad because animals literally run away from her

[aicosu]

Pathologic headcanons? You mentioned having a lot of them

So fucking many I dont know where to start? Maybe with bigger ones? Then character ones?

The Town/Kin

- I actually played much of p2 first before playing 1 and then returning to finish 2. So I have a lot of attachment to the Kin, and Boddho and their pov.

-I think that Boddho is an empty nesting eldritch mother. That she either is like... Illuvatar from Silmarillion (from what my husbands told me) where she came or grew from earth and wanted to make specificslly humans, but made the worms and brides and shabnaks first at her version of the Valor, or their job is to prepare the world for her true children (humans). even as "excess materials" shabnaks excess bones, worms excess muscle, and brides excess blood. But she didnt expect them to grow out of their need for her. Steppe life does eventually evolve towards integrating with the settlement and she resents creations who can create towers to heaven without her. Hence plague. But again, boddho creates creatures who are individually sentient. Even some of the proto kin seem rebellious. So I imagine the plague too, is sentient with its own ideas and goals. Poor boddho seems a bit immature and frustrated that yes. Eventually, even the plague and kin will want to grow and elvove without her.

-or shes already dead. Love the dead boddho theory, thanks andrey stamatin. That maybe everyone who hears boddho is just hearing her talk from centuries ago cause shes to unfathomable and eldritch creature to speak to. Neat! I think it doesnt hold up in 2, since you see her (someones?) Heart beating but cool.

-i do think the proto humans have preferences but dont know what a preference even is. Theres obviously (in p2, i know p1 was more an obvious patriachal straightfoward thing) brides who prefer townsfolk and brides who prefer the steppe. There are worms who like the city people they make friends with, and shabnaks that feel fear but aspire to grow ans meet and learn langauge.

Daniil Dankovsky

-trans daniil just makes so much damn sense to me its stupid like its perfect. At first I thought maybe he was amab and experiencing gender envy at the women in the town, coming to a conclusion he's in denial of why he favors their company or feels a sort of kinship with. To me, women are to Daniil what children are to Artemy. His bound in 1 as the uptopians is eh to me, but yet anytime he is speaking with Lara or Yulia, even Aspity, there is a understanding, condescending, even familial, protective frustration he has thats so complicated.

-to me that works so well as his journey as afab. Only child. Born to a young dead mother and a military man who didnt want much to do with him.

-I imagine him pursuing college and medical school for a year before his father dies and he drops out to transition. Ive seen other fans of transkovsky say he invented hrt himself, but if I think about how medical was approached or even philosphized about in patho or the older days I think he approached it by killing singular nerves and doing invasive surgey. They werent super great at the hormone or brain level and its just more... danils style to think to himself "i will literally kill what i dont need or want" (and then wearing uterus trophies on his neck because he cant brag out loud)

-which leads me to my other headcanon that this secret invasive self experiments and his success at splicing himself gave him a bit of cancer or a debilitating "mystical" disease he refuses as mystical. While i do love daniil being pompous about defeating death just cause hes pompous, I also love the idea that he wants all his cake and flowers. He succeeded in defeating gender, birth, orientation, and now its making him die? How unfair. How horrible. No one will steal his time at finally being himself not even death.

-thanatica I see as a mask over that research, too. Cause he can not come out and show himself off to substantiate his achievements. The medical world would be too distracted by the social ques to care that, hey, I've stopped cell generation. I've propugated cells. I've made parts of a body grow that stopped in the womb. Its a breakthrough he cant discuss so hes hauling in dead bodies and reanimating skin with the same methods or stacing off tuberculosis with the same technique hes using to stave off his death disease and it give him all this internal, unvalidated, seething frustration that he cant just scream what a fucking genuis he is. (He does anyway but without that to back him up)

-I think he joins the military for a year or two and assumes the identity of a dankovsky son. And the military stupidly, weirdly, validates him in his identity but also hardens him the way war does. The way death does when you have soldiers dying on your medical table. Then goes back and finishes his degree before opening thanatica.

-i hc Daniil as a messy bisexual. I think pre transistion he was always attracted to women actually, and that also motivated him to a smaller degree of well, why not get married to a lovely lady. Why not be the head of my household. Why not conquer society and genetics and death and enjoy things I could not myself feel comfortable to portray, but want to covet.

-you know and he gets to busy to actually finally indulge in that and then gets to town on ghorkan and meets artemy burakh and is like, wait, no, stop, this isnt the plan dammit.

-but I do think also that's complicated when it comes to sex and love. I can identify aapects or a gradient of a sexuality to him. Not necessarily demisexual, but his identity and his mind can get in the way of desires or even, that it takes a specific amount of vulnerability that he avoids. So maybe it's trauma or his being on the spectrum. So in his journey of self-discovery, maybe he's been a lot of whatever "labels." I think so much of labels and identity play into his vast acknlowdgement of philosophy too. Why talk about sex at all if we arent also talking about society and death and culture and etc (que daniil stopping his one night stand mid sentence to lecture about the differences of breeding expectations in different economic structures or population.)

-I ship daniil with Burakh mostly, (stamatins and block too at times) but I also ship him with the Marble Nest bride at the stillwater, who I guess is like a projected OC of mine. (Shes a special model, one of the only ones wearing jewelry and also one of the only kin whose sweet to daniil? She also seems critical of her own culture "weddings are a sad thing for us". I have a million headcanons and ideas for them two, who I think he names her Theralydice (thera for theraputrix the assitants to aescluipis or healers, therayl for feral or wild, and dice for custome or law as well as a common form for femininenames) Something heretically latin and inappropriate and artemy shakes him stupid for naming a bride at all- "but how will I refer to the only reasonable one burakh") but I wont bore you with all that crack.

OTHER:

Sorry this has already gotten so long so ill just list random other stuff.

-I think burakh is a man of little words not cause he's shy or reserved but because hes very smart about his town. He knows that information and gossip spread like wildfire. And stating his ideas, thoughts, plans, TO ANYONE so plainly (as dankovsky does) means in another twenty minutes 6 other people might find out and stop him. It's in his best interest to act stupid and complacent. It's the best idea to shrug at young vlad and go "idk maybe" because saying yes or no would maybe mean making an enemy.

-I think there are two eldritch horros now one. Aside from boddho i think the mistresses are hearing something else out there in the ether. Same as those whispers to peter about building the polyhedron. Boddho from this planet or not, something in that void is wanting to come in and use her or the earths power to its own end. Town on Ghorkon seems like an open battery everyone wants to suck dry. And while the kains can talk a big talk about plans for nina or simon, I wouldnt be suprised if someone or something kicked their souls out and took over for itself.

-I 1000 percent think Aspity is the first outbreak in human form if that wasn't already established. But I also dont think clara is. But I do love the idea that it's possible to do. In the same way, maybe annaAngell occupies Willows body? Hmm.

-also all yes to everyone is just actually dolls, but then wheres the fun in hc-ing the world lore???

[dailyadventureprompts]

So I'm working on this Bronzepunk setting that's at the very beginning of becoming Bronzepunk, but I'm struggling with the central main plot. The idea is that one of the Lictors of the Emperor invents a steam engine or steam powered device in secret, and the faith that he has in its potential births a new diety, which the other gods are very unhappy with. Where should I take it from there?

The empire is a slave state equivalent to Rome in its heyday, an endless outward militarty expansion driven by the need to feed more bodies into the mines and plantation farms of the elite while the stable prosperity of the old republic is eaten away.

Tensions have been building for generations, the system is untenable but the institutions of power are too entrenched to even consider change. Some years ago a massive slave rebellion nearly cracked the empire apart before it was put down, not only making conditions worse for slaves but leaving a massive dent in the labor supply that threatens complete economic collapse. To compensate the slave acquisition military portion of the empire has bitten off more than they can chew, opening up a new frontier in the hopes of quick pillage and captives and tribute but instead kicking a hornets nest that might chase them all the way back to the homeland.

The invention of the steam engine has the potential to fundamentally change the empire, but into what depends on who gets ahold of it:

Does it power weapons in the new war ? (military)

Replace slaves as the primary labor force ? (elites)

Usher in a new era of industrialization? (merchants)

If you were looking to bring the gods into this, I'd say that its less about the gods not being happy at a new invention, but about them arguing over which one is going to absorb this new power into their preview (see the choice above), I'd also argue for the existence of a minor river/milling goddess from the Lichtor's home province who's provided the inspiration for the project and who now inadvertently stands to become a divinely literal power player if she evolves from waterwheels to steam engines.

Also because you can't come to daily adventure prompts without your daily recommended dose of class consciousness, I'd say that while the Lictor is bankrolling and supporting the development of the engine, the person actually making it happen is a brilliant slave. She and the lictor are true collaborators, but their power imbalance underscores the tension at the heart of the empire: he can't do this without her, so for him to be great he can't risk freeing her.

Players take on the role of freelancers in service of the Lictor's noble family, seeing to all the things that need seeing to (tending to the needs of the family's clients, scaring monsters away from their lands, thwarting the ambition of rival families etc) before eventually performing well enough to get promoted to the service of the invention minded patriarch himself and getting embroiled in the steam engine drama.

[mirror-to-the-past]

Owari-Hajimari ENG Lyrical Analysis

Heyo, I just finished TWEWY recently and have been pouring over the soundtrack and turning things over in my head. Thought this song particularly was interesting in terms of the game's themes and whatnot- it seems to be from Joshua's perspective, both in the subject matter and the context in where it first played in the game (pretty sure it was the first battle Neku has alongside Joshua when he first forms the pact with him). So, here's me taking a stab at this whole thing, and digging at potential insight in Joshua's character.

("Happy-go-lucky, yo, here I am

I'm not a yuppie or a puppie, yeah, hear me roar

Jinxes mean nothin' to me they're such a joke

Never can stop me 'cause I'm on my way

Minus and plus, got 'em plugged in the wrong way

And now minor keys are easier to hear

Regression and progression, I start to realize something true")

The speaker wants to be seen as a devil-may-care yet powerful individual, not someone who's a shallow, materialistic young person or a naïve person. They don't pay any mind towards the idea of "bad luck" or spirituality, tossing aside several societal ideas of 'fairness/luck' inherently in the universe; they just want to carve out their own path. They're a cynical person, they see more of the tragedy and sadness in the world than the good and positivity that they think most people ought to appreciate. They look at the world around them and see how society constantly oscillates between growing and advancing, then falling back into old behaviors.

("’How many bottles did you throw into the right bin?’

‘Did you wash them nice and clean?’

Geniuses invent machines and wealthy people invest more funds

My momma used to say start with what you can do today, yeah, not tomorrow

So I list it up, and set this up (listen up!)

My secret plan is based on this truth)

With the first two quotes, the song starts its thematic motifs on recycling which equates towards the idea of looping/being locked in a cycle. The quotes also reflect the procedural and orderly nature of what is required to do a thing that's good for the planet and society, in this case recycling. It takes consistent effort and deliberated action to do what is most beneficial for the world around them- a level of effort and precision that can seem tedious to expend. The speaker also illustrates the taxing nature of this “do-gooder” attitude of compliance and diligence with how the dedication of innovation is often reliant upon the wealthy to promote new products- reflecting how the speaker likely thinks that even with individual diligence and determination in as many places of one’s life as possible, we are strung along to the rhythm of the rich in terms of seeing significant results from our practices. The speaker’s mother, implied to be confronted with the speaker’s feelings of impotence in an unbending society, tells them that if they want things to change, they have to focus on the moment and not become overwhelmed with the bigger picture (“tomorrow”). The “list it up/set it up/secret plan based on this truth” is repeated in the song, demonstrating extreme significance for the development of the speaker’s core values- in response to all of these perceived struggles present in the world and the speaker’s society and an interpretation of the advice of their parent, they internalized a mindset/course of action that may be seen as unacceptable to others, hence the “secret” nature of their “plan.” The speaker copes with their struggles in an analytical and strategic way.

(“It's a small world, it's a small universe. Remember? We used to sing along to the song

Listen to what she says, we are the universe, OWARI-WA HAJIMARI, HAJIMARI-WA OWARI”)

The characterization of assumedly the universe’s “song” as feminine reflects a level of reverence, attachment, feelings of fickleness, or reliance, as is often seen in feminine personifications of inanimate concepts. The speaker then says “we are the universe,” which shows that these are also all traits that they may see in humanity itself. ‘Owari-wa hajimari,” and “Hajimari-wa Owari” translates to “The end is the beginning,” and “The beginning is the end,” respectively, echoing the cyclical viewpoint of the speaker when it comes to the idea of the universe’s progression- any movement is movement, for creation or destruction, but stagnation is what is against the will of the universe itself.

(“An original strategy is what I need. Contradicted world? I've had enough indeed.

Whatsoever, what is forever? I hear them say it, again and again

‘Recycle, reuse, and try to reduce.’ But in the first place, I refuse to confuse!

How many companies want to sell us more services and products? Can't we share?”)

The speaker is at odds with the idea of maintaining the status quo and the level of dissonance that comes from the public at large as a result. “I’ve had enough indeed. Whatsoever, what is forever” flowing thought, in that the ideas bleed together [I’ve had enough indeed, whatsoever/Whatsoever, what is forever?], with the “whatsoever” being the emphasized focal point of the two phrases. This “whatsoever,” meaning “at all,” reflecting an entirety or generalized feeling, or meaning “whatever,” expressing apathy in a longstanding, archaic manner, is the key point here, showing both chronic fatigue at the tug-and-pull/paradoxical system the speaker is in, alongside a presented apathy about it. The speaker is tired of what they view as trivialities born from the idea of individual responsibility for one’s own well-being and the well-being of their society [expressed once again through the recycling metaphor], using double wordplay in response to the recycling metaphor: “recycle, reuse, reduce,” responded to with “refuse” = waste. This shows how the speaker wants to exit the system, highlighted by how they put blame on those behind production and consumerism for pushing the narrative of individual responsibility upon the populace, while they remain the ones primarily in control of the thrum of waste vs. reuse. The speaker wants a collective responsibility to be acknowledged, where no single person is an island to each other, and no person ‘higher on the ladder,’ so to speak, gets to decide the rules of how the common person ought to live their life.

(“How about talking about something different, because all I got is fake, play money

Jigsaw puzzle I can't find the last piece, maybe I swallowed it when I was a kid

My daddy used to say, ‘Keep your eyes on reality and kid don't you forget to enjoy it’

So I list it up and I set this up (listen up!)

My secret plan is based on this truth”)

This verse focuses on trivializing consumerism and asking questions about emotional wholeness with motifs of childishness/childhood, respectively. The speaker feels helpless discussing the inner working of society especially on a class-based critique basis, because they feel the concept of economy and materialism is all illusory anyway, feeling more occupied by how they feel a sort of deep-running gap in themselves and their self-concept that is implied to have persisted since childhood. The ‘jigsaw-puzzle’ in this case symbolizes the speaker, the ‘last piece’ symbolizes the dissatisfaction the speaker has towards society and life in general, and they blame something deep within themselves for this feeling of emptiness, hence the loaded responsibility behind the ‘maybe I swallowed it when I was a kid.’ The speaker’s father must have born witness to these feelings and beliefs, seemingly more in favor of materialism and against internal emotional introspection in comparison to his child. ‘Keep your eyes on reality,’ has the father likely telling the speaker that should care more about things like the aforementioned ‘play money,’ and ‘don’t you forget to enjoy it’ has the father telling the speaker to set their feelings of emotional emptiness to the side, and focus more on the pleasures of life to fill that gap. With the final two lines, the speaker shows that they internalized their father’s words in accordance with their aforementioned strategy on how to approach the dissatisfaction of life.