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rachelbethhines · 4 years ago

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Tangled Salt Marathon - Lost and Found

Another plot episode and another mountain of missed opportunities, failed set ups, and foreshadowing that goes nowhere. But outside of that it’s pretty entertaining. Are we seeing a pattern yet?

Summary: Rapunzel and Eugene go on a journey to retrieve the fourth and final piece of the scroll that will lead them to the Dark Kingdom. They receive help from Vigor the Visionary, who reveals himself to be Lord Demanitus himself, the author of the scroll depicting the purpose of the Sundrop and Moonstone. He leads them to the maze that he hid the last piece of the scroll in. Guiding them through the maze, they obtain the last piece, which united the four into one singular map. As they are about to leave, they are attacked by a stone monster.

Maybe That’s Why You Should Have Brought the Only Person Who Can Read It Along?!

Once again, having the characters acknowledge their stupidity in meta dialogue doesn’t alleviate the fact that the audience is going to think them stupid.

Regardless of your personal feelings towards Varian or what he has done in the past that does not change the fact that he is literally the only character in the show thus far who can translate the scroll. The mains knew that before leaving and they knew from the get go that they were going to need the scroll piece which is why they took it from him.

Not bringing him along, not getting a translation key from him before leaving, nor even showing us a scene of Raps trying to ask him to translate the scroll for them before leaving and then having him refuse to do so, is a plot hole.

Timeline Hint...Sort Of...

Rapunzel said last episode that it had been almost year since they left Corona, and it’s now close enough to her birthday again that Eugene could be tricked by it but not enough to actually be her birthday.

So...when are we again?

I’m going to guess 10 months after Secret of the Sun Drop? Maybe... It could also be 9 or 11 who knows... but I am still seeing fall like trees which is our only indication of a changing season in this show because the creators don’t understand climate apparently.

Maybe cause we’re now further north of Corona we see fall/winter leaves even into early spring?

Where Was This Rapunzel In Season 3?

Rapunzel actually giving a crap about what Eugene wants is as rare as seeing a fawn in the woods. It happens, but most of the time you forget it's even there.

While come season three, Rapunzel will just shoot the poor deer dead.

Madame Canardist is a Wasted Character

I’ve already discussed at length the biggest problems with Madame Carnardist in my Vigor the Visionary and Curses reviews. So I won’t rehash those talking points here again. However what I spoke about were larger problems with the media industry and bigotry as a whole and not the specific impact the character has on the story. Which is next to none.

The crew went through all of this trouble to make a deleted character from the film relevant to the series’s plot, and even there they failed. Madame Canardist is nothing more than a translator for Vigor when Demantius isn’t around. The story doesn’t utilize her properly despite her connections to one of the more plot important characters.

What is her relationship to Demantius and Zhan Tiri? How did Vigor come into her care? Why is she the only person who understands him when Demantius isn’t in control? If Vigor is centuries old by this point than how old is she? What is her stake in all this and why does she bother with Rapunzel at all if she has nothing to gain from it? Why doesn’t she go along on this important quest through the maze seeing as how she is Vigor’s caretaker?

She’s not completely useless, but like with Lady Caine, Xavier, and Hector before her, she has far more potential than the series is willing to explore with her.

So Much For Caring About What Eugene Wants

Welp that lasted all of five seconds.

Man, Rapunzel is a shit girlfriend.

The Pay Off Works, But It Then Serves No Purpose Afterwards

I don’t mind the idea of Demantius being the monkey. I mean it is one of the very few plot points in the show with proper foreshadowing and follow through. And yes, Demantius does accomplish one thing here, by helping Raps obtain the last scroll piece.

The problem is, nothing changes with this revelation.

No one’s perceptions or interactions with Demantius/Vigor are altered after this reveal. No one changes their plans, goals, or motivations afterwards. Things carry on more or less afterwards the same as if they had never met. The only thing of importance here is the scroll pecice and that’s only relevant in Cassandra's Revenge and is then forgotten about completely for the rest of the series.

What’s the point of having a plot twist if the status quo still remains?

If the information being revealed doesn’t alter the story then why keep it secret to begin with?

How Could You Research Them If You Never Found Them?

So did Demantius write the incantations or not?

He is the one who put them on the scroll, so it’s natural to conclude that he did create them, but he couldn’t have done that unless he had studied both the moonstone and sundrop to see the effects the two macguffins had to the spells.

Now according to this exposition dump, the sundrop and moonstone had been around for ages before Demantius and had become legends by his time. It is possible that someone else studied the two macguffins before him and came up with those incantations, but who?

The ancient people of the Dark Kingdom might have studied the moonstone since they were tasked with guarding it, but no one knew where the sundrop was until Gothel found it.

The audience needs to know this sort of information in order to understand the motivations driving the conflicts of the characters.

Imagine a Lord of the Rings trilogy that never bothered to say where the one ring of power came from or how it came into Gollum’s possession. You’d be left wondering why everyone was fighting over what amounts to an invisibility spell that once belonged to a small deformed hobbit who used to catch fish.

This Explanation Goes Nowhere

Why did the disciples betray Demantius? What did they gain from siding with Zhan Tiri? Why was Gothel with them? Did she betray everyone once she found the sundrop? What was Demantius and Zhan Tiri fighting over to begin with?

Don’t expect any of those questions to be answered. The series inexplicably makes a big deal over Gothel being connected to Zhan Tiri, but then never actually explains what that connection is, what they’re relationship dynamic was, nor how it connects back to Rapunzel’s and Cassandra’s current conflict.

That’s the real failing of the show’s lore and backstories. They don’t connect back to the current conflict. It’s just there.

In a well constructed show, Demantius would have been a parallel to Rapunzel who was also ‘betrayed’ by people she trusted. It would have been revealed that it was Demantius’ own actions that drove away his followers and caused them to side with Zhan Tiri. Thereby serving as a warning to Rapunzel herself and forcing her to realize in the end that in order to save everyone she’s have to apologize to those she hurt. We also would have gotten three betrayals instead of two since that’s more thematically impactful.

But this isn’t a well constructed show and the characters in it don’t ever evolve.

This Contradicts What We Find Out In Season 3

We find out in the last season that Zhan Tiri was originally from this world and that the only reason she was ‘bent on destruction’ was because of Demantius ticked her off somehow. She also had no magical powers of her own until after Demantius had banished her to that other realm where she was imprisoned.

Also Demantius didn’t use any powers. He just chucked her into a portal he had built without any warning or trail, with zero idea if it would kill her or not, all because she just stood there yelling at him. Like there wasn’t even any physical fighting, so it wasn’t a case of in defense either.

Demantius should have been revealed to be the real antagonist all along but that would require the showrunners to be actually clever for once and not misogynistic towards their female characters.

This Makes Zero Sense

First off, when was Zhan Tiri ever looking for Demantius? She’s been too busy trying to escape from her prison and it’s been centuries. She has no reason to suspect that he’s still alive nor does she care. Zhan Tiri’s plans are not dependant upon whether or not Demantius still exists.

Secondly, how is the host body still alive after centuries? Why go with monkey when I’m sure there are actual human beings out there who would agree to living forever. Does the transfer actually destroy the mind? Cause if not you could have had an actual coherent host that could have helped out when Demantius was dormant.

And don't give me any guff about ‘ethics’ because this is the man who played judge, jury, and executioner to his supposed friend/possible lover and probably killed one of his disciples as Sugarbee’s spirit was trapped in his device.

Not the Best of Plans My Dude

So Demantius is basically committing suicide here for no real reason.

Unless he was just already dying anyways when he made the transfer, then Demantius is drastically shortening his conscious life span. The monkey will live on, but he won’t.

So why? He had no way of knowing that the sundrop would become a person in the future, it’s completely coincidental that he met Rapunzel just at the right place and time to help her, and as stated above, Zhan Tiri was no longer a threat to him or the world since he imprisoned her and defeated his disciples.

Like what was his thought process here? “I just really, really want to be a monkey?”

Eugene Isn't Wrong

Look, I am a deeply religious person and I have faith in many things, but even I know that critical thought is necessary for basic survival and that scepticism is just plain common sense. Believing in something doesn’t mean shutting your brain off and never thinking for yourself.

Demantius has yet to give any reason for why Eugene and Rapunzel should trust him. Him saying ‘have faith’ repeatedly does nothing to instill confidence and in fact does the opposite. If you want to people to believe in you, especially in a dangerous situation that you dragged them into, then you need to earn that trust.

There’s a world of difference in assuming the best in people and being a fool, and Rapunzel is not the better person just because she blindly goes along with anything because she stubbornly wants to do whatever she wants and assumes she’s always right.

Eugene is Still Right

Is ‘Faith’ the new ‘Destiny’ now? Are we just assigning different meanings to random words in order to push the story’s narrative along?

This entire maze only involves solving puzzles, answering riddles, and a bit of running and climbing here and there. ‘Faith’ has absolutely nothing to do with it.

This theme doesn’t even work when you take into account the reveal that it’s Eugene who needs to have faith in Rapunzel. Because Rapunzel isn’t the only one doing these things and getting them through here.

In fact Demantius being here, and being the one who built the maze in the first place, kind of negates Rapunzel’s importance in this area. Secondly, Eugene is doing half the work anyways so it should be a message about having faith in each other. But they already have that so...yeah what’s the point of Demantius constantly bringing it up?

Why Are You Caring About Money While Stuck In a Death Trap?

You’re rich now, Eugene. You’re the future prince consort and live in a palace. As soon as you get back to Corona or a place that recognizes Corona as a kingdom you’ll have plenty of money to spare. But you can’t do that if you’re dead inside a maze.

Moreover, Rapunzel still has money on her. She just threw two coins in to the well; one for her and one for Demantius. You two live together! You’ve been traveling inside a caravan together for over a year now and neither of you work. Ergo, you should logically be sharing your finances at this point in time. Especially since that is what you’ll be doing anyways once you’re married for real, as you’ll both be heads of state.

That’s Now How Faith Works

Faith is evidence for things unseen, or to put it more accurately the evidence for things that are unprovable. God, death, the future, creation, souls, the meaning of life, ect, are all concepts that can’t be proven nor disproven. No one upon this earth will ever know for certain what happens after death, how the universe was made, or if there is any intelligent life out there beyond ourselves.

People don’t like the unknowable.

Believe systems of all kinds, whether they be religious or not, exist to bring us comfort when face with the dread of such existential questions. Even if that belief system is agnosticism itself.

Gravity, weight, and basic physics however are all provable concepts that have been around since Ancient Greece, if not longer. Man has always known that if you drop something it falls, even if they didn’t have the math to back it. It’s just a fact of life.

‘Faith’ isn’t going to stop Eugene from falling. It’s not going to make the bridge more sturdy. It’s not going to magically make him as light as a feather. It won’t turn the acid below him into water. “Faith’ can’t literally give you wings and make you fly; that’s just a metaphor.

What Demantius is promoting here isn’t faith. What he’s asking Eugene to do is to blindly follow his orders without question.

This is especially jarring when you consider that Demantius is supposed to be a famous scientist. He should know very well the importance of critical thought and that having faith doesn’t mean shutting your brain off.

The Scroll is Such a Let Down

We’ve spent a season and a half finding the pieces for this thing and it won't actually be relevant until the halfway through season three. Mostly because the one person who can translate it isn’t here.

On top of that, it’s no longer important outside of one episode. It’s an example of the payoff not living up to its hype.

So This Is a Lie

The scroll only contains four incantations on it, and one is on the back in invisible ink and not the fourth pecice itself. None of those incantations involve combining the moontsone and sundrop together. In fact, after using two of those incantations only once they’re never seen being used again for the rest of the series. Furthermore, once the moonstone and sundrop are combined they only allow the user to perform the healing and hurt incantations, which Rapunzel can do anyways without the moonstone.

Demantius wrote the dang scroll himself! He should very much know what is on it and what it does. This is yet another case of the writers not planning things ahead.

Being Good at Riddles Doesn’t Make You ‘Pure of Heart’

Being ‘pure of heart’ means that you are kind. One does not need ‘faith’ to be kind. Being kind is doing the right thing and helping others even if it doesn’t benefit you at all.

Not only does running through a maze not have anything to do with faith, it also has nothing to do with kindness.

The only thing it proves is that Rapunzel enjoys running through a maze, and will do so in addition to dragging others along with her regardless if those people want to do it or not.

That’s not being kind.

If anything Rapunzel has only proven thus far in the series that she is a very selfish person who shouldn’t be trusted with such grave responsibility.

But as already pointed out, Demantius doesn’t care about actual faith, kindness, or purity. He just wants blind obedience. He’s mistaken Rapunzel’s exuberant and stubborn nature for nativity; not realizing that her complancany is only because they both desire the same goal.

Had he asked Rapunzel to do something that she didn’t already want to do, she wouldn’t have been so ‘pure’ to his mind.

That Is a Very Valid Question

Eugene has a point. There’s no reason to go on this quest. In fact knowing about season three in hindsight, turning around now and not going to the Dark Kingdom would be the better option for everyone.

Cass couldn’t steal the moonstone. Zhan Tiri would never be freed. Corona will never be destroyed and the brotherhood never mind trapped. As for the black rocks they will just sit there impotently not doing anything.

Even freeing Quirin, not that Rapunzel cares, only requires the hurt incantation, which she already has.

The only problem is that Cassandra has ZT trapped in her mind but without the moonstone that has no consequences outside of Cass hearing a annoying voice in her head that she is perfectly capable of ignoring. And even that wouldn’t have happen if they had turned around after the Great Tree.

SHOW DON'T TELL

Nothing in the show back up what Demantius is saying here. We haven’t seen the rocks being active since season one. Even when Rapunzel was lollygagging around or going off the path.

When they do become active again in the next episode it’s to help her, and after that in season three it’s all Cassandra’s doing.

Also in season three Rapunzel is able to rebuild Old Corona around the rocks with little problem even though she didn’t reunite with the moonstone.

In a Competent Show This Would Be Foreshadowing. This Is Not a Competent Show.

I genuinely thought this was hinting at Moon Eugene, when I first saw this. Now couple that with the talk of ‘three betrayals’ earlier and I thought Eugene would be the final ‘betrayal’ and that a true love's kiss, after Rapunzel had apologized to him, is what would reunite the two powers and save the day.

I’m not going to fault the show for not living up to my expectations and predictions, but I will fault the series for failing to utilize Eugene properly and not working him into the main conflict. He’s the duel protagonist of the franchise. He should have just as much weight in the narrative the same as Rapunzel has.

Oh How I Hate Where This Arc Goes

What the show does wind up doing to Eugene however, is incredibly stupid and frustrating.

Remember how I said that ‘faith’ in this show is just blind obedience?

Yeaaaahhh....

That’s what Eugene takes from all of this. Not that he should support and believe in his partner, something that he already was doing by the way, but that he needs to be a doormat to her and her whims.

Like with Rapunzel yelling at Hook Hand in Brother’s Hook, this is the point where Eugene’s character starts to break. You just wouldn’t know it until after watching season three.

This Is Such a Lazy Cop-Out

Like the audience has these questions too. Neither us nor Rapunzel will ever have these questions answered. You just backed out of committing to any real answers because you didn’t have your story planned out like you should have.

Why Does Everyone Act Like There’s a Prophecy When There Isn’t Any Actual Prophecy?

Once again, Demantius had no way of knowing that the sundrop would become a person. No one did. There’s no prophecy and there’s zero explanation for his psychic abilities, which are inconsistent at best. In fact I don't think he does have such powers, otherwise he’d be more helpful inside the maze. I think those are reserved for Vigor only and we don’t know where he got them or if he even is a ‘real’ psychic.

Tangled the Series wants to act like it’s running on a predestination plot. That events must occur and will occur regardless of what actions you take to prevent it. Now ignoring how that causes problems with the characters’ agency for a moment; you can not have any predestination if there’s no actual destiny.

Chosen one plots often have prophecies for a reason. Predestination is there to evoke either tragedy that can’t be prevented or present consequences for if/when the main hero doesn’t follow along. Either way it’s there to establish conflict.

Everyone in TTS acts like there is a conflict when said conflict hasn’t actually been established!

This is writing 101. You need conflict. You need to establish shit. You can’t just pretend that a conflict exists where it doesn’t. ‘Fake till you make it’ doesn’t work in long term storytelling and television animation. It has to be pre-planned.

Also The Timeline Doesn’t Match

Demantius said that it was a millenia when the sundrop and moonstone fell.He also just said he’s been waiting for a millenia to ‘meet the sundrop’. Yet Demantius acted like the sundrop and the moonstone were already legends by the time he started to search for them. That means they had to be around longer than he has. It also brings us back to the first question of who wrote the incantations if he and Zhan Tiri never found them?

Believing In Someone Does Not Mean Shoving All the Work Onto Their Shoulders

You’re supposed to be in this together. Couples should work as a team. Both of your lives depend upon getting out of here so you should both be coming up with ideas and working together.

Not only does this miss the entire point of what ‘believing in your spouse’ actually means, it’s also incredibly unfair to both of these characters. It’s unfair to Rapunzel for put so much pressure and unrealistic expectations onto her and to have her be the person to carry both of them through when Eugene is perfectly capable of physically doing things. It’s also unfair to shove Eugene to the side and make him a useless character all of a sudden.

Rapunzel Does Nothing To Earn Such Blind Devotion

Rapunzel’s magical hair has nothing to do with Rapunzel as a person. It’s an entity separate from her being. Literally. The hair can move of its own accord as shown here and it’s possible to physically separate Rapunzel from her powers as seen in the finale.

Believing in Rapunzel should be about believing in who she is as a human being, about her individual character. It should not be because she has magic glowing hair.

Not only is this a betrayal of Rapunzel and Eugene’s relationship and why they came to love one another in the first place, but it’s also a betrayal of Rapunzel’s growth as a character. It’s not only Eugene who blindly kisses her ass after this point, it’s everyone, even though she gives them little reason too.

This the Last We’ll See of Vigor and Madame Canardist

Three episodes spent establishing these characters and now they’re just gone for no reason. They’re never seen of nor mentioned again beyond a single meta joke. Despite the main conflict revolving around Demantius and them both having the closest connection to that character.

This Is Bad Foreshadowing, But At Least It’s Actual Foreshadowing

Up till now any ‘foreshadowing’ we got for Cass’s villain arc has been confined to poorly thought out background images; the painting of the moon, the broken mirror in Gothel’s tower, and I won’t even dignify Chris’s bullshit about her handmaiden dress being blue.

Not to mention all of that was only in season one. Outside of her conversation with Eugene about their parents, way back in Cassandra vs. Eugene, we haven’t had any real foreshadowing until we hit the Great Tree.

Since the Great Tree we’ve only had a couple of bitch fights with Raps, which I personally don't consider real foreshadowing since no ill will was attached to those, and her glaring angrily at Rapunzel after escaping the shell house.

In light of that, this scene is at least genuine foreshadowing, it’s just poorly done foreshadowing.

While the other attempts at foreshadowing were too subtle, this one is too obvious. It gives the game away too early because there’s no other viable options within Rapunzel’s group. Adira comes closest and she’s not actually here and not really considered a friend by Rapunzel herself.

So what winds up happening is that Cass’s arc feels rushed despite being planned since the beginning.

Conclusion

I spent three days fighting tumblr to get this review posted! Appreciate it!

As for the episode itself, it’s fun to watch in isolation, but it’s such a let down knowing what’s to come from it all.

#tangled #tangled the series #rapunzel's tangled adventure #anti-tangled #demanitus

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utterlyinevitable · 4 years ago

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@withbeautyandrage here’s the transcript from yesterdays midday storytime of mason x lia after the failed rescue mission

Let Them Be

It's late. Some time in the dark hours after the team’s attempt to rescue Sanja from the Trappers. Everything is eerily quiet. There’s no sound permeating the warehouse walls besides one singular heartbeat, running frantic.

Lia is slumped into the worn brown leather sofa of the sitting room utterly defeated. She chose to save Mason. Of all people - of her two choices - she chose to save the only one not helpless, the only one who could have walked away all on their own.

But how was Lia supposed to know that? In that hazy moment she made a hasty choice. In the face of two near-deaths, she knew couldn't live with herself if something happened to him. She didn't think about how he’s survived worse or that there was a purpose in the mission, she just acted.

And now

Now Sanja is dead

and Lia has the fortune teller's blood on her hands.

Quietly, Mason watches from the shadows of the doorway. Sees how it's breaking her up inside to have failed. He glides across the parquet flooring. If the heels of his shoes make a sound as he approaches, Lia doesn’t notice. Doesn’t even notice when Mason plops down beside her without a word.

Lia is hunched over, the balls of her hands pressed into her eyes, elbows digging into her dirty and torn jeans. Her curly hair is all over the place, some areas sticking together in clumps, others melded with something she doesn't dare want to think about. The long click of his lighter, like nails on a chalkboard, is the only thing she hears. Feels his heat radiating next to her more than the fire in the fireplace crackling. Her breaths keep coming and going.

She's trying to focus, trying to pick up on any of this madness she’s found herself flung into to keep her sanity. Keep her from crumpling over into a ball of raging emotion.

None of it works.

Tears break free and her fast breaths choke in her throat. Her heart is in her ears and her stifling wails are ricocheting in her head.

She doesn't feel the cushion sink further beside her.

Mason moves a bit closer. Just enough for his healed hand to rest comfortably on the back of her neck. The warm skin calming her just enough to breath better.

And the breaths come one at a time.

Tamed by his thumb rubbing up and down in soothing motions, throwing a few circles and figure eights to keep him from getting bored as they sat together in near silence.

Eventually, many minutes later, Lia shifts. Her spine straightening and moving to rest her back and tired head against the the comforting couch cushions.

Mason didn't stop his motions.

His arm now resting along the back edge and hand pinned between the cool leather and her balmy skin. He doesn't mind the prickling of the warring sensations.

Eventually, when Mason is halfway thinking to grab a medic because she’s been too quiet for too long, she sighs. Loud. Like she's trying to expel the evening and all the pent up stress harbored in her body with this one small action.

It’s jarring. He stops, frozen in place. Waiting for her to give a signal. A shout or a grumble or even a crinkle in her eyebrow, anything.

She doesn't.

She exhales, words shaking on her breath, "Did I do the right thing?"

Lia gives Mason only enough time to part his lips.

"She's dead because of me. It's my fault."

There’s an unsettling feeling pricking his skin at the gravel in her voice. "Missions go wrong all the time. Don't let it get to you."

"But I chose to save you over her."

"Hundreds of supernaturals much stronger than those guys have tried to kill me, and I've survived."

She shifts in her seat just enough to look at him, her voice stronger and narrow eyes piercing. "So you think I made the wrong call."

It was a statement instead of a question, his words gave her the answer.

But Mason shrugged anyway.

"If you were in my place you'd choose her over me." She said it with unwavering certainty. "You'd accomplish the mission."

He pinched his lips together, thinking. A long pause reigning while he did it. His thumb lazily moving in patterns along her neck once more.

The tenderness of it engulfed her and she, without thinking, rested her head against his shoulder.

"I don't think I would," he finally spoke. Ever so softly. Conveying a stronger meaning neither had the heart to pay more attention to at the moment.

Lia didn't respond as comfort washed over her. Half acknowledging he even spoke with a small "hrm". Her eyes shut and just let this intimacy - this rare moment between them be.

It didn't last long.

Mason dropped his hand to the middle of her back before pulling away completely.

"Come on," he said gently.

Lia looked over at him, eyes red and oh so heavy. If she wasn't so emotionally drained her brows would have knitted together and she would have challenged him in her confusion.

Knowingly, Mason didn’t bother to wait for the quip that wouldn’t come tonight. He stood and he pulled her to her feet with little effort.

The pair shuffled out of the living room and through the winding halls of the warehouse with Mason's arm wrapped around her waist, holding her up and guiding her. She was thankful for the lack of effort she needed to put in. Thankful he was taking charge and making the decisions for her in this singular moment. Grateful that he seems to know what she needs in a helpless time like this.

He pushed open the thick wooden door to her room. A sliver of light shining through the curtain. As soon as he led her through the doorway he unwrapped himself from her hold. Lia moved in to the middle of the room, in the space between her dresser and the foot of her bed as Mason shut the door softly behind them.

When Mason turned around and was greeted with his favorite sight - Lia wiggling out of her jeans until she’s stood before him in just her bra and panties. God, he must be a saint. Because instead of doing or saying anything normally, or taking a second or two to ogle her beauty, Mason walked past her and to the bed, pulling the corner of the duvet back.

"Get in," he commanded just above a whisper.

She did as she was told. No questions asked.

When she neared, Mason took a step back, swapping places to go to the end of her bed instead. Watching as she settled in. Satisfied, Mason took further steps towards the door.

"Where're you going?" she grumbled as he got further away.

"You need sleep."

She wasn't really going to argue. The corners of her mouth did turn down and her bottom lip pouted on it's on volition.

He watched her. Schooling his features but utterly bemused.

and then she asked, "Stay?"

Mason pretended to think about it. Or maybe he really was weighing the options. He wasn't too sure. There was that part of him that never meant to leave her alone tonight that he didn't understand, and that feeling in itself was reason to leave immediately.

He folded his arms against his chest. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

Mason saunters over, pulling his soiled shirt over his head then pats the back of his jeans all over to make sure there's nothing that could stain the fabric of her sheets.

"I'm not staying all night, you know," he grumbles. Mason makes it seem like he's begrudgingly climbing into bed with her. They both know it’s all for show - never before had he wasted an opportunity to be in bed with her -- though this time is most definitely unlike the others. For one, they're still relatively clothed.

"I know." She shoots him a small, private smile, "You have a hot date with a rooftop."

He rolls those effervescent gray eyes.

"Move over," he instructs with a swift moving of his hand, then pulls back the covers once more to slip into the sheets. The high quality, comfortable sheets Nate certainly picked out, felt expensive and didn't bother his senses.

Lia scooches over to rest her head against the curve of his shoulder immediately.

The motion has Mason grunting, then moving his arm around her so she'd be more comfortable. He doesn’t want to be responsible for her stiff neck in the morning.

Lia takes that as a hopeful cue to get closer. Her head finds that comfy place on his chest. That space that feels like it was made to cradle her head.

Mason could see her so clearly in the dark. Looking down on her near-matted brown hair. His arm around her itching to touch the exposed skin of her back. So he does. His palm rests between the two dimples on her lower back and tips of three of his fingers nestle just slightly under the elastic of her panties. He’s content, oddly so. The sound of her heartbeat and breaths keeping a steady pace.

He wasn’t alone in needing to be closer, Lia wanted to wrap her arms around him and hook her leg over his, wanting to nestle so far into him nothing could touch her anymore. She held back. Didn't want to ruin the moment nor irritate him any further. This was enough, and pushing her luck having him here now without any sexual coercion.

The pair lay in the weird, engulfing and comforting silence they've allowed themselves for a long while.

"Tell me about your favorite moment you can remember," she asks eventually.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping," he scoffs.

"Mason..."

"Go to sleep."

She takes in a deep breath.

"Mason," she turns her head to look up at him. Hazel eyes large and doe-like. Her words a quiet plea, "Make me forget."

And his insides clenched and did some other weird movements he's never experienced before.

Mason made one of his signature grunts. Though this had none of the weight as the normal ones. This one was for him. To keep him in line. Keep him in the know.

So he told her about the day Farah joined the team.

And then he started talking about Alaska and why it was the most insufferable place.

But that story was cut short.

Her breathing was coming in even and low exhales, and her head was feeling just a bit heavy. And his chest was heavy as well.

Mason slid out from her hold. It wasn't a grip. She wasn't keeping him in place, and yet Mason struggled to leave.

Weird.

As quietly as he could he laced back up his boots and made his way out. As he was pulling his shirt over his head and closing the door behind him, a coarse voice startled him.

"Really? Tonight of all nights," Adam chided from down the hall. His thick arms folded across his chest and green eyes shooting disapproving daggers.

Mason just shook his head, a knowing smirk on his lips.

And turned to get on his way to his room. Changing his clothes before heading to the roof.

Behind him he could just make out Nate saying, "Let them be."

-the end-

#twc fic #twc mason #agent m #mason x f!mc

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kinetic-elaboration · 4 years ago

Text

November 8: 1x22 Space Seed

I’m really tired right now for some reason... I mean it’s definitely the hour a normal person would start to feel sleepy (or already be asleep) but not me lol. I probably didn’t pay enough attention to this episode, which is a shame because it’s a good one, but I tried.

That’s a weird opening shot, from the back of the bridge. It makes the space look really small.

Uhura reading Morse Code!

“An emotional Earth weakness of mine”

I can’t believe Kirk and Spock are having a nerd competition.

The 1990s!

“Or an old earth ship being used by aliens”--this is such a cool idea!! That should have been a story line at some point.

I love when they find old space stuff.

Great shot of the two ships together--the Enterprise is so beautiful!

“The records from that era are fragmentary.”

Kirk hearing Spock and Bones banter: “uh this is great and all but we have stuff to do.”

Kirk hates that there’s a historian on board like ugh, useless historian.

Bones and his hatred of transporters again. “This gadget.”

“You’re an old-fashioned boy, McCoy.”

Scotty’s nerding out about the old ship.

2018!! They had to use cryo sleep before 2018! We were supposed to have warp by now, I’m so cheated.

I can’t believe no one knows what the Botany Bay is a reference too; don’t you know your history at all, nerds?

Then they just push a random button and wake some guy up!

McGivers isn’t paying the slightest bit of attention. This is probably why Kirk doesn’t like her.

Guess the casting department in 2012 didn’t get the part about “Northern India.” Must have thought they said “whitest part of England.”

And after all that work, traveling all that time and space, he’s almost killed by some dust.

McGivers is really distracted by his hotness I guess.

When Kirk needs to think, he goes to stand by Spock. Who happens to be bending over whatever.

Finally someone remembers the Botany Bay!

Earth was on the verge of a dark age...that’s actually pretty true.

Spock is wrong about a lot of things today.

Kirk’s not even mad or frustrated by Spock’s whole ‘I have no emotions, I don’t know what irritation is” thing. He just loves him so much and accepts this about him completely.

“I’m good but I’m not that good.” Oh Bones, yes you are.

Kirk sharing his opinions on men with McGivers. Yet again the gender dynamics in this show are... a thing. But I’m zeroing in on bi!Kirk anyway lol.

“A fair psychologist? Bones, come on--I’d be great.”

“Well either choke me or cute my throat, but make up your mind.” McCoy is the BEST. So brave.

Kirk isn’t fooled at all by this “I’m tired” crap. Tired? I thought you were a superman.

I find Khan fairly annoying but I do admit he has a certain gravitas...

The events of 1993... only 90′s kids would understand.

I feel like Kirk’s hand is sitting all the way over there just begging to be held by Spock.

So the 80-90 escapees weren’t even everybody?? How many supermen did they create?

McGivers is an interesting character but she makes me really uncomfortable.

Khan did a really bad job styling her hair lol. He just pulled out a few strands of her hair and then said he was done. Also I don’t know what she’s talking about, that hairstyle is not “comfortable.” (A man wrote this.)

Lol where did Khan find those clothes?

Spock comes to formal dinner, ready to start shit.

Ironic that Spock is so against the idea of a singular ruler for all of Earth when every last person on his planet follows the same quasi-religion/philosophy.

“You have a tendency to express ideas in military terms, Mr. Khan.”

This scene with McGivers and Khan has more intrigue and tension than ALL of STID. He makes STID!Khan look like a little boy. That version was always declaring his strength, but this one just projects strength. The way he manipulates McGivers is so succinct and so creepy and so effective.

Absolute ruler from 1992-1996.

It’s weird how so much of this episode seemed to be allegedly built on this “who is this person” mystery but like....did anyone ever NOT guess he was one of the strongmen they keep referring to?

Spock does not like the romanticization of dictators.

Kirk is so strong, too, though. His demeanor is really powerful. Another mistake of STID was pitting such a young Kirk against Khan. There’s no interest in that.

“They’ve thrown away their own worthless vessel.” Someone’s angry that the Enterprise got stolen from him--again.

Plus side, he gets to dramatically give commendations while struggling for air.

This fool trying to give Uhura orders lmao nice try.

This is such a classic super-villain error: “oh I am so confident he must be dead, I’m not even going to check.”

McGivers wants to play both sides.

I can’t believe that for all that, Khan was defeated by a bit of plastic.

“I’ve regained control of the Enterprise, nbd, now time for the actual hard stuff.”

Of course Kirk has not only read Milton, he IMMEDIATELY know exactly what part of Paradise Lost Khan is referring to.

The ending of this ep is, of course, classic... Truly wild. I mean weirdly I remember it as like a compromise, kinda, like Kirk shows mercy at the same time as he exiles Khan to a barely habitable planet, but actually in the context of just this ep--kinda seems like Khan got what he wanted. Like he didn’t get a population to control, but he was set free on a planet all his own to conquer so...

I mean obviously it went badly but still.

Weirdly, I remembered some stuff wrong about this ep. I thought that the Botany Bay criminals were exiled on purpose, probably because of the name of the ship, but the ep implies that actually they escaped and went off on their own, on purpose. What with the “unaccounted for” language and Khan as the leader.

Also, I remembered criticizing STID for stating that the other criminals were Khan’s friends, even as close as family, when really what I remembered from Space Seed was that all the supermen were out for themselves. But he does go through the effort of waking them and so on. That said, I don’t think they’re friends. I think the others are useful to Khan, and he’ll keep them around as long as they’re useful and deferential to him. I think he wouldn’t hesitate to kill any of them if they stepped out of line.

Anyway. I am so exhausted right now. I wish I’d been more... into and aware of this ep tbh. Next up is A Taste of Armageddon, which I remember being a very good ep.

#the year 2020 #2020: star trek #2020: fandom thoughts #star trek tos

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thehopefuldandelion · 5 years ago

Text

Not Him

Thank you @tindomrl for nagging my lazy butt to write this.

here for ao3. here for fanfiction.net

everlark.

I do not own any of these characters:)

***

“No, not him. Not fucking Peeta Mellark. He can’t be here.” I whisper to Annie while smoothing down my blazer and dress pants.

Peeta Mellark. The epitome to my existence. I am content, I have a steady boyfriend and a soon to be great job. He can’t be here to ruin it.

It all started on a balmy, summer day in 2nd grade. He pushed me off those darned yellow swings causing painful scrapes to appear on my knees and rough mulch to tangle in my hair. We grew up together in Panem, a small town in Oregon. I always liked him even though we never talked. And then that fucker pushed me off the swings. I know what you are thinking, “Katniss you were a little girl get over it”. There were other instances. In middle school, he won the award of having the most attendance which I was second to by 1 singular day. Darned flu. Or in Sophomore year when he spilled punch all over my dress at Homecoming on purpose. It gets even better, though. I was Valedictorian for our Senior Class and guess what he did when he found out. He stole my cap and gown. I’m not shitting you. He did and I will never forget it. This is why I hate Peeta Mellark. He’s a stickup, selfish prick and I, Katniss Everdeen, will never forgive him.

“Katniss, I’m sure he just works here,”she said reassuringly.“I doubt he’s here for the interview”.

“I hope so,” I mumbled under my breath.

My attention is focused on the man who had just come out of an office. No way. No fuckin’ way. How was I supposed to know that the very company I wanted a job at, was CEO’d by none other than Peeta Mellark. He looks around the room and locks eyes with me before saying,“Thank you all for coming today. As you are aware I am in need of a new secretary because my past employee is on maternity leave. Good luck!”

And with that Peeta Mellark walks back into his office, and calls the first interviewee in.

It seems that 2 hours pass until I am called in. I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants and take a deep breath. Why am I so nervous? What if he remembers me? Oh god. What if he brings it-

“Ms. Everdeen, I presume?”he asks cutting into my thoughts.

“Yes that is correct,”I respond while shaking his warm, calloused hand.

I briefly look up and lock eyes with him. Oh, those blue eyes and floppy curls. How did I ever hate this man. His past slender teenage figure has evened out, shown through the broad shoulders and muscular arms that make up his physique. He is hot. No not just hot, beautiful. Katniss, snap out of it. You have a boyfriend for God sakes. You loathe him.

“Wait...Katniss?”Peeta inquires with a glowing look on his face.

I pause, thinking of how to go about this. Do I pretend not to know him. This could cost me a job. Ah, what do I do?

“Peeta. It’s so good to see you again. How has life been treating you?”

“It’s been what, 7 years? Wow. Everything is going well for me. At least pertaining to the business. My love life is nonexistent and-well, I should probably stop before I get into it. “Peeta stared deeply into my eyes before glancing at his desk,”Anyway, why do you want to work at Mellark Enterprises?”

“My sister, Prim, is in medical school and I want to help her with student loan. Not only that but I need to pay my rent and pay bills and-”

“Ms. Everdeen, Katniss, calm down. It’s ok.” he says while reaching towards my hand and holding it.“Ignoring all the bills to be paid and debts to pay off, why do you really want to work here, Katniss?”

I look at our joined hands and quickly unclasp them, moving my hand to rest on top of my thigh. I can still feel the warmth from his large one. “Honestly, I didn’t even know this was your company. I just want a job and thought that being a secretary was a great way to start.”

Peeta peered at me with those baby blue eyes causing me to squirm in my seat. “Thank you, Katniss. I will go over your resume and get back to you if you get the position.”

As I embarked on the journey from the chair to the door, I heard Peeta say something the made my heart stop, “I look forward to seeing you soon, Ms. Everdeen.” He gave me a crooked grin causing butterflies to erupt in my stomach. Crap. What is he doing to me.

And with that I left the room.

***

Annie calls me later that afternoon and I recall all that had happened today.

“I can’t believe it was him. Why him? Of all the 7 billion people on this earth he could be my boss.”

“I mean, Katniss, you don’t have to take the job when you get it.”

“If I get it and I need this job, though. No one else is hiring.”I searched for days but not a single business needed another employee. I felt a spark of hope when I saw the neon pink flyer stating a secretary position at Mellark Enterprises was available, that is, until him.

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you Katniss. He can’t be that bad. When you get the job just take it. I don’t think you'll regret it,” Annie instructed me.

With a groan, I told Annie bye and hung up.

I hope I don’t regret this.

Behind me, I hear the sound of the door to the apartment opening. Thank goodness Gale was home.

“Hey Catnip,” Gale greets me with a peck while taking off his tie.

“Hey,” I respond unenthusiastically,”How was your day?”

“Great, actually. You know the new intern I was telling you about?”

“Yeah. Madge?”

“Yup. God, she's great, Katniss. I’m so glad I snatched her up before anyone else could get their claws in her.”

“That’s great, babe,” I say while peering at him skeptically. He has shown more and more interest in her since, well, 2 months ago. I trust Gale. Yeah we have our spats and our fiery personalities don’t exactly fit perfectly but I couldn't live without him. He’s my rock. He has been since we were 10 and met in the woods of all places. Both our dads liked to hunt so we always went along and one day we bumped into each other, literally.

I’ve noticed that Gale and I seem to be distancing ourselves form each other. Not purposefully, but we don’t have that connection we used to have. Ugh, just another thing to add to my overflowing plate. There was time when we would kiss passionately until we were exhausted and would go on dates almost every night but times have changed. Is it possible to fall out of love with someone because if it is, I am with Gale. Now, don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not breaking up with him. It’s relieving to have someone to talk to but I just don’t feel what I used to. Maybe I am going crazy.

“Hey, babe?” Gale called out to me from the living room bringing my thoughts back to reality.

“Yeah,”I responded hoping he wanted more from me than to bring him dinner.

“Can you get me some milk?”

“Fine,” I unwillingly grumbled back. When I brought it to him he had a dismissive attitude towards me and added on to what he previously said.

“I have a convention for work so I won’t be home over the weekend.”

“Ok, that’s great. I’ll just stay with Annie.” I didn’t want to be alone.

“Sounds good, Catnip.”

He would be the death of me.

***

A week or two goes by with no word from Peeta about the job. I might as well admit defeat. Yet again, Peeta frickin Mellark decides to ruin my life.

After grabbing my yoga mat and putting on leggings and a t-shirt, I go meet up with Annie for our twice a week zen class. The classic “Downward Dog” and “Balasana” always calm me down.

Afterwards, we hit a coffee shop where Annie’s fiancé, Finnick, waits.

“Hey, hon,” Annie tells him lovingly. “Aw, you got me my favorite. Thanks.” She then proceeds to give him a languid kiss causing me to turn away.

Sometimes I wish Gale and I were more like Annie and Finnick. Our kisses aren’t “languid” and he always get me coffee which I hate. I know, I know I could just break up with him but I don’t want to lose his company or friendship. Woe is me.

“So, Finnick, what have you been up to?” I asked him.

“Oh, you know, getting drunk, killing mobsters, giving my beautiful fiancé the best of everything,” Finnick replies, giving Annie doe eyes. “I forgot to tell you, I invited a friend to join us so I hope that's ok.”

“Thats fi-,”I stop myself.

Peeta Mellark, the very same Peeta Mellark who could be my boss, was walking towards the table.

In my trashy t-shirt and ratty leggings with sweaty hair sticking to my forehead I knew I looked awful.

*sniff sniff* And smelled awful.

Shit.

I glare at Finnick and scowl. I hope he feels the pain I’m experiencing.

“Katniss, hey!” Peeta made no comment towards my outfit or smell so that’s a good sign.

I cleared my throat before saying,”Hello, Peeta.”

My cheeks were burning up and I could tell they were a dark pink from embarrassment. He set a drink in front of me. If it’s coffee I swear to god I’ll-

“I didn’t know what you liked so I guessed. Is hot chocolate ok?” he commented shyly.

“Um, yeah it's perfect,”I told him. “So, you know Finnick?”

“We go way back. Freshman year of college we were roommates in those crusty, dilapidated dorms. He was the one who took, no dragged me to parties and set me up on dates. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”

“Hopefully dead,” I grumbled underneath my breath.

Peeta gave me a peculiar look before turning away. So what if he heard me. I doubt I got the job and I loathe him anyway.

Annie gives me a sympathetic glance before telling the table that she and Finnick have to leave for their “couples class”.

I hope she and Finnick die a fiery death. I can’t leave, that would be rude, but at the same time I can’t sit here for another hour small talking to Peeta fuckin’ Mellark. Suck it up, buttercup.

“Oh, Katniss, this is the perfect opportunity to tell you that you got the job!” Peeta declared to me while grinning. Why is he grinning? He’s probably conniving plans on how to torture me. Wouldn't be surprised. “That is, if you will accept.”

I had no other option but to say yes.

“Ok, that's awesome. I’ll take it.”

Those 6 words, I would soon learn, would change my life forever.

***

Waking up and realizing you have a steady job and will be able to pay rent should cause a person to leap for joy. I can’t. Not when the job is at Mellark Enterprises. God, today will be awful.

As soon as I arrive to the 8th floor, Peeta is there, welcoming me. He shows me around from the break room to his office, and finally my desk. Which I forgot to mention is about 10 feet from his. Crap.

I’m in deep shit.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, Katniss,” Peeta comments, his eyes soft and grin, again, crooked. His floppy blonde, curly hair is unruly and of course he rolled his button up sleeves up to his elbows causing his pale smooth skin and muscular arms to show. I felt something move south, not caused by my actual boyfriend, and I wanted to moan. Oh, to push him against his desk and him to take me right then and then. To feel his strong arms wrapped around me and his tongue twirling with mine. That’s hot. Wait, what? What is this man doing to me?

“M...Me too,” I stumble over my words still hypnotized by his beauty.

I notice that Peeta was staring off into the distance and has a slight smirk on his face. Hm, I wonder what he’s thinking about. He shakes himself out of it and slams his office door behind him.

I go about my first day at Mellark Enterprises as secretary to the one and only Peeta Mellark. Nothing strange or abnormal happens. I go home, as usual. Gale is passive aggressive, as usual. But my mind is swirling with sinful thoughts of Peeta. Why him? Why does my body react to him this way. My mind loathes him but my heart...I just don't know what to do. He’s the guy that taunted me for years and is now acting like we have been best friends for decades. My emotions can’t seem to stay in check when I’m around him. I’m so conflicted and unsure of what to do.

The next day, after a long night of dreams I should not be having, I quickly make my way to work.

“Mellark Enterprises, this is Katniss Everdeen speaking. How may I help you?”

“Yes, I am his secretary.”

“Yes I will leave him with your number ma’am.”

“Ok, bye.”

Ugh, ew. I do not need Peeta’s booty calls asking me about him. What he does is his business. Right? I wouldn't want to be one. No, no way.

His lips on mine, hands roaming.

Me moaning. Lips caressing every part of my neck.

Blonde curls falling on his face. Calloused hands unwinding my braid, kissing each strand.

Snap. Out. Of. It.

He’s your boss, my god, Katniss.

After the weird phone call this morning, I avoided Peeta as much as a secretary could do (not well) and quickly scurried home. I told Annie that I had a bad day and need some alone time which she understood.

I decided to make a detour before going home and bought a bottle of Pinot Grigio from the local supermarket because boy did I need it. I unlocked the door and opened it into my apartment. Walking to the kitchen, I set the white wine on the counter and ransacked the refrigerator looking for some carbs. The door to the bedroom was closed, that’s odd. I shrugged my shoulders and sat on the couch, eating pasta and drinking some cheap wine. My ideal night. after about an hour of this, I heard a voice...2 voices to be exact coming from the bedroom. I glanced at the front door-wait those aren't my shoes, or jacket. Opening the bedroom door slowly, with a pan because there could be a murderer in my apartment, I saw what I hadn’t expected to see at all.

“GALE! Who the fuck is that.”

“Katniss, I can explain.” he said hurriedly.

“Who is she?” the blond bimbo said.

“Madge, she’s nobody,” he told her trying to calm her down.

“Wait, Madge. As in your intern Madge?” I said, disgusted with Gale. “How dare you Gale. Damn you. Leave and NEVER come back.”

“Katniss, please, baby, I can explain.”

“I said LEAVE. You too, Madge,” I spit out.

He quickly gathered his clothes and scurried out the door, taking Madge with him. I just can’t believe he would do that. Why? I know things haven't been the best lately, but to cheat on me?

I could barely stand so I sank to the floor and bawled, trying to pick up the pieces of my broken life.

#nothim #newfic #everlark #The Hunger Games #thehopefuldandelion

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weaselandfriends · 5 years ago

Text

Systems vs. Individuals in Dark Magical Girl Stories

Who is the primary antagonist of Puella Magi Madoka Magica? The obvious answer is Kyubey, who deceives the protagonists into signing the Faustian contract. Homura's goal is to stop Madoka from becoming a magical girl, which sometimes causes her to fight Kyubey both directly and indirectly. Yet choosing Kyubey as the answer relies on two flawed assumptions:

1. Homura is primarily struggling against Kyubey.

2. Homura is the protagonist of Puella Magi Madoka Magica.

The first assumption is incorrect because, while Homura does on occasion oppose Kyubey, she is far more concerned with removing situations that would prompt Madoka to sign the contract. As such, her conflicts with Mami, Sayaka, and Walpurgisnacht equal or even take precedence over her conflict with Kyubey. Kyubey is impossible to defeat, something Homura recognizes. When she kills one of Kyubey's innumerable bodies, she does so solely to delay.

In the back half of PMMM, Homura enlists Kyoko to help her fight Walpurgisnacht. She stockpiles military-grade weapons and sets traps. She prepares a detailed plan of attack that is almost ridiculous in its specificity. All for the purpose of defeating Walpurgisnacht.

Despite her best schemes, Homura never even gets close to defeating Walpurgisnacht on her own. By the end of Episode 11, after Homura has unleashed enough weaponry to arm a small African nation, Walpurgisnacht laughs it off like Homura hasn't even scratched her. Before Madoka steps in and makes her wish, Homura begins to recognize that defeating Walpurgisnacht is an impossibility.

Why does Homura put this much effort into trying to defeat Walpurgisnacht and not Kyubey?

On the surface, Kyubey is seemingly unkillable. If one body is destroyed, another takes its place. Yet the fact that Kyubey grouses about the destruction of a body being "wasteful" implies he has a finite amount of them. Being charitable to Homura, we can assume that in one or several of her previous timelines she attempted to destroy every Kyubey body and failed. But in all of her previous timelines she has attempted to destroy Walpurgisnacht and failed, so why has she given up on Kyubey but not Walpurgisnacht?

This line of questioning possibly comes across as a plot hole nitpick, the kind common among YouTube video essayists. But my goal isn't to say that the story is stupid for having Homura fight Walpurgisnacht instead of Kyubey. Instead, I want to think about Homura's psychology, and about the differences between bad systems and bad individuals.

Homura's mindset is fixated totally on the individual. In particular, the individual Madoka Kaname. Her goal is, explicitly, unambiguously, to "save Madoka Kaname." The magical girl system disinterests her beyond its corrupting influence on Madoka. Homura never seems to regret becoming a magical girl herself. Even at the end of the story, when she is about to succumb to despair, she does not regret becoming a magical girl, only that she could not save Madoka. Madoka makes a miraculous wish that improves the magical girl system for everyone and Homura is upset because it means Madoka ceases to exist.

Homura cannot operate on the level of the system. It is simply not her concern. As such, she prioritizes the immediate, corporeal threat of Walpurgisnacht over the abstract, systemic threat of Kyubey. Walpurgisnacht is a "thing" that can be fought and, assumedly, killed. Kyubey appears to be a "thing," but is actually an extension of the magical girl system itself and cannot be killed, at least not with a gun.

The problem is that Homura does not realize that Walpurgisnacht is, like Kyubey, also a non-individual. The name "Walpurgisnacht" refers to a gathering of witches and demons. In Goethe's Faust, a story to which PMMM makes frequent explicit reference, Walpurgisnacht features as a Pandaemonium of sorts where innumerable ghoulish figures interact with the protagonist. Writer Gen Urobuchi, in a 2011 interview, described Walpurgisnacht as such:

It has the destructive power to bring about natural disasters powerful enough to blow away an entire town, but originally it was a single witch. It's a witch that has grown from the combination of countless other witches. Walpurgisnacht combines with other witches in the same way two powerful tornadoes are able to combine and become larger. It's essentially a "conglomeration"-type witch. Because it's so powerful, it rarely shows itself.

Much as Kyubey is an amalgam of bodies possessing a singular purpose, Walpurgisnacht is comprised of an amalgam of witches inflicting a singular destruction upon the world. Like Kyubey, the individuality is an illusion, and as such, the individual-focused Homura cannot defeat it by herself, not in any timeline.

That doesn't mean Walpurgisnacht is undefeatable. Indeed, Walpurgisnacht is shown defeated in a previous timeline; but defeated by Madoka and Homura working together, not by Homura alone. Even though at this point in the story Homura is a significantly weaker combatant, and even though Madoka is not shown to be anything more than an average magical girl herself, they somehow accomplished what a Homura possessed of perfect foresight, immaculately armed, and in peak physical condition could not. If read literally, it must be concluded that Madoka is capable of accomplishing something that Homura cannot, regardless of Homura's physical prowess and perfect (time travel-aided) intelligence.

What does Madoka possess that Homura does not?

Why is Madoka the protagonist of Puella Magi Madoka Magica, and not Homura?

The second question may at first seem strange. After all, Madoka serves as the primary point of view character for most of the show, while Homura comes off as aloof and even antagonistic until near the end. Over time, however, it becomes clear that Homura is the one driving the action of the story, while Madoka, although central to Homura's motivations, is often a useless tagalong. Simply being the point of view character doesn't immediately make one the protagonist, as Nick Carraway and Dr. Watson can attest. Madoka's role for most of the story is closer to the damsel in distress than the hero.

And yet, while Homura drives the action and fights Walpurgisnacht and has the goal most central to PMMM's storyline, she is utterly incapable of achieving her goal. She doesn't simply fail, she fails over and over and over again until the prospect of success begins to appear to her as an impossibility and she teeters on the precipice of despair. She fails despite being stronger and faster and more knowledgeable than previous incarnations of her that succeeded with Madoka's help.

Madoka steps into the final episode after an entire story of uselessness, does one thing, and fixes everything.

The reason is because Madoka correctly identifies the true antagonist of PMMM. Not Kyubey, not Walpurgisnacht. Not an individual, not a monster to fight, not something that can be shot and killed. The magical girl system itself. Her ability to identify this antagonist is what sets her apart from Homura. If Homura is individual-minded, Madoka is universal-minded. She abhors the suffering of all magical girls. She is kind and compassionate to everyone. This difference is what prompts Homura's one-sided obsession with Madoka to begin with. Homura interpreted Madoka's universal kindness toward everyone as an individual kindness toward Homura in particular. It's this difference that sets the stage for the events that transpire in Rebellion.

(It's important not to conflate this distinction between individual and universal with the distinction between selfish and selfless. Of the characters in PMMM, only Mami makes a truly selfish wish. Sayaka, Kyoko, and Homura make wishes that directly help someone other than themselves. Well, sort of—Homura doesn't wish for Madoka's safety, she wishes specifically for "the power to save Madoka," which indicates a kind of selfish hero complex. Likewise, it's implied that despite the ostensible selfishness of Sayaka and Kyoko's wishes, they made them for selfish reasons, so perhaps the statement is indeed that a selflessness focused on the individual is actually disguised selfishness.)

So, how do you fight a system? As Madoka states explicitly at the beginning of Episode 12, she would not have been able to make her wish if not for Homura's constant struggling. This statement is supported by the literal explanation Kyubey provides for Madoka's immense power, that being that Homura's innumerable repetitions of the timeline have maximized Madoka's "karmic potential." The show's literal answer is obviously fantastical. But the metaphorical implication seems to be that the suffering of individuals, once it reaches a certain magnitude, is capable of prompting universal change. This statement is not particularly controversial if looked at in a historical context; almost every improvement humankind has achieved, political or technological, occurred after humans suffered a long time without it. PMMM ends with a statement of hope: Keep hoping, and eventually your suffering will come to an end. You yourself may be powerless to change the world, but that doesn't make your misery meaningless.

Regardless of its truth, it's a platitudinous statement, akin to "Never give up!" I don't think it's valuable to take that final statement of hope as PMMM's ultimate theme or moral, despite its placement Aesop-like at the show's conclusion. It's a theme one might find in any more traditional magical girl show or even any children's show in general, and it's divorced from the show's many emotional and narrative complexities. What is more valuable is how the show arrives at that conclusion. After all, as I've heard detractors state, Madoka could have technically resolved the entire story as early as Episode 2 by making the same wish as she eventually did. Something, not external but internal, prevents Madoka from doing that until the end of the story.

If Madoka is taken as the protagonist of Puella Magi Madoka Magica, despite role for most of it as a passive, helpless observer, then it's imperative to view the story not as a traditional struggle against a "thing" that can be destroyed (the way Homura views it) but as a struggle for understanding. Madoka requires a certain amount of knowledge, lacking at the show's onset, in order to make the wish she always could have made, the wish she failed to make in countless failed timelines. That knowledge is the answer to the question posed at the beginning of this essay: Who is the antagonist? Who must be defeated?

The answer, broadly, is not an individual, but the system.

I could go more into why she specifically targets the part of the system (the concept of witches) that she does, or why she doesn't eliminate the system entirely. But for now, I want to expand this discussion to another dark magical girl story, Magical Girl Raising Project.

Magical Girl Raising Project is a series of light novels, the first of which was published in 2012, one year after PMMM was released. As of the time of writing, the series has seven distinct arcs, with each arc being a mostly self-contained story (although some characters and plot elements appear in multiple arcs). The first arc was adapted into an anime in 2016. It follows sixteen people who, after a popular mobile game turns them into magical girls, are forced to fight to the death by the game's twisted administrators.

Many dark magical girl shows that came out in the wake of PMMM have been derided as imitators, but while it's possible that these shows would not have been greenlit if not for PMMM's success, narratively most of these shows are quite different outside of superficial similarities. MGRP, for instance, is much closer to Battle Royale or Hunger Games in plot progression than it is to PMMM. However, one way in which MGRP is similar to PMMM, beyond simply featuring magical girls in an unexpectedly violent situation, is the thematic emphasis on systemic change versus defeating bad individuals.

At the beginning of MGRP's first arc, the game's administrators, represented by the mascot character Fav, present themselves as legitimate officials of the "Magical Kingdom" where all magical power originates. The battle royale is justified to its participants as a natural and necessary component of the magical system—the specific excuse being that having too many magical girls drains too much mana, so the number of magical girls must be cut to save energy. Like PMMM, the cruelties that the characters experience are excused as necessary for the benefit of the system. As such, while many of the battle royale's participants are displeased by the situation, few attempt to fight against the system itself and most focus on the immediate threat of their fellow participants.

Where MGRP diverges from PMMM is that this system is eventually revealed as a lie. Fav and his partner Cranberry are indeed representatives of the Magical Kingdom, but the mana problem is a complete fabrication and magical girls can be turned back into normal humans without killing them. In truth, the system is entirely benign, with its only stated goal being to create magical girls who can help humans, and there are no actual systemic drawbacks to being a magical girl. Fav and Cranberry have manufactured the battle royale for their own sociopathic purposes, and the Magical Kingdom is ignorant of their actions. In short, they're outlaws. Once they are both killed by the end of the first arc, the battle royale ends and the survivors live on.

Like PMMM, the initial difficulty the characters have in answering the question "who is the antagonist" prolongs a story that could have ended very early into a bloodbath. Had the battle royale participants known that their true enemies were Fav and Cranberry, they might have worked together to defeat them with relatively little issue. It is the seemingly hopeless systemic explanation for their woes that causes most of them to shut up and do what is expected of them.

Even though the situations are reversed, with a systemic threat concealed by individual threats in PMMM and an individual threat concealed by a systemic threat in MGRP, the psychology of the characters remains consistent between both works. If that was where MGRP ended, then on the whole it would be a fun play on post-PMMM audience expectations without betraying many of the fundamental concepts that underlie PMMM. But MGRP continues, and in its continuations develops a much larger amount of complexity and nuance (not necessarily to be confused with "quality") over this basic dichotomy of antagonistic individuals and antagonistic systems. As I mentioned previously, PMMM's ultimate moral is somewhat platitudinous: Never give up! Homura's individual-minded approach to problem-solving is depicted as fundamentally ineffectual, and her constant failures are only valuable insofar as they inspire Madoka to action. The narrative's focus is on the discovery of the true antagonist, and the actual resolution to the conflict is immediate and abrupt, nearly to deus ex machina levels.

This simplistic resolution is possibly a byproduct of several restraints that, in most other cases, allow for PMMM's phenomenal technical quality. By that I mean, PMMM is a highly simplified story. It has a limited cast of characters, a limited runtime, and a limited narrative arc that strips out almost anything unnecessary in favor of presenting a singular storyline. Its characters are stark, almost archetypal, with few character traits that do not directly feed into their role in the story. It lacks filler and its pacing is extremely even, with a significant plot development occurring every two to three episodes. From a technical standpoint, these are all massive advantages in telling a cohesive, well-designed story, and the popular reaction to PMMM has been overwhelmingly positive despite its niche subject matter and blunt brutality. Indeed, when most people compare PMMM to other dark magical girl stories, the thesis often boils down to "Here is why PMMM is good and this story, with fundamentally similar subject matter, is bad."

But while the limited narrative elements allow for consistent technical excellence, they also limit the narrative's ability to tackle complex subject matter, such as the reformation of necessary but cruel systems for the betterment of all individuals. How do you fight a system? PMMM doesn't have narrative space to delve into that question the way it can its fundamental question of "How do you recognize the true antagonist?" Homura suffers, Madoka learns from her suffering, and then Madoka makes a wish and everything gets better. Never give up! That isn't to denigrate PMMM, which I consider to be the best anime that I've seen. It's simply recognizing that PMMM does not and cannot do everything. Its resolution isn't even bad, per se; on the contrary, it is incredibly cathartic and satisfying. What is important about Madoka's wish is that she recognizes what must be done, not the way that she achieves it. That is why I describe PMMM as a story about Madoka gaining knowledge, not a story about Homura fighting to save Madoka.

MGRP, by contrast, is not a masterpiece on a technical level. Over seven arcs it accumulates a cast of over one hundred named characters, many of whom are completely pointless and die without purpose. Its storylines promulgate and do not always add to the overarching whole. It can lurch between a breakneck pace and long periods where little happens. But this technical sloppiness allows for a much broader, more complex storyline, and through this complexity MGRP is able to accomplish things that PMMM cannot.

As MGRP continues past its initial, death-game-style arcs, it develops into an overarching narrative about an ineffectual, bureaucratic government and various attempts to improve it. The Magical Kingdom, while benign in its stated goals, is nonetheless painted as incompetent at best and corrupted by petty infighting at worst, which allows bad individuals such as Fav and Cranberry to take advantage of it and get away with various misdeeds. The question of "who is the antagonist?" or "what should we be fighting?" becomes again muddied. Should the emphasis be on defeating all the bad individuals, or should it be on reforming the ineffectual system to remove the influence those individuals have? MGRP refrains from answering this question definitively one way or another, a restraint aided by its lack of a single central protagonist. While there are prominent characters who recur from arc to arc, none is present in every arc, and even in arcs where they do appear they are not always in a central role. As such, no one character's goals are aligned with the goals of the story itself.

The most obvious answer of the question "who is the protagonist of MGRP?" would be Snow White, one of the survivors of the first arc who also has the highest number of appearances of any character across the series. The notion of Snow White as protagonist is aided by her moral purity; her goal is consistently to help people and defeat villains, and although she is technically a vigilante insomuch as she operates outside the Magical Kingdom's official law enforcement system, she never wavers in her fundamental moral values when achieving her goals. Regardless of whether she is the protagonist, she is unquestionably a "hero."

However, Snow White is, like Homura, consistently limited in what she is actually able to achieve. The moment she becomes a magical girl, she is described as being incapable of larger-scale activities:

That day marked Snow White's debut. Every night she'd sneak out her window to look for people to help: a middle schooler who'd lost her house key, a university student who'd had their car stolen, and a businessman under pressure for money, to name a few. There were also many troubles she couldn't do anything about, like concealing adultery, a boy unsure of whether or not to confess to the girl he had a crush on, or a retiree desperate for their pension.

Of the three troubles listed that Snow White can't help, the last, about the pension, sticks out to me. The pension, of course, is a problem that cannot be solved on the individual level, and would require some kind of systemic change. Snow White's limitations are delved into later by another magical girl, Ripple:

Sightings of the white magical girl were leaps and bounds ahead of sightings of the others. She wasn't even doing anything spectacular. Her assistance came in small, everyday actions like picking up dropped change, ferrying forgotten lunches, and reminding people to zip up their flies. Was helping with mundane difficulties a magical girl's true purpose? Or was she simply not capable of undertaking greater issues? [...] It wasn't that Ripple didn't want to serve the community, but she was too embarrassed to say otherwise. However, maybe boldly declaring "I want to help others!" and actually doing so was the correct way to be a magical girl, she mused.

This quote is one of the first instances in MGRP of a character wondering what the "correct way to be a magical girl" is, and this question will eventually become core to the series as a whole, with competing ideological notions leading to much of the conflict. For many, Snow White is the "ideal magical girl," morally pure and always performing selfless deeds. Even when she turns from random acts of kindness to tracking down and arresting criminal magical girls, this sense of moral purity remains with her. Yet Snow White is fundamentally incapable of fostering lasting change.

The biggest example of this inability comes in the fourth arc, in which Snow White squares off against a high-ranking but corrupt Magical Kingdom official named Grim Heart, who is attempting to cover up and profit off of illegal experimentation to create stronger magical girls. Grim Heart is not only the leader of one of the Magical Kingdom's three factions (basically, political parties), but she is also a quasi-theocratic figure said to be an incarnation of an ancient deity. Because Grim Heart is an individual, Snow White is capable of fighting and ultimately defeating her. Her criminal actions are exposed and brought to an end. Yet the removal of Grim Heart does not fundamentally improve the government as a whole in any meaningful way. Grim Heart is scapegoated by her faction and epsteined while under arrest. The faction continues its shady activities under new leadership and harangues Snow White and others as early as the very next arc.

Never, not once, does Snow White accomplish any lasting change in the Magical Kingdom. She dispatches individual villains, but that does not resolve the core problems that face her world. She is positioned in contrast to magical girls whose goals are, explicitly, to reform the Magical Kingdom itself. These characters lack Snow White's moral purity, and even the most heroic of them are willing to murder innocent people under an "ends justify the means" philosophy. Again, MGRP inverts what was established in PMMM; rather than the morally pure character being the one who attempts to correct the system and the morally ambiguous character being the one consumed by individual conflicts, the situation is flipped. Snow White is pure but ineffectual; other characters are ambiguous but capable of practical change.

Madoka's preternatural goodness eventually leads to her fantastic ability to fix almost everything. Her goodness redeems Homura as an individual, which causes Homura to struggle endlessly for her sake, which provides Madoka both the power and the understanding to fix the system at a universal scale. Boiled down, PMMM is a classic story of "good triumphs over evil," with the primary difference being that "evil" has transformed from a cackling villain to a complex, unknowable system. For a modern audience, living in an increasingly complicated world where difficulties stem less from the strong subjugating the meek and more from, say, tax brackets, it's easy to see why this modification of a classic theme was so powerful and why PMMM fundamentally works as a piece of fiction.

But MGRP seems to make a counterstatement: Moral purity is unquestionably good, but it cannot alone change a system. I could probably go on for another few thousand words detailing the various characters in MGRP who attempt to fix the system and what their position in the story adds to this theme, but to do so might be better suited to a second post more specifically focused on MGRP.

What I wanted to illustrate in this essay, and which I have probably done far too longwindedly, is that these shows possess a core focus on fighting systems over fighting individuals. Probably the most frequent criticism levied at these shows is that they are exploitative, that they revel in the suffering of innocent young girls. The second most frequent criticism, levied specifically at dark magical girl shows that came after PMMM, is that they are mere imitators of PMMM. I think neither criticism is valid. PMMM and MGRP take the traditional, morally pure concept of "magical girl" and counterbalance it against corrupt systems to make statements on the value of moral purity and the possibilities for systemic change. These themes are not incidental to the type of story but rather molded to it. They are themes that could not be easily explored in either traditional magical girl storylines or even traditional storylines in general, where the focus is primarily on a single hero fighting a single villain. On top of that, works that follow PMMM are not doomed to mimic it mindlessly, but can actually comment upon, challenge, or expand PMMM's themes.

Obviously, PMMM was not the first story to ever situate a system as its antagonist rather than an individual. But the vehicle of "dark magical girls" is particularly conducive to that type of story. After all, a "dark magical girl" story already undermines an understood set of practices and beliefs via the subversion of genre conventions. The thematic content is wedded to the semantic content.

#puella magi madoka magica #pmmm #madoka magica #mahou shoujo madoka magica #magical girl raising project #mgrp #magipro #mahou shoujo ikusei keikaku

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thehermitsforest · 4 years ago

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The Hermits Forest

Prologue

When he was a child Simon had wanted to be a tailor, he wanted to make the rich wear what he thought was cool instead of their silly frilly capes, and he wanted to start a movement, a movement so strong that pale skins would stop painting themselves purple, back then the slave trade wasn’t even a blip on his radar. To begin a fashion career he needed to be fashionable, that was Simon’s first hurdle, he couldn’t wear purple paint on his skin, not from pride or injustice, but because he was allergic. He swiftly accepted defeat. Creating a device that would let him and other people allergic to paint appear purple, was not a thought that crossed his mind, the only thought that crossed his mind was, what job pays the most, and ideally will let me retire soonest so that I may sit in my wealth and die with no greater purpose? The Spirits Slave trade was one such position, however Simon did not think he was an evil man, nor corrupt or immoral, so he trained himself to steer a horse. He was only a delivery driver.

After all had he not helped to push the spirit into the cage, or saddled up the horses he was sure someone else would, although this thought made sense in Simons head it would seldom hold up in court, after all it does not matter if you know your neighbour Beatrice plans to murder her husband Arnold, if Simon killed Arnold first, then his death would still solely be Simons fault. The spirit trade was a dying trade, not through lack of trying, or customers and money, but lack of spirits. Spirits seldom survived months when captured and could take centuries to rebirth, if ever did.

Simon gripped the horses reins tight. When the horse began to tire Simon would take his whip, and encourage him forth. The horse didn’t like his new job, not only was he carrying Simon, but a fat man called ‘boss’, three spirit hunters, a heavy cart cage made from Airitlium the only the material that could hold spirits, and as if to add insult to injury, inside that cage was Carry. Ancient spirit of the wild horses. Not all wild horses just a small herd to the east that were said to be millennia old and devour humans, although even to the horse’s perception they did not resemble horses anymore, unless perhaps the only knowledge you had of horses was through word of mouth.

“Simon.” Carry the spirit whispered rolling over to the cage edge.

His skin was dark, and he had small black quarter moons spotted across his body, where old horse hide clothing did not cover his skin.

“Yeah?” Simon asked glancing back, eyebrows half raised as though he was dazed.

Carry sat on his knees so that he could be face height with Simon, and he tried for a second to wag his white horse like tail out of view, when that failed he quickly scrambled after it with his hands and hid it behind himself.

“Where are we going friend?”

Simon gave a dramatic roll with his eyes and head, he had only worked for 6 months but whenever there was a spirit in the cage, to the exact letter, this was how conversations began, and they always began with him.

“We’re going to find another spirit or more if the opportunity arrives.”

“Who?”

“According to the kings bounty, there is an evil spirit residing in ‘The Hermit’s Forest’ who does away with anyone travelling through, most spirits that attack humans are normally animal in nature, so I suspect we will pick up a spirit going by the usually imaginative name of Animal.”

“A spirit that has the name of Animal must be mighty strong, do you really think you can capture such a being?” Carry asked with an unfaltering gaze.

“We know other forests had small territorial animal spirits, and we also know that we can catch them, because they are not the spirits, of the animals, that sit at the top of the food chain,” Simon said with an unbearably smug grin “because that would be humans.”

“I w’d’ve thought they were strong.” Carry said.

“Perhaps if they attacked us one on one they would overpower us, or if we had no weapons, but they like to fight, and they like to walk into traps, their greatest weakness is their stupidity, it is almost like they forgot to form a brain.”

“I can’t wait for you to die. I know the animal spirit of ‘The Hermit’s Forest’, she walks though my land at winter.”

“Oh you’ve seen her have you, let me guess, you think because she’s stronger than you, a singular herd of horses, that she’s going to be stronger than humans, but you’re wrong, and I don’t suppose for one moment she’ll have any luck out smarting us.”

“The spirit you seek is Forest.”

Simon rolled his eyes and a gentle smile sat upon his face “you trying to tell me the trees are evil?”

“I do not suppose for one moment Forest is any more evil than any other Forest spirit, from what I understand neither takes too kindly to disrespectful humans, but I do hear Forest looks a bit peculiar and humans have a nasty habit of associating physical form with personality.”

“I don’t believe you. Why would a forest that began as a few trees in the back of a hermits garden be peculiar? He’s new for a forest, and planted by a human, so they should look like any other forest, plain, simple, with no strong thoughts one way or the other except perhaps a minor instinct to protect himself.”

“Suit yourself.” Carry said stopping the conversation and she sat back down in a position that was a little more comfortable.

“Fucks sake” Simon said as he pulled on the reins of the horse who came to a thankful stop, at his action, but his boss looked down with fury in his eyes ready to be unleashed.

“Why have we stopped!”

“They’ve changed gender” Simon said tiredly and gestured to Carry.

“Shit.” The boss said, and Carry looked to Simon surprised at the information.

“I can quite assure you gentlemen that I have not come to any new shocking revelations about my own gender in the past - nigh at least seventy thousand years, and as such declaring I have changed my gender is ludicrous, besides if I wanted to change the physical gender I generate I could not do it for these chains are tighter than a stallions arse.”

“Come on lads!” The boss shouted piling up several more heavy rusting chains into his arms.

“Your form has changed slightly, and you voice is different, slightly higher I think” Simon said to the spirit who seemed generally bewildered.

“That’s it?”

“Simon you idiot, you are not supposed to tell the spirits how to mimic us better” his boss growled red in the face as he revealed his black rotting teeth.

“We don’t change shape” Simon shrugged “if a spirit could work that out I’m sure they would’ve already.”

“He’s got a point boss.” The spirit hunter with a spear laughed, just as he began to hear the sound of a man screaming, and quickly getting closer. The boss frowned and turned towards the empty marsh, in the direction in which the sound was coming from, just in time to see a man several meters away fall from the sky and hit the marshes swampy water making it splash into the air, his screams stopping immediately.

“That’s odd” he said.

“Must’ve been one of the folks from up top” the sword holding hunter said “though I’ve never seen anyone fighting up there.”

“He probably just tripped” the spear holding hunter said “those stupid rich people would prefer their stupid city looks all magical rather than putting up some damn fencing, tripped over a dog a few months ago when I was up there, almost died, fucking rich people.”

“I see. As long as they do not land on us I don’t care” the boss said, and he looked up just in time to get a glimpse of the falling elephant that crushed him, and everyone else within the elephants reach.

End Of Prologue

[ Follow me for updates on Chapter 1 :) ]

#the hermits forest #prologue #original writing #original stories #prologuefull

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silentexplorer18 · 5 years ago

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Recovery: A Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter Short

Summary: Coming back to Hogwarts after the war was not a simple task. While everyone may be attempting to recover, recovery isn’t coming easy to some as it is to others.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Harry Potter (Drarry)

Warnings: A bit of PTSD, guilt, negative self image postwar

Read it here on AO3.

Masterlist

Returning back to Hogwarts after the war wasn’t an easy task.

For some, it was like returning to an old home. The building was damaged and many tablemates were missing, but it was, nonetheless, a place of growth, understanding, and renewal. Hogwarts was home, the real place where these kids grew up, grew into themselves. However, even though that was true for many, a multitude of students had a hard time feeling like they belonged confined within the walls of Hogwarts after such a traumatizing and maturing ordeal.

Everyone was coping in their own way.

Neville was buried in the greenhouse, tending to plants nearly constantly. It gave him a sense of peace, being able to grow and heal such vulnerable things.

Luna was often found wandering toward the thestrals, creatures that now were much more visible to the students returning to study, or wandering about the castle spreading good natured kindness.

Hermione and Ron were inseparable; though it often resulted in one doing an enjoyable task while the other one sat in quaint (or whiney) silence, they tended to enjoy being with one another.

Ginny confidently took on quidditch, pulling a routine into her life once again and pushing herself to be a person her family would be proud of, a person her brothers would be proud of.

But Harry wasn’t handling the transition so well. For once in his life, he had no purpose, no destiny to fulfill. And now he was famous, being traipsed to news agencies and meetings to receive praise for his bravery, for defeating the Dark Lord. He was a hero.

But he didn’t really believe that.

So being back here, surrounded by people, most notably the youngest years, constantly praising him and idolizing him for his bravery, despite all the other brave people that had fought alongside him, made him feel quite sick.

Although he still worked in class, he often found himself receding from the rest of the students, finding places to hide away from the world.

He wasn’t the only one.

Draco Malfoy was not well liked among those left at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Most of the Slytherins hadn’t bothered to come back, but with the trials his family was facing for their part in the war, Draco figured the grounds of Hogwarts, though rather hostile, would provide a far more comfortable environment than what the manor would most likely provide.

That being said, the grounds were still hostile.

I mean, you don’t just walk over to Voldemort’s army and expect a warm reunion from the people you’d been fighting against.

He was a coward.

That’s what each day reminded him.

So Draco often found himself curled up in the foliage near the Black Lake, eyes gazing over the hazy water. The leaves would rustle with the breeze, the gentle noise blocking out his thoughts in a way the loud chatter of the Great Hall never could. With nothing but the natural world providing him company, Draco could almost forget the feelings of self-loathing and shame that whirled through his mind like the Tasmanian Devil, wrecking every good thing in its path.

At first, he was just curling up beside the lake, out in the crisp foliage near the murky depths during the day, but as the weeks progressed, he found himself beside the lake more and more often.

Under the twinkle of starlight, the pads of his fingers would rub against the rough stone slabs he settled on, eyes tracing the scene before him. He liked it that way, settled out there with the dark and deep woods pressing against his back. Night made Draco feel better; he was by himself on that rock because the world was sleeping, not because he was, in fact, alone. For those fleeting hours of darkness, he would feel once again like he wasn’t completely and totally alone in the world, isolated from all others due to his actions.

Everyone was avoiding him.

For good reason, of course.

He was a coward, after all.

He always would be.

The dark mark, now reduced to a complex, aggravated scar across his pale flesh, would always brand him as a coward.

And, truthfully, it hurt.

It hurt to know that there would never be a place for him in this world, that he would have to settle for being worthless in the eyes of the wizarding community.

At one time, his name had equalled power. He was the heir to the Malfoy estates, afterall, but now his name only set him apart from the world.

He no longer belonged.

For even in life after the war, he would always be a Death Eater, regardless of whether he chose to be one or not.

So when Harry Potter stumbled onto his little paradise rock one night, Draco expected to taste death, a flavor he imagined to be remarkably sweeter than the vile taste of guilt that constantly bubbled at the back of his throat now, to come swiftly. That was what Potter wanted, wasn’t it? Vengeance? Draco let them into the castle. Draco allowed Dumbledore to be killed. Draco allowed so many people to be killed. He was a murderer. And Potter wanted him to pay for it. Right?

Briefly, he closed his eyes, shuddering slightly at the autumnal chill in the air. He waited, expecting a curse, probably a painful one at that, to slip from Potter’s chapped lips.

But the words never came.

Instead, the dark haired boy moved beside Draco, body resting against the hard ground as he allowed his eyes to trace over the water.

The two sat in silence, Harry examining the landscape while Draco eyed him suspiciously, attempting to keep the look of horror out of his usually hollow eyes. Numbness from the insults of his peers had been his only savior these last few weeks.

The blonde couldn’t figure out which was worse: the fact that he was sitting beside Harry Potter or the fact that Harry Potter made no means to insult or kill Draco for his past actions. The quiet was haunting.

After a few minutes of silence, Draco spoke. His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper as he attempted to choke out the words that had been clawing up his throat since Potter arrived. “Are you not going to hex me?”

For the first time that night, Harry’s eyes, as vibrant as the greenery shrouding their stooped figures from the castle, settled on Draco’s own, surprise clearly evident in his features. “No, Malfoy, I’m not.”

Draco cast him an uncertain gaze, as skittish as an abused puppy. “Then what are you doing here?” Although he’d intended for the phrase sound a tad more biting, the words were soft, unsteady against the night air.

“I saw you coming out here all the time. I wanted to see how you were handling everything. Figured maybe your way could help me.”

With a scoff, only mildly halfhearted, Draco’s eyes fell back over the lake, gaze wandering across the treeline. “I thought you hated me, Potter.”

Harry hummed, eyes following Draco’s across the lake. “The war’s over. Let’s put that behind us now.”

Silence lapsed between them as they each settled into their own minds, slowly growing more comfortable having a warm figure by their sides. As the leaves rustled and the water gently rippled from the creatures below, Draco realized that maybe things weren’t quite so bad with Harry being here, too. But why was he here?

“What could you possibly need help with?” he muttered softly. “You’re a hero.”

“Oh sod off,” the boy replied, eyes still sweeping the scene before him.

The rest of that night they spent in silence, watching the world break into amber beams of warmth as the sun rose on the horizon. Only then did they leave. Slowly, diligently, they made their way back to the castle to spend another day day in agony. While Draco was isolated for his mistakes, Harry was isolated for his accomplishments.

Yet neither knew quite how much the other one suffered.

Draco expected that night to be a singular instance in their lives where the two appeared beside one another without a vengeful rivalry flourishing. However, it was not.

Throughout the rest of that week, Harry would arrive at Draco’s spot after hours and sit with him. Sometimes he’d bring a snack or a spare cloak to keep both of them warm, other times he’d come as he was; regardless, silence permeated the air around them. The companionship was nice, comforting, in a way, and neither wanted to ruin it with idle chatter.

But that didn’t stop the thoughts that would whirl through Draco’s mind each time Harry settled beside him on the cool stones. He didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand why, after everything, Harry would choose to come sit beside him each night. Draco was nearly the embodiment of everything Harry hated. He couldn’t fathom why the raven haired boy would choose to acknowledge his existence, let alone remain in his company, each night.

Because Draco couldn’t see that Harry was struggling, too.

But Harry could see past Draco’s brave facade.

And Draco knew it.

So when Draco sat at the edge of the water that evening, wishing ardently for the inky blackness of night to swallow him whole, he didn’t bother to hide his ragged breaths or the tears trickling down his angled cheeks when Potter approached.

Because Harry already knew.

His father has been sent to Azkaban, mother leaving for France in an attempt to avoid shame from those left in the wizarding community. Eventually she would come back, she assured, but in the meantime, he was on his own. Indefinitely.

And then in potions one of the students was harassing Draco, who now sat at the very back corner of the room. He would perform his work diligently, but would seldom speak, unlike the intelligent, quick witted Draco he’d been before the war. Usually, he worked alone, avoiding all others like the plague, and, typically, that worked. However, when the potion got a tad messy, requiring all the students to push up the sleeves of their robes, Draco had refused, and, softly, politely, asked the sweet Hufflepuff that sat a table over from him if she would be kind enough to help with the messy part. Of course, she was kind enough, despite all that Draco had done that could’ve very easily allowed her to refuse his request.

Yet not everyone was quite so kind.

As she stepped forward to help, some boys in the row in front of him began to make an ordeal of it. Some of them taunted him, mocked him for his mark or insulted the sweet girl for opting to help Draco, others called forth the professor, who swept before him with a dark glare, warning him he either must do his own work or forfeit the assignment.

For the first time in his life, Draco Malfoy swept his bag up off the floor and marched out of class with the full intention of failing the assignment.

Because anything was better than having to stare his scar in the face.

Anything was better than acknowledging who he was, who he had been during the war.

Harry was surprised that night to see the blonde sat upon the ground in khaki pants, an emerald sweater pulled delicately over hands, but he wasn’t surprised to see the tears washing down Draco’s face. He knew the news. He saw the way people treated Draco in the halls. He saw Draco in a way the boy would probably never fully understand.

The last thing Draco expected to happen that night was for Harry to hunker beside him like he usually did, draping a large, warm cloak over Draco’s legs and delicately placing a chocolate bar in the Slytherin’s lap. Harry leaned toward him a little, their shoulders brushing and sharing warmth as Harry let Draco cry every tear he could possibly shed.

When his breathing finally returned to normal, Draco finally croaked out the first of many thoughts that had been bubbling in his mind from the moment Harry Potter first joined him in his secret space. “What could you possibly need help learning from me?”

His tired eyes fell upon Draco’s watery ones, and his face softened at the image before him. A few moments of silence lapsed between the pair as the dark haired boy gazed upon his companion. He stayed quiet, watching Draco’s pale face contort in frustration and confusion while Harry just stared at him with those solemn eyes.

When he didn’t respond, Draco continued, a bitter, pained tone straining his voice as he wiped the tears from his face with his sweater sleeve. “I mean, you’re the bloody sodding hero after all. Everything’s gone right for you. What could you possibly need from a person like-” his voice cracked, “a person like me?”

With a sigh, Harry scanned his face once more before he spoke. “Draco, why do you come out here? Sit out here day and night?”

The boy paused, clearly not anticipating having a question thrown back in his face, let alone his once arch nemesis using his first name so casually after years of rivalry. “You know why,” he grumbled, shooting Potter a half hearted glare, a feeling of vulnerability bubbling up his throat.

“Tell me anyway.”

“I’m alone,” Draco muttered, gaze once again drifting out over the landscape he’d spent countless hours studying. “I was a Death Eater. I stood for everything that was wrong and now everyone hates me for it. I’ve lost everything I had in life, and it’s not that easy to deal with.” He sniffled again, eyes darting back to Harry’s face cautiously.

“And I did something that sets me apart from everyone else,” Harry murmured back, eyes trained on Draco’s thin features as he continued. “I’m alone-” Draco scoffed, earning a stern glance from his companion. “I’m set apart from everyone else in this school because I did something different. Everyone is pressuring me to be some ‘golden boy’ that I’m certainly not. I just did something different, and now everyone wants something from me.”

“But you’re a hero. I’m a coward. We’re nothing alike.” It came out as more of a whispered statement than something emotional, but Harry could still hear the pain hidden behind Draco’s tone as he uttered the word ‘coward.’ He hadn’t forgiven himself; something told Harry that Draco probably never would.

His bangs fanned out across the top edge of his glasses as he shook his head at the broken blonde before him. “I’m as much a hero and as much a coward as you are.”

“How do you figure?” the boy replied with an indignant glance.

With a sigh, Harry turned toward him once again. “My destiny was to die. I had to die so everyone else could live. Had it been my destiny to kill others so that everyone could live, I don’t think you and I would be sitting here today with the war over.” Draco’s glance was confused, quizzical as he eyed the boy who for so long he’d considered a hero of the wizarding world. “You went against what you wanted, hurt people, to protect those you love most. While you may see that as cowardly, that you went along with Voldemort’s plan, became a Death Eater, I don’t. You were doing it to protect your mother. You went against everything you wanted to do just to keep her safe. I think that’s pretty brave of you, myself. And me? I died instead of sacrificing others, killed myself so that my friends could live. But if my fate had been to kill them? Kill anyone other than myself? Defy my beliefs? I don’t know that I could have been brave enough to go through with it.”

Draco’s eyes were glassy and wide, gaping at Harry as if he’d just discovered an entirely new person. “You think I’m brave?” he whispered, tears already dripping down his pale cheeks.

“Yeah, yeah I do,” Harry whispered back, pulling the cloak a little higher up on their figures.

The bugs were chirping through the forest, leaves delicately crinkling behind them as the light breeze fluttered through their thin clothes. Slowly, Draco rose to his feet, offering a chilly hand to Harry. “Let’s go back. We can find something warm to eat in the kitchen.”

Gathering the cloak, Harry took Draco’s hand in his own. Together they walked back to the castle, cold hands clasped together loosely. It was an odd sensation, they both pondered, but one they could certainly get used to.

It would be nice to be a little less alone.

After all, everyone was coping in their own way.

A/N: I thought I’d try something a little different, so let me know what you all think. I’ve been reading a bit of Drarry recently and I thought I’d take a whack at it. Not really sure how pleased I am with it; there are parts I love and parts I’m not quite sure of, so shoot me a message/ask/comment and let me know what you think! I hope you all are having a great day!

#draco malfoy #harry potter #drarry #draco malfoy x harry potter #harry potter x draco malfoy #fanfic

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namedforvalor · 4 years ago

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Cause I get it, right? The whole idea of “You Can’t Love Someone Until You Love Yourself” and “You Can’t Be Happy With Someone Until You’re Happy With Yourself”- I get it. I believe it. It’s valid. The thing is that my happiness and my love for myself sprouts from the idea of being there for someone else and it always has. I’ve always been very mommy, very nurturing, very supportive, and I never needed any of that in return because that was how I got my joy. I got my happiness from seeing my friends flourish around me, I got my self love because I knew my friends could count on me, could trust me, that they understood me and that they loved me. I think it’s important to learn to be by yourself, I think it’s important to love yourself, I think it’s important to find joy in yourself, but I don’t think it’s so important that you should isolate yourself from everyone else in order to find yourself. That’s what I did earlier this year. I made a conscious decision to distance myself from my entire friend group with the idea of “focusing on myself” and “growing up” and “learning to love myself” but the thing is... I already did and I already had. Love isn’t a singular language and love isn’t a linear field. Love is so diverse and so intricate and my love might not look like your love but my God, I’ll try my hardest to recognize it and understand it and I think it’s important that people do the same for everyone. I had so many people telling me that my life revolved around everyone else, that I never took time for myself, that I never focused on myself or my goals and they got in my head and convinced me that I deserved better and deserved more from my life and so I left everything to be by myself and my God, I was miserable. I was so broken and defeated and sick on my stomach and there were a few times when I was ready to just end it all or check myself into a mental hospital I was so sick and sad, but it’s because I wasn’t listening to myself. I knew what I wanted all along, I wanted that sense of family that comes only from friendships that are deeper than a 2am on a dark back road, I wanted that sense of comfort that comes from knowing if I’m ever lonely I can pick up my phone and I won’t be lonely anymore, I wanted that sense of purpose that comes when a friend calls me, or comes to see me, or wants advice, or invites me somewhere, or just tags me in a meme because it reminded them of me. I wanted to be front row at my best friend’s wedding ceremony, behind the camera at my best friend’s baby shower, smiling in the background of snapchats and instagrams, at dinner with people who make me laugh out loud - that’s my joy. That’s my fulfillment. That’s the way I know I’m okay and that I’m good and that my life is something more than 80 years of doing nothing before they lay me in a grave. I want to be surrounded and held and I want to stay up until 4am and I want to go to dinner and I want to go to parties and I want to sit in empty gas station parking lots because that’s who I am. I never needed to learn how to be alone because fuck, I was never alone and when I was, it was heartbreaking and soul crushing.

About two months ago, I went to the doctor to get some depression pills as a last resort. They just made me more sick and made me see knives as a way out, so I stopped taking them. I didn’t sleep for three days, I couldn’t go to work without crying in my car the whole way there and back, I didn’t eat a full meal in probably a month. And one day, driving away from the doctor’s office with tears streaming down my face, I decided I didn’t want to do it anymore and I took out my phone and I called my best friend who I haven’t spoken to in nearly a year and I just said “Hey, I know it’s been a while but I can’t do this anymore. I miss you so badly there’s an ache in my stomach and life just doesn’t feel worth it anymore.” and she said “come see me” and since then it’s been okay. It’s been a lot more smiles, a lot more hopeful mornings, a lot more appetite, and a lot more sleep. It’s not all my friends and family being back, I’m still taking some medicine for the anxiety, but it’s natural and it doesn’t make me sick.

I guess what I’m saying is I never should have thought that I needed to learn to be alone because I don’t. Being alone is a terrible thing and it’s okay to find peace in it from time to time but I’d never want to be comfortable with it. It’s okay that my life revolves around other people, it’s okay that I get my joy from taking care of other people, it’s okay that people need me and it’s okay that I like that. At least when it’s like that I want to be alive and I can wake up every day without laying in bed for hours wondering what the point is.

#we're going to be okay kids #i'm going to start seeing a therapist soon #and i'm going to talk to some more friends of mine soon too #safely of course #corona is a still a thing so i do need to be careful obviously #but this isolated life is more depleting than anything i've ever experienced #and i can't keep existing without human interaction #recovery #personal

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intergalactic-nebula · 5 years ago

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Till Kingdom Come

Chapter one

Rain. That's the first thing that her senses process. The sound of heavy rain on a leaky roof. Rey blinked a few times before realizing she was curled up in her makeshift palette on the abandoned art studio floor, the brunette female huffing quietly before closing her eyes once more and snuggling down into her scratchy blankets.

She didn't want to wake up.

She didn't want to wake up simply because that meant going outside in the wasteland that was once a city many, many years ago, but after the war with the pale beasts, and losing, most towns were ruins. Deserted ruins that barely held any life whatsoever anymore. To put it in a certain sense, Rey was in a neutral zone of sorts. A place where the pale beasts barely bothered to venture out to because it was not up to their standards and they didn't see a point to leave their more bountiful lands where they had livestock waiting for them. Livestock. The thought made Rey's eyes open as she sneered, the young woman sitting up and letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She had blacked out the windows months ago with tape, except for small cracks just so some light could come in, just to be safe, just to make sure no one could peep in and find her hiding place.

She didn't exactly need to hide, per say, but once a scavenger, always a scavenger, and survival was the only thing that mattered to her. Rey sat there for several minutes as she just stared at the wall as the rain hit the roof, her hazel eyes burning a hole into the yellowed, practically brown now, white paint. "...BeeBee, where are you?" Rey finally called out and a loud bark resonated from within the next room, Rey sighing in relief as she stood up and stretched. A large ginger colored retriever came running into the room, the dog barking once more as it ran a singular circle around her before stopping in front of her. "You slept okay, buddy?" Rey asked softly as she kneeled down and gently rubbed his head, BeeBee barking once in response before smiling one of those famous dog smiles. She had found BeeBee wondering the streets only three months ago, the dog having miraculously showed up out of nowhere. It was concerning at first, yes, but Rey took him in none the less. If Rey had to guess, the dog's owner must've died from starvation and BeeBee must've wondered off after his owner hadn't responded to his whimpering and barking.

"Let's go out today, yeah? Go try and find food? We could try that diner again." Rey hummed with a smile and BeeBee thumped his tail against the cement floor. "Alright, let me get dressed and ready." Rey laughed quietly before standing up and walking over to the other side of the room where a heap of clothes lay. They weren't filthy, she had found that there was a certain faucet that still worked in a bathtub in a decaying apartment building not but a few blocks from where she was, and she made a trip there once a week to wash her clothes with cleaning products she finds on her scavenging hunts. The last time she had been incredibly lucky to find lemon dawn soap that had been hiding under a sink in an office building bathroom for what she guessed to be fifty years, but the lemony scent was still vibrantly there and she couldn't stop smelling her clothes for at least a good few days. She picked up her usual wear, tattered, baggy blue overalls, firefighter jacket, and white tank top. It was a strange combination of clothes, yes, but the overalls fit snug and she didn't care if they got filthy, and the firefighter jacket was thick enough to protect her from rusty metal looking to scrape her unwilling sunkissed skin.

"Alright, BeeBee, I think we should head east today. We headed north last week and we were lucky enough to find those two cans of beans, but we're going to be more thorough this time. Let's surpass our goal of two cans and try for three!" Rey projected confidently as she quickly got dressed, BeeBee barking excitedly in response as she tied her hair up in an extremely messy (and tragically tangled) bun. Rey had a comb she used, but because it was so fragile (the plastic was brittle and weak as it was melted in numerous places and has countless cracks marring it) she only used it after she just washed her hair.

It wasn't but fifteen minutes later, after Rey had munched on canned beans, and after giving some to BeeBee, that she stood by the door after putting her goggles on and wrapping a red scarf around her head as well as pulling on her tattered combat boots and thick leather gloves (which served the same purpose as the firefighter jacket). The amount of dust everywhere mixed with floating dirt particles had always irritated Rey's senses since she was a child, allergies she assumed, and she had found that covering up significantly helped a great deal amount.

It wasn't but thirty minutes later that her and BeeBee were already a mile and half away from the art studio, the young woman humming softly as BeeBee stayed high and alert for any specific scents or sounds. It was normally almost always quiet though, then again, apocalyptic cities are almost always quiet, aren't they? Rey barely encountered any other life in the rusted ruins that was once Houston, Texas, and when she did it was only shadows of other survivors that knew better than to approach and try to befriend her.

There were no friends in survival, there was only you. Rey learned that a very long time ago as a child, and a shudder ran up her spine as Unkar Plutt crossed her mind. "He's not alive anymore, Rey, it's over," Rey breathed quietly to herself as she absentmindedly hurried her footsteps. "It's over." She breathed once before pausing on top of a large piece of broken cement, BeeBee pausing beside before looking up at her with what one would describe almost eerily as a confused expression. This happened sometimes. Rey would disassociate and not even realize it until fifteen, twenty minutes had passed. BeeBee barked and huffed before gently tugging on Rey's sleeve with his teeth, Rey blinking rapidly for a second before looking down and smiling softly. "Thank you." Rey smiled a tad bit more and BeeBee huffed once more before moving forward, Rey quickly following him.

It was another good hour and a half before Rey and BeeBee reached the diner she had found a few weeks ago, the brunette quickly hurrying in with the retriever hot on her heels. "C'mon, c'mon, I couldn't have taken everything...!" Rey frantically hissed under her breath as she made a beeline for the kitchen and started tearing through the cabinets ravenously. Sometimes, hunger can make you an animal, and Rey knew this very well. She tore through all the cabinets within minutes and she had started to feel defeated before a gleam of silver caught her eye in a cabinet above her. "Is--is that...?" Rey gasped softly as she slowly reached up and pulled it out from behind a few cracked plates, the brunette's hazel green eyes blown wide as she stared down at it in awe. Soup. It was Campbell's soup. Rey practically let out a choked sob of delight as she eagerly hugged it to her chest, a wave of gratitude washing over her. The last time she had had soup was when she was small, she couldn't place her age exactly, and even now she didn't quite exactly know how old she was. She assumed eighteen or nineteen, but for all she knew she could easily be in her early twenties.

"BeeBee, soup! Soup!" Rey grinned excitedly as she called out to BeeBee and BeeBee yipped happily in response as he slammed his paws on the ground as he got in a playful position. She put the soup can in her jacket pocket before combing the kitchen for more non perishables, only to find a can of beans within her hour search. "Well, the soup is a plus, huh?" Rey sighed as she and BeeBee started walking back towards the art studio, her pace quick as she noticed the sun would be down soon. It was dangerous to be out at night, it always had been, and there was no chance in hell Rey would be outside when the sun's rays no longer licked the dusty pavement.

She made it back to the art studio just in time, the brunette slamming the door behind her before feverishly undoing the scarf on her head and ripping the goggles off as well as ripping her gloves off. She leaned her forehead against the door as she closed her eyes tiredly, her stomach loudly grumbling in protest of not eating at that very moment. "Hush, I know...I get it..." Rey muttered in exhaustion as she forced her eyes open, BeeBee already off and about sniffing the apartment to see if any scents had changed while they were gone.

She forced herself to eat the beans, having put the can of soup lovingly in a cabinet and saving it for a special occasion, as she sat on the kitchen counter quietly. The bags under her eyes were preposterous, downright ghastly, but the poor girl couldn't help that she had insomnia. She perhaps only got an hour or two of sleep a day, going to sleep around twelve in the afternoon only to wake up at one or two, sometimes even three if she was lucky. Nothing felt...real. Sitting on the kitchen counter didn't feel real. Chewing and tasting didn't feel real. Was she dreaming? "No," Rey announced sternly as she put the cracked bowl down, the brunette wiping the back of her mouth with her hand. "No, I am not dreaming, I am here. I am real." She breathed shakily, but it sounded like she didn't believe it. She didn't, in all honesty, for there were days where she was convinced she was dead and this was limbo. Those were the worst days. "I'm--I--I need sleep," She choked on her words slightly as she jumped off the counter, the girl rushing to the main room and quickly burrowed herself in her palette.

The blankets were scratchy and, at one point, gave her hives, but it was all she had. It was the only blanket she had ever owned that she had found herself. It was hers, and so she dealt with it. "BeeBee, guard the door," Rey's words were slurred as she felt exhaustion take over, her eyes fluttering closed as blackness captivated her vision.

What she didn't see was the man on the glass roof staring down at her with wide red eyes, rain drizzle sliding down his ivory cheeks and kissing his tresses.

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phanboyo · 6 years ago

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hey rant about ghost money

Listen. WHAT THE HECK IS GHOST MONEY??? IS IT JUST REGULAR MONEY BUT IT FLOATS OR SOMETHING??? The whole ghost zone is made of different realms and islands and stuff, so does each realm have a different kind of currency? I mean probably considering the other option would be that the whole ghost zone has one currency which means that the whole ghost zone is governed by one large body who regulates currency. Who does that?? Are you telling me there's some head of the ghost treasury who regulates this stuff even though Pariah Dark (presumed "leader of the ghost zone") is (for all intents and purposes) dead/gone?! Who??? Who decides to spend his afterlife running the ghost treasury with no king??? Alexander Hamilton?? Is Walker involved in the enforcement of this singular currency? I thought his laws were made up! What is the truth?!

But if every realm has its own currency, how obnoxious is it to exchange currency when you go from Dora's to the Far Frozen? How do they even keep up with exchange rates? What do the ghost bankers do with the foreign currency? What does it represent? Ghost gold? Ghost silver? Ectoranium? Why would any of these metals (is ectoranium a metal? It's supposedly based on kryptonite, which is a metal, I think, even though Krypton which is a real element is actually a nonmetal? Who decided this?) have any value to ghosts? And what about places like Skulker's island? Does Skulker have his own currency? Is he just supposed to use the currency of the nearest realm? Does that mean he is governed by the local bodies of that realm?! But that defeats the purpose of having his own island!

Okay but like what do ghosts even do with ghost money??? They don't need food do they? I don't think they need money to get a lair (man imagine what a nightmare that would be. Real estate in the ghost zone? Are lairs next to the Fenton portal more expensive? Do you have to pay property taxes? How would that even work? Let's not think about it) either so what is it for? Trading luxury goods and services??? What's to stop your average ghost from going his whole afterlife without having or using a single ghost dime? Hopefully absolutely nothing because can you imagine dying and then having to spend your whole AFTERLIFE making money? Imagine being poor as a ghost. Spending all hours working a dead end job just to make ends meet. Now that's just mean. Is this what Hell is?

Okay but here's the thing, if the vast majority of ghosts don't need money to live comfortably then money has no value. What do you do if another ghost has something you want, but no amount of ghost money will sway him, cause to him it might as well be ghost paper? What if most ghosts are like this? Then money is useless.

And besides that, what would you do to earn money anyways? Sell guacamole ghost products? How are those products made anyway? They're just made out of ectoplasm, right? Right?! Please don't tell me there are ghost sheep that you have to shear to get your ghost wool to weave into ghost suits. What about products that require killing the animal, like leather? Can you kill a ghost and skin it? I mean I guess so cause that's what Skulker supposedly does, but what happens to ghosts when they die? Do they fizzle out into nothing? Is the Ghost Zone like some sort of weird purgatory and dead ghosts go to the "real" afterlife, whatever that means? How many afterlifes are there??? Anyway, I'd like to think that if there are any ghost shepherds they do it because it's their passion and not because they need to sell ghost sheep byproducts for a living (for a killing?). If everything's just made out of ectoplasm, and lairs are just made out of ectoplasm, and ghosts can form their lairs to look however they want, why would a ghost need to buy something from another ghost when he can just make it himself? Convenience? They're dead! They have a whole eternity to make it!

So ghost obsessions? That's what ghosts do in the afterlife right? So then what if your obession doesn't make a lot of money? We saw that one nightmare kid when Danny first went into the ghost zone who was just playing with his toys and scaring random passerby. Is he expected to earn ghost money? Are there child labor laws in a world where no one ages?

Okay, what about things like concerts? Surely one can't replicate an Ember concert without Ember, so that might be a paid even right? Sure, if we ignore the fact that it's her obession anyway, and that she loves riling up a crowd with her music anyway, and would do it without any useless money anyway.

So then what if a ghost has something that I'm just too lazy or too stupid to make myself. Gee, Ghost Writer, I sure would like to take a gander at your original poetry. Even though you'll probably let me have a copy once your get them printed just so that you can see your work read and enjoyed, let's pretend in this instance that that is not the case. Man, if only ghost money were worth something, I could pay you for it. THATS WHERE BARTER COMES IN, FOLKS! Hey Ghost Writer, if you give me your original poetry, I'll paint a unique portrait of you, so long as you see those two things being of equal value. BOOM GHOST MONEY PROBLEMS SOLVED.

So, if ghost money is just like, dead currencies, floating around the GZ like "oh look, there goes a 10 Kronen note" then sure, ghost money.

But the idea of like, actual ghost currency brings up a lot of questions about ghost economy and government. I will not sit here and debate about the entire infrastructure of a fictional society of beings whose biology and home is largely a mystery! It's impractical!

Still, I love the idea of Danny picking up some floating ghost money that only ghosts can touch while his parents just stare at him wondering how the heck he touched it.

#LISTEN WE ARE NOT GOING TO DELVE INTO WORLDBUILDING THAT DEEP!! NOT RIGHT NOW!!#im not... strong enough...#ghost zone #ectobiology #hc #ask

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rabbi-brian · 5 years ago

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“How to fight your Battles!”

BY RABBI BRIAN BILECI - Simchat Yeshua Messianic Congregation

Have you felt like you are constantly the target of spiritual attacks? There is no doubt that the adversary of our souls has a strategy to try to defeat us and win in a battle against God’s people. How can we overcome problems, temptations and spiritual battles in our daily lives? What can we learn from the battles of Abraham, Moses, Joshua, Deborah, David, Jehoshaphat and Yeshua? As we take a journey together through the Scriptures, we will discover seven powerful principles of successful battle strategies that can help the believer defeat the enemy’s plan and fulfill the Lord's purpose in the daily battles of life.

Rabbi Brian Bileci has been shepherding and instructing believers for 33 years of ministry, to know their Messiah, and how to develop a greater understanding of the Jewish/Hebraic roots of their faith. He has a bachelor’s degree in Biblical/Theological Studies with a focus on Jewish studies through Vision International. Rabbi Brian was trained in Torah studies and Hebrew classes, under Dr./Rabbi Alon Barak, of Desert Hot Springs, Ca. and Israeli Hebrew teacher, Sari Ben Or, from Haifa, Israel, at Temple Baruch HaShem (UMJC). He and his wife, Magali, have been the rabbi and rebbetzin at Simchat Yeshua Messianic Congregation, in San Jacinto Ca., for over 12 years, while raising their 11 1⁄2 year old daughter, Elianna.

BIBLICAL BATTLES: 1. Abraham battles for Lot - FIGHT FOR FAMILY

BERESHIT / Genesis 14:8 Then the kings of S’dom, ‘Amora, Admah, Tzvoyim and Bela (that is, Tzo‘ar) came out and arrayed themselves for battle in the Siddim Valley 9 against K’dorla‘omer king of ‘Elam, Tid‘al king of Goyim, Amrafel king of Admah and Aryokh king of Elasar, four kings against the five...11The victors took all the possessions of S’dom and ‘Amora and all their food supply; then they left. 12 But as they left, they took Lot, Avram’s brother’s son, and his possessions; since he was living in S’dom. 13Someone who had escaped came and told Avram the Hebrew, who was living by the oaks of Mamre the Emori, brother of Eshkol and brother of ‘Aner; all of them allies of Avram. 14 When Avram heard that his nephew had been taken captive, he led out his trained men, who had been born in his house, 318 of them, and went in pursuit as far as Dan. 15 During the night he and his servants divided his forces against them, then attacked and pursued them all the way to Hovah, north of Dammesek. 16 He recovered all the goods and brought back his nephew Lot with his goods, together with the women and the other people. CJB

Guerrilla warfare is a form of irregular warfare in which small groups of combatants, such as paramilitary personnel, armed civilians, or irregulars, use military tactics, like ambushes. Fought largely by independent, irregular bands, sometimes linked to regular forces, it is a warfare of harassment through surprise. The Spanish word guerrilla is the diminutive form of guerra ('war'). The term became popular during the early-19th century Peninsular War, when the Spanish and Portuguese people rose against the Napoleonic troops and fought against a highly superior army using the guerrilla strategy. In correct Spanish usage, a person who is a member of a guerrilla unit is a guerrillero if male, or a guerrillera if female. The term guerrilla was used in English as early as 1809 to refer to the individual fighters (e.g., "The town was taken by the guerrillas"), and also (as in Spanish) to denote a group or band of such fighters. However, in most languages guerrilla still denotes the specific style of warfare.

and he armed: and similarly (Lev. 26:33): [which Onkelos renders]: “and I will arm Myself with My sword against you,” and similarly (Exod. 15:9): “I will arm myself with my sword,” and similarly (Ps. 35:3): “And arm Yourself with a spear and ax.” - [from Gen. Rabbah 43:2]

his trained men: It is written [in the singular], his trained man (other editions: It is read). This is Eliezer, whom he had trained to [perform the] commandments, and it is an expression of the initiation (lit. the beginning of the entrance) of a person or a utensil to the craft with which he [or it] is destined to remain, and similarly (Prov. 22:6): “Train a child”; (Num. 7:10): “the dedication of the altar”; (Ps. 30:1): “the dedication of of the Temple,” and in Old French it is called enseigner [to instruct, train].

2. Moses battles for Israel - FIGHT FOR FREEDOM

SH’MOT / Exodus 13:17 After Pharaoh had let the people go, God did not lead them along the road to the land of the Philistines, although that was nearby, for God said, “The people might change their minds if they see war and return to Egypt.” 18 So God led the people around by the way of the wilderness to the Sea of Reeds, and Bnei-Yisrael went up out of the land of Egypt armed. TLV

CHABAD: Rashi - armed: Hebrew: Chimushim! [in this context] can only mean “armed.” (Since He led them around in the desert [circuitously], He caused them to go up armed, for if He had led them around through civilization, they would not have [had to] provide for themselves with everything that they needed, but only [part,] like a person who travels from place to place and intends to purchase there whatever he will need. But if he travels a long distance into a desert, he must prepare all his necessities for himself. This verse was written only to clarify the matter, so you should not wonder where they got weapons in the war with Amalek and in the wars with Sihon and Og and Midian, for the Israelites smote them with the point of the sword.) [In an old Rashi]) And similarly [Scripture] says: “and you shall cross over armed (Chimushim <yv!m%j!)” (Josh. 1:14). And so too Onkelos rendered Me'zar'zin /yz!r+z`m= just as he rendered: “and he armed (v'zareiz ) his trained men” (Gen. 14:14). Another interpretation: Chimushim means “divided by five,” [meaning] that one out of five (Chimishah hv*m!j!) [Israelites] went out, and four-fifths [lit., parts of the people] died during the three days of darkness [see Rashi on Exod. 10:22]. — [from Mechilta, Tanchuma, Beshallach 1].

Chamush: in battle array, arrayed for battle by fives, armed; passive participle of the same as H2570; staunch, i.e. able-bodied soldiers:—armed (men), harnessed.

3. Moses and Joshua battle Amalek - FIGHT FOR VICTORY

SH’MOT / Exodus 17:8 Then the Amalekites came and fought with Israel at Rephidim. 9 Moses said to Joshua, “Choose men, go out, and fight the Amalekites. Tomorrow I will stand on the top of the hill with the staff of God in my hand.” 10 So Joshua did as Moses said, and fought the Amalekites, while Moses, Aaron and Hur went up to the top of the hill. 11 When Moses held up his hand, Israel prevailed. But when he let down his hand, the Amalekites prevailed. 12 Moses’ hands grew heavy, so they took a stone, put it under him, and he sat down. Aaron and Hur held up his hands, one on each side. So his hands were steady until the sun went down. 13 So Joshua overpowered the Amalekites and his army with the edge of the sword. 14 Adonai said to Moses, “Write this for a memorial in the book, and rehearse it in the hearing of Joshua, for I will utterly blot out the memory of the Amalekites from under heaven.” TLV

AMALEK: In some rabbinical interpretations, Amalek is etymologized as am lak, a people who lick (blood). Also the first letter Ayin u is a pictograph of an “eye” [,connected to malak, to sever, which can mean “severed eye,” or implies “spiritual blindness.” Amalek also has the gematria of 240 as safek (“doubt”).

CHABAD: Rashi - “When Moses would raise his hand”: Did Moses’ hands then make them victorious in battle, etc.? [Rather this is to tell you that when the Israelites looked up and subjugated their hearts to their Father in heaven, they would prevail, and if not, they would fall,] as is found in Rosh Hashanah (29a).

“Now Moses’ hands were heavy”: Since he had been lax in [the performance of] the commandment [of warring against Amalek] and had appointed someone else in his stead, his hands became heavy. — [from Mechilta]

“So he was with his hands in faith”: And Moses was with his hands in faith, spread out toward heaven in a faithful and proper prayer.

1 Timothy 2:8 So I desire ALL MEN TO PRAY everywhere, LIFTING UP HOLY HANDS, without anger and argument. TLV

4. Joshua battles for Jericho - FIGHT FOR INHERITANCE

MESSIANIC JEWS / Hebrews 2:30 By FAITH the walls of Jericho fell down after they were circled for seven days. 31 By faith Rahab the prostitute did not perish with those who were disobedient, because she welcomed the spies with shalom. TLV

YA`AKOV / James (Jacob) 2:18 But someone will say, “You have faith and I have works. Show me your faith without works and I will show you faith by my works"...24 You see that a man is proved righteous by works and not by faith alone. 25 And likewise, wasn’t Rahab the prostitute also proved righteous by works when she welcomed the messengers and sent them out another way? TLV

YEHOSHUA / Joshua 6:1 Now Jericho was tightly shut up because of Bnei-Yisrael—no one going out and no one coming in. 2 Then Adonai said to Joshua, “Look, I have given Jericho into your hand, with its king and mighty warriors. 3 Now you are to march around the city, all the men of war circling the city once. So you are to do for six days. 4Seven kohanim will carry seven shofarot of rams’ horns before the ark. Then on the seventh day you are to circle the city seven times while the kohanim blow the shofarot. 5It will be when they make a long blast with the ram’s horn, when you hear the sound of the shofar, have all the people shout a loud shout—then the wall of the city will fall down flat, and the people will go up, everyone straight ahead.” TLV

JERICHO

This city was famous for Joshua and the Israelites marching around the city seven times, until the walls came down, with the blast of trumpets [ram’s horns]. Jericho is a place of total victory that young leaders learn, as they follow the commands of the leadership over their lives. It’s a place that starts with a silent submission before a shout of victory. Jericho teaches us to be consecrated to God’s action plan, and not question His strategy. The walls in our life won’t come down until our overcoming obedience and prayerful praises go up.

YEHOSHUA / Joshua 1:6 Chazak! Be strong! For you will lead these people to inherit the land I swore to their fathers to give them. 7 Only be very strong, and resolute to observe diligently the Torah which Moses, My servant commanded you. Do not turn from it to the right or to the left, so you may be successful wherever you go. 8 This book of the Torah should not depart from your mouth—you are to meditate on it day and night, so that you may be careful to do everything written in it. For then you will make your ways prosperous and then you will be successful. 9 Have I not commanded you? Chazak! Be strong! Do not be terrified or dismayed, for Adonai your God is with you wherever you go.” 10 Then Joshua commanded the officials of the people saying: 11 “Go through the camp and charge the people saying: ‘Prepare provisions, for within three days you will be crossing over this Jordan, to go in to possess the land which Adonai your God is giving you to possess it.’” 12 Then Joshua spoke to the Reubenites, Gadites and half-tribe of Manasseh saying: 13 “Remember the word that Moses the servant of Adonai commanded you saying: ‘Adonai your God has given you rest, and has assigned to you this land.’ 14 Your wives, your little ones and your cattle will remain in the land which Moses gave you beyond the Jordan, but you will cross over before your brothers armed, all the mighty men of valor, and will help them 15 until Adonai gives your brothers rest, as He has given you, and they also possess the land that Adonai your God is giving them. Then you will return to the land of your inheritance, and possess what Moses the servant of Adonai gave you, beyond the Jordan toward the sunrise.” TLV

5. Deborah battles with Israel - FIGHT FOR YOUR NATION

SHOFTIM / Judges 4:4 Now Deborah, a woman who was a prophetess, the wife of Lappidoth, was judging Israel at that time. 5 She used to sit under the palm tree of Deborah between Ramah and Bethel in the hill country of Ephraim, and Bnei-Yisrael came up to her for judgment. 6 Now she sent and summoned Barak son of Abinoam from Kedesh in Naphtali, and said to him, “Hasn’t Adonai, God of Israel, commanded, ‘Go, march to Mount Tabor, and take with you 10,000 men of the sons of Naphtali and of the sons of Zebulun? 7 Then at the Kishon torrent, I will draw out to you Sisera, commander of Jabin’s army with his chariots and his multitude, and I will give him into your hand. 8 But Barak said to her, “If you are going with me, then I will go. But if you aren’t going with me, I won’t go.” 9 “Surely I will go with you,” she said. “However, no honor will be yours on the way that you are about to go—for Adonai will sell Sisera into the hand of a woman.” So Deborah arose and went with Barak to Kedesh. 10Then Barak summoned Zebulun and Naphtali together to Kedesh, and 10,000 men marched up after him, and Deborah went up with him. TLV

MESSIANIC / Hebrews 11:31 And what more shall I say? For time would fail me if I tell of Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, also of David and Samuel and the prophets. 33 By faith they conquered kingdoms, administered justice, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions, 34 quenched the power of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, were made strong out of weakness, became MIGHTY IN WAR, and made foreign armies flee. TLV

6. David battles against Goliath - FIGHT FOR YOUR GOD

SH’MUEL ALEF / 1 Samuel 17:26Then David asked the men who were standing by him saying, “What will be done for the man who kills this Philistine and takes away the reproach from Israel? For who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the ranks of the living God?” 36 Your servant has killed both the lion and the bear, so this uncircumcised Philistine will become like one of them—since he has defied the ranks of the living God.” 37 Then David said, “Adonai, who has delivered me from the paw of the lion and from the paw of the bear, will deliver me from the hand of this Philistine.” “Go!” said Saul to David, “and may Adonai be with you”…49 David put his hand in his bag, took from it a stone and slung it, striking the Philistine on his forehead. The stone sank into his forehead, so that he fell on his face to the ground. 50 So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and a stone, struck the Philistine down and killed him. Since there was no sword in David’s hand, 51 David ran, stood over the Philistine, picked up his sword, drew it from its sheath, slew him and cut off his head with it. TLV

BATTLE TACTICS

As we have seen to this point, the Philistines boasted an effective military consisting of infantry, chariotry, archery, possibly cavalry, and some vassals or mercenaries. They were armed with effective weaponry for their time and protected their cities with strong fortifications. The numerous scriptural passages about the Israelites fighting the Philistines give some indication of Philistine military strategy.

7. Jehoshaphat battles for Judah - FIGHT FOR YOUR WORSHIP

DIVREI HAYAMIM BET / 2 Chronicles 20:1Now it happened after this that the Moabites and the Ammonites together with other Ammonites came to make war against Jehoshaphat…3 Jehoshaphat was afraid so he resolved to seek Adonai, and he proclaimed a fast throughout all Judah. 4 Judah assembled to seek help from Adonai; indeed, they came from all the cities of Judah to seek Adonai. 5 Then Jehoshaphat stood in the congregation of Judah and Jerusalem in the House of Adonai in front of the new courtyard. 6 and said: “Adonai, God of our fathers, are You not God in heaven? You rule over all the kingdoms of the nations. Power and might are in Your hand and no one can stand against You. 7 Are You not our God who drove out the inhabitants of this land before Your people Israel and gave it to the descendants of Your friend Abraham forever? 8 They settled in it and built You a Temple there for Your Name saying, 9 ‘If calamity comes upon us—the sword of judgment, pestilence or famine—we will stand before this House and before You—for Your Name is in this House—and cry to You in our distress and You will hear and deliver us.’ 18 Jehoshaphat bowed down with his face to the ground and all Judah and the inhabitants of Jerusalem fell down before Adonai to WORSHIP Adonai. 19 Levites, from the sons of Kohath and the sons of Korah, stood up to praise Adonai, the God of Israel, with a very loud voice. 20 Early in the morning they arose and went out into the wilderness of Tekoa. As they went forth, Jehoshaphat stood and said, “Listen to me, O Judah and inhabitants of Jerusalem! Believe in Adonai your God and you will be confirmed. Trust in His prophets and you will succeed.” 21 After consulting with the people, he appointed singers to Adonai praising the splendor of His holiness, as they went out before the army saying, “Praise Adonai, for His mercy endures forever.” 22 As they began singing and praising, Adonai set ambushes against the children of Ammon, Moab, and Mount Seir who had come against Judah, and they were defeated. 23 For the Ammonites and Moabites rose up against the inhabitants of Mount Seir to exterminate and annihilate them. When they had exterminated the inhabitants of Seir, they helped to destroy one another. TLV

· HaShem wanted His People to be Equipped for Battle

· HaShem wants His People to use the sharp two-edged sword of his Word

YESHAYAHU / Isaiah 59:16 He saw that there was no one—He was astonished that no one was interceding. Therefore His own arm brought salvation for Him, and His righteousness upheld Him. 17 He put on righteousness as a breastplate and a helmet of salvation on His head. He clothed Himself in robes of vengeance and wrapped Himself in zeal as a cloak. TLV

· HaShem wants His People to Discipled by the Messiah and be Fully-Trained

BERESHIT / Genesis 14:14 When Abram heard that his nephew Lot had been captured, he mobilized the 318 trained men who had been born into his household. Then he pursued Kedorlaomer’s army until he caught up with them at Dan. NLT

Luke 6:40 A disciple is not above his teacher, but everyone who is fully trained will be like his teacher. TLV

DISCIPLE: a follower and student of a mentor, teacher, or wise leader; a disciplined one.

Hebrew: talmid - from the Hebrew root “lamad,” meaning “to learn;” a student

Greek: mathetes - learner, pupil, disciple; from the Greek verb “manthano” - to learn or increase in one’s knowledge, including applying its principles.

Latin: discipulus - from the verb “discere” meaning to be a learner or a “disciplined one”; disciple comes from this word in Latin. Discipline can be defined as training, that corrects, molds, or perfects the mental faculties or moral character of a disciple.

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alphawave-writes · 5 years ago

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Evil actions and good intentions chapter 11: ‘Evil actions and good intentions’

Synopsis: Sigma is getting ready to go on a top secret mission with Overwatch. But first, he must confront his fears

Read it here or find it on AO3. You guys can also find me on twitter. If you want to support me, you can ask for a commission or you can buy me a ko-fi.

I’ll be doing Sigroldweek 2019, so expect a lot more Sigrold to come next week when it starts XD I am so excited I had to get this chapter out of my system.

Sigma is awoken in the early hours of the morning by a dip in the bed. He doesn’t open his eyes just yet, instead raising his arm and reaching over to the other side of the mattress, relieved to feel soft flesh freckled with age spots against his palm. His hand curls over the body, pulling them closer.

There’s a quiet chuckle, no louder than a whisper. “Siebren, come on.”

“Stay,” he mumbles into the pillow.

“Siebren, I have to get up. I promised to join Reinhardt and Genji in their morning training.”

“Please,” Sigma whispers.

Harold lets out a quiet sigh of defeat before nestling closer to Sigma. He presses a sleepy kiss to his shoulder, then his chin, and then his nose. His hot breath tickles Sigma’s skin. “I’m blaming you if Reinhardt asks me why I’m late.”

“Good,” Sigma smiles as he pulls Harold close and buries his nose into Harold’s greying hairline. Harold smells like sage and soil and the Earth, ironic for a man who was at his most comfortable on the moon. Sigma’s sure he’ll get teased for keeping Harold here when he’s expected. He’s already gotten a few stares when he asked to share a room with Harold. He’ll get a few more today.

Harold yawns lightly as he wraps his arms around Sigma. True to his promise, Harold has worked tirelessly to help Overwatch in their mission to stop Lucheng Interstellar from going back to Horizon lunar base. It is one thing to help come up with strategies, Sigma thinks, but Harold is training his body with Reinhardt in the mornings and working on his aim in the evening with Sojourn. In the afternoons, if he’s not studying his nanobots with Mei, he’s making up armour pieces with Torbjörn and Brigitte and adding a tesla cannon prototype to his jet injector with Winston. To anyone else, Harold is preparing to fight, but Sigma knows better. Harold is ready to risk his life for his vision, regardless of the consequences. Sigma admires it as much as it frightens him.

He wants to keep a low cover. He wants time to rest and relax and just forget about the world. He smiles along, getting along with this new Overwatch, but in the inside he knows he’s not whole. How can he be? He summoned the black hole of his nightmares into creation once more. He obeyed the call of the universe, let it sink its dark tendrils into his soul, gave it permission to rip him apart. You don’t just forget that. You don’t just pretend everything is alright after that. But that’s exactly what he’s doing by going along with Harold's whims. He has to pretend he's alright, if not for Harold or himself then for this cause that Harold so eagerly believes in. Overwatch needs Siebren, not Sigma.

But how long can he pretend to be something he's not?

When Sigma opens his eyes, Harold’s staring at him. His lips are pulled into a tight frown and his brows are furrowed. He places a soft hand on Sigma’s cheek.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he gruffly replies.

“Nightmares again?”

Sigma doesn’t speak. He lets Harold smooth his fingers over his face, a familiar and comforting gesture. They’re not nightmares, but he’d rather have Harold think they are. Harold doesn’t need to know how fragile he really is.

“What kind of nightmares are they?

“Nothing you should concern yourself with. Stupid things. Inconsequential things.”

Harold sighs quietly in disconcert but accepts the silence as an answer. Sigma lets his fingers trace over Harold’s stubble. It's rough,

“You’re thinking again. What are you thinking about?”

“Just, you know…how happy I am, as odd as that is. Despite everything.”

Sigma lets out a soft smile. “I’m not surprised. You’ve been reunited with your son. You’ve found a new home.”

“It’s not just him. It’s you too.” Harold presses another tender kiss to the left corner of Sigma’s lips. “I know you didn’t really have much of a say what with the whole kidnapping thing but…I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Sigma can’t help but frown as he remembers the black hole forming in his hands. The universe’s whispers sang in his ears, and he remembers how magnificent it sounded. In his fractured state of mind, it was so easy to fall for their charms. All they did was dangle Harold in front of his face and he ran, like a horse to a carrot, unleashing that terrible power bottled inside his mortal body. How easy will it be for his mind to fracture again? How easy will it be for him to take Harold’s life in the chaos, just like that?

His arm curls around Harold’s form as he pulls him in tight, impossibly tight. Harold wants to say something, but Sigma presses his mouth against Harold’s open mouth and swallows his words and his moans. Harold is quick to surrender, holding Sigma’s face as he kisses back. Soon, they are lost to one another, time and space and responsibilities slipping away into nothing, if only for a precious moment.

If he kisses Harold long enough, if he touches his skin tenderly enough, perhaps he might forget about the weight of gravity on his shoulders.

He’s working in one of the labs this new Overwatch provides. A lot of his work was lost in Oasis but he makes do with what he remembers and what he knows. Though his mind is not whole, his memory is still sharp. Recalling his work is as easy as reciting the Dutch alphabet. He remembers. Perhaps he remembers too much, he thinks, as he stares at his idle hands, the dark strands of the universe threading through his fingers.

He sees the universe but he doesn’t hear it. Long ago, he thought he’d be relieved when the universe stops its incessant whispering. But now that it is gone, it’s the silence that scares him. Every little noise is so much louder. He hears the footsteps outside his lab and thinks he’s back in Oasis, chained up to the wall, waiting to be killed by Sanjay Korpal, waiting for those emotionless eyes to swallow his entire being in darkness. It’s almost like he's acutely aware he’s in a dream, and that sooner or later he will wake up back in the cheap lumpy mattress of the government facility, utterly alone.

He tries to work, and when that fails to quell that horrid gnawing in his chest, he summons the hyperspheres into his hands, watching them roll across his palm like Baoding balls. Harold had gifted him a pair once before, many years ago. It was the exact day that Sigma learned of Harold’s mixed heritage, of his Chinese roots as well as his American ones. As Sigma observes the spinning balls in his hand, it reminds him of binary star systems circling around one another, and then a swirling vortex, and then the black hole.

Fear freezes his heart as he flickers the hyperspheres out of existence, but it’s too late. He sees a phantom take Harold’s form, screaming in horror as its body is pulled apart by the black hole. He sees a phantom of himself, horrible and terrifying, observing Harold's phantom with the cold, clinical fascination of a researcher who has obtained a mildly interesting result. But whereas Harold’s phantom is a figment of his imagination, Sigma knows that his own phantom is a part of his soul. A beast that resides within his chest, ready to seize his fragile mind, begging for release.

Release me, it growls. Release me.

Is it his powers or just his fractured mind that feels the walls closing in on his body? Sigma digs his fingers into his skull, unable to force his eyes closed. The silence is stifling, unnerving, unnatural. When before there would be voices telling him he’s a monster, all he hears now is a singular voice—his voice—telling him the darkest truths. He will never be Siebren de Kuiper again. He will forever be Sigma. Forever Sigma. Sigma.

“Dr. de Kuiper?”

He whips his head to the doorway. Satya—or Symmetra, as she calls herself—is standing in a long, double-slitted dress. Her body language is stilted, uncomfortable. It's worrisome but not unexpected. Despite all the time she has spent in the Overwatch base developing her hard light constructs, she has not gotten comfortable with anyone.

“I have come in at a bad time,” she mutters.

“N-no, no, it’s fine,” Sigma quickly says. He gestures at a nearby seat. “Come in.”

Satya stares at him for a few seconds before taking two steps forward. She does not give indication she will go further than that. “Forgive my intrusion. There is a purpose to my presence, but I will not detain you if you are busy.”

Sigma glances at the blank document on the computer. It’s been blank since he came into this room today, and it will probably remain blank for the rest of the day. With a sigh, he forces himself to look away. “You’re not interrupting me. What is it?”

“This is a private discussion. About a private matter.”

Sigma frowns. “Surely you can pester Dr. Winston, not me. If it’s a personal issue, he can help you. He’s much better at this sort of thing than I am.”

“He is busy,” she utters. “Besides, I’d rather ask for your opinion on this delicate topic. If you are free, that is.”

Sigma lets out a quite breath. He turns off the computer and walks towards her. This is probably a blessing in disguise. Conversation will keep his mind occupied, especially if it is with Satya. But he knows from personal experience that conversation alone won’t be enough to quell the darkness. “Walk with me. We shall walk and talk, as they say.”

Satya nods as she falls in step with him and exits the lab.

Sigma wanders the hallways, searching for the exit within the labyrinth of halls. His lab is right in the centre of the main facility, which has its pros and cons. It’s relatively unused but clean, and it’s far away from many of the other workshops so it's rare that he is disturbed from his work, but it also means he can’t see the sky and feel the sunshine on his skin. He didn’t used to see the sun a lot when he was Siebren, and he didn’t see the sun a lot as Sigma, but for some reason he needs to see it today. He needs to feel the ocean breeze, hear the whip of the wind, remind himself that he’s on Earth. The world seems so surreal nowadays. Reminders like these, however absurd, have become increasingly necessary in his life.

Satya taps a rhythmic pattern into her bicep. She’s been silent for too long. She’s bursting to say something. “I do not belong here,” she admits.

Sigma nods politely. It's unwelcome to hear, but not entirely unexpected. “Why do you think that?”

“These people, this cause, it’s not what I am used to.”

“This new Overwatch seems to be rather idealistic in their beliefs,” Sigma grunts.

“Perhaps, but at its core it is far greater than that. It is truly benevolent. This new Overwatch truly wants to bring order and peace to the world, and I respect that because that is what I also believe in. But at the same time, the way it is going…it’s at odds with Vishkar.”

Sigma frowns as he observes Satya. The ways they have been indoctrinated differ, but he recognises the signs and symptoms. “How long have you been in Vishkar?”

“Since my childhood. They raised me up from the slums, gave me the opportunity to master hard light and make a difference. And there are good people there, who want to shape order in this chaotic world.” Satya's gaze lowers as she recalls the friends and family she has left behind.

Sigma understands all too well. “Even after all you’ve seen, it’s hard to separate the bad from the good," he says. "They’ve been so kind to you that it’s easier to forgive them for their betrayals.”

Satya is quiet for a long while. “What do I do?” She whispers.

“What you desire to do, of course,” Sigma replies. “The universe is limitless and timeless, and our existence is but a small blip in its lifetime. We must make the most of our limited lifespan in this world.”

“Is that why you are here? Joining this cause?”

Sigma pauses. He can’t help the frown that falls on his face.

Satya notices. “Does the rest of Overwatch know?”

“No,” Sigma replies.

“Does Dr. Winston?”

He grimaces. “No.”

Satya’s lips purse. “You should at least tell him.”

“There’s no need to. I’ve already decided to follow him wherever he may go. If he wants to play hero, then I’ll make sure he doesn’t get himself killed. He’s already been through a lot. He doesn’t need any more stress.”

“And you are OK with that?”

“Much better than I will be if I stayed with Talon,” Sigma says. “Many here want me to be the hero they think I am, but it is not to be. I’ve caused too much harm and too much death to be good. But Harold is a hero, in his legacy, beliefs, and actions. Overwatch has been reborn because of him. The world will be worse off if he did not inspire Winston as much as he did. But Harold has been alone for some time now, unable to spread his wings. It’s time I supported him and lighten the load.”

Satya’s brows furrow and Sigma thinks he's offended her, but then, in a quiet voice, she whispers to herself, "Spread your wings". She says no more after that, her expression returning to its original unreadable configuration.

Gibraltar’s sun is not as intense as Oasis’s, but it is still hot. Satya, as expected, is unaffected, but Sigma is not used to the hot weather. He vastly prefers it over the cold, but that’s more because the warm weather lets him get away with going barefoot. Near the hanger, Sigma spies Harold and Winston chatting together. They’re still awkward after all this time, but the distance between them is getting closer and closer. He sees Harold’s bashful smile, soft but warm, but like a star, it only seems that way from a distance. Up close, Sigma knows it’s bright and blinding and mesmerizing. He's seen it before, and he's always marveled at its splendour.

Sigma feels his lips pull up into a smile of his own, warmth creeping up his veins and spreading throughout his body. For a fleeting moment he thinks he has the courage to tell Harold the extent of his feelings but then Harold’s smile fades away as his conversation with Winston becomes more serious.

He only just realizes that Satya is watching him. He clears his throat loudly to hide his blush, but it only causes her to chuckle behind her hand.

“You two are certainly a pair.”

Sigma stares at the father and son figures in the distance. They have not yet realized he’s here. They’re too engrossed in their own conversation. “We’ll become more than a pair soon enough.”

“I thought you got along well enough with Winston,” Satya remarks.

“I do, but Harold is all but ready to adopt Winston as his child. Considering my own relationship with Dr. Winston, that makes my relationship with Winston rather complicated.”

“At least you have the chance to be a family. You should embrace it.”

Family. He hasn’t thought of it like that, has he? If Harold somehow is able to pull it off, will Sigma become Winston’s step-dad or his step-uncle?

No, that’s ridiculous. First of all, Harold will have to not be legally dead. Second of all, he’s pretty sure there are laws against adopting a 29-year-old gorilla, especially since said-gorilla is technically a legal citizen of Earth and is also technically the same age as Sigma and Harold in gorilla years. Third and finally, Sigma would have to be married to Harold in that hypothetical scenario, which was pretty much impossible for a multitude of reasons.

Still, it’s easy to imagine Harold taking his surname. Harold Winston is a nice enough name, but Harold de Kuiper has a special ring to it. It’s easy to imagine settling down with Harold and being a couple again—a proper one—and just settling down in a place of their own, somewhere far away from the world and the cockroaches they call people. It's easy to imagine Winston joining them, and perhaps even the cute little hamster Hammond, wherever he may be. But that opportunity has been gone for decades now. It will remain a figment of his imagination.

He watches Harold’s eyes finally catch his, sees those lips pull up into a brighter smile. Winston turns towards him too, giving a small salute in greetings. Sigma waves back, unsurprised to feel the heat drift up his body to his cheeks, taking away the tightness and pain in his head. It’s fleeting, but that’s more than he can ever want.

“I think we already are a family,” Sigma whispers, too soft for Satya to hear.

For a few days, no one sees Satya despite affirmation from Athena that she is indeed still on the base. Then, one day during a meeting, she dramatically opens the doors and takes her seat, looking none worse for wear. Many express their concern. Others express their relief. Satya ignores all of them, pointing at a tiny little detail on the hologram.

“You should strike there, where the defence systems are weakest. Only a fool will strike in this location.”

Every meeting after, she mostly spends her time correcting issues in Winston’s plans. He does not mind, and in fact seems grateful for the corrections, and the two strike up an odd friendship. Every now and then she shoots Sigma a rare grateful look. Despite her claims otherwise, in those rare moments, she looks like a majestic leader, a hero worthy of legends.

Things pick up quickly. Preparations are made quickly. Things are moved and made and placed and packed. More people come to the base, all with their own stories, all ready to join Winston's cause. Sigma meets Genji and his omnic mentor Zenyatta and Dr Ziegler and the cybernetic Sojourn and the mysterious but cheerful Echo. Of them all, he is most intrigued with Zenyatta. He’s heard of the Shambali, always was curious of their cause, but he never cared about them. But that was back when he was Siebren, when his mind was whole. He's a lot more open to the concept of the Iris now.

The members of Overwatch are supportive, kind, and well-meaning. He's not sure if they have noticed, or if perhaps Harold told them, but they are quick to pick up on when he's not in a good mood, quickly changing the subject or involving him in their activities. He appreciates their efforts but it does little to quell the darkness he feels in his soul. Every night he has nightmares of every evil thing he’s done, and every morning he wakes up in a cold sweat. He can’t live like this. If he wants to help Harold, he needs to let go of his baggage, be born anew, without the weight of the universe on his shoulders.

That is why he slips a message to Zenyatta’s room one day, asking if he’d be willing to help him. He is surprised when, moments later, Zenyatta himself comes to his lab. Sigma hadn’t signed the note. It must have been obvious to the omnic monk what he needs.

Zenyatta asks Sigma to follow him to the cliffside where a makeshift mat has already been set out. Zenyatta gestures Sigma to sit in. He does, copying the same pose Zenyatta is making, floating and all.

“I sense discord in your soul. Two halves, fighting for control, yin and yang. They are not as one.”

He doesn’t deny it. He’s known it all along. These halves have names: Siebren and Sigma. His two identities.

But Zenyatta shakes his head. “We all wear masks in our lives, some for the protection of ourselves, and some for the protection of others. That is not the source of your discord. No, I believe it is how you perceive these masks that troubles you the most.”

Sigma bows his head, unable to answer.

Zenyatta continues. “You are your own worst enemy. That may be true for all, but you in particular perceive your enemy to be greater than yourself. You fear the unknown.”

“It is not the unknown I fear. It is what I know that haunts me.”

“And what is it you know that you fear?”

Sigma bristles. He’s already said too much. Zenyatta is perceptively easy to talk to, perhaps easier than Harold, and the omnic knows it. Sigma suspects that this trait is something Zenyatta learned, rather than something innate within the Shambali.

Slowly, Zenyatta summons his own orbs, letting them chime around his body. The melody is soothing, almost at odds with the universe’s song, but the melodies don't clash discordantly. Rather, they mesh together, discord and harmony together as one, as if they are meant to be together. “You must confront the source of your fears, but that source, I believe, is not within you. It resides elsewhere, in another vessel," Zenyatta says.

Sigma knows he has to talk to Harold. He will need to, before he goes on this mission, before their lives are irrevocably changed for good once again. But he still has a bit of time. With Zenyatta’s help, they go through some meditation practice together. Sigma will visit Zenyatta every day and meditate with him, sometimes with Genji, sometimes alone.

Sigma decides that the Shambali way is not too dissimilar from his own. One could argue that the Iris and the universe are the same being. In another life he might join the Shambali and make amends for his wrongdoings, but for now he rolls his shoulders, centres his being, and focuses. With every session with Zenyatta, he regains a bit of strength, a bit of control, and a bit more confidence to tell Harold what’s really going on in his mind.

Two days before everyone is to depart for Lijiang, he is summoned to the training grounds. He doesn’t think there’s any changes to the plan, and he doesn’t think he’s built up such a quick rapport with the other Overwatch agents to warrant a summons, which is why he is surprised when they gift him a new set of armour to wear, handcrafted by Brigitte and Torbjörn themselves. It’s almost identical to his Talon armour but modified slightly, with roudner shapes and painted in a different colour set—whites and yellows and deep blues instead of the cold turquoise of his old uniform. Yellow is his favourite colour, but only one person in the world knows that. He gives a wry smile to Harold, who looks up at the ceiling. Sigma laughs quietly, floating the armour behind his back as he walks to the locker room. He changes into it quickly. It's a snug fit, but far more comfortable than his previous uniform. The lining is softer, and there's more support in the heavier areas. It's made for him, literally and metaphorically.

When he emerges from a stall, Harold is standing before him in his own uniform, also similar to his old one. It’s orange, mostly heavy-duty fabric with a few pieces of armour at his knees. White padding lines his shoulders, black stripes cutting across the orange, leading down to a few large tubes that stick out of his body, transporting golden liquid into a backpack comprised of clear cannisters. Where the Lunar Ops logo used to be on his left breast, the Overwatch logo now stands, small and proud, not unlike the smile Harold wears on his face.

“Tell me honestly, Siebren, do I look weird?”

Sigma smiles. “You look better than fine.” Like a hero, Sigma thinks but doesn’t say.

Harold chuckles. “You do too.”

Sigma catches a glance at his reflection and frowns. With the suit, he looks a lot more like his younger self, back when he was Siebren. Except Siebren does not have these ridges carved underneath his sunken eyes. Siebren does not gaze back with such fear and sorrow in his heart. Siebren is not this fragile.

This is a caricature of Siebren, he can’t help but think as he looks at his reflection. Within the mirror, he sees a bad cosplay, an imposter, a face double. Anything but himself.

“It doesn’t fit me.”

“That’s what I get for trying to measure your old armour,” Harold sighs. “I’ll ask Torb if he can make some adjustments.”

“That’s not what I mean. I mean...it doesn’t suit me.”

Harold frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Look at me,” he gestures at his clothes. “I look like a sci-fi wizard from some idiotic video game.”

Harold walks towards him and places his hand on Sigma’s jaw, checking him over. “You look like you.”

“But what is me? What am I?”

Harold’s brows crease as he takes a step back. “You’re Siebren.”

“But I’m not Siebren. I’ve told you time and time again that I am Sigma, but you refuse to acknowledge me as such.”

“Because you are Siebren,” Harold states matter-of-factly. He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “You are not Sigma.”

“Siebren de Kuiper is dead!”

“Sigma was never a real person in the first place, and you know it! ”

He stares as Harold’s eyes turn golden before flickering back to dark chocolate. A second later and Sigma feels the furniture rattle within the room. With a wave of his hand he quickly puts everything back in place but it’s far too late. He’s disappointed Harold. Despite the meditation, despite his efforts, however tiny of a slip, he’s lost control of his powers again. He can’t do that. Not if he wants to protect Harold.

“What is this really about?” He asks quietly.

Sigma thinks he has the confidence to tell Harold but it strikes his heart and his tongue, making them both swell. He forces himself to turn away. “Nothing,” he croaks.

“It’s not nothing,” Harold sighs. “I didn’t want to say it, but you’ve been acting kind of weird lately. I thought it was because you had trouble adjusting, or you didn’t want me to go on this mission. But it’s something else, isn’t it.”

Sigma gazes upon Harold, unflinching when he sees the golden aura surrounding Harold's body. It’s a figment of his imagination, not the nanobots that he knows Harold is very capable of using, but if he concentrates hard enough he might be able to feel its radiant warmth. Harold is the sun, and Sigma wants to be in his light in the desperate hope that it can outshine his shadows. But he knows that's not how light works.

He takes a step forward, and the darkness begins to spill out. The universe speaks to him again. Release me, it growls, but it doesn’t sound so threatening anymore. The darkness is a harness, and he has harnessed the harness. If he lets it all out now, perhaps then his body can finally be filled with those dazzling rays of light. Perhaps then, he will never have to hide anything from Harold any more, and he can be as close to whole as he possibly can. Perhaps then he can look at himself with the same ardent affection as Harold looks at him.

“Sometimes when I look at you, I feel like I’m gazing at a distant star," Sigma whispers. "It’s dazzling, but that light is from tens of thousands of years ago. Maybe that star doesn’t exist anymore. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.”

“Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami,” Harold whispers. “That’s my favourite book. But…are you saying what I think you’re saying?

“I’m afraid,” Sigma admits quietly.

“Afraid?”

“You’re a hero, Harold. None of this would have happened if you hadn’t been the one to inspire heroism. I’ve seen you with so many people but this is the first time you have looked in your element." He places a tender hand on Harold’s cheek, the strings of gravity tugging at his fingers. "Even now you are glowing.”

Harold’s eyes widen slightly, the first droplets beading at the edge of his eyes. Sigma wants to kiss them away but he must continue on. He has to, while he still can.

“I’m not a hero like you. Even before I became Sigma, I was only motivated by my own selfish desires for the world. But as Sigma, I became worse. I’m always at the brink of losing myself to the universe. I’m always a flick of the wrist away from destroying everything in my path. I could've fought those violent tendencies, but I didn't. You’ve seen me, I’m dangerous, and I can’t be dangerous if I want to help you.”

He’s shaking now, his fists clenched so tightly the muscles on his hands are straining. But gravity remains unchanging and Harold is still here. His eyes trail down to the centre of Sigma’s chest piece.

“Is that what it is? You’re afraid you’ll hurt me?” Harold asks softly.

Sigma pauses before shaking his head. “No. I'm afraid I might never be the hero you need me to be.” I’m afraid you won’t love me, Sigma says with his eyes.

Harold takes a few seconds to gaze at Sigma’s armour. His hands touch every piece he can get his hands on, working his way down from the shoulder plates to the harness, down to the stomach piece. “What’s the difference between a hero and a villain?”

“A hero is someone that does good. A villain is someone that does evil,” Sigma says.

But Harold shakes his head with a small smile. “It’s not that black and white. Heroes often work against the law, but does that make them evil? And what about all those stories about corrupt politicians doing something good for the populace just so they will turn a blind eye to their indiscretions? Look at us, look at this new Overwatch. We’re going to be breaking into a world renowned space corporation, hijacking a space shuttle, and hiding vital research from getting into the wrong hands. Does that sound like something a hero does?”

Sigma can’t help but smile. “I suppose not.”

“I’m sure by the end of it, the world will call us villains. But it’s all about what follows up from then, and what a person’s true intentions are, that defines who they are. Our actions may be evil, selfish, cruel, but ultimately our intentions are good. Does that make us right? Not necessarily. But then again, who is to say what is right and what is wrong in this crazy topsy-turvy world of ours?”

Sigma wraps a hand around Harold’s waist. “So, what does that make us then?”

“Depends on our intentions,” Harold smirks. "We can do evil things and still mean the best intentions. That doesn't make us villains."

“And if my intentions are very, very inappropriate for a child audience?” Sigma winks.

“Well, you’re going to have to keep it child-friendly for a bit longer,” he laughs. “The others want to see how we look.”

“Then give me a moment. One moment.”

Harold smiles softly, giving his silent permission. For a few seconds, Sigma pulls Harold into a crushing hug, pressing a kiss to Harold’s forehead. The contact is brief, and it’s hard to part, but soon they drift away from each other’s arms.

“Thank you, Harold. I needed that.” Sigma admits quietly.

“You’re welcome.” Harold’s lips suddenly purse. “Actually…on the topic of Sigma and Siebren, do you want me to call you Sigma from now on?" Before Sigma can respond, Harold quickly adds, "I-I know what I said earlier, but if it really makes you feel more comfortable, I can call you Sigma if you want.”

It’s touching, and considerate, and another reason why Sigma does not deserve Harold, but he shakes his head softly. “No need. Siebren sounds so much nicer from your lips.”

Harold grins back. “A lot of things sound nicer from my lips, tiger.”

“And you told me to keep our conversation family friendly,” he laughs. Sigma takes Harold’s hand in his. “Shall we?”

“We shall.”

When they finally emerge, they’re met with a small pattering of applause. The other agents all remark on how ‘regal’ Sigma looks currently, and how Harold has once against rolled up his sleeves, but the conversation quickly drifts away to other topics like world events and the upcoming mission to Lijiang. Soon, everyone’s in their own little circles, interacting with each other. And Sigma is a part of it, blending in seamlessly. Amongst the soldiers, scientists, and oddities, he doesn't stand out. In fact, he fits in. Perhaps it's the first time he can recall fitting in so seamlessly, both as Siebren and as Sigma.

“Did you just call Dr. Winston ‘dad’, Winston?” Tracer teases.

“Did you just call me ‘dad’ for the first time?” Harold grins.

Winston is blushing furiously. “A slip of the tongue, I assure you.”

Sigma chuckles lightly to himself, shaking his head in amusement. “Now the monkey has come out of its sleeve,” he says. “I always knew you two would make a cute father-son duo.”

Harold smirks. "Why not turn it into a father-son-father trio?"

Winston's blush goes even redder. "P-please."

"Why, I did not know you were the shy kind, Winston," Sigma teases. "Don't want to hang out with your hip, groovy dads, son?"

"This is why I don't go out much," Winston mumbles to himself.

To everyone’s surprise but Sigma, Harold is able to convince everybody to do a group picture. It takes a few attempts, especially because Sigma has been designated camera man, but eventually a suitable picture is taken. In the final picture, as Sigma stares at his own face, he sees a different visage altogether. It’s still not the repugnant overconfidence of Siebren, but it’s not the fragile malaise of Sigma. Instead, it’s someone else, a different side of him, combining all the best traits of his two halves. In the photo, smiling into the camera with his ostentatious armour, he looks more like the hero he is meant to be, or perhaps the hero that he shall become.

In the end, two physical copies of the picture are made that day. One is for Winston, and the other is for Harold. When the time comes for everybody to get on the airship, they both have the same picture sticky taped behind their seats. Sigma has a different picture in his grasp. It's of him and Harold and Winston, smiling widely as they hug each other for the selfie. Sigma smiles softly as his gloved fingers trace the surface. Over time, he'll build up a collection of family photographs, and he will gaze upon them with fondness whenever he fears he shall lose his way. At that moment however, it only fills him with determination.

Soon, they shall be in Lijiang. Soon, they shall confront Talon, and Vishkar, and Lucheng Interstellar. Soon, he will make a difference. The universe is in his bones. The stars are in his soul. This will not be the end, but it will mark a change in his life. For once, Sigma embraces it.

#Overwatch #Sigma #Siebren de Kuiper #Harold Winston #Sigrold #I had to do a title drop SOMEWHERE #So I decided this chapter will be the one for it #And oooh boy you guys have no idea what I have in store for the next chapter #Next one will be very action-packed #I will get to it AFTER I finish Sigroldweek #So the next update might be a while #But on the otherhand you get MUCH more Sigrold which is a reward in itself

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mikaila-orchard · 6 years ago

Text

“Don’t Run away,”

An angsty Sylvaina fic.

The plaguelands were as unpleasant and sick inducing as the name suggested.

A small caravan of Lordearoneans were slowly trekking across a dirt road. Their movements were weary and sluggish, appearing even more lifeless than the undead scourge they were fleeing from. Peasant and soldiers alike moved with the same labored strain in their bodies. Months of simply trying to survive in their hellish situation had all but beaten the very concept of hope out of them. Yet they persisted, for now they had at least a chance of salvation.

Leading the pack of stragglers was one filled with more energy than the entirety of the group combined. Jaina Proudmoore moved with purpose, her ocean blue eyes scanning the area for incoming dangers. Her metaphysical senses reached out even further for threats out of sight. The only sounds she made were the slight shifts of her Kirin Tor robe and her staff making contact with the beaten path. Every fiber of her being was dedicated to a singular goal. Getting these survivors to safety across the sea.

Less than a year ago, the entirety of Azeroth was on the threshold of inescapable Armageddon. The scourge that plagued these lands were but a fraction of the horrors wrought upon the world in the form of the Burning Legion. Their vast armies field with demonic might sought to the utter destruction of countless worlds, and they meant to bring that very destruction to this world, as they attempted thousands of years ago.

But alas, such an apocalypse did not come to pass. The Burning Legion’s leader, Lord Archimonde, was destroyed upon the summit of Mount Hyjal and his demonic forces pushed off of the world. Jaina had seen it happen. By her hand and the hands of unexpected allies, she had made it happen. She had stood against the impossible odds before her and prevailed. Such a victory, and the bonds forged from it, had filled the young mage with overwhelming hope. Hope she feared she had all but lost before setting sail from Lordaeron not long before it fell to ruin. Hope that she channeled into determination. She knew what she was capable of now. She knew she could do better. That’s why she was here.

After the Legion’s defeat, she and the surviving members of the alliance who accompanied her headed south. There they established a small sanctuary off the coast of Kalimdor. Theramore. The settlement served as a beacon of hope and peace for all of Azeroth, or at least that was the idea. It was that island town that Jaina had come to bring these surviving humans to. This caravan was the fifth she was able to uncover in the week she had been here. With this last group, the ship she came upon would be at max capacity and ready to sail them all to safety. Even in their lifeless, wistful fatigue, every one of them expressed their eternal gratitude to Lady Proudmoore for her generosity and her courage.

Jaina would smile and wave off such compliments, for deep down she knew. She did not act out of courage. If she did, she would have returned to Lorderon months ago. No, she only came back when she was certain. Certain that there were no signs of the kingdoms fallen prince. The one who killed his father, the king, and served his own land to the scourge on a silver platter. The one who had a hand in allowing the Legion to return. The one she should have stopped back at Stratholme. The one who took away her-

Jaina shook her head slightly yet forcefully. She couldn’t think about that. About her. She already knew what Arthas had done to Quel Thalas. She had heard tale of what he had done to the Ranger-General of Silvermoon. Such thoughts would not aid her on her mission. What was important was that Arthas had not been spotted in Lordaeron since the Legion’s arrival and that the survivors she was leading were a mile or so from the coast. Things could not be more ideal. She could worry about the rest once everyone was safe.

As if her brief distraction had tempted fate itself, her senses felt something approaching. The cold, nauseating aura of deathly magic was drawing near from multiple sources. She felt the dark energies all around them, no doubt meaning to surround the caravan. Without a clear line of sight, Jaina was unsure was exactly they were about to face, as such she took no chances.

The mage rallied power behind her will. Her eyes began to glow with arcane might. Her fingers hummed and sparked with magic just waiting to be released onto their approaching foes. Throughout the journey, Proudmoore made an attempt to keep her considerable abilities reserved, lest her power serve as a signal to any magically inclined undead to more easily hunt them down. Now, however, it would serve as a warning to those who would dare attack them. There were multiple dark presences nearing their location, but no single one of them could match her for pure strength.

Jaina heard shifting amongst the trees on either side of the road. Not feeling comfortable just waiting to see what would come into sight, she swiftly got to work. With her staff raised in the air and the power of the arcane taking shape accordance to her will, large shards of ice began raining down from the sky. There trajectory was not random, however. The human sized chunks all fell just shy of the trees enclosing the road. The previously weary and listless travelers now looked around in confusion and fear as they now had walls of ice on either side of them.

“Quick!” Jaina called out to the caravan. “Hurry to the dock. We haven’t much time!” The mages eyes darted between the walls and the caravan, now moving double time. Her ears anticipated the sounds of ghouls who would likely claw at the ice, attempting to either break through or climb over it. She awaited the sound of giant abominations that would no doubt attempt to rip and tear their way through the frozen barricades. She received neither.

Soon, several masses of smoke were seen flying over the walls and landing right before Jaina. Their lower halves were comprised entirely of gaseous magic. Their upper bodies were enrapted in loose cloaks that appeared ever flowing in the air, same as their ample, straw like hair. Their faces seemed to be contorted in eternal agony and suffering.

Banshees.

“Submit to the scourge,” the ghost closest to Jaina hissed at her. “Submit to the Dark Lady.”

Jaina simply narrowed her eyes in response and readied her staff. “Go,” she spoke to the caravan as she now stood at the back. “Hurry to the boat. I’ll take care of this.”

If the group had any hesitation to leave her there, it was short lived. The sound of hooves, creaking wagon wheels and heavy boots drew ever fainter as the group fled the incoming battle as quickly as they could.

The Banshees howled their disapproval as they moved to attack. These spirits were a tricky sort. They each were capable of debilitating screams and had the ability to possessed the weak willed. Neither of which were a major threat to a mage of Jaina’s skill, however should any of them make it past her and reach the caravan, more than a few of them would no doubt perish.

As such, all Jaina had to do was ensure no banshee got past her. That required evening the odds.

She moved her staff in one broad sweeping motion. With that gesture and silent words of power, water began to well into ever growing masses on either sides of her. By the time, the banshees were within striking distance of the mage, she was accompanied by two large water elementals. Each of the summoned creatures was capable of enduring any attack the specters could make and had bodies unsuitable for any possession. The banshee leading the charge could not move away in time to avoid one elementals swipe. The rest of the group scattered before they had a chance to join their unlucky sister who fell unceremoniously to the ground upon one strike.

The wicked wraiths flew all about Jaina and her guardians, hurling volleys of twisted magic at them. The elementals liquid structure held soundly against the assaults, and returned them in kind. Those who did not engage attempted to break away from the skirmish and chase down the fleeing caravan. Jaina quickly eyed the banshees rushing down the road. She would not let them reach the others. Power gathered and surged in the palm of her had before being sent through the air in the form of a large lance of ice. The sharp projectile struck it’s target true, the banshee’s for dissipating in a cry of released agony. Her shocked sister soon joined her. Luckily, Jaina’s aim was much better than that of her elementals at long distances, though she rather not reflect on who helped her attain such marksmanship.

Before long, the skirmish had ended. The banshee’s were dispelled from the land of the living, leaving no bodies to speak of. Jaina looked around for possible reinforcements for a long moment before releasing a breath of relief. It appeared the worst of it was over. With a faint gesture of her staff, her two elementals reverted into simple water, returning to the soil of the scarred earth beneath them. “Well,” Jaina said to herself, a faint air of smugness to her words. “Can’t say I’m impressed with what the scourge has to offer these days.”

“Arrows in the quiver, little mage.”

Jaina froze. Her blood ran cold as her eyes widened at the sudden voice straight behind her. A voice so familiar, yet so hollow and chilling. Were it not for those choice of words, she might not have even recognized it. The mage reached out with her senses, praying the voice was simply a trick and there was no such presence nearby. No such luck. A dark aura much like the banshees before stood right behind her. This one however, was much stronger.

Jaina didn’t want to turn around. Doing so would only confirm what she had spent little over half a year denying. She prayed what she heard were merely rumors. That her beloved had not been raised into undeath and instead was given the peaceful rest she deserved. She knew if she turned around, that illusion would be shattered. Nevertheless, her survival, and by that token the survival of the people she intended to save, demanded that she turn to face the voice.

So she did.

The silhouette of a cloaked figure was the first thing she noticed, with two long elven ears protruding from the slits in the drawn hood. A moment later, she could make out the figure of a woman shrouded by the tattered garb. This banshee was very much unlike the others. A body completely intact and corporeal. Hunting leathers in place of billowing robes. Smooth lifeless skin perfectly preserved and nigh flawless. Well, save one flaw. A large scar planted in the center of the undead elf’s exposed abdomen. A scar left behind by Frostmourne itself.

It wasn’t until Jaina’s eyes came up to the face of the banshee that the dread she felt reached its climax. There she saw a face both smooth and sharp in it’s features. High cheekbones and full lips. Long, platinum blonde hair spilling from the hood and draping over her shoulders. And the eyes. Sweet merciful Tides, the eyes. Where not long ago she saw a warm hazel gaze, it was now the coldest of blue, as it was with any slave of the Lich King. The miasma of death did not conceal the truth as well as the mage would have hoped. Standing before her, only a few paces away, was the Ranger-General of Silvermoon.

“Sylvanas,” Jaina choked out.

The elf tilted her head slightly, almost curious about being referred to by name. “You know me,” she remarked, her voice as chilling and hollow as a moment before.

Jaina swallowed the lump in her throat. Sylvanas had not attacked her yet. Was there a reason? Was this just a distraction? She reached out further with her senses. She detected no other undead around them. The caravan was safe. So why did the undead before her not attack? What could that mean?

“Yes,” the mage finally said, doing her best to keep the budding thoughts of hope in the back of her mind. “Do... Do you know me?”

“I know only what the Lich King demands me to know. And I know that he demands your death.” With that, Sylvanas drew a saber fastened to her waist. It was not the finely crafted elven saber Jaina had seen countless times before. It was rusted and poorly kept, no doubt pulled of some hapless bandit she killed.

Proudmoore had every reason to abandon all hope that the woman she loved was anywhere to be found inside the lifeless husk, yet she persisted. “Sylvanas please,” she beseeched. “It’s me. It’s Jaina.”

The banshee responded with an arcing swing of her blade.

Jaina managed to raise her staff up to stop the strike dead. Her staff held strong against the meager sabre, but the force of the attack. nearly made her knees buckle. Sylvanas knew not fatigue or restraint in undeath, it seemed. This battle could not be won in close quarters. Jaina’s fighting prowess was not terrible as far as mages went, but she was facing the ranger who taught her every fighting move she knew. Melee combat was not an option.

She swung her staff over to one side, forcing the blade away from her. The mage then leapt back as far as she could before hurling hurling a bolt of frozen power at the banshee. She knew it would miss, but the time it took Sylvanas to dodge gave her a precious moment longer to bolster her defenses. She reached out to the ice walls they stood between. Chunks of the solid material began to melt and take the form of familiar elementals from before. The summoned guardians wasted no time barraging the banshee with their aquatic strikes.

Sylvanas evaded every attack. Her motions familiar, yet still utterly breathtaking to Jaina. Even now, as a slave to the Lich King, she moved with impossible precision and grace. Before it filled Jaina with wonder and ever growing fondness for the elf. In this context, however, it only made her more nervous. Her mana reserves were plentiful, but at this rate they would be wasted just trying to strike the banshee, which even now she didn’t want to do.

“Sylvanas, please!” She called out to the ranger being kept at back by her guardians. “We’ve already made it this far. Just let me save them! The scourge has eno-“

Sylvanas landed against the barricade of ice and kicked off, sending herself high in the air, in that arc she had readied her bow and before landing had shot two arrows at each of the elementals. They were no ordinary arrows however. They burnt with with black and purple magics. Magics that caused the summoned creatures to be dispelled almost immediately. Jaina flinched as her guardians collapsed unceremoniously into large puddles. Her attention snapped back to the banshee quickly closing the distance between them.

The mage raised the staff and began to gather more arcane might. It was then that the elf made a strange, almost strangled cry and suddenly, Jaina could not feel her magic. She was silenced.

Her mind raced for a possible recourse, but it did not race fast enough as a heavy boot suddenly made impact with her chest. Jaina fell hard to the ground, immediately winded by the kick. Her eyes were wide with shock and fear as Sylvanas loomed over her. The rangers expression was nearly blank with just a hint of smugness to it for her victory.

“My love,” Jaina rasped out, still trying to catch her breath. “Please.”

“Silly little mage,” Sylvanas replied coldly as she prepared her bow once more. “Your love is gone.”

Jaina wished, nay prayed, that she wouldn’t cry. The burning tears threatening to fall made that difficult. She held back a sob as she dared to meet the banshees gaze. If this were to be her end, she would look it in the eye.

“Prove it,” she challenged. “Do what she never could,”

Sylvanas drew the string of her pillaged longbow, aiming for Jaina’s face less than a meter away. Her orders were clear. The Lich King of the undead scourge made sure of that. His will, his voice, rung loud in her mind without end ever since she was raised. Commanding her to slaughter and raze in his name. Her orders here were no different.

“Slay the mage!” the Lich King bellowed in her mind. “Raise her as a perfect slave to scourge. Unmake her! Obey!”

“NO!”

A second voice suddenly screamed in the banshees mind, causing her to wince. The arrow was let loose, but shot into the ground just to the left of Jaina’s head. The ranger staggered back a pace or two, the sudden scream of an alien voice noticeably hurting her. After a moment, Sylvanas’ mind was silent. Completely. The Lich King's ever present voice was gone. Banished from her now empty mind. No. Not empty. The second voice was still there.

Her voice.

It was all starting to come back to her. Not to say that Sylvanas ever forgot who she was. The memories were all there, but they were repressed. Sectioned off behind a dam of will that the Lich King constructed. With that will gone, the dam had broken and everything, her memories, her will, came flooding back to the forefront of her mind.

She looked up from the ground. Apparently this sudden incident had brought her down to her knees without her realizing it. Her gaze came up to the mage she had attempted to kill not a moment ago.

”.... J-Jaina?”

Jaina was stunned. She hadn’t the slightest clue what just happened. One second she was prepared to meet her end at the hands of her former lover. Then the ranger stepped back and fell to her knees, missing the unmissable shot. She had wondered if this were all just a trick before she questioned to what end that trick could possibly be. Jaina had no hope of escape. A deceit like this would have been pointless.

Her shock grew ever larger as Sylvanas suddenly looked up at her. The eyes she looked into had changed again. Icy blue suddenly became fiery red. The hood of her cloak fell back to reveal what shadows had hidden. Underneath her eyes were long black streaks, looking like trails of tears. Proudmoore reached out with her senses. The dark aura the banshee was composed of was still present, yet.... different? It was a subtle change, but it was there. It was more... more wild. She was so transfixed by these small changes that she almost didn’t notice Sylvanas calling out to her. Her voice still hollow with undeath, but much meeker and more uncertain.

Jaina trembled. Did she dare hope? Could this have actually meant what she thought it meant? She rose to her feet and cautiously approached the banshee. “Yes,” she affirmed finally. “Sylvanas it’s me.” The elf’s eyes widened, slowly lifting herself from the ground but making no attempt to approach as Jaina did. The mage stilled momentarily. She prayed this wasn’t a trick, but she needed something to be sure. A sign.

It was then a thought came to Jaina. Her free hand reached under her collar and pulled free what secretly hung around her neck. It was a pendant, carved into the shape of a dragon hawk feather. A gift of affection made personally by Sylvanas before they last parted. Sylvanas’ eyes fell upon the pendant, her body remained unnaturally still for a long moment before she finally responded. The ranger reached underneath her leathers and revealed something that even she didn’t realize was there. A blue crystal held onto by a silver chain. The stone glowed softly with magic.

Tears fell freely down Jaina’s face. Sylvanas kept it. After months of undeath and slavery, she kept it. She was still there inside that lifeless body this whole time. And now she was free. “Oh Sylvanas.” She took another step towards the elf.

The elf took a step back.

Sylvanas began shaking as she looked at the pendant in her hands. Hands that were dead. Hands that did terrible things. Memories of what had happened to her were raging in her mind. Memories of what she had done as the Lich King’s slave raged just as hard. Were she alive, she likely would have vomited. As such, she just shook and backed away.

“No, my darling. Please.” Jaina begged, worry crossing her features once again. “I’m right here. Don’t run away.”

Sylvanas looked back at Jaina. Her Jaina. The girl she had met by chance in Dalaran those years ago. The girl who’s brilliance, determination and wit won her heart soon after. The girl who fell to her knees and begged the General to sail west to Kalimdor with her before Quel'thalas fell to the scourge. And here she was again. Jaina came back to her, as gentle and beautiful as ever. Even after being scuffed up from battle, she was perfect.

But Sylvanas? Sylvanas was a monstrosity now.

“Stay away,” the elf croaked. Her hands came to cover her ears, the noise of her memories getting louder and louder.

“My darling, it’s okay,” Jaina assured her, despite panic beginning to rise inside her as well. “Come- come with me. We can get you out of here. I can keep you safe. I promise.”

“I-I can’t!” Sylvanas cried out, her face contorted in pain from the growing loudness inside her mind.

“Sylvanas please! Stay with me!”

The banshee screamed. She screamed with unbridled agony and sorrow. Even as Jaina covered her already ringing ears, she could feel the pain Sylvanas had cried.

Sylvanas’ body became shrouded in black smoke and unearthly tendrils, her crimson gaze and horrified visage the only indication that she was still corporeal. In her maddening grief, she flew away. Up over the ice wall and into the forest. Jaina scrambled to her feet and desperately attempted to follow, but by then it was too late. She was gone. Out of sight and beyond her senses.

After a moment of silence, Jaina fell to her knees and wept. She cried for Sylvanas, only able to imagine what horrible things were going through her mind. She cried for herself to see her beloved come back to her only to flee. She cried for the other undead she now knew remembered who they were. She just cried.

She was unaware of how much time had past before her tears had run out and her throat went hoarse. She simply sat there in the dirt, feeling uncomfortably numb to everything. She peaked over to the road leading to the coast when she noticed the sun nearing the western horizon. It was bound to get dark soon and she likely had people awaiting her return. She lifted her aching body from the ground and pressed onward. She still had a mission to complete.

Even in her sorrow induced numbness however, a small smile did manage to creep onto her lips. There was one thing she knew for certain from all of this. Sylvanas was still there, and she was free.

And when Jaina returned. She was going to save her.

#sylvaina #sylvanas windrunner #jaina proudmoore #wow #world of warcraft #fanfic

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vodkabite · 6 years ago

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I Never Thought That It Would Hit This Hard - pt.3

Waverly never really considered herself to be a lucky woman. Sure, she’s lucky to be alive and all that, lucky to be going to a good school and getting an education—but that’s to be expected. She spent the entirety of her life working nonstop to get here; slaving away over her books to be on the Dean’s List, double shifts at Shorty’s and tutoring on the side to be able to afford things. Everything she’s ever done was for the sole purpose of a karmic reaction; practically forcing the universe to repay her for all her good work.

She’s only twenty-one years old, and until recently, everything had gone as planned. Until the universe decided to shove Nicole Haught into her life; a glaring problem she never prepared for. And yet, here she was, essentially being forced to repent for being so selfish to think the universe owed her something.

But fuck, how can she when the redhead had tongue that works wonders against her skin, sinking her further into an abyss. How? Frankly, she truly is an Earp and is more like Willa than she would have ever wanted to be. Narcissism ran deep in their veins and for what it’s worth, she wouldn’t change a damn thing.

For now, at least.

Because Nicole happened, everything had become such cluster-fuck, she didn’t know where to start or end. Granted, Waverly had enough time between work, practice and class to think on whatever they were. Ultimately, it wasn’t just a one-time-thing only, she made sure of that herself after launching herself at the woman last week. The tips of her fingers still tingle with the feel of Nicole’s skin being split beneath her nails—the way her teeth left a glorious mark on her shoulder—they were indeed something.

Once is an accident, twice is coincidence, so what does three times make?

The third time is when Gus closes down Shorty’s so Waverly and her soccer team can celebrate their recent win over Remus Pointe. The affluent community nearby where the teams are dressed in expensive uniforms and practiced with soccer balls lined with gold. Obviously, the last bit isn’t true, but it made the party all the more fun. The bar is filled college students, more than usual, practically overflowing and that should’ve been a sign. The third time is Nicole showing up with a few friends to the party, wearing Ghost River University’s red and black letterman jackets. They came in peace, looking to just have some fun and of course, leading the pack is fucking Wynonna who immediately challenges everyone and anyone to a drinking contest.

A battle of wills that the older Earp easily won. Like narcissism, whiskey and bourbon ran through their veins.

Despite the drinking, Waverly stays sober. She knows Nicole came to the party for a singular purpose: to settle the score between them. Being drunk would lower her inhibitions and she’s sure, she’d end up on a pool table with the insufferable asshole. Because damn, her auburn hair is messy as it is perfect, and those honey-golden eyes feel like a hot brand on the brunette’s skin.

Even the way she drifts through the throng of college students dancing in the middle of the bar, smooth as silk, to get to her.

“That underhanded tactic of yours screwed me over last week during practice,” Nicole grits out an uncharacteristic snarl. A pinched aggression across her face, she tenses—shoulders rolling back with a slight rigidity—jaw tight. “Couldn’t focus and your sister pulled me out of the game with Alberta.”

“And, what?” Waverly shrugs her shoulders. “It’s not my fault you couldn’t keep it together because you kept thinking of me one upping you.”

Her words are careful, Nicole quirks a brow.

“Honestly, I expected a little bit more from Ghost River’s favorite shooter.” The biting sarcasm is thick on her tongue. She doesn’t relent. “Then again… Maybe you are just overhyped as your team’s win-loss record.”

“Got you to scream our first game together didn’t I?”

“Not much of an accomplishment if I was already hard up for it, remember?” Nicole’s own words are echoed back at her. “You losing your touch, Haught?”

“Never.” Nicole says with a lick of her lips. “Just regrouping.”

“Big word, you learn that in your European Lit class?”

“Keep talking Earp, I’ll be taking that mouth before the night’s over.”

Waverly scoffs, “You are losing your edge.”

“That wasn’t a threat, baby.”

The brunette twitches. “I’m not your baby.”

There’s that damned smirk again. Devious and prideful, like there’s a secret she knows that Waverly doesn’t. But Waverly doesn’t get to think too much of it when Nicole boxes her in against the wall, pain smarting between her shoulder blades. Pressed against her, height effectively shadowing the brunette in the corner of the bar and out of sight. Nicole murmurs, deceptively soft, “I want you to be,” before wrapping a finger into the empty belt loops on Waverly’s jeans and pulling her closer. There’s a split second of quiet between them, even under the blaring sounds of music, people laughing and chatting and the sounds of glasses clinking. It’s quiet.

But the moment doesn’t last, not when that tongue finds its place against the exposed length of Waverly’s neck. Waverly doesn’t say anything, too hyper focused to speak. Pulled between being looking out over Nicole’s shoulder and trying to keep as inconspicuous as she can in the darkness of the corner. And then everything swims when the button on her jeans pops open; the zipper practically ripped off as it’s pulled down.

The first time was nothing more than an accident based on adrenaline and frustration. The second was a sheer coincidence, the result of an overblown ego and the need to repair a damaged one. This third time is neither of those things. Jesus Christ, it’s a level of submission Waverly had never anticipated. Her hips jerk when Nicole’s hand slithers beneath the hem of her underwear, calm and collected, her touch isn’t tentative and gently as it was before. It’s rough and familiar just as its new and amazing.

It isn’t easy, the flat press of their bodies together, tangled and twisted—with Waverly’s hands fisted in sleeve and the at the back of the collar of Nicole’s jacket—the redhead slipping into her wet heat easily. A quiet gasp escapes Waverly’s mouth at the feeling, the slight burn of being stretched ignites a fever under her skin. Nicole’s lips work at the pulse on her neck, teeth scraping dangerously against the tender flesh and making Waverly wetter around her finger.

“Wet for me already?” Nicole smirks.

“Fu-fuck you,” Waverly struggles to push against the older woman, but it’s no use.

Her body is on fire, pleasure lancing through her spine with every thrust of the redhead’s finger. Swift and purposeful, each stroke meant to drive her higher. The party is still in full swing and the song blaring from the speakers overhead changes to one Waverly knows. Head unconsciously bobbing to the beat. Nicole is also familiar with it, lips mouthing out the lyrics against her throat, punctuating each line with a bruise.

“You put a sour little flavor in my mouth now/You move in circles hoping no one's gonna find out.” Waverly arcs her back off the wall, silently cursing and thanking to whoever decided to play Panic! At the Disco.

Her eyes squeeze shut as Nicole thrusts in time with the song, the heel of her hand grinding hard against her aching clit. Fingers gripping the smooth fabric of the expensive letterman jacket tightly as Nicole murmurs against the tight line of Waverly’s jaw. Lips wrapping themselves around that sensitive spot just above the jugular. The darkened bruise that blossoms beneath her mouth leaves the brunette breathless, lungs desperate for air until the redhead’s teeth release her and she’s able to breathe again.

“A pretty picture but the scenery is so loud/A face like heaven catching lighting in your nightgown.” Nicole shifts her hand further into Waverly’s pants, a quick thrust shoves her in deeper than before.

Waverly wants to say that they shouldn’t be making a habit of this, at any point in time someone can easily just glance in their direction and see, know. For God’s sake, Wynonna, as oblivious as she is sober, is alarmingly observant drunk. The absolute hell that would befall this entire bar if the elder Earp found her star shooter and baby sister like this. Not to mention that Gus had a fully loaded shotgun beneath the counter.

This was never a part of the plan.

Considering that being driven to an orgasm in the middle of a crowded bar with her classmates, teammates, friends, aunt and abrasive older sister, all around her is as dangerous as you get, it’s also very exciting. Weighing out all rationale, because with the devil that is Nicole Haught working her fingers into the tight heat of her sex, there’s really no room for it. Her unwillingness to accept defeat is another factor in the heavy, lust-filled haze clouding her mind.

And then, it happens. Another finger is worked into her and the stretch has her seeing stars behind her eyelids, she cries out beneath the music and bustling of the party, but Nicole is on her immediately. Swallowing her cry hungrily.

Author’s Note: Here it is, the unpublished/never finished chapter 3. As you can tell, I pretty much checked out of writing the fic because Dirty Mind became more time consuming. Also, the lyrics Nicole is mouthing are from “Miss Jackson” by Panic! At the Disco.

#wearp #wayhaught #fic: i never thought that it would hit this hard #*deadfic #mine

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greetingsfromthebottomofthewell · 6 years ago

Photo

KILLSWITCH

[source] [triggers]

it wasn’t as if we had anything better.

In the spring 1989 the Karvina Corporation released a curious game, whose dissemination among American students that fall was swift and furious, though its popularity was ultimately short-lived.

The game was “Killswitch.”

On the surface it was a variant on the mystery or horror survival game, a precursor to the Myst and Silent Hill franchises. The narrative showed the complexity for which Karvina was known, though the graphics were monochrome, vague grey and white shapes against a black background.

Slow MIDI versions of Czech folksongs play throughout. Players could choose between two avatars: an invisible demon named Ghast or a visible human woman, Porto. Play as Ghast was considerably more difficult due to his total invisibility, and players were highly liable to restart the game as Porto after the first level, in which it was impossible to gauge jumps or aim.

However, Ghast was clearly the more powerful character–he had fire-breath and a coal-steam attack, but as it was above the skill level of most players to keep track of where a fire-breathing, poison-dispensing invisible imp was on their screens once the fire and steam had run out, Porto became more or less the default.

Porto’s singular ability was seemingly random growth–she expanded and contracted in size throughout the game. A Kansas engineering grad claimed to have figured out the pattern involved, but for reasons which will become obvious, his work was lost.

Porto awakens in the dark with wounds in her elbows, confused. Seeking a way out, she ascends through the levels of a coal mine in which it is slowly revealed she was once an employee, investigating its collapse and beset on all sides by demons similar to Ghast, as well as dead foremen, coal-golems, and demonic inspectors from the Sovatik corporation, whose boxy bodies were clothed in red, the only color in the game.

The environment, though primitive, becomes genuinely uncanny as play progresses. There are no “bosses” in any real sense–Porto must simply move physically through tunnels to reach subsequent levels while her size varies wildly through inter-level spaces.

The story that emerges through Porto’s discovery of magnetic tapes, files, mutilated factory workers who were once her friends, and deciphering an impressively complex code inscribed on a series of iron axes players must collect (This portion of the game was almost laughably complex, and defeated many players until “Porto881″ posted the cipher to a Columbia BBS. Attempts to contact this player have been unsuccessful, and the username is no longer in use on any known service.) is that the foremen, under pressure to increase coal production, began to falsify reports of malfunctions and worker malfeasance in order to excuse low output, which incited a Sovatik inspection.

Officials were dispatched, one for each miner, and an extraordinary story of torture unfolds, with fuzzy and indistinct graphics of red-coated men standing over workers, inserting small knives into their joints whenever production slowed. (Admittedly, this is not a very subtle critique of Soviet-era industrial tactics, and as the town of Karvina itself was devastated by the departure of the coal industry, more than one thesis has interpreted Killswitch as a political screed.)

After solving the axe-code, Porto finds and assembles a tape recorder, on which a male voice tells her that the fires of the earth had risen up in their defense and flowed into the hearts of the decrepit, pre-revolution equipment they used and wakened them to avenge the workers.

It is generally assumed that the “fires of the earth” are demons like Ghast, coal-fumes and gassy bodies inhabiting the old machines. The machines themselves are so “big” that the graphics elect to only show two or three gear-teeth or a conveyor belt rather than the entire apparatus. The machines drove the inspectors mad, and they disappeared into caverns with their knives (only to emerge to plague Porto, of course).

The workers were often crushed and mangled in the onslaught of machines, who were neither graceful nor discriminating. Porto herself was knocked into a deep chasm by a grief-stricken engine, and her fluctuating size, if it is real and not imagined, is implied to be the result of poisonous fumes inhaled there.

What follows is the most cryptic and intuitive part of the game. There is no logical reason to proceed in the “correct” way, and again it was Porto881 who came to the rescue of the fledgling Killswitch community. In the chamber behind the tape recorder is a great furnace where coal was once rendered into coke.

There are no clues as to what she is intended to do in this room. Players attempted nearly everything, from immolating herself to continuing to process coal as if the machines had never risen up. Porto881 hit upon the solution, and posted it to the Columbia boards.

If Porto ingests the raw coke, she will find her body under control,and can go on to fight her way out of the final levels of the mine, which are impassable in her giant state, clutching the tape containing this extraordinary story. However, as she crawls through the final tunnel to emerge aboveground, the screen goes suddenly white.

Killswitch, by design, deletes itself upon player completion of the game. It is not recoverable by any means, all trace of it is removed from the user’s computer. The game cannot be copied. For all intents and purposes it exists only for those playing it, and then ceases to be entirely. One cannot replay it, unlocking further secrets or narrative pathways, one cannot allow another to play it, and perhaps most importantly, it is impossible to experience the game all the way to the end as both Porto and Ghast.

Predictably, player outcry was enormous. Several routes to solve the problem were pursued, with no real efficacy. The first and most common was to simply buy more copies of the game, but Karvina Corp. released only 5,000 copies and refused to press further editions. The following is an excerpt from their May 1990 press release:

Killswitch was designed to be a unique playing experience: like reality, it is unrepeatable, unretrievable,and illogical. One might even say ineffable. Death is final; death is complete. The fates of Porto and her beloved Ghast are as unknowable as our own. It is the desire of the Karvina Corporation that this be so, and we ask our customers to respect that desire. Rest assured Karvina will continue to provide the highest quality of games to the West, and that Killswitch is merely one among our many wonders.

This did not have the intended effect. The word “beloved” piqued the interest of committed, even obsessive players, as Ghast is not present in any portion of Porto’s narrative. A rush to find the remaining copies of the game ensued, with the intent of playing as Ghast and discovering the meaning of Karvina’s cryptic word.

The most popular theory was that Ghast would at some point become the fumes inhaled by Porto, changing her size and beginning her adventure. Some thought this was wishful thinking, that if only Ghast’s early levels were passable one would somehow be able to play as both simultaneously.

However, by this time no further copies appeared to be available in retail outlets. Players who had not yet completed the game attempted Ghast’s levels frequently, but the difficulty of actually playing this enigmatic avatar persisted, and no player has ever claimed to have finished the game as Ghast. One by one, the lure of Porto’s lost, unearthly world drew them back to her, and one by one, they were compelled towards the finality of the vast white screen.

To find any copy usable today is an almost unfathomably rare occurance; a still shrink-wrapped copy was sold at auction in 2005 for $733,000 to Yamamoto Ryuichi of Tokyo. It is entirely possible that Yamamoto’s is the last remaining copy of the game.

Knowing this, Yamamoto had intended to open his play to all enthusiasts, filming and uploading his progress. However, to date, the only film which has surfaced is a one minute and forty five second clip of a haggard Yamamoto at his computer, the avatar-choice screen visible over his right shoulder.

Yamamoto is crying.

#horror #scary #scary stories #stories #creepypasta #nosleep #killswitch

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