#so much that it's generally worth putting that practice into another weapon

[wolfdrawer]

Alright so, who's ready for a cowboy au!!

General premise of it:

Gideon Coal is on the hunt for the hobgoblins that took his family away from him and has left him a permanent scar. With the help of a crew he hired, he'll finally seek his revenge.

All characters are their normal races just not their classes. So...Avantris that got hit with the western stick. Just so there's no confusion.

And they all have different nicknames but I haven't thought of much...still a work in progress.

Characters:

Gideon Coal:

•The leader who's fiery revenge is gonna make for a mighty risky plan.

•His outfit is like Orville Peck's if it was more chaotic and messy.

• (Thank you @obsidiancreates for this idea) He looks like a mess on purpose, since he's had too many people doubting him, might as well adapt to it. His guns doesn't look clean so people assume he's got no game and will get himself killed.

•His fine weapon of choice is his Pappy's trusty shotgun and a dingy revolver that was left behind when the hobgoblins invaded. He's a tank that likes to go head first and do as much damage. Although he's not fully advanced with the revolver, he gets the job done with it.

•He's a massive risk taker, getting into fights with the wrong people to get what he wants and a big shit stirrer whether it's flirting or sleeping with another man's girl or just pick pocketing from his winnings. If it's a risk, it's already worth it.

Kremy Lecroux :

•The proud owner of the Hungry Catfish after running away from his old employer. When he's not making sure the patrons of his bar aren't ripping each other to shreds or causing mayhem or doing finance, sometimes he likes to go down and give a show. Whether dancing or singing, he'll put on a show for his patrons.

•He's the only one not affected by the hobgoblins because he runs away whenever he's paranoid and feels like they are too close to his business or his life. But he knows too many stories.

•He can be a flirt but it never goes far because although he doesn't look like it, he's a fighter.

•He's the closest one that maybe has magic, however, it's all just a magic trick, smoke and mirrors as he performs.

•His performing outfit consists more of a regular button up, a corset, leather gloves, normal leather pants, and a big jacket. And his actual outfit is something I have to get drawing on. He does wear his makeup for each outfit, his performing outfit more of the typical voodoo paintings and then when he's out, it's a hand made skull mask he made.

•Weapons of choice would be his two ranger guns that sit on the lower back of him and his cane that doubles as a hidden sword because I do love me some hidden swords.

•You can make a deal with him, whether it's getting him for a heist or helping you get the money you need from a game, he's your man as long as you can pay him with as much as you got. (60 - 40 like he said)

Morning Frost:

•A working farm hand that got his knack for shooting things across the way when he had to quickly grab his mom's rifle and snipe a hobgoblin that was about to grab his friend. He got a few more shots in before the hobgoblins finally got away from his village. He was regarded as a hero and forced to learn the ways of the world pretty harshly. Now in the future, his knack for the rifle has landed him to be able to turn off his emotions in a pinch to get the job done, although it bleeds through when the going gets tough.

•His outfit, and this may be obscure, is going to be a sort of ref to Tigerclaw from the 2012 TMNT, just without the eye patch and adding a few more details to make it more cowboy aesthetic.

•His weapon of choice of course is his mom's trusty rifle that he cares for deeply and makes sure it's in tip top shape everyday.

•He's calculated, knowing risks and how dumb it would be to do something, but he's not above going in and sniping for a job if he desperately needs the money.

•He still lives in his village, now a protector of sorts and still practices his shooting to hone it even though he's already good, but good just isn't enough.

•He has 2 lockets around his neck that his mom and dad wore, each containing a faux gem that he feels represents them with a picture of each them. I will say the jewels later but I have to do my research on jewels.

Gricko Grimgrin and Hootsie T. Grimgrin:

•A man in the midst of woods and barely any civilization, Gricko lives for the hunt. With his daughter and trusty companion Hootsie, they scavenge all they can for their meals. Unlike the rest of the guys, they are so far into the woods, that they don't know any stories about hobgoblins nor have they even heard anything that sounds like a train. What is a train to them?

•Because of hunting, he's mastered the art of traps and the usefulness of materials. Everyday, he makes a new trap or stocks up on old ones, just to be ready. On his scavenging, he finds things that people who venture too close have and makes more of his weapons like makeshift bombs or fixing himself a knife as best as he can. Basically a wild man.

•Weapons of choice would be his makeshift bombs, think of Sokka's bomb from Avatar, and a janky knife he tried to make using bullets he found on a random corpse. It does it's job and that's all that matters to him. I am debating on whether or not to give him a gun, but I want to get everyone different guns. Still debating.

•Hootsie was going to be one of Gricko's marks, but Gricko does understand nature more than anything and took pity on the owlbear cub that lost its momma, and now he raises her as his own, inseparable. Now, she helps with scoping out prey and sniffing out when people are near.

And that's what I have so far! Hopefully I can fully get more of an idea for them and can get the map fully to really scope out how much these hobgolbins have fucked with everyone, but for now, take these disconnecting things. Torbek and Twig will be here as well, but I'm also trying to figure out their backstory and their roles in this without overlapping a bunch. The drawings I will have to add later because Gricko's and Frost is something I have to workshop. Especially Gricko because I want to make him a wild man but not a savage, anyone catch what I'm putting down, you know. If not it's fine, but I just have to think of his outfit. Anyway Enjoy!

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

"Halloween at the Theme Park" pt. 1 Scarecrow Edition

Howdy hey :) Did you guys miss me? Sorry it took me some time to come back around BUT I'M HERE FOR THE SPOOKY SEASON. We're going to do a series of asks based on the same prompt of going to a theme park that does horror mazes in halloween (see: HHN at Universal Studio, Knotts Scary Farm, Fright Fest at Six Flags, etc). I'm going to do Scarecrows, then Rogue Party and finally Wolverine and Deadpool :). Other asks can delve into this prompt more if so wished.

TW: horror, horror mazes, theme parks, villain behavior, drugs, some suggestive content

General

He's an old man. Doesn't this seem to be a night for someone a bit... younger? The idea of gallivanting around a theme park with drunken 20 somethings looking for a thrill at 2 am... Of course he's normally awake at that time, it's more the principle of it. Genuinely he'll be surprised at the diversity of people that go and will cave if you ask sweetly enough.

Absolute curmudgeon about theme park pricing on food and merchandise. If you warned him at all ahead of time, he has wrapped and packed sandwiches he hid on his person. What, you think he's been a criminal this long in his life and he can't fool some minimum wage security guard looking for booze or weapons? Please, give him some credit. Eat your sandwich. Will not buy a souvenir unless it's something he noticed you were PARTICULARLY attached to.

Most places will give him a disability fast pass for mazes on account of him very obviously using a cane. Bum legs and long lines not mixing well and all that. This is a bonus for you given you're his plus one. If anyone has anything to say about him using a cane or in general being rude to either of you... The cane has a multi function of taking out knees. Which he will absolutely put on a routine of just being a clumsy old man to get out of it.

As for the actual horror of the horror attraction... He likes finding a good place to sit and watch the interactions people have with the scare actors. He wants to feel in the moment, listening to the banter and screams in the night. If any jump at him, he's much more likely to "talk" to their characters and interact than he is to jump or show much reaction. At most he gives a pleasant, knowing smile that nothing this person could do could ever compare to the horrors he's inflicted upon the citizens of Gotham.

He'll hold onto you when you go through mazes as some tend to be disorienting with lights (whether effects of a lack of). Tends to like mazes with a strong concept that you can follow the story throughout the attraction. No real preference for themes other than "oh god, not another clown." He's had enough of those in his career.

BTAS

You don't have to do a lot of convincing. Considering his field of study in fears and phobias when he was a professor, he finds horror mazes to be an interesting intersection of your interests and his. It's rather like running an interactive experiment as he's experiencing it himself. He likes to watch and gauge how much is being startled from a jumpscare vs. a true sensation of fear. You can practically see him taking notes in his head. Some of these might be good ideas to play off of for later...

He tends to scoff at the prices for any of it, from the spooky themed food to the merchandise around every corner- He still buys it, though. In his mind, this is a special thing for the two of you and he put money to the side exclusively for it. Seeing you get excited over any of the things he might buy you makes it worth it.

He gets a delighted sort of chuckle when a scare actor can manage to "get" him. For the most part he doesn't react strongly so someone getting his heart rate up is exciting! It makes him feel young again. Seeing you react gives him a bit of glee as well. He likes the feeling of you grabbing him in reaction. It's rather... well. He was never made to feel like a strong man in his life given his physique. It's comforting.

Traumatized from his time at Arkham Asylum and therefore will not want to do any mazes that are hospital or asylum themed. He finds them tasteless given the abuses many patients suffered historically and, in the case of Gotham, currently. And nothing with bats! No bat mazes! Shockingly, if there are mazes based on specific phobias, he's very excited.

He has a very small bottle of what appears to be spray sunscreen on his person, which is a very strange thing to carry since most of these events are at night. You might even wonder why until you see another guest being incredibly rude to a scare actor and security for simply doing their job. Then you see Jonathan spritzing the rude person with "sunscreen" as you walk by. It doesn't take long for the fear toxin to kick in.

Arkham games

He's unsure at first. It's not because he won't enjoy any of it, he's just positive he could do it better. What if it's disappointing because he's seen the city of Gotham bow their knees in terror to the master of fear? People going to this place for kicks? You and he should be the ones getting the only real fun out of other people being scared. (He will not admit that it's because he horribly dislikes being scared himself)

He'll say how expensive everything is but the moment there is a crow or a little scarecrow, there is a significant chance he's going to purchase it. It's for you, of course. He can rag on Edward for narcissism all day, but he can have his moments. It's cute, right? If you really didn't like it, he wouldn't. However, if you do, you have a new little friend. As for food... he might try to sneak something in. Either that, or he's scouring the park for the cheapest thing he can find.

Genuinely a little sore if any of the actors manages to spook him. It's so cheap, you know, just jumping at someone to elicit a surprise response (as if he has any place to talk). He could do it better. He could make this entire PARK QUAKE with fear- and you have to sort of put him back on topic this is fun. Is he having fun? Yes, he admits despite being embarrassed, it's fun.

It's when another guest is rude, bumping into you and laughing it off out of drunkenness. That's when it stops being fun. He couldn't exactly bring his glove set up to the park without raising many questions to security. He's also not ready to get his ass kicked by trying to hit the nitwit while he's unarmed. Yet you see him dig within his pockets and produce a small white bundle. Barely the size of a teardrop pinched between his fingers. Then he tosses it. It makes a loud crack on the ground behind the guest and sizzles a sickly green, releasing just enough fear toxin as the person turns around to give them a deep inhale. The two of you slip out into the crowd as they begin to have a panic attack.

In contrast to BTAS, will be a sucker for a maze that's set in a hospital given his own adventures that night in Arkham Asylum. Gives him all kinds of happy feelings seeing the ideals of that place twisted at the beck and call to fear. Sure, some might find it distasteful, but he finds it thrilling.

BTAA

You don't have to approach him, he already checked your schedule and bought the tickets. Likely to several parks. There is a faint chance he might be more excited to do this than you are. Absolutely offers you "product" to heighten the experience but isn't put out if you don't want anything. Oh, so you want to feel all of it raw and with clarity, hm? Sure, he wouldn't deny you that.

He can and will drop stupid bank on expensive souvenirs if either of you likes it. Talking about the kind of money he makes is so... gauche, so distasteful- But he's definitely making that kind of money so he'll tell you not to worry about it. In addition, being the weirdo gourmand he is, he's going to be trying themed food if there is any. Some kind of pumpkin concoction with fake eyeballs? He's on it.

Giggly when someone jumps at him. You can't tell if he's actually startled or overjoyed, or a combination of both. Either way, he's certainly having a good time. He'll absolutely try to get you in a situation where you get startled, whether it's by an actor or by himself. Hearing you shriek or gasp, oh it's delicious. There is going to be some very sneaky fondling there in the dark. There is a fair chance he'd have you there within some hidden spot in the mazes if he thought he could get away with it.

There's a group of young 20-somethings that cuts fast in front of you while you walk. You almost trip and one of them makes a smart comment to watch where you're going. It's annoying, but before you can say anything else, your partner tells you to wait back for a second while he talks to them. He speaks to the rude group and it looks like it's all smiles for a moment. You can't make out exactly what it is Jonathan is saying to them. Yet you can see their reactions turn from smug grins to uncomfortable and perturbed frowns. All while Jonathan continues to look so pleased with himself. It doesn't take long for the small group to disperse. He doesn't tell you what he said to them.

To be fair, he's going to like most horror mazes unless they don't meet his standards of story, sets, actors, scares, etc. HOWEVER, he will have a fondness for anything that has the hint or whiff of classic horror. It's a little too obvious to say he'd be thrilled at an interpretation of Basil Karlo's films in a maze format, but it's the truth. Unless it's done poorly of course, and then you'll hear about it for the rest of the ride home where he nitpicks the entire thing. Anything 80's slasher themed will also have him pick up TREMENDOUSLY. He's a little too excited. Expect a make out session afterwards.

[simper-maximus]

Courtiers Headcanons Yoo

Thoughts are flooding my head, here is me draining it out even though I have no experience in writing.

Now, warning: I only finished Lucio's route so these could contain inaccurate information. Since I basically know most of the story from memes. Oh well.

Today's topic is bodily functions and other slightly disgusting stuff. Enjoy.

Volta

➼Overall there is a common headcanon (or maybe it's canon? don't remember) that the courtiers do not need to eat, and thus have no bodily functions overall.

➼In my opinion, while that is mostly true, it only is to an extent. They don't need to eat, but if they do, you better believe it has to come out too

➼With that being said, Volta, with all her eating, practically lives in the loo

➼The first month when she got to the palace and became the darling lil procurator we know, she was overjoyed by being fed whenever she felt like it

➼(Which is basically all the time because everyone though of her as some sickly victorian child wannabe) (And hey, gotta feed the workers)

➼And at first everyone though it was because her scrawny body was just getting used to the now normal food intake

➼But nah she just had no control over herself and would go full sneaky mode and eat five cow's worth of food a day whoops

➼So the cooks and even Nadia got concerned

➼Why is this precious baby always running to the bathroom?? Is the food contaminated? But everyone else is fine??

➼They took her to the head doctor, darling Valdemar to check for allergies because what if she is lactose intolerant? Or has gluten problems?? They can't risk losing their most accurate poison check worker

➼This obviously annoyed the other demon because damn it, WHY couldn't Volta just chill and at least TRY not to raise attention?

➼In the end Valdemar prescribed her some fake pills and got her her own bathroom. Problem solved, nobody is suspicious now

Valdemar

➼Another headcanon I see often is that their shell of a body is fused with their clothes, basically making it part of the disguise

➼Yeah, no

➼They work with blood and other non solid waste that could stain their clothes

➼If those clothes were fused with their body it would make it sooo much harder to keep it clean

➼Not to mention anything could get stuck in that delicate fabric. Geting all up in the nooks and crannies

➼Good luck washing it out if that is the case. They'd have to throw their whole self in the washing machine

➼That being said they have a normal body under the uniform, and take daily showers even if they didn't get particularly dirty that day

➼They do however use those very old block soaps that makes your skin texture feel sticky in a way too clean sense. Either that or the strongest one they can find. Doesn't matter that it makes their skin dry as hell

➼That being said their skin is unbelievably dry all the time. Please put some lotion on them

Vulgora

➼HOW are they always so sweaty

➼Maybe definitely that is the reason they are always so angry all the time

➼How can you thrive in an environment where your foes keep getting away because of your slippery body, huh??

➼Brings Vlastomil to shame

➼The Vesuvian temperature doesn't help one bit. Therefore this demon loves the winter, despite claiming to dislike it because "the colors don't go well with their outfits"

➼They definitely tried the "pads inside your clothes" lifehack to lessen the damage. Don't ask where the pads came from

➼Also those facial oil remover rolls? They got like four in each pocket

➼Weirdly cares a lot about skin care though, so they often brag that the oils are the cause of their baby soft skin

➼You could not find one (1) pore on this demon's face. And of course, everybody noticed that

➼They tried to profit off of this, and sold some wacky "skincare scrub cream" to the civillians. (For the purpose of buying some sick weapons with the cash of course) Didn't work. Had to wait for a whole generation to die off to escape the shame

➼So how does their makeup never get smeared? Don't ask an enby their secrets~~

Vlastomil

➼He, like Volta loves a good feast and always joins in whenever he can

➼However he hates when fish is served because it reminds him that worms are often used as bait to catch said fish

➼Glares at the palace aquarium as he walks by

➼He is probably the most normal one of the bunch

➼Doesn't have to deal with anything extreme

➼Good for him honestly

Extra: Valerius

➼He is slowly starting to go bald but admits it to no one

[historicalfightingguide]

Having a variety of tools for a variety of approaches to training can be very beneficial for training historical fencing.

But also having enough money to start up training with full sparring gear and metal swords can be prohibitevely expensive for many people.

In such cases getting some foam swords and minimal protection (mask, gorget, cup, lighter gloves) can go a long way to help folks start out their fencing journey.

And if you're trying to start a club it's potentially a difference between 'tough but doable' and 'straight up impossible unless a big life change happens'.

Today there are many options for foam swords you can order online, but it can be great to be able to DIY some of it.

The above link is a finnish guide on how to do it that many high level hemaists there have used, and similar to how many larpers and sca etc. folks have made their own weapons for years back, but a bit optimized for hema purposes.

Google translate is imperfect but you should be able to understand all the general concepts and get better with follow up attempts.

Also keep in mind the first attempt once you have all the relevant materials(that are fairly cheap pretty much everywhere) it'll likely take you anywhere between 30min and 3h to finish a single foam sword.

But after a few tries you may need no more than 20min per foam sword.

These types of training tools are also great for any day where you don't want to put full regular gear on but still want to fence a bit in minimal gear. They're also great for instilling confidence in beginners to move freely, even if in full gear.

They're also more forgiving and safer if you know there's folks who struggle with control, at least a stepping stone before they're ready to fence freely with steel.

They're also slightly lighter than the steel versions so also more appropriate for beginners if you want more class time to be devoted to training skill, whether through drills, games etc. than to building physical capacity.

However even an experienced student may find them a great tool for improving timing and distance management.

Good luck and hope you all find this useful.

For anyone who hasn’t yet seen the following links:

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Some advice on how to start studying the sources generally can be found in these older posts

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Remember to check out  A Guide to Starting a Liberation Martial Arts Gym as it may help with your own club/gym/dojo/school culture and approach.Check out their curriculum too.

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Fear is the Mind Killer: How to Build a Training Culture that Fosters Strength and Resilience by   Kajetan Sadowski   may be relevant as well.

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“How We Learn to Move: A Revolution in the Way We Coach & Practice Sports Skills”  by Rob Gray  as well as this post that goes over the basics of his constraints lead, ecological approach.

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Another useful book to check out is  The Theory and Practice of Historical European Martial Arts (while about HEMA, a lot of it is applicable to other historical martial arts clubs dealing with research and recreation of old fighting systems).

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Trauma informed coaching and why it matters

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Look at the previous posts in relation to running and cardio to learn how that relates to historical fencing.

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Why having a systematic approach to training can be beneficial

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Why we may not want one attack 10 000 times, nor 10 000 attacks done once, but a third option.

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How consent and opting in function and why it matters.

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More on tactics in fencing

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Types of fencers

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Open vs closed skills

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The three primary factors to safety within historical fencing

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Worth checking out are this blogs tags on pedagogy and teaching for other related useful posts.

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And if you train any weapon based form of historical fencing check out the ‘HEMA game archive’ where you can find a plethora of different drills, focused sparring and game options to use for effective, useful and fun training.

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Check out the cool hemabookshelf facsimile project.

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For more on how to use youtube content for learning historical fencing I suggest checking out these older posts on the concept of video study of sparring and tournament footage.

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The provoker-taker-hitter tactical concept and its uses

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Approaches to goals and methodology in historical fencing

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A short article on why learning about other sports and activities can benefit folks in combat sports

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Consider getting some patches of this sort or these cool rashguards to show support for good causes or a t-shirt like to send a good message while at training.

[phlve]

Subtype Trait Structures: sx7

Talkative

The sexual E7 is a particular form of quackery. He tends to talk a lot, even more than the other subtypes of the E7. He is a loquacious and talkative character, who does not stop occupying the space with the word. It really does have a lot of struggles, you could almost say an inability to be quiet, in a chatter that is defined by its superficiality, thematic dispersal, and inability to go deeper.

Verbal incontinence, together with the speed and mental effervescence that it possesses, turn the talk of a sexual E7 into a bombardment of words that ends up devastating in an almost hypnotic chain of light ideas that, one after another, end up being heavy.

The underlying motivation is to release anxiety, and fill the inner void and the interpersonal space with words. It is also a way to control one's own and others' emotions. What is important is not so much what is said but the expression itself (language in phatic function). It's pure oral incontinence. If a sexual E7 is asked about what he just said, he may have a hard time repeating it, because he doesn't even listen to himself.

Grandiose and Exaggerated

He is a character with delusions of grandeur, who looks at life in a big way, who makes excessive plans that he later cannot achieve... But that grandiloquence and exaggeration hides the need for a look that will rescue him from his low self-esteem. He confuses being admired with cultivating his self-love; hence, he measures his personal worth based on how dazzled others are.

His narcissistic self-inflation attempts to compensate for his schizoid inner emptiness and less admissible feelings of unworthiness, insecurity, and guilt, of which he is often unaware. Deep down, he reassures himself and self-indulgences so much, through the recognition of others, that it is not surprising that he is defined as an “enchanted charmer.”

Exhibitionist

By exhibitionism we understand here that particular way of constantly attracting attention practiced by the sexual E7. Both his attire (garishly colored, sometimes with feathers or exotic accessories and, in general, not very discreet) as well as his way of moving and speaking denote an intense activity aimed at becoming the center of attention. It is like a peacock, only with a peculiar way of understanding elegance, which is not exactly what the canons command, but rather that of a mountebank or a buffoon.

Invasive

His verbal incontinence and his exhibitionism make the E7 sexually invasive. With words and gestures, he occupies the mental and even physical space of the other. Is capable of diverting attention or the focus of the conversation by making parallel comments, introducing new distracting incepts, with jokes that change the mood or simply blurting out some superficiality out of context. Interrupts conversations, either directly or with encouragement sideways as a whisper. He is an expert destabilizer of meetings or conversations that do not interest him or in which he is not the center of attention.

He sneaks into parties where he hasn't been invited, shows up unannounced, takes places or privileges he hasn't earned... Of course, once he manages to be attended to, he doesn't easily let go of the place of centrality, food of his narcissism.

Impertinent and Cheekiness

It combines freshness with a shamelessness that reaches rudeness. He is capable of approaching and confronting the source of power so equally, with such daring, that it borders on irreverence. In his approaches, he is usually very direct and self-assured, even limiting the unpleasant effects of his impudence with jokes and various complications, putting vaseline on at every step.

However, under his apparent friendliness and sense of humor, he has scathing and corrosive words. In the irony he hides his competitiveness and even contempt and, aggressively, he exhibits his dialectical skills to ridicule his opponents with devastating weapons. His impudence comes from the incontinence of his desires, which they do impulsively, straight to what they want immediately. It is a staging of their rebellion and indiscipline. Either by A or by B, the focus is directed both at destabilizing the other and at attracting attention. Depending on the fear that he has of the situation, and depending on the strength that he grants to the other, he will use the style of covert rebellion, guerrilla warfare type, or the most open and daring, sniper type. It is common that, in a conference or meeting, he interrupts the speaker, asking some incisive and far-fetched question that nobody understands. It is possible that the subject does not interest him too much, but he will abuse the word as a way to show off to the group.

The impudence of the sexual E7 can be such that he dares to preach what he lacks so much, that is, being ethical and honest. It is not uncommon to hear him giving advice or moralizing, from idealization, about what is correct. To remember here that the E7 suffers a direct influence of the moralism, rigidity, and perfection of the E1. As the preacher Groucho Marx teaches: “The secret of life is honesty and fair play; if you can simulate that, you've done it."

An Oblivious Clown

He can approach social situations with ease, aided by his low sense of the ridiculous as well as the courage to use himself as a caricature. He is especially witty at making fun of himself. He has little shame and makes fun of his own faults or defects as a way of taking iron from them. He is adept at parodying his own life.

It would seem that the sexual E7 does not know how to be anywhere other than the joke. Always sharpening everything, the sweetener, useful in so many moments, ends up cloying. The abuse of humor makes him invasive, impertinent, and inadequate in many moments in which that attitude does not apply.

Self-referenced

He is admiring himself through the fascination he provokes in others as a springboard to feel above others, with aggressive and haughty attitudes. The more admiration you receive, the more you come down and feed the belief that you are “special,” unique, and superior.

Such is the degree of self-referentiality that is the center of attention, and denies the value of others, reduced to mere providers of admiration, a silent public that gives him the egoic pleasure of capturing your interest.

Dreamer With Magic Thinking

It is usual for him to practice various esotericisms, parapsychology, or exotic religions, and to surround himself with an aura of accentuated new age spirituality or practice healthy lifestyles, or anything else designed to attract attention while giving himself airs of transcendental maturity.

Ultimately, he does not stop being a dreamer. Someone who needs to spend a good part of his time in the fantasy worlds he cultivates, disconnected from reality, is oblivious to problems.

Pseudo-empathetic

Although he does not lack empathy to identify with others, and tends to be kind, humane, and even emotional, his difficulty in connecting with a genuine interest in others is enormous. The sexual E7 is a person with great affective disconnection towards those who return to him, an aspect that, although he is not very aware of it, is one of the most painful for him. In the long run, he feels alone and isolated, since he does not establish real contact but through his self-image. And although he is inflamed by his abilities and triumphs, deep down he himself is aware that he has no real achievements and feels internally fraudulent, quite insecure, and fragile.

Selfish

Like all E7, the sexual subtype can also be defined as selfish. The priority is the satisfaction of one's desires, everything else is left behind in the order of priorities. He does not see the other; only his own navel. And, of course, he believes that he doesn't need anyone to be well, that he can only handle the vicissitudes of life... Without being the most tricky of the sweet tooth (title held by the conservation E7), he is also a slave to his own desire and shows no scruples when it comes to going for what he wants. Once he succeeds, there is also no remorse for the forms employed, like the child who, unable to contain his frustration, went for the candy at all costs.

Fraudulent

Self-indulgence serves as a justification for fraud. The sexual E7 can tell himself and others any kind of story, with the most unlikely alibis to justify his dubious behaviors. He lives in a kind of chronic fiction, entertainment, and permanent comedy that ultimately allows him to do what you want and when you want. And, unlike the conservation E7, he tends to believe his own lies, self-suggesting them.

Explosive and Hypersensitive

A mental character but with an emotional tendency denied in the background. In his day to day, hysterical tantrums are not uncommon, moments in which his understanding is clouded, and he behaves like a small child who, not being attended to, explodes.

This feature also has to do with the general susceptibility of the E7. These are people with such a high sense of their personal importance that anything offends them, and in the case of sexuality, this jeopardy reaches the point of hypersensitivity.

Anti-hierarchical Escapist

They tend to establish non-hierarchical, horizontal relationships, either with the subordinate or with the boss. It establishes a colleague, a closeness, a complicity that, apparently, facilitates camaraderie and trust. Their managerial style is condescending, giving permission for everyone to say and do what they want, but delegating much of the responsibility for tasks to the subordinate. Ultimately, he tends to hang himself, both procrastinating on his tasks and abusively relying on his co-workers. Something similar usually happens in their personal relationships.

Head in the Clouds

In addition to escaping from his responsibilities, he is absent-minded, a “freak” who usually lacks grounding and the ability to get organized in the practical things of life. It is not very well known where his head is or his existential priorities; what is clear is that his thoughts are not of this world.

Childish Optimism

He is an optimistic, lively, fun person... at least on the surface. He has already been designated “the clown of the enneagram” for his immense ability to laugh and make a joke out of any situation. In fact, most of the great comedians are sexual E7s.

Optimism and humor are not only at the service of highlighting the humorous side of situations, but also affect the cheerful spirit of the sexual E7, in its liveliness and joy. Optimistic ingenuity is the lubricant that allows the sexual E7 to glide through existence without the friction of living.

The sexual E7 has remained in that early stage in which the child laughs at anything. There is still no broader understanding that anticipates the sufferings of life and, in the face of any face or stimulus from the environment, the child returns a smile. The hope and joy of living is such that it is only possible to smile with dedication and enthusiasm.

Impatient, Impulsive, and Intolerant of Frustration

Although he anticipates a lot and acts from the mind, he is often carried away by his impulses. The sexual E7 has a low tolerance for frustration and wants to be one step ahead of reality itself, like a capricious child who, when he wants something, wants it now.

In permanent movement, jumping from one space to another both physically and mentally, he is usually nervous and quiet, with a lot of physical agitation and difficulty staying in one place for a long time. Internally it is also changeable and variable, easily alternating ideas and arguments. Corporally, they are jumpy people, with zigzag, sharp, run over movements. They find it difficult to sit or stay in the same position for a long time, they have difficulty stopping, being at rest. This constant mobility even makes him frequently change his profession, address, partner... Restless agitation is a mechanism to avoid contact with the inner world, where he could connect with discomfort. It's like surfing the waves of life's discomfort, tiptoeing through situations.

Behind the impatience and speed is not wanting to get lost or give up anything. The sexual E7 believes that if it stays in one place (external or internal), or simply slows down, it will have to give up fantastic possibilities in the world's great market. Stopping would also imply attenuating the initial excitement that the new arouses and sustaining the boredom that the stability of the known entails.

Hypochondriac

Avoiding suffering and repressing pain leads to hypersensitivity to any sign of physical discomfort, which soon turns into constant worry. The sexual E7 has not received attentive and adequate care, and has not found an attentive listening on the part of the adults who had to protect him. Let's say that, also in this sense, he has experienced abandonment.

Furthermore, by taking on a minstrel role to alleviate his mother's sorrows, he had to hide his own. This lack of care and the fear of death itself cause, in the event of any physical symptom, to enter a state of diffuse anxiety that can turn into hypochondria. This indeterminate form of care on one hand reveals his deep fear and on the other, an attempt to take care of himself.

Hypochondriasis increases at the moment when, not having the ability to work through their anxiety, it produces psychosomatic symptoms and a vicious circle is entered.

Source: PDB Wiki

[hajihajiwa]

FTVS 3230: SOCIAL MEDIA

Fall 2023 – Midterm Exam

Part A:

Surveillance and Algorithmic Culture.

Internet surveillance refers to the practice of both the corporate and government owners of the internet tracking, logging, storing, and monitoring data sent over computer networks. The main concerns of internet surveillance is the fear of an all seeing “big brother” type surveillance state and the potential for data to be abused and weaponized against a citizenry for verbal or thought crimes. There are a few main concepts to understand when discussing surveillance culture. The internet is a massive place with many dark corners for criminal activity, narcotics trafficking, stochastic terrorism, pedophilia, grooming, and rape to take hold, which very often is actualized in real world harm. There is therefore a need for surveillance and “scrubbing” (as shown in the film The Cleaners) which requires the logging and monitoring of data. There is however a fine line between the very much necessary monitoring of internet activity and the potential for abuse or the limiting of free speech, and it will inevitably be a careful balancing act between the two. 

Algorithmic “culture” refers to the prevalence and near omnipotence of certain types of internet content tailored to certain types of internet and social media users, created by an engagement seeking algorithm. There are a few key points to understand, starting with “culture”. Culture is a famously hard to define word, but is generally understood with two broad definitions, culture as is and elite culture. Culture itself is understood to be the practices, customs, traditions, institutions, and the foundational principles and beliefs of a people group. Elite culture, according to Matthew Arnold’s Culture and Anarchy, is infamous for having defined culture in elite terms, as “the best which has been thought and said”, decided upon by the elite bourgeois class (in Marxist terms) (Striphas Algorithmic Culture, 2015). What is an algorithm and how does it define the new internet culture? Algorithms are a complex mathematical function, the same kind of functions you used in Calculus 2 and Algebra 3, just much larger, pulling from a variety of factors, and applying said output to another handful of algorithms. Social media companies use internet content as input, the black box algorithms determine the engagement value and cultural worth of the piece of content, and determines as the output whether it wants to put said content on a for you page or page 234 of Google. In doing so, they have created another kind of output through the congregation of algorithmic outputs, what is referred to as “internet culture”. 

The corporate owners of the largest social media platforms, seeking profit, have decided that the culture of the internet should be one of maximum engagement and maximum addiction to ensure maximum advertising. It is undeniable that the human condition is in part determined by the material conditions of that society, and that holds true for internet content as a commodity, though not tangible like a bike or an apple. Through the congregation and selective visibility given to the kind of content best serving the class interests of the bourgeois owners of social media platforms (and their shareholders and advertisers, as well as their financers, owners, and shareholders), they get to create the kind of internet culture they want to see. This is an internet culture which prioritizes emotional engagement and profit first and foremost creating a culture of manufactured outrage, a disregard (at best) and disdain (at worst) for the truth, echo chamber formation, political radicalization, mindless and rampant consumerism, the grift economy, mental numbness and callous towards real events, and dopamine addiction. The fact that according to a poll 93% of generation Z gets subpar sleep (the most important aspect of health, no contest) because they stay up late watching TikTok should be terrifying, proving that people will put dopamine addiction over their health every single time. Make no mistake, this is absolutely intentional and a completely dominant victory for corporations and finance capitalists. They are doing victory laps for fun, and Americans are suffering for it.

This is to say that if there was no profit incentive and the internet and social media was run at a deficit, we would see a radically different internet culture which would not prioritize a culture which best suits corporate, profit seeking interests. The owners and hallway monitors of social media would, under this deficit system, prioritize content which is more salient, interesting, educational, thought provoking, better for small businesses and projects, better for activism and veracious rather than that which is more engaging but trite (like react watchers who steal content but succeed algorithmically because of their high subscriber count for example). This shift would occur because visibility will be given to smaller more educational and salient projects and taken away from larger more engaging accounts, as well as the natural trend towards virtue and salience which accompanies the removal of a greed based profit motive economy. I think we would not see as many contradictions and real world harm if this were the case, as privatization always leads to negative outcomes for those lowest on the totem pole. In labor markets it is always the laborer, the nation exploited for resources, and the consumer who suffers most. In the internet, it is the consumer and the citizens of the planet with access to social media who all suffer from this mass psychosis of internet “culture”.

Sleep study (https://aasm.org/are-you-tiktok-tired-93-of-gen-z-admit-to-staying-up-past-their-bedtime-due-to-social-media/)

Part B:

The concept of the public interest has historically been invoked in discussions of media regulation and media governance. In what ways has this concept been applied to the regulation and governance of social media? How does this differ from the way the concept has shaped the regulation and governance of traditional media? 

         There is a very fine line to walk when applying the concept of public interest to the internet and social media. There is already a glaring contradiction in the fact that social media is run at a profit at all, which hurts everyone globally for a variety of reasons. The truth is that we selectively care about the public interest, and only utilize the argument against unsavory individuals who spread hate speech and the tiny percent of internet criminals who are stupid enough to send illegal content over the surface level internet. This is however, irrespective of the fact that the toxicity seen on the internet is a direct cause of the privatization of the internet, and privately owned media companies are therefore spending all their time combatting the problems that they created. It is often forgotten that the surface internet is only the tip of the iceberg, under the surface lies a behemoth known as the deep web and the even more untraceable dark web. Both of these are where the majority of crimes are occurring but are inherently largely untraceable without massive economic resources and international cooperation towards internet security. It is for this reason that I say that the public interest is in many ways a façade, what is known as security theatre.

The TSA is annoying, sluggish, and hyper reactionary for a reason. Not being allowed to say bomb at an airport does not increase security in any material sense, but accomplishes a much greater goal of making you feel like you’re safe and that there is strict and rigid order protecting you at all times. Though it may be difficult to believe, the TSA has a 95% failure to detect weapons, explosives, and illegal drugs. They are genuinely not protecting the citizenry whatsoever, unless one considers a 1 in 20 chance to detect a gun or a bomb in a bag “safety”. No, all the pomp and pageantry of the TSA serves a much greater purpose, what is known as security theatre. By overdramatizing aspects of security and creating a sense of overwhelming order and authority, knowing that they are not as effective as they make themselves out to be, the TSA peacocks which gives the general population a sense of ease, safety, and compliance. The same is true, I posit, for the internet, where social media companies get to take credit for performatively claiming to make the internet a “safer place” while doing no such thing.

There are a handful of good rules for social media content regulation. The banning of direct calls to violence for example, is a good thing. The banning of hate speech which directly leads to real world danger is a good thing. The banning of special interest hate groups is a good thing. These all protect the public interest, and my point is not that the social media conglomerates are not enforcing any rules that work, they most certainly do and should be praised for them. At the same time, the rules are getting more and more strict, people are banned from saying “mean comments” on YouTube for example, even if not including slurs or hate speech towards any group at all. You cannot call someone a “stupid fuck” on YouTube without getting a temporary ban which can result in permanent banning. The issue with this is that social media companies will continue to peacock that they are making their platforms “safer” and will continue to over correct, much to the chagrin of self-righteous American centrist liberals, while the internet still remains an overwhelmingly unsafe place rife with criminal activity in the deep web and the dark web. There is always a bigger fish.

Why is this over correction a bad thing, and am I being paranoid?

Facebook and twitter are the worlds largest editors and get to control narratives through the enforcing of certain policies. For example, being aggressively pro American for internationally illegal wars and supporting violence and US/NATO war crimes is considered not radical online and thusly not censored. Voicing opposition to US intervention or war, or the sharing of internet content considered “radical” by nature of its noncompliance for rooting for the home team is grounds for suspension, ban, or removal of content. In All Platforms Moderate by Gillespie, criticism is raised regarding Facebook’s undue influence on news, calling Facebook “the world’s most powerful editor.”  This was in reference to Facebook removing the image of children burning from Napalm dropped by the US military. This stems from subliminal patriotism which lives in the mind of every American, and Facebook being an American owned company is no exception to this rule. Even the Norweigan prime minister, according to the article, had her posts taken down for criticizing the US military and showing the photo. No one is exempt and above the law except for Facebook, who’s law is biased and who roots for the home team. Looking to Twitter which is rapidly becoming a political battleground, Elon Musk’s ideas of free speech, again pulling weight for US state department propaganda, will frequently overreach in censoring anti US views while at the same time promoting hate speech pro white groups. Multiple leftist accounts have been shut down and censored much to the gross tumescence of alt right pseudofascists. According to the article, Musk is engaging in selective moderation where he wants to claim he is more free speech and in favor of less moderation whil at the same time silencing dissenting voices. Much of this is left up to his gross incompetence, insecurity, and desire to be seen by his fanbase as a white knight.

(https://brightspace.lmu.edu/d2l/le/content/222142/viewContent/2675954/View)

(https://brightspace.lmu.edu/d2l/le/content/222142/viewContent/2675953/View)

         Ultimately my claim is this, that to preserve public interest in a way that principally matters, the real challenge is to run social media at a cost deficit and to remove the profit incentive which creates the toxicity seen on social media and the surface internet broadly. Privatized social media platforms create the conditions which they must then tirelessly fight against, all the while lapping up the accolades of making “the internet a safer place” irrespective of the facts. Furthermore, to materially preserve the public interest, more resources should be mobilized to combatting deep web and dark web proliferation of criminal content, child pornography, narcotic sales, criminal activity, and more.

Study: (https://abcnews.go.com/US/exclusive-undercover-dhs-tests-find-widespread-security-failures/story?id=31434881)

Future questions and areas to research.

How can we decouple the internet broadly and social media from the profit incentive?

Will any important information be preserved by the internet or will all the trite tiktok dances and cat videos be all we are remembered by?

Am I a misoneist or are younger generations getting exponentially less intelligent and mentally ill because of the internet and dopamine addiction?

[boomstab-papa]

“Why Does He DO That“

A post about abusive people, a slightly wonky book, and radfems.

Lundy Bancroft is the author of a very popular (very flawed, yet very useful) book called “Why Does He Do That”. He wrote this book from years of experience working as a therapist for abusive men. Possibly due to his narrow field of study, the book misguidedly merges the problems of patriarchy, misogyny, and emotional abuse. However, it still remains an extremely thorough and reliable guide to the separate issues of “why do so many men feel entitled to women and yet hate them” and “why are emotionally abusive people like this in general”. If you can manage to remember these two issues are separate, you’ll get twice as much out of this book.

You can read it for free here: https://archive.org/details/LundyWhyDoesHeDoThat

As you read this book, remember that he is not writing about “misogynists” or “men”. Occasionally, he’s writing about patriarchy. Predominately, he’s writing about abusers. It’s still one of the best guides to abusers out there.

The result of these poor framing choices is that the book doesn’t spend very much time describing the very real ways that women and nonbinary people can abuse people of any gender, with or without using patriarchal concepts as weapons. (Sure, this describes my stepfather to a T, but it also describes my nonbinary ex-friend who constantly put me down. To an extent, it also describes my mother, and both of my grandmothers.) You may see people you know, of all genders, in its pages. Yet it consistently uses male pronouns for the abuser, and feminine pronouns for the victim.

And terfs and radfems love this.

This is easily observed in almost every tumblr post promoting this book, sporting a long list of self-proclaimed radfems reblogging it. After all, men are inherently abusive. Women are defined by their victimhood. (To them.)

Watching yet another one of those posts cross my dashboard is what prompted this post.

It is still well worth your time to read this book.

Here it is again. It’s free: https://archive.org/details/LundyWhyDoesHeDoThat

And PLEASE NOTE: practice being aware of rhetoric like, “all women need to read this book”, and “how abusive men work”, and “how women can spot abusive men”. Because this is how abusers work.

[astaroth1357]

Demigod MC Series: Poseidon

Fishy fishy fishy… I honestly could write 100 more things for Poseidon MC and Levi. I just love the dynamic between an insecure, otaku shut-in and a chill California surfer dead set on becoming his friend.

Demigod MC Series: Intro, Aphrodite, Hermes, Hades, Dionysus, Demeter, Athena, Hades Pt. 2, Poseidon 

For anyone unaware, Poseidon is also the god of horses. I know it's a weird combo, but I didn't write the mythos.

Lucifer

…..

They came out of the portal….

On a horse….

They brought the mortal down to the Devildom…

On a goddamn horse….

There's a demigod on a live horse brandishing a weapon and doing laps around the Student Council Room…

Congratulations, he already wants to pull his hair out!!

Honestly, it would have been preferable to pluck them out of the sea. At least then they'd just need a towel! What the hell were they going to do with an entire horse!?

And his nightmare didn't stop there. Poseidon is a notoriously mercurial god, prone to bouts of anger and spitefulness for reasons far less grievous than kidnapping his children… 

Their apology was swift and (seemingly) effective, though the tide waters around the Devildom did rise by several feet for some time…

As for the MC… uh… Well, they're an energetic one to say the least…

Lucifer hasn't met a more active individual since Mammon. They horseback ride, swim, surf, skateboard, and probably do ten other things - the point is, they Hardly. Keep. Still! 

They're also annoyingly easygoing… He can't count the number of times they've told him to, "Just chill out," or, "Hang loose…" What does that even mean??

Between having to order a stable made for their horse and just trying to keep up with them, Lucifer already thinks this mortal has caused him more trouble than they're worth… At least they keep Mammon busy...

Mammon

Upon first meeting them atop their horse, Sunset, his first thought was of course:

"I wonder if I sell that...?"

After that, they nearly fed him to sharks for trying to take their beloved steed on same night. Safe to say, he never touched a hair on its head again…

These two had a rocky start, but their relationship mended fairly quickly. As it turns out, the MC is literally one of those "go with the flow" types. You can say it was water under the bridge soon enough.

Mammon actually thinks the MC is a hell of a lot of fun, even if they're super laid-back. Most of the time, they won’t take his drive for money (or fear of his bills) all that seriously and tell him that he’s worrying too much, but they’ll still lend a hand if its on their way.

He finds their ability to control water pretty cool as well. Levi has it to some extent, but the MC can make a whole-ass whirlpool or use water like a whip! 

He once begged them to call up some rare fish for him to sell, but they got all pseudo-philosophical on him about how “trading life for material wealth” is “not cool, dude...”

He also made the mistake of challenging them to a splash fight only once…. They managed to drench the whole family with a single wave….

The only thing that bothers him is their weird insistence on being Levi's "Best Buddy…" Why would someone like them even bother with a shut in??

Is it the water? … Probably water. Levi, that lucky bastard…

Leviathan 

Thinks they're a big normie, no scratch that, a HUGE normie! The biggest normie he's ever met!! They skateboard and horseback ride for Devil's sake!!

...But they’re also, undoubtedly, the best friend he could've ever asked for.

To be fair to Levi, their friendship was sort of forced upon him. The MC took one look at him, his aquatic-themed room, and his pet goldfish then declared their new friendship status at that moment. 

Unfortunately for him, though, they're energetic, extroverted, and generally have little understanding of personal space… aka, an introvert's worst nightmare…

The next month could accurately be described as the MC doing everything in their power to make their stubborn "senpai" like them.

They would drag him out to the aquarium, beach, or pool; they befriended Henry so he could put in a good word for them; and they'd even bring him little gifts or trinkets they'd find on the ocean floor. Pretty shells and stuff like a cat bringing its master a dead mouse.

After he finally began to accept them as a persistent fixture in his life, he introduced them to gaming and anime and started accepting them little by little...

By the end of their stay, these two were practically inseparable. Not just because they like spending time together, but because they figured out they could have a telepathic link due to Levi being part sea serpent. 

No matter how far they are, they can always have a chat! (That no one else can hear so people think they’re just crazy...)

Satan

Satan honestly isn't the MC's biggest fan, he generally finds them too loud and gregarious for his liking. But their horse…?

He never really thought that he'd be a horse man... Yet it didn’t really take long for Satan to adore Sunset, their beautiful golden-maned mare. Apparently she's not their only horse, but by far their favorite traveling companion.

Sunset is a wonderful horse - brave, strong, and well-trained. It only took a few weeks before he was regularly sneaking out to the stables to brush her fur or feed her apples...

After the MC taught him how to ride, that was it. All other forms of transportation were inferior to him now.

Satan would ride Sunset everywhere and he looked damn good doing it! It takes all that fairytale Prince Charming thing he has going on and puts it through the roof.

It's a good thing too, because when I say everywhere, I do mean everywhere. Lucifer had to put seals on the House doors to keep Satan from riding Sunset through the hallways...

Of course, he’ll always let the MC have Sunset back when they need her!... with a little complaining but nothing terrible.

The MC doesn't mind much because Sunset likes him and they know he takes good care of her, but the rest of the House is slightly unnerved at how quickly he went horse crazy… What if they brought a giant crab instead?? No one wants to deal with crab-Satan...

Asmodeus 

Their body is just scrumptious. Oh, how he could look at their swimsuit-clad figure all day!! 😩

Between the swimming and the fighting, their form is toned to all hell and he can't get enough of it! Yes baby, yes!! Take those clothes off again!!! He'll help~! 😘

When he's not staring at them “totally respectfully,” then he's inviting them out to pool parties or begging them to take him riding...

There are parts of horseback riding he doesn’t like, the smell and the jostling specifically, but there is a kind of… romance to it, no?

He loves having the chance to snuggle up to the MC as they trot around the Devildom! It's so romantic, like they’re his knight in shining armor! (Or his demigod in a damp swimsuit, either works. 😏)

His Devilgram is just full of selfies of him and MC riding on the back of Sunset or sitting by the edge of the pool or them in the middle of a swim meet…

Yeah his Devilgram is now a one part him and one part MC-Appreciation account.

After the pact he'll eventually cool down some and stop staring at them like a sex-object, but even then he'll be at every swim meet. Don't you worry~

Beelzebub 

He actually really likes them! It's great to finally have another athlete in the House. 😊

The MC joined the RAD swim team just as soon the coach was able to convince Diavolo that having the child of a water god wasn't completely cheating... 

Since swim and fangol practice ends at about the same time, they walk home together a lot and complain about... sports things... (Forgive me, I don’t know sports. Uhm... Rival teams? Coaches? That one drill everyone hates? Stuff like that.)

Beel also can surf, skate, and snowboard so the two have a healthy competition going. They're about on equal footing so they tie often (except in surfing but Beel doesn't think that should count cause they’re probably cheating).

The only thing that he has to watch out for is Sunset… As in, he has to watch himself around Sunset because he absolutely could eat her on accident… 

Look, he doesn't want to and he doesn't even like horse meat that much, but even he has to admit there are times he gets hungry enough to consider it…

Of course, he knows that if he ever did Satan would rip him limb from limb then the MC would drown the rest so he really, really tries to control himself… but still… She’s a very healthy horse...

At least he didn’t try to sell her like Mammon. The MC hung him over a shark tank for that stunt… He’d feel bad, but Mammon kind of had it coming.

Belphegor 

The first time they met, the MC smelled like beach water and called him "dude-bro…" He didn't like his prospects.

For a while, he genuinely thought that they had a lump of sand where their brain was. They were just too chill!! Here he was saying that he's being held captive and they were like, "Well that sucks, man… I'll help ya, but I've got practice tomorrow. You can wait, right?"

It's not like he expected them to jump on top of it, but some urgency would have been nice…

When they eventually got around to helping him, he was actually looking forward to choking the life out of them for the extra wait. Unfortunately, they apparently had a horse…

Yeah, Belphie found out just a bit too late that the MC could summon their steed to them whenever they wanted and ended up with Sunset's hooves firmly bucking into his back for his trouble…

What followed was Belphegor running circles around the attic from the weapon-totting MC riding their terrifying murder horse until Lucifer finally intervened....

Thank the gods he wasn’t near any water….

As it would turn out later, as long as he's not being held captive in an attic Belphie kind of vibes with their laid-backness… They say they approach life "one wave at a time" or something.

He could care less about what that actually means, but what it translates to is "Stop stressing out and just keep chill" which he's all about.

Everybody should just chill out!... dude…. Nah, he'll let them stick to the “dude”-thing, it feels weird...

[cerastes]

Hi Mr. Dreamer! Long time follower, first time asker. I've been trying to get into the Souls games recently (starting on DS1 Remastered), and I was wondering if you had any tips on parrying? Every time I try to do it, it feels like the attacker hesitates just a moment too long or too short and I beef the timing. Thanks!

Heeeey

Parrying really is more of a knowledge check than a reflex check or something you do naturally on any given enemy. Or, in other words, you want to be familiar with the enemy's attacks before you try to parry.

Back in 2018, I made this tutorial video for a few friends regarding parries. The video is specifically for two handed ripostes more than parrying, but as a visual aid, it helps our purposes here. I want you to specifically notice how 3 of those 4 parries in the video were on the second attack and not the first attack. Why does this matter? When learning to parry, it's easier to parry the non-first hit of any given enemy combo than it is the first, after blocking the first hit. The first hit of an enemy tends to be hard to parry for beginners, and after you fib the first hit, your sense of rhythm goes wack and you end up half-parrying the follow-up moves (AKA when you are a little off and it hits you for reduced damage without stagger, with a blocking sound effect). Instead, to learn, I suggest you block the first hit of an enemy combo, and then go for the parry on the second hit, or whichever hit you feel is easiest to parry.

After you block the first hit, and you have the feedback of this hit, the sound effect, the animation, what have you, you steadily start memorizing the timing to parry the follow-up, and you become consistent with it. Take Silver Knights, for example: Both the Sword and Spear variation have combos where you have to wait a second and a half or so before throwing out the parry to catch their follow-up attack (as you can see in the video). Once you start getting used to this, you start seeing what makes a parry, a parry. The idea is that, as you practice parrying enemies with this easier method, you start understanding when, in general, a parry will work in terms of timing and animation. So from there, you go on to parry pretty much any attack you want to parry, first hit or not, but it's a really good idea to train yourself on parrying second+ hits on enemies so you start internalizing what a parry is in execution and when it will work. At least, that's how I trained to learn how to parry consistently! Lots of Silver Knights, Black Knights, and Painting Guardians.

Another thing is to be as close to the enemy as possible, ideally hugging them. This makes parries much easier and more consistent. The reason to this is due to how parries work mechanically in Soulsborne: Your parry frames need to hit the enemy attack frames. Your shield's parry motion NEED to touch the enemy's weapon during it's hit frames. This might sound obvious, but it needs to be stressed, because what this means is, the farther away you are from the enemy, the more precise your timing needs to be in order for your shield, which you are swinging from right to left, to touch the enemy's weapon during its attack frames. If you are standing point blank next to your foe, your shield's parry frames have a lot more opportunities to touch your enemy's weapon, resulting in easier, more consistent parries and more forgiving timing.

So! Let's put this all together in how to learn to parry, Dreamer style: First of all, find an enemy worth parrying, because, well, why the hell parry random Hollows when you can easily stunlock them, straight stun them with a regular block, or just outright kill them in one, maybe two hits? Silver Knights don't get easily stunlocked (you need a two-handed greatsword R1 minimum to break their poise in one hit), don't die in one hit that isn't a chunky, unwieldy R2 or a high spell, and don't get stunned by blocks, and also they are available in large quantities, so they make the perfect parry dummy (Balder Knights from the Undead Parish also work if you have yet to encounter Silver Knights!). Go to your unwilling training partners, get a good handle of their moveset, get RIGHT UP in their grill as if you intend to french kiss them, and get practicing. Point black second hit parries, get used to the timing, learn what makes a parry successful, the timing, what the animation looks like, where their attack should be when you are parrying or when you should start the parry, absorb all of this information, and soon, you'll internalize all of this. Spear Silver Knights and Straight Sword Balder Knights have an attack which is a singular attack but with a long wind-up (the big, horizontal sweep in the video I shared before in this post!). Try to parry those ones as well, since they come with plenty of wind-up and are practically intended to be easy to parry by the developers.

Remember, parries are not a game of reflex, they are a game of knowledge and experience. Even in PvP, you're rarely reacting to an attack to parry, you expect a certain attack and then parry that because you were anticipating it (the so called "read"). Do it enough times, and you'll learn how and when to parry.

[memetaped]

star trek: deep space 9 taken from the tv show.

come on, let’s get you home. 

looks like you need a new bandage. 

it’s good to see you got your appetite back.

you’re lucky you only got singed.

i need to know that you’re here, safe. that way, a part of me will always be safe, too.

get your hands off of me, before i do something i’ll regret.

we’ll see each other again soon. that’s a promise.

whatever it is you’ve been through has taken its toll.

that boy’s life is in our hands, and i won’t let anybody give up on him.

there are too many ways to get into serious trouble here.

get some hot chocolate and tell me about it.

you can channel your feelings of aggression in other ways.

this is important. you and i. things change, but not this.

you’re a great boy, you know that?

you have to leave me here and go on by yourself.

but the thing about dreams is, if you talk about them, they kind of go away faster.

now that kid is here under my protection, and i swear, if you do anything to hurt them, i will make you regret it. is that clear?

everyone has to have someone to confide in, someone to hear their stories.

my heart is too big.

the boy’s in a lot of trouble.

everything’s gonna be all right, but you have to try and stay awake for me.

if you were hurt, i’d leave you behind.

hold on, i’m not finished with you.

my dear, you should not be here.

it’s just a nosebleed.

hey, who said anything about being scared?

everyone went out of their way to look after me.

it takes a lot of courage to admit you’re wrong.

you run now, i won’t be able to protect you.

give me that before you hurt yourself.

i don’t need counseling, or relaxation, or time to adjust. i just want to be left alone.

get out.

and i am gonna pray, because i don’t know what else to do.

care for a root beer?

i’ve always loved you. even when i hated you.

before you volunteer too quickly, understand what you’re getting into.

do not hug me.

mom?

i’m not afraid, papa.

you’ve been so kind to me.

i’ve said my piece. sorry for butting in.

you know, why don’t we just call it a day? you obviously have other things on your mind.

i feel sick when i eat. i have pains in my head, in my chest.

you keep moving around, you won’t need any nurse.

i’ve known nothing but violence since i was a child.

what the hell has gotten into your head?

so, now you’re hiding things from me?

i think i could handle some soup.

save your strength

a sharp knife is nothing without a sharp eye.

so, my young friend, what do you think we’re looking at?

confession is good for the soul.

i’m gonna stay here, take care of the wounded. that includes you.

that’s a very personal question.

is this some kind of joke?

look at me. i need to know you’re going to be all right.

hold on, i’m not finished with you.

continually distracted, depressed, and agitated.

you always tighten your brow just a tiny bit whenever you’re about to ask a question.

it’s so small even i can’t stand up in there. look, i’m developing a slouch.

the one good thing about going away is coming home.

you don’t want me hanging around here? fine. i’ll do my thinking someplace else.

i don’t know who’s going to hear this. i don’t even know if i’ll be alive by the time this log is recovered.

we have rights, including the right to be as stubborn or thickheaded as we want.

i know it’s too difficult to speak right now. just rest.

you might say it came to me in a vision.

what are you doing up? you’re supposed to be in bed.

i’ll miss you.

and you’ve got a lot of nerve complaining about being cold when you’re the one wearing the jacket.

the last thing i want is to become a burden to you.

rudeness will get you nowhere.

okay? i’ve forgotten “okay.”

keep your eyes and ears open, follow orders, and try not to get in the way.

it’s not a trick, it’s a choice.

that’s how i think of you. and maybe that’s why sometimes, it’s hard for me to relax around you.

it’s a treatment, not a cure. it’ll prevent hallucinations, take the edge off the depression, but that’s all it’ll do.

you know, that was a very ugly thing you just said.

right now, my head is swimming in bloodwine and i’m going to bed, and so should you.

i’m a little tired. didn’t get much sleep last night.

i appreciate your concern, but i’ll grieve in my own way, in my own time. 

we’ve come to care about what happens to these people.

i know that you’ve been working with the maquis, and right now, i don’t care.

are you some kind of anarchist?

when you take someone’s life, you lose a part of your own as well.

home! i want to go home!

besides, i could never live with myself if something happened to you.

now we either freeze to death or starve to death. take your pick.

isn’t there someone you can talk to? someone you trust?

that’s right. it’s okay. everything’s going to be fine.

take my word for it, you’ll survive.

i don’t know about you, but it’s past my bedtime.

do you want to come color with me?

look, i’m not asking you to like me or to be my friend. i’m asking you to join me, to fight at my side.

sealing the entranceway was a risky thing to do. you nearly brought the whole ceiling down on yourself.

i can’t feel my legs.

“a needle in a haystack” wouldn’t do this job justice.

you ought to get some rest.

don’t deny the violence inside of you. only when you accept it can you move beyond it.

make sure to put your plate in the replicator, sweetie.

you know, it’s attitudes like that that keep you people from getting invited to all the really good parties.

i feel like someone just walked over my grave.

we need to get you to the infirmary.

enough. you’re pushing yourself too hard.

if that’s how you remember it, you must’ve hit your head harder than i thought you did.

you should take a break. you’ve been working nonstop for days.

well, you tried being alone and it hasn’t done any good. so maybe it’s time to stop brooding and start talking.

are you part of my family?

my leg is broken.

i’ve been looking all over for you.

you’re suffering from a severe form of amnesia.

speak up for yourself while you’re here, okay?

things that would send cold chills down your spine and wake you in the middle of the night.

i’m the one who should be struggling to stay conscious. i’m the one who’s in excruciating pain.

not just a bad dream – bad memories.

are you two fighting again?

i don’t want your sympathy and i don’t need your advice!

you stay a while longer if you want to, but you have to promise me, when the time comes and i tell you to go, you’ll do it.

look, i know it’s too late for an apology. but for what it’s worth, i’m sorry.

why don’t you go to your quarters and lie down for a while?

everyone keeps looking at me. they’re afraid of me.

i’d never felt more alone in all my life.

i’m half-frozen. i haven’t eaten for days. my muscles won’t work anymore!

what you experienced was an artificial reality, an interactive program that created memories of things that never actually happened.

what could be more important than dom-jot?

i’m not sleeping. i’m checking my eyelids for holes.

i’ve found that when it comes to doing what’s best for you, you humanoids have the distressing habit of doing the exact opposite.

you’re going to give yourself indigestion.

speaking of pain, this is probably going to hurt.

i never thought i would say this to you, but you are listening to your heart, not your head.

would you please go on vacation and get out of our hair?

you should take things easy for a while. 

i wish there was something i could do. some way i could promise you that everything is going to be okay.

i’ve done some things i’m not proud of. 

i want to stay with you.

my weakness is i’m too generous, too forgiving.

oh, this is one stubborn infection. how long have you had it?

just to “speak up for myself”, i’m feeling a little betrayed here.

the best way to survive a knife fight is to never get in one.

you can annoy me, bait me, question my very existence. but in the end, we both know i’ve won.

i haven’t seen one of these since i was a kid.

it’s a good weapon – solid, simple. you can drag it through the mud and it’ll still fire.

i’m sorry, i hope i haven’t offended anyone.

little children do that.

you know, eventually, you’re going to have to stop talking and deal with this.

if you come with me, you can be a soldier again.

i still wish you’d given me a little more warning.

you can’t expect me to cure it overnight.

i used to dream about you coming to save me. that’s what kept me alive.

you’ve never had those feelings. you don’t know what it means to really care about another person.

let me put it another way. i don’t want to play cards, and even if i did, i wouldn’t want to play with you.

what’s next? do you want to apologize to me? express your sympathy?

i think you went to your quarters last night and you tossed and turned in bed, because you knew some of the things you said to me concerned me.

you’ve got all the emotions of a stone. no offense.

because i have the bad habit of telling the truth even when people don’t want to hear it.

i’m always suspicious of people who are eager to help a police officer.

for as long as i can remember, i have always been an outsider.

you were wounded. try not to move around.

terrorists don’t get to be heroes.

i’ve never needed a friend more than i do right now.

i cried for you. i missed you so much.

we need to stop the bleeding. we better get you up to the ship.

i’m not afraid of you.

for the moment, why don’t you relax? try not to be so tense, take it easy.

we don’t belong in this time. we’re from the future.

you federation types are all alike. you talk about tolerance and understanding, but you only practice it towards people who remind you of yourselves.

now, i think we should concentrate on getting you comfortable with this weapon.

out there, there are no saints, just people – angry, scared, determined people who are going to do whatever it takes to survive, whether it meets with the federation’s approval or not.

yeah, i just banged my head on something.

it’s life. you can miss it if you don’t open your eyes.

i should have known you’d develop feelings for these people you’ve been living with for the past few years.

there’s nothing you can do. um, i just need some time.

i’ll teach you. it’s a very simple game.

you don’t deserve it. nobody does.

and you want to know why you don’t scare me? because i’m already more scared than i’ve ever been in my life.

oh, please. i’m suffering enough without having to listen to your smug federation sympathy.

i know what it’s like to worry about a child.

last night, it sounded like a takaran wildebeest was tromping around up there.

do you remember my face? even a little?

between you and me, those people have every right to defend themselves.

there’s a time for levity, my young friend, and a time for genuine concern.

why? why do you care so much?

i have to save you from yourself.

just because a group of people belong to the federation, that does not mean that they are saints.

life is yours for the taking. all you have to do is reach out and grab it.

no one on this station is better than anyone else. we’re all equal.

that’s why i came to you, because i knew you’d protect me. you will protect me, won’t you?

just because we don’t understand a life-form, doesn’t mean we can destroy it.

oh, we’re all very good at conjuring up enough fear to justify whatever we want to do.

it’s an expression of affection that you find difficult to accept.

look, i just don’t want anything to happen to you.

as your friend, i have to tell you i’m worried about you.

have i ever told you how much i hate that smug, superior attitude of yours?

and as for bedside manner, i’ve known nicer voles.

you’re the terrorist. you tell me.

i repaid kindness with blood. i was no better than an animal.

you don’t know what it means to care about someone, do you?

i’ll try to keep my problems more quiet next time. 

are you sure you’re all right?

oh, i slept like an alvanian cave sloth.

just watch your back. you’re in danger.

the thing i don’t understand is why you pretended to be my friend.

i have to say goodbye to you.

[bubblegumbeech]

Stumbling in your Sleep

Phic Phight prompt fill for @the-only-wife

It was the ticking sound that woke him.

Danny yawned, blinking sleep out of his eyes and stretching out his sore muscles. Looking around only served to confuse him though. He wasn’t in his room anymore, and he wasn’t downstairs either (which sometimes happened with his body’s penchant to fall through not only his bed, but the floor). He was in a large, heavily shadowed room that was on the edge of familiar, and it was taking him a moment to place it in his sleep fogged mind.

“It’s not healthy to fixate on what could have been,” came a deep, familiar voice from behind him.

Startled, Danny spun around to see Clockwork floating a few feet away. He was in his eldest form, long knitted beard and all, and was gazing past Danny towards something further in the room.

Following that gaze, Danny saw what exactly Clockwork had been talking about and flinched, flying quickly away from it and over towards the Ancient.  

It was a Thermos, horridly familiar and just- sitting there on a pillow as if for display.

“How did I get here?” Danny asked, putting Clockwork between himself and that thing .

Clockwork hummed, stroking his beard a moment before slowly answering, “I suppose, the likely answer is that you were having a nightmare.” He lowered a hand to Danny’s shoulder and led him out of the room and back into a more familiar part of the clock tower. “Let’s get you some tea before I send you home, it might calm your nerves.”

Danny followed, eager for distance, before asking, “the likely answer? Does that mean you don’t know?”

“Despite what you and certain others seem to think, I am neither omniscient nor a mind reader, I cannot see into your dreams,” Clockwork said and Danny chuckled softly. “Besides, Nocturn would likely be unappreciative if I was interfering in his domain.”

“You know Nocturn?” Danny asked stopping and tugging lightly on Clockwork’s cloak so that he’d stop as well.

He did, lifting one of his eyebrows and answering with a dry tone, “of course I do, I know everyone.”

Because of course he did. It wasn’t like he didn’t just tell Danny that he wasn’t omniscient, that was clearly a different skill set to someone as determined to be mysterious as Clockwork. Danny found himself wondering if the intrigue surrounding the older ghost was not mostly of his own creation, an attempt at seeming aloof and beyond comprehension while simultaneously laughing behind everyone else’s backs.

A wash of amusement filtered through the ambient ectoplasm of Clockwork’s lair and Danny scowled up at him, “I thought you weren’t a mind reader?”

Clockwork tried to hide his smile, unsuccessfully, and nodded, “I do not need to be, to hear the accusations you make towards me,” he guided Danny to the main room of the tower where the screens were kept along with the relatively recent addition of a couch and coffee table. There was warm tea, purple and slightly glowing, already waiting for them.

“So I’m right then? You are just messing with us all the time?” Danny grabbed his own cup, dubious, Clockwork wouldn’t poison him right? He would know whether a half ghost could drink something if anyone did.

If Danny was expecting an answer, he’d be dissapointed, but when a ghost spent enough time with the mysterious Ancient it became increasingly clear that straight answers were not something they would get  in large supply. So instead he rolled his eyes and took a sip of his tea, Clockwork could be as obnoxious as he wanted after saving Danny’s family like he did.

The least Danny could do in return, was accept his eccentricities.

“Do you remember your dream?” Clockwork asked and Danny shook his head. There were bits and pieces, sure. Certain emotions and feelings that flashed to the surface when he closed his eyes or tried to think about it. He’d never been good at trying to recall something once he was awake, and despite Jazz once offering to buy him a dream journal to ‘help him decode his inner turmoils’ he’d never felt the need to try and change that.

He sighed into his tea, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you. I know you’re busy.” There was no way he was going to get a decent amount of sleep now, especially since he’d have to fly all the way home first and he didn’t even know how late it already was.

Clockwork’s lips twitched slightly upwards, “Daniel you’ve never once cared before how busy I am when you’ve come to visit,” Danny flinched, well he wasn’t wrong , “and besides, I quite enjoy your company. It’s no trouble at all.”

“Ah,” Danny didn’t know how to react to that, he was pretty sure he was nothing but trouble, especially with a certain future of his locked up in that other part of the clock tower they’d been in, “thanks?”

His host sighed, taking the time to sip his own eerily glowing tea. The silence stretched, but not uncomfortably and Danny found himself starting to drift towards sleep again, the struggle to try and keep his eyes pried open quickly becoming a losing one.

That was probably his cue to leave, as nice as it was to just sit here and not worry about things like classes and ghost attacks, he was probably already pushing it close to the first bell at school. He stood up and Clockwork’s eyes followed, “I have to head out, thanks for the tea Clockwork. I’ll try to be more considerate the next time I drop by.”

There was a small pinch between Clockwork’s brows, something he wasn’t saying or that Danny wasn’t hearing. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he assured and Danny let out a chuckle. He’d probably respond with something equally sarcastic, if not quite as dry, if he wasn’t so tired.

Clockwork seemed to be of the same mind, “Daniel, when was the last time you slept through the night?” He asked it as a question, as if he didn’t already know. Then again, maybe Danny was giving himself too much credit, it was entirely possible Clockwork didn’t waste his incredible power watching to see if Danny bothered to sleep at night.

“Yesterday,” Danny lied, a yawn built behind his jaw as if to discredit him but Danny held it back stubbornly. It didn’t seem to work though, as Clockwork’s lips tightened. He looked over at his screens, eyes flicking quickly over each one while his fingers tapped a steady rhythm against his staff. That, combined with the gentle ticking of clocks and general comforting atmosphere of the other ghost’s lair was making it more and more difficult for Danny to keep his eyes open.

He flinched awake fully as a hand shook his shoulder, shit, did he fall asleep standing up?  

“Daniel,” Clockwork’s hand was still on his shoulder, practically holding him up at this point, “you can always sleep here.”

Danny shook his head, “I don’t have time-”

“Daniel,” Clockwork interrupted, his expression flat.

Oh right.

“I don’t want to…” he tried, “It’s just, you already help me all the time, you’ve fixed so many of my stupid mistakes and-” and Danny was tired of being a burden. He was tired in general, but ancients was he tired of that specifically.

He was tired of seeing his friends lose sleep to help him as back up, he was tired of constantly having to go behind his parents backs and lie to their faces he was tired of watching as Jazz’s once perfect grades started slipping just enough because of all the time she spent helping Danny with his and he was especially tired of knowing that he wasn’t worth the effort in the first place.

Not if he could turn into that .

But Clockwork didn’t let go of his shoulder, in fact, he pulled him closer into a hug, a real, full hug like the ones he used to get from his parents before they started wearing their weapons and he was scared to get near them. “I’d rather you slept here than wandered around the realms half asleep. Who knows where you’d end up,” he said, speaking gently into Danny’s hair.

“You would,” Danny said before losing the battle against another yawn and relaxing fully into Clockwork’s arms. “You know everything. Can I really sleep here?”

“Of course,” Clockwork released him, leaving one hand on Danny’s back to guide him to a staircase he hadn’t ever noticed before. Just how big was this clock tower anyways?

The room Clockwork took him to was a little bigger than the one he had at home and nothing like what Danny had expected. Most of the tower was colored with dark purples and muted greens, with the occasional brush of silver or brass from the multitude of gears and cogs that littered the floors and walls. This room however, was full of dark blues and greys, a swirling galaxy floating above a single full sized bed that Danny easily sunk into when Clockwork led him to it.

He blinked up at the stars, they were perfectly accurate to the night sky above Amity Park if it didn’t have the light pollution and had to stop himself from counting every constellation rendered there in perfect detail or he’d fall asleep just like that without even bothering to thank Clockwork for offering to stop time for him.

“You made me a room.” It should have been obvious, of course, but Danny hadn’t fully processed what the room and it’s decorations meant until he’d said it out loud and Clockwork didn’t even try to deny it.

Clockwork fazed the blankets through Danny in order to pull them over him properly, tucking him in. Danny was almost tempted to ask for a bedtime story, just to see how he’d react. “Yes, I made you a room.”

Danny frowned, he didn’t understand, “why?”

“I suppose it’s a bit of an excuse to have you visit more often,” Clockwork said, ruffling his hair before sitting at the foot of the bed, “and an offer for you to get some proper sleep before you sleepwalk into someone else’s lair and I have to fight for custody.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Danny mumbled into the pillow, his eyes drifting shut.

The last thing he heard before he drifted off was a soft chuckle and a gentle reassurance that he needn’t worry about anything like that just yet. Maybe, if someone like Clockwork could see the absolute worst of Danny, the monster he could become, and still care enough to make him a room and be sure he slept, then maybe Danny couldn’t be as terrible a burden as he thought. Surely Clockwork, who could see all the futures stretched out below him like a parade, wouldn’t waste his efforts if he didn’t think Danny was worth the time.

He dreamed of stars and ticking clocks and didn’t worry for once about how soon he’d have to wake up.

[bouncingkadachi]

Blessed Rain

Summary: A Hunter’s weapon of choice says a lot about them. OR: Kyle upgrades his weaponry and gets caught red-handed in the act. Luckily (?) for him, only Tsukino seems to know exactly why he's having an emotional crisis over this.

Word count: 3,260

Note(s): set post-game

Also available on AO3!

Kyle’s had his new bow for a good couple of weeks before the feel of the limbs and the weight of the draw became comfortable enough for him to consider upgrading it. If he’s going to be injured, he reasons, he’d rather it be purely by way of monster and not because he pulls a muscle wrestling with a bow that hasn’t been properly broken in. His wallet despairs as he forks over the zenny, but this’ll hopefully let him take on some of the bigger hunts like the ones that Reverto goes on. It’ll all be worth the investment up front once he has his completely finished bow and restocked his coatings and finally drops the last of his coin on a couple new talismans.

He refuses to think about the implications of his reasoning with a literal coin, rolling it around and around his fingers as he pushes through the market throngs towards the smithy’s. Perhaps he ought to have a change of scenery—the fog-shrouded summits of Terga were said to be particularly beautiful at this time of year, and the heat in Lamure was becoming just shy of unbearable.

The final product that the blacksmith puts into his hands when he finally makes it to collect is nothing short of gorgeous. Blessed Rain is sleek where his old Rex bow was bulky, far lighter and certainly not as clunky. The upgrades on the riser gives the entire weapon a pleasant solidness in his hand, yet the delicately reinforced plating on the limbs doesn’t retract at all from its flexibility. The decorative grip protector gleams. Just looking at it makes Kyle excited to shoot.

“Bring her back if you’re finding that you need anything adjusted,” the smith tells him after Kyle’s diligently inspected every inch of the bow. “Kept the poundage the same for you, but added another inch to the draw length like you asked.”

“Thanks,” Kyle says. Eventually, he’d like to work up to the point where he can up the poundage again. Even just another five pounds would be good. He can do most of the hunts in his skill range alone now, but extra firepower would make him just that much more efficient, or that much of a better support for team hunts. 

The smith laughs when Kyle sheepishly admits this. “Well, I always like to help a Hunter improve, and you know where to find me,” he says cheerily, clapping Kyle enthusiastically on the shoulder. “Come by again anytime if you need a tune up or want to test out something new.” 

And with that, he waves Kyle away so that another Hunter can step up, holding a tired-looking sword and shield and looking equally exhausted. “Aye, rookie Hunter?” Kyle hears as he wanders off to find a more relaxed corner of the market in which to admire his new bow some more. “If you’ve got the materials I can repair and upgrade that for you.” The conversation peters out and melts into the general din of the marketplace as Kyle slips into the crowd, taking care to step out of the way of a Felyne carrying an absolutely massive basket groaning with produce. He watches the precarious load totter away, trying and failing to locate Tsukino in the brief respite the parted crowd affords him. They’d split earlier that morning and he hasn’t seen her since.

He still hasn’t managed to find even a whisker of Tsukino’s whereabouts by the time he settles into a decently quiet nook next to a stall selling all manner of spices. Pity, because the dappled light spilling through the colorful drapes of the marketplace catches so beautifully on the milky-white sheen of the bow, and he’d been looking forward to showing it to her. As a Hunter, Kyle will always care more about weapon practicality than aesthetics, but as a normal human being he certainly won’t turn down the opportunity to have both an aesthetically pleasing and perfectly functional weapon. He’s still grinning a little when he goes to strap the bow to his back, and it’s in the process of looking up that his gaze catches onto wide eyes staring plainly at him from across the street. 

He freezes, arm suspended awkwardly halfway to sheathing. His beautiful bow glints damningly in the bright Lamure sunlight as his unexpected friend wades through the throngs of people towards him, gesturing for him to stay put with a wave of her hand that really can’t be mistaken for anything other than a greeting.

“Hey,” he says cautiously and lamely when she finally reaches him. Belatedly, he remembers to lower his arm. He is momentarily thankful that she doesn’t try to reach up for his face in the Mahanan greeting, although his goodwill evaporates when she leans in to inspect his bow, body thrumming with unexplainable anticipation.

“Oh, that’s pretty,” she says finally. Kyle can’t help himself from preening just a little, shifting his grip so that she can get a better look. After all, what was the point of spending all that money and materials if there was no one to excitedly show the end product off to? Besides, it’s been a while since they last saw each other. Last he heard, she had been traveling, keen to finally see the world on her own terms and at her own pace.

“It’s fresh off an upgrade,” he answers smugly. “Easier to handle than the Rex.”

“Slightly less intimidating though,” she chimes in, and Kyle bristles, not liking where this conversation is going. And true to form, she goes in for the kill: “Mizutsune? I recognize the plating.”

Kyle can feel the flush crawling up to his ears. Logically, he knows that there’s nothing for him to be embarrassed about. It’s a mark of good smithing that one can tell at a glance which monster a weapon was inspired by, and a Mizutsune was both powerful and extremely iconic. This bow in particular had good stats and the ability to fire rapidly, which admittedly took him some time to get used to after focusing mostly on piercing shots. The paralysis coating that works so well on this bow has also already saved his skin on more than one occasion. There is little more a career Hunter can ask for out of his weapon. It’s not like he’d been heading out to Pomore Garden at any given opportunity and holding onto an increasing multitude of Mizutsune materials just because he wanted some physical reminder of what was probably the most pivotal moment of his life, something that never failed to put a very complicated and jumbled mess of emotions deep within his chest whenever he thought back to it.

He’s starting to feel very, very hot under his collar. The sun is terrible. He resolves that his next big hunt really needs to be somewhere outside of Lamure.

His friend, however, just looks more and more baffled as he launches into an unprompted defense of his newest purchase. Every time she opens her mouth, Kyle talks a little faster. Eventually, she doesn’t even bother trying to interject, which is arguably worse, because instead she just looks progressively more and more thoughtful. Kyle wished desperately for Tsukino to peel away from whatever hidey hole she was tucked in. Then, his train of thought screeches into a rude and abrupt halt.

“What,” he croaks. “What are you doing.”

One of her brows quirks up. “I sure hope your eyes are still working because that’d be a detriment to your job,” she says plainly. “What does it look like I’m doing? I promise it’s not a trick question.”

What she’s doing is holding Kyle’s hand—the one not clutching his new bow—the one that had apparently been waving about with increasing agitation as he jabbered on and on. What Kyle doesn’t understand is why. It’s not like he just did some impressive shot to give them the edge in a battle or anything else that was cool and hand-holding worthy. He’d just been yammering about bow mechanics, and maybe embarrassingly dipping into his talisman hopes and dreams. He stares a little helplessly at his trapped hand. Her kinship stone winks up at him.

“Look,” she says patiently, when it becomes very clear that Kyle is going to need a moment before he can get his brain back online. “There’s nothing wrong with a bow made from Mizutsune parts and I am the last person who will ever turn down pretty things. What I was going to say was that this is an interesting departure from your whole—” She pauses, as though looking for a specific word. “Well, your whole image as a very grown-up and serious and intimidating Hunter or whatever it was you were trying to convey with that scowl you used to like so much. And you weren’t letting me get a single word in.”

“You’re getting plenty of words in now,” Kyle scowls, just to be contrary. “And I’ve grown since then.”

“Someone’s in a mood today.” She smiles, crinkle-eyed, up at him. Kyle very seriously debates wrenching his hand out of her hold like he did the last time this happened and then pointedly doesn’t act on the impulse.

“Why’re you in Lulucion?” he asks instead with a truly remarkable level of self-restraint. “Thought you’d never want to come back again after what happened.”

She shrugs, the greatsword on her back heaving with the movement. “Guess I’ve grown too,” she says loftily, though she sobers quickly. “I was actually visiting my grandfather. He used to go back to Mahana around this time of year… he can’t do it anymore of course but I’ve got Ratha now, so I figured I could do it instead. And then I figured I’d stop by Rutoh before going home, to see Ena and Alwin and wheedle a few more stories out of them.”

She lets go of Kyle’s hand. He tries not to miss it. “Even Ratha can’t make the trip in one go, and Lulucion was closest, so we’re stopping to rest. I dropped by the Scrivener’s Lodge earlier because I was hoping Reverto could give me a few weapon pointers as I’ve saved up just about enough for an upgrade, but they told me that he was out on an urgent mission and wouldn’t be back for a while.”

“Oh,” Kyle says, a little stung that she hadn’t come specifically to see him first, out of all the Hunters in the city. He’s slightly mollified when she grins at him, though.

“And then I met Tsukino by the cannons. She said I could find you here, so here I am.”

“I don’t know anything about greatswords,” Kyle blurts out, and immediately wants to kick himself. She blinks at him, and then bursts into laughter.

“I was just going to ask the smith,” she wheezes when she’s got herself somewhat back under control. “Can’t I see a friend just to say hi to him anymore?” Kyle stares very intently down at some of the finer detailing on his bow.

“Where is my Palico anyway?” he finally settles on, falling into a tried and true grumble. “I haven’t seen her all day.”

She waves her hand vaguely in the air. “Navirou said something about getting donuts. I wasn’t really listening.”

But there was a donut stand right here in the marketplace, Kyle wanted to cry out. He should have seen Tsukino by now if they’d really been going to buy snacks! And how was it possible that he had missed Navirou in his entirety, between the Felyne’s penchant for wearing ridiculous little outfits and his inability to shut up?

“Why? You have a hunt you need to run off to?” 

“Yes,” Kyle says hotly. It’s a lie. He’d accepted a subquest that wouldn’t depart until later that evening for the sole purpose of testing out his new weapon in a relatively stress-free environment. Before that, he’d just planned on hitting up the shooting range in the training arena to break in the new string. His schedule was very, very free. Tsukino was perfectly aware of that.

His eyes widened. Tsukino had been with him on every excursion into the Gardens. She went where he did (usually), and it’s not like Kyle would ever begrudge her a visit home. But she’d been with him every step of every single Mizutsune job he’d ever taken—had watched him craft traps when he needed to capture and had kept watch for opportunists hoping to sneak up as he’d carved. She’d been the one who’d recommended the spinner for all the excess purplefur he was ending up with. At first, he’d simply thought that she’d wanted the thread to mend some of her own items, or to send back home to her brethren, but instead she’d tucked each skein of vibrant, silk-soft thread into the bottom of his pouch with gentle paws, cryptically talking about how strong a material it was, and how nice it looked when woven. Kyle has never touched a loom in his life, but now he’s looking at someone who he definitely knows has.

His stomach drops. Hadn’t Tsukino looked particularly smug ever since he’d lingered on the blueprints for Blessed Rain after getting a look at its stats and required materials?

“She got me,” he groans. His friend just looks at him bemusedly, though perhaps with a touch of wariness at his ferocious frown. Hastily, he tacks on: “It’s nothing. I, uh—I just remembered that I needed to tell Tsukino something. Important. Later, when I find her again.”

“Alright,” she says, though she doesn’t quite look like she believes him. “A quest’s a quest, though, so I won’t keep you here. The bow really is pretty though. I know I just said it doesn’t match your image and all but I really don’t think you can go wrong with something you like. You’ve got the skills for it, anyway.”

“Thanks,” he croaks, feeling a little overwhelmed. He manages two whole steps out of the nook before he pauses, worrying at his lower lip. “Actually,” he says sharply, spinning around on his heel and nearly causing his friend to startle right into a spice display. “How long are you staying for?”

“However long it’ll take to upgrade my sword, I guess,” she says after she collects herself, the words lilting into a question. “Three days or so, I guess?” She skirts nervously away from the glaring vendor, careful not to overbalance on her greatsword.

“Cool,” Kyle says with a nod, steeling himself. “Great, even. Look, how about this. Your last visit to Lulucion was terrible—” an understatement, “—so when I get back from my hunt I’ll show you some of the better sights Lulucion has to offer. There’s a hole in the wall that I think you’ll like. Dad used to take me after hunts—they grill really nice queen shrimp. And the parapets—you can climb them, and they’ve got all these little carvings in the stone that you can search for like a scavenger hunt.” He’s keenly aware that he’s rambling again, but she looks interested, so he barrels on. “I’ll come pick you up tomorrow just as soon as I can get a nap in. We can stay in the city or take Ratha out to the Barrens, down by the water. Just make a day of it.” He’s pretty certain that he looks at her with something akin to hope as she considers. It feels like a lifetime before she finally comes to a decision. 

“I want to take Ratha out in the evening,” she says finally. “I don’t want him to be cooped up too long here ever again.”

“Yeah,” Kyle breathes out, the word rushing out of him in a flood of relief. “Yeah, I can work around that.” She beams at him.

“I’ll look forward to it,” she says, sincere and looking more than a little surprised despite herself at the prospect of looking forward to doing anything in Lulucion. “I’m staying at the inn closest to the stables. Pretty sure I’m the only Rider there currently so they’ll know who I am.” Kyle nods, and lets himself get his hand squeezed again, though not without her hands first hovering in an instinctual bid for his cheeks before she remembers herself.

“Good luck on your hunt. If I see Tsukino I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”

“She’ll show up in due time,” he mutters darkly. “I’ll let you know if Reverto gets back early or if he’s just been loafing around this entire time. For your next upgrade or whatever.” She laughs, bright, and then slips off into the crowd to wrestle her way into the smithy’s queue. Kyle is left staring in her wake before his gaze is drawn back down to his bow.

“This is all your fault,” he tells it. Predictably, it doesn’t answer. Also predictably, Tsukino takes that exact moment to drop down from seemingly nowhere. 

“I didn’t know we had another job lined up,” the Felyne says delicately, carefully brushing crumbs off of her coat. Kyle groans, sheathing his weapon.

“Don’t tease me,” he huffs. “I’m going to the shooting range. Are you coming?”

“Hmm,” says Tsukino. “I suppose I can spare the time.”

“Of course you can spare the time!” Kyle hisses, indignant. “You just spent the day eating donuts and eavesdropping!” He pointedly doesn’t look towards the smithy, where his friend was patiently browsing the display while another Hunter was getting their hammer looked at.

“One must always be prepared with the latest intel,” Tsukino says mildly. “I’m glad the upgrade went well.” 

“It’s got good stats,” Kyle protests weakly in what is quickly becoming a tired argument. “The rapid shots have been going very well. And I had a surplus of Mizutsune parts.”

 “Yes,” his hunting partner agrees readily enough. “Have you thought of what you’re going to do with the thread?”

“This conversation is finished,” Kyle says abruptly, making a very determined push towards the market’s exit. “Either come or don’t, so long as we meet at the gate for tonight’s hunt.”

Tsukino looks at him with exasperated fondness, which is frankly a little insulting, but readily falls into step next to him. Kyle wonders how many rounds he’s going to have to shoot in order to clear his head again and rid it of thoughts of Hazepetal Garden or Mizutsune or high-grade thread that he’ll never use himself. He’ll examine them again someday—because he’s not a coward—but that day is most certainly not today.

He does his rounds in the training arena and marvels at the way the string slides off his fingers with a satisfying twang, even though it’ll still be a good few days before it’s fully broken in to his liking. Tsukino’s saved him a donut, the cakey sweet sticky with honey and practically melting in his mouth. He’s got some free time even after stocking up for the evening hunt, so he takes a few minutes to browse the quest board, taking careful note of the jobs that were situated near the Harzgai Rocky Hill, or the ones from further afield in Alcala that’ll take him closer to Rutoh. And when he leaves the city, he pointedly doesn’t look up at the familiar shape circling in the dusky sky, even as he knows that they’ll surely see the last rays of the setting sun winking off of the plates of his bow like a beacon.

[musubiki]

heres a bit of a lore dump regarding the “mechanics” of spells and potions in tcwg, and what i mean when i talk about how mochi needs ingredients to create spells and potions!! i think of it like an rpg cuz it helps me figure out how magic works here

- everything in the world has some inherent powers or “magic properties,” so when you combine them it creates different spells and effects, and this is what the witches refer to as “ingredients”

- a witch is given magic, and is a magical creature that is able to draw out the properties from within the ingredients

- in order for a witch to use a spell at will, they have to first brew the spell using the correct ingredients in a cauldron. after its made the first time, think of it as being “unlocked” or “added to the magic inventory” - the witch can use it whenever she needs. when its created, it is “absorbed” into the witch!! theres a process to this, and if youre not careful the spell will be backfired and placed on the witch for a short time (like the lovebites), but absorbed nontheless

- if its made anytime after this, the brew can be put in bottles/jars/containers as a potion - most refer to it as “magic in a bottle.” these can frankly be used by anyone who can get their hands on it, including non-witches and humans so witches have to be careful about it

- some spells are harder to handle/use than others. think of it as a witch having a set stamina amount, and using spells uses up that stamina!! some spells drain more than others. because of this, KNOWING a spell doesnt necessarily mean you can use it yet, as you might not be strong enough to take it yet

- potions are a one-time use and have 3 different types: the kind you drink, the kind you smash, and the kind you drip. drinkable potions generally have a similar but lesser effect if it simply comes into contact with your skin. smashable potions are more for AoE attacks, small range around the user, and dripping potions are especially potent and is usually applied to large areas (like a big body of water or a grassy plain). these are harder to use in combat cuz they take longer to take effect!!

- witches also create their own spells with unique ingredients, and record them down in spellbooks for future generations!! these are the books that mochi is always reading and studying!! she spends her free time making these spells so she has a bigger range of magic to use

- mochi also makes her own spells!! but after thousands of years of magic, all the practical, cool, and useful spells have already been made. most are learned/brewed/absorbed within the first week of being a witch so you have all the cool magic basics down. everything after that is very niche, rarely used in most situations, obscure, and straight up useless.

- the first week or two of spells is cool things: the energy/magic weapons, floating spell, summoning spell, the kinds of cool things you typically think of doing if you had magic!! the longer you make spells, the more you get into “spell that turns all left socks into right socks,” “spell that makes someone bleed out of their eyeballs but its harmless i swear,” “spell that (temporarily) clears all ink from the paper in a room* (*see note: about 5 mins, then they return)” that kind of useless junk!!

- and mochi is no exception. her only noteworthy spell right now is something like “spell that removes all crinkles from foil food wrap” or something. theyre running out of ideas, we give them a break.

- so mochi is always looking for new spellbooks that end up in old bookstores, or in a dumpster, or a yardsale, cuz you never know what kind of spells they have in there and hey, its useful to have everything down just in case.

- making a new spell is a lot of trial and error, you put in different ingredients, sometimes it ends up as something someone already made. even the smallest difference, like adding 2.20 ml of brisk iced tea instead of 2.19 can result in a different spell. if its one you didnt know yet, cool add it to the list. if you knew it already, cool its just another potion. if it works out that no one used that combination yet, great!! you just made a new spell that can clean the headlights of cars!! or something

- (i know its hard to keep track and statistically every combination would eventually be used but for convenience sake lets not think about that and keep it simple)

- its worth noting that its not necessary to keep track of EVERY spell you ever learned!! when using it, you dont need to recite the exact title and memorize who wrote it, where it came from, etc. its more about being able to use whatever comes to your mind when you need it!!

- a lot of the “core” spells are also flexible. a shield spell doesnt just make one type of shield, its fairly dynamic that the witch can use her magic to adjust it to how she wants after she made the original spell, and even modify it once they already know it into a way they like!!

thats all for now!! in the actual story we dont delve this much, mochi just uses magic and we dont talk about where it came from/how she knew how to do it, she just does it!! hope that makes some sense idk if ive talked about it before!!

[whump-a-la-mode]

Villainsicle - Part 14

Thanks to everyone for all the comments on the last part, and especially to @the-polari-person for the memes they made. Everyone really wants to punch Medic, and I think this part will reinforce that. I hope you enjoy!

Taglist:

@whatwhumpcomments

@sola-whumping

@professional-idiocy

@trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room

@literally-just-kirby​

@the-polari-person

@teachunks

@daydreamed-snippets-2nd-blog

@sunflower1000

@lightdrinker-blog

@regalwritten

CW//Whumpee liking whumper, pet whump, dehumanization, conditioned whumpee, orders, implied past torture, mentions of death, mentions of execution, arguing, conspiracy

Traitor ran their fingers affectionately through Villain’s hair.

“An Asset can be far greater than any weapon you may have ever yielded in the past. I am sure you have all heard of the incident suffered by our late former Asset Coordinator, but any equipment can malfunction.

I assure you, the risk is worth it. May they rest in peace. But, a well-trained Asset is just as dangerous as a well-maintained gun. With the right care, it will only harm those who must be harmed.”

The somewhat sorrowful expression that had begun to show through disappeared, replaced by a sharp smirk.

“But words can only do so much. Demonstration is much better. Cadet!”

Villain drew back, nodding firmly their acknowledgement. There was a notable strangeness to their gait, a refusal to put weight on their leg.

“Circumspicio.”

Another firm nod, before they closed their eyes. For a few moments, tense and quiet as they were, their hair rose about their head, writhing like an inferno of serpents. When they at last opened their eyes, their hair did not calm.

“Eight soldier on deck, move left. Two plane on deck. Most soldier sleeping, in dorm. Supervillain talk to Department Head. Assets in kennel.”

“Where is Ali Silica?”

“Ali Silica, in kitchen, drink water.”

“Maximilian Kesim.”

“Maximilian Kesim, in dorm. Sleep.”

“Ella Jacklin.”

“Ella Jacklin, on deck. Has weapon. Guard door 24.”

“Good.” Traitor’s gaze returned to stare forth. “My Asset may not be particularly useful in situations of combat, but it is invaluable for recon and scouting. They can see through our cameras, our computers, all of it. And in an enemy base? Every enemy movement can be mapped. I can’t count how many times it has saved my life.

It is the most valuable Asset we have. Usually, we would not be doing something like this. But, my Asset is currently off duty due to an injury. And thus, welcome to the course.”

Again, they laid their hand atop Villain’s head.

They smiled.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Villain looked at the camera.

That was all Counselor could look at, all they could notice. The other action on screen was immediately rendered irrelevant to them.

No. They could only see those eyes.

The same eyes they’d spent the last weeks gazing back at, in person and picture alike. At the very least, they were the same eyes, on the same person. In every physical sense, Villain was the same.

But...

They were happy. Maybe they weren’t, maybe it was just a trick of the light... But, no, no matter how Counselor squinted, what they told themself, they could not ignore that fact. Villain’s eyes glimmered with contentment, pressing their head into Traitor’s hand, who stroked their hair affectionately. 

There was nothing fake, nothing practiced, about that warmth. It was just as real as the sorrowful or fearful expressions that Counselor had seen on Villain’s face so often. The only ones they ever seemed to show.

They were happy. Why were they happy? Ordered about, spoken about like an object... And why were they talking like that? They were generally rather quiet, but they never seemed to struggle with their speech.

It wasn’t until Hero spoke up that Counselor realized their mouth had been hanging ajar.

“I...”

Hero was at just as much of a loss for words as they were.

“I don’t know.” Counselor shook their head, frowning. “P-Pause it. Please. I don’t want to see it.”

They did so.

For a long, tense moment, the two sat there, one in the computer chair, the other with their legs dangling off the bed. It was Counselor, who managed to clear their throat first.

“Where did you get this?”

“The flashdrive?”

“Mhm.”

“Leader. Leader gave it to me.”

“Leader?”

“I didn’t... I don’t know. I guess it makes sense?”

“It does, but...” Counselor gripped a clump of blanket in their fist, knuckles quickly turning white. “I, Hero, what the fuck! I don’t know what I expected. Some sort of backstory, certainly, but... What did Traitor do to them?”

It wasn’t the type of explosive tone that they often took, but they couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but release the furious flame burning in their chest, its smoke scratching their throat.

“I don’t know.” Hero shook their head. “What is the, the Asset program? That wasn’t a thing when we worked for them, was it?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I certainly never heard of it.”

“Me neither.”

“You think...”

“Do I think that’s why Leader looks like they’re about to faint whenever you so much as mention Villain? Absolutely! You’d think they would have told us.”

“I- I guess. What is there even to say? What was that even about?”

“It certainly wasn’t meant for an uninformed audience. Something about... training? Training assets?”

“That’s what Villain was, weren’t they? An... Asset.”

“I think so. A... A forced soldier. Traitor was treating they like a fucking dog.”

“Yeah.” Hero nodded.

“And...”

“An incident. What were they saying about an incident?”

“Someone died. The way they were talking about it, I think. Someone died. Whoever tried to make videos about this beforehand? An... Asset Coordinator?”

“That’s certainly what it sounded like.”

Counselor tried to release the grip they held on the blanket, but found themself unable. Tension and fury kept their muscles clenched, blood pounding their ears, even as they did little more than sit.

“Were they ever really a villain at all?” They finally whispered. “In the video, it was all orders. They were just following orders. We’ve been treating them like a villain this whole time, but-”

“I think we need to see more.” Hero interrupted. “We need to- We need to know. How long until this flashdrive mysteriously goes missing?”

“I don’t know.” Counselor bit the inside of their cheek. “I can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t. I need to-”

“You really should. We should.”

“I know. I know. But I need to see Villain.”

“Oh.”

“You watch, okay? I’m going to talk to them.”

“About... it?”

“Yeah.” They nodded, before frowning, their gaze becoming downcast. “How long until they mysteriously go missing?”

“Fair enough.”

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“Are you hungry?”

The Asset- no, dammit, Villain looked up as Counselor entered the hospital room. The thoughts, the words of the video refused to stop swirling in their mind, twisting even their inner monologue, now.

The blankets on their bed were turned and tossed about-- either they had tried to get up, or they had not slept well. Neither option was good.

But they were awake now.

“Are you hungry, Villain?” Counselor repeated themself, approaching the bedside. An impulse to straighten the bed linens ran through them, but their hands were full-- they placed the platter down on the table beside the hospital bed.

They took a moment to reply, as if they were unsure whether or not they were expected to speak. They decided upon the former.

“Yes.”

“That’s good. I made you some lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Y’know, when you eat at noon.”

“I- I know. Sorry. Don’t usually eat lunch.”

“You don’t?”

“Medic says I only need dinner.”

“Oh.” Another wave of furious warmth ran through them, but they let it burn out. It wasn’t the time. “Well, if you’re hungry, I have food for you.”

“Y-Yes. Sorry. Thank you, uh, thank you.”

“Of course.”

Villain sat up, taking the platter from their bedside table. It was a simple arrangement-- with little to no knowledge of what exactly Medic was up to, Counselor had decided to play it safe, making whatever was least likely to upset Villain’s stomach. A sandwich, some yogurt, and some carrots. Simple and small, but food.

Yet, as the former Asset gazed at the plate, they looked almost confused. Genuinely perplexed, staring at an abstract painting.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes! Sorry, I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just... This doesn’t look like what Medic has me eat.”

Counselor frowned.

“What does Medic have you eat?”

“Um... Don’t, um.” They furrowed their brow, looking for all the world to be trying to do mental calculus. “Don’t know word, um, I don’t know what it is called. It’s white, and dry. Tastes like chalk.”

At that point, Counselor would have believed it if Villain had told them that Medic was making them eat actual chalk.

“Well... This is something different, for today.”

“Okay.”

Still, the food before them put a confused expression on their face. Eventually, after considering it for a long moment, Villain began to tear pieces off the sandwich, eating them in that manner.

“Villain?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Y-Yeah. Yeah. Of course.”

“Do you know someone named Traitor?”

Villain’s hand stopped, halfway through bringing a piece of food to their mouth. They put it back down.

They nodded.

“They didn’t call them that.”

“What did they call them?”

“Trainer.”

“And they called you Cadet.”

Villain’s teeth snapped together, gritting hard enough that they seemed about to crack.

“Yes. I didn’t... I didn’t think you knew.”

“I...” There was no reason to lie. “I didn’t. Not until just a minute ago.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Villain shook their head. “It’s okay.”

“Is it okay if I... Is it okay if I ask you about it?”

Villain frowned for a moment-- looking as though they were actually considering the question. Even as much as Counselor wanted to hear a yes, even the fact that they were thinking it through made them swell with hope.

“Yes. Yes, it’s okay.”

“Okay.” They weren’t sure when their voice had grown so quiet, so placating. As though they were whispering in a far larger room. “They called you an Asset. What is that?”

“Um... We were weapons, I think.”

“There were multiple?”

“Mhm.” They nodded, ever so slightly, like their head was locked in place. “Not many made it... They kept us prisoner, for a long time. Before the collapse. Before your rebellion. Said we were useful only as lab rats. Then... Something changed. They decided we were useful. Started training.”

“Training?”

“We didn’t want to fight for them. So we weren’t given a choice.”

“You were... You were there, all that time?”

“When you rebelled, I guess- You didn’t know about us, did you?”

“No.”

“No one did.”

“And then they wanted your help.”

“They didn’t give a choice. I guess there was a choice. You could obey, or...”

“Or?”

“Or kill your handler.”

“What did they-”

“They shot the ones that acted up like that. Said it wasn’t worth losing soldiers over.”

“But you...”

“I-” Their voice hiccuped, catching in their throat. “I didn’t want to. Not at first.”

“They hurt you?”

“Some. I guess. Trainer had a whip. But that wasn’t their style. They needed us intact. They had other ways.”

“Oh.”

Villain turned the conversation about.

“How did you find out?”

“A video.”

“A video?”

More cautiously, this time, Villain ate another piece of sandwich.

“Some kind of training video. We found it on a computer. We took it, from Organization.”

“Oh.”

“You...”

“The one I was in.”

“Yeah.”

Villain’s lips pursed into a thin line. They picked up their plate, putting it back on the nightstand, before throwing aside their blanket.

Their hospital gown was thin and wispy-- they moved aside the fabric covering their lower leg.

A hole. That was the only word that would be in any way appropriate to describe the wound-- a hole, dug out of flesh. Healed and faded, so much so that the scar tissue had turned white, but it was still there. Still horrid enough to make Counselor’s stomach twist with nausea.

“What is...”

“A gunshot.”

“A gun did that?”

“Yeah. Really close up.”

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

“You were hurt, in the video.”

“Yeah.”

“It was...”

“It was this. I got hurt. Got shot. I couldn’t walk for a long time, couldn’t fight for a lot longer than that. Was stuck in the med bay. But I could walk, so they figured I could do the videos.”

Counselor nodded their understanding, as best as they could manage. Villain recovered the wound.

“Villain?”

“Yeah?”

“You left. Did you leave? On your own?”

“Um... It was more complicated than that.”

“You were rescued?”

They seemed to consider for a moment, before nodding.

“Leader.”

For a split second, Counselor thought they had imagined the word.

“Leader?”

“They saved me. By, um, by shooting me.”

“They...”

“They shot me in the leg.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“I don’t know if you can.” Villain diverted their gaze quickly. “Sorry, that was mean. It’s just, I mean, things were different back then. You have a choice. You left because you wanted to. Because you didn’t believe in what you were doing.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know what I was doing. I guess I had some idea, but, not really. I just did what Train- Traitor said.” Their head lurched upward. “They’re okay, right?”

“What?”

“Trainer. They’re okay, right?”

“I- I guess I don’t know. We haven’t done anything to harm them.”

“Okay. Okay.”

“You... You liked them?”

“I miss them.” They drew their legs to their chest, hugging them. “A lot.”

“You miss them?”

“Mhm.” There was somehow a terribly sorrowful tone to the humming. “I left them. But I miss them.”

“Did you... Did you escape? On your own?”

“I guess.” They straightened their legs back out. “The longer I was in the med bay, the less security there was. After a while, I think they forgot I was there. They just left me there, in that bed. Leader... Did they ever tell you?”

“About what?”

“About what they told me.”

“No. They didn’t even tell us they shot you.”

“They said it, right before they shot me. It was, um, it was an address. They said if I went there, I could get help. Then they shot me.”

“An address?”

“In Oregon. It was the first anyone had spoken to me in, I guess in years, at that point. They spoke around me, but never in English?”

“They didn’t speak English? They did when I was there.”

“Yeah, before they went all evil. Decided they wanted to speak Latin. I didn’t even know that that’s what it was, at the time. I never understood a word of it, still don’t. Then Leader came along, and spoke to me. In a language I knew. And it made me think, think like I hadn’t in such a long time.”

“In the video, in the video they were speaking English.”

“Mhm.” Villain nodded. “That was the second time I’d heard a language I understood. It’s like I woke up, like I’d been sleeping for forever. Like I remembered I was human. And, when the ship got close enough to the West coast...”

“You jumped ship.”

“I almost drowned doing it, too. But I didn’t. And I made it to the address.”

“And that was six months ago.”

“A year ago. I collapsed on a stranger’s doorstep, and they took me in. And... that’s it.”

“That’s it.”

“Mhm.”

They again took the platter, beginning to again pick at their food. Counselor let them eat in silence.

In the end, it was Villain who spoke up.

“Counselor?”

“Yeah?”

“I know Leader wanted to do good. I know they wanted to help. But... if I had the choice. If i could do it all again, I never would have left.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

“Of course they wouldn’t have. They’re an Asset.”

Medic spoke the words before the door was even fully open, yet Counselor heard them loud and clear, looking up and spinning around.

“Cadet, sedeo.”

The Asset fell without resistance. Medic could not help but clench their fists as they closed the door behind them, approaching their patient’s bed.

The smell of food permeated the room. Real food. Unregulated and unweighted and breaking the rules, breaking the pattern.

“What the actual hell do you think you’re doing?” They spat, turning to Counselor, sitting at Villain’s bedside like some kind of grieving idiot.

“They were hungry.” The response was firm, their adversary’s eyes narrowed. “So I fed them.”

“Did I not tell you that they have very specific feeding requirements?”

“You did.”

“And you don’t care?”

“Not really, no.”

Medic gritted their teeth.

No matter what this idiot excuse for a therapist thought, they weren’t stupid. Allowing them to see Medic’s patient had been a gesture of good will.

They should never have allowed it. They should have known this would happen.

Their plan had been going so goddamn well. Their patient responding to stimuli, to altered variables, as had been expected. As had been planned. As had been rigorously calculated.

And this piece of shit had ruined it. They had thrown off the experiment, the results, all of it!

The symptoms were showing as expected. Every single one of them. They were so damn close to starting the final phase, and now...

“What are you trying to do, Counselor...”

“They were hungry, so I fed them.”

“No, not that. I know you did that. But... all of this. Trying to help them. Trying to fight me. Why?”

“Because you’re hurting them.”

“We already went over this.”

“Well, at the very least, you aren’t helping them.”

“I’m treating them.”

“You’re keeping them alive. That’s it.”

“And what are you trying to do, pray tell?’

“What?”

“Counselor, what the hell is your end goal, here?”

There was no way this excuse for a social worker would see the right side of things, see the same way Medic did. But, at the very least, they could try to make them open their eyes, for once in their goddamn life.

“My end goal is making them better.”

“And then what?”

“What?”

“Say Villain gets better. One hundred percent healed. Then what?”

“Whatever they want.” Counselor drew back their upper lip. “You called them an Asset.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You knew.”

“And I see you do now, as well.”

“You should have told me.”

“You never asked.”

“You still should have told me! How could you have known and not done anything about it?”

Medic clenched their hands into fists.

“Because I was part of Organization. So were you. And Hero, and Leader, and everyone. Remember that were a rebellion. A splinter group.”

“I was part of Organization, and I didn’t know.”

“Well, I did.”

“And you didn’t do anything.”

“Is that what you’re going to bemoan me for, now? Because I didn’t leave as quickly as you? Because I was a department head? Because I didn’t have a chance? Because-”

“Shut up.”

“If this is what you’re going to get on my case about, now?”

“Maybe I am.”

“What about Leader, then? What about-”

“This isn’t about them!”

“They were married to Supervillain!”

“We all got over that a long time ago. If you want a fight, let’s at least do it over something that matters. When Villain is better, and I mean when, I will let them choose what they want to do.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

“You said it yourself, they’re a villain. When they were free, on their own, they were hurting people.”

“We can talk about it. Find out why. Help them.”

“And if they don’t want to stop? Are you really planning on just letting them go back out there? Because, what, it makes you feel better about yourself?”

“N- No. I wouldn’t.”

“Then you’d keep them prisoner.”

“Maybe.”

“And they’d stay sick.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because they’re an Asset. How often do you use your powers?”

“I- I don’t know. Once or twice a week?”

“Exactly. They spent months of their life going on daily missions, using their powers. Now they aren’t using them. Now they’re sick.”

“You’re saying...”

“What we’re doing, it’s like trying to keep a Border Collie as a lap dog. They need to use their powers, because they were an Asset. It’s what their brain has gotten used to. We can’t change that. We can’t change the past.”

“They aren’t going to be an Asset again. We aren’t like that. We aren’t Organization.”

Of course, the soft one would say that.

“That’s not what I’m saying. But it’s the only theory that makes sense to me, at this point. And if they have to use their powers anyways, they may as well be helping us.”

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t-”

“Just shut up, okay? You’re talking about them like they’re not even there.”

“They can’t hear us.”

“Wake them up.”

“I will in a moment.” Medic sighed. “Look. I can’t see the future. I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I do know that their training starts tomorrow.”

Counselor gritted their teeth.

“So.” Medic slumped their shoulders. “From tomorrow onwards, you may feed them as you wish.”

It was a sacrifice. Another gesture of good will, of trying to gain trust. They were giving up one variable in their experiment, turning it from a control to something wild, something they couldn’t control.

But, maybe, that was a good thing.

Handing over the experiment to another scientist-- as much as Counselor could be considered a scientist. Passing on the blame. Turning the causation into correlation.

Counselor nodded.

“Okay.”

[haus-seeblick]

Suptober Day 4 - Secrets

Title: “Messy”

Rating: General Audiences

Word Count: 3,503

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, John Winchester, Original Characters

Tags: John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Angst, Breaking The Rules, Dean is Sam's Real Parent (But he shouldn't have to be), Dean Giving Sam a Childhood, Dean Has Self-Esteem Issues, Dean Meets a Cute Boy, Unwanted Haircut, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dean is 13 and Sam is 9

Summary: John leaves Dean and Sam alone at a motel the day before Halloween. Despite John's hard-and-fast rules about leaving the motel room, Sam convinces Dean to take him trick-or-treating. While they're out, Dean meets a boy who makes him feel like breaking the rules was worth it.

On AO3 Here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Dean, you know the drill,” John says brusquely as he hoists the duffel over his shoulder. “Tell me the rules.”

Dean stands up from where he’s folding laundry on the motel room floor. They stopped at the laundromat this morning, John tossing Dean just enough quarters for two small loads before taking Sam along with him to the local library for research. They’ve been tracking a creature for days and John’s still not sure exactly what it is.

Dean would have loved to help with the books. Instead he sat in front of the laundry machine, exactly the same as the hundreds of others he’s fed with quarters over the years, and watched their clothes spin around and around. He noticed new holes in Sam’s jeans and socks when he moved them to the dryer. If his dad will let him use some of their wound-stitching thread, he’ll repair them after this hunt.

He faces his dad, posture straight and hands behind his back. “The rules are stay in the room, keep the doors and windows locked, don’t answer the door for anyone except you and Bobby, only spend money if I absolutely have to, and always have a weapon in reach,” he rattles off.

John nods, face impassive. “And the most important rule?”

“Protect Sammy,” Dean says firmly. He glances over to the rickety table under the window, where his scrawny little brother is filling out a worksheet. It’s part of the last round of homework their teachers had given them at their previous school, right before John took them out again to hit the road.

Dean quietly tossed his own homework in the garbage and told Sammy to finish every worksheet, because he was going to mail it back to the school and his teacher would check it. Sam’s even writing a letter in the cursive he’s learning to go along with it.

Dean has no clue what the address of the school is.

John pulls the Impala key out of his pocket and opens the door. “I’ll be out of cell range during this next leg. Check in date is Thursday. Don’t call for help until Sunday.”

Dean nods. John steps halfway out the door before turning back. He eyes Dean for a long moment, as if he’s trying to come up with something to add. Eventually he just says “I’m cutting your hair when I get back. You look messy.”

The door closes. In the silence of the room, Dean reaches up and touches his bangs. Just this morning, in the reflection of the washing machine door, he admired how his hair was curling a bit over his ears. It framed his face and made him look softer. Less skinny. More like the other boys he’d seen at school.

Oh well.

The Impala roars to life outside in the parking lot, and Dean listens until the purr of the engine fades away down the road. He looks at the half-folded pile of laundry at his feet.

“Tomorrow’s Halloween.”

Dean jumps a little. Sam’s right next to him, eyebrows raised expectantly. Dean pushes him away and drops onto the couch, nudging a balled-up pair of socks with his foot. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

Sam sits down next to him. “Dean, I think Dad forgot about Halloween.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “He didn’t forget, Sammy. It just doesn’t matter.” He avoids looking at his brother, running his fingers over the ridge of threads barely holding together the hole in his own jeans.

“But I told James I’d be a doctor,” Sam needles. “He’s gonna be a pirate.”

Sam’s ability to instantly make friends always leaves Dean feeling half-proud, half-nervous. Sam was in third grade with James for less than two weeks, and he still talks about him constantly.

Dean thinks it’s better not to get attached. He just can’t bring himself to teach Sam that particular lesson yet.

He sighs and glances at Sam. “You know you can’t trick-or-treat with James anyway, right? He’s in Denver.”

Sam groans dramatically and flops against the hard backrest of the couch. His shaggy hair falls into his face. Dean looks at the longest strands, curving past Sam’s cheekbones.

“We can just do Halloween here,” he suggests, even though he knows “buying candy from the gas station” definitely doesn’t count as necessary spending.

Sam shakes his head where it’s still resting on the couch. “That’s not real Halloween.”

“We’ve never done a real Halloween, so how would you know?” Dean’s just buying time now, putting off the moment when he has to say “no.”

The stink-eye that’s sent his way is of epic proportions. “I watch TV, Dean.”

Dean rubs his face. “Sammy--”

“--Oh, please, Dean, please!” Sam shifts into begging mode, sitting up and whipping out the puppy eyes. His left eye is half-covered by hair. “I know we’re not allowed, but can’t we break the rules just one time? It can be a secret.”

They hold eye contact for a moment, but Sam’s more stubborn. Dean looks away first, his eyes falling to the laundry on the floor. Almost unconsciously, he reaches under the lumpy couch cushion next to him and lets his fingers graze the pistol stashed there. His stomach rumbles and he wonders how far he can stretch their last cans of soup.

Suddenly, a secret doesn’t sound so bad at all.

“Okay,” he says.

Sam must’ve not expected Dean to relent, because he’s silent for a couple seconds before whooping and launching himself at Dean. “Ahh! Thank you thank you thank you!”

Dean can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. He hugs Sam back, the kid’s bony shoulder digging into his ribcage. After a moment, he pulls away and puts on his most serious face. Hands on Sam’s upper arms, he looks him straight in the eyes. “Sam, if we do this, you cannot tell Dad. Do you understand?”

Sam nods enthusiastically, still grinning. Dean digs his fingers into his arms. “Listen to me, or we’re not going.” He waits for Sam’s face to fall a little before continuing. “You can’t just not tell Dad, you can’t drop hints. You have to clean up all your wrappers. We can never talk about it. Do you get it?”

Sam’s eyes are wide now. He nods again, very small, and Dean knows he’s gotten through. He loosens his grip on Sam’s arms. “All right, then. How are we gonna make you look like a doctor?”

Sam beams.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next night, they lock the motel room door behind them and head out. The neighborhood that starts a few streets behind the motel is pretty normal, as far as Dean can tell. The houses aren’t super big, but the yards are, and there are toys scattered on some of the lawns. The biggest house on the corner even has a tree swing. The big tree reminds him of the one in their front yard in Lawrence. He tries not to think about that too much.

It’s dark, and chilly -- they’re still in Colorado -- and Dean holds his jacket closed in front of his chest. The zipper broke a couple weeks ago. Ahead of him, Sam doesn’t seem to feel the cold at all. His “doctor coat” flaps behind his legs as he skips down the sidewalk. It’s just a sheet from the bed that Dean stuck together with safety pins in a certain way (it doesn’t look like a coat at all, but the mirror in the motel bathroom was shattered so Sam couldn’t see it anyway). He hung their stethoscope from the big first-aid kit around Sam’s neck, with the express instruction not to lose it, and he emptied the rest of the first-aid kit onto the couch so Sam could carry the empty box with the big red cross and look professional.

Sam hasn’t smiled this much in weeks. Dean’s neck is crawling with the knowledge that he’s breaking rules, bigtime, but he shakes it off. They’re out now. It’s done.

Sam has already latched on to a group of kids making their way up the drive to a single-story brick house. Dean hears him introduce himself, sees him flash the big toothy smile that Dean told him makes him look friendly. The other kids compliment his stethoscope, and Dean relaxes a little.

Everyone in the group is wearing what looks like homemade costumes, too — there’s another bedsheet, draped over a short kid’s head like a ghost (if only ghosts actually looked like that, Dean thinks); and a long black coat, obviously from an adult, dwarfing a kid who Dean’s pretty sure is supposed to be a vampire. Sam, in his makeshift getup, fits right in.

Dean’s trailing behind the group, letting Sam do his making-friends thing, when he notices another older kid doing the same. He looks about Dean’s age, maybe a year older, fourteen or so, and he’s dressed like an angel with a blue halo made out of pipe cleaners. The rest of his outfit is normal, though — a t-shirt that’s printed to look like a suit and tie, under a regular puffy winter coat. Dean’s eyes linger on him as they follow the younger kids up to the house. When they come to a stop so Sam can ring the doorbell, the other boy looks over at Dean, too.

“Hi,” he says. In the yellow glow of the porchlight, his eyes look greenish blue. “I’m Al.” He reaches out a hand. Dean looks at it for a moment, then takes it. They shake. Al’s hand is warm and smooth, a stark contrast to Dean’s freezing, calloused palm. Dean wishes he could hold on a bit longer.

“Dean,” he replies, dropping Al’s hand. He’s not sure what to say next. That’s Sam’s area of expertise.

Luckily, Al doesn’t let him flounder long. “Do you live around here?” he asks, friendly and curious. Dean’s used to hearing that question asked with a thick layer of suspicion, usually out of the mouth of some nosy adult. He still gives his practiced answer, though.

“No, me and my brother are just visiting our grandparents for a couple days.”

Al nods, accepting the lie easily. “I thought I’d never seen you at school.” He points at the sheet-clad ghost. “That’s my sister Katie. She’s seven. It’s the first time our parents are letting me take her trick-or-treating on our own.”

Dean smiles and gestures at Sam, who’s holding the empty first-aid kit out to the homeowner for candy. “That’s Sam. He’s nine. Same deal for us.”

“I like his costume,” Al says. Dean bristles for a moment, until he realizes Al’s being sincere.

“Thanks,” he replies. “I like Katie’s too.” He sweeps his eyes over Al again. “Why are you wearing a fake suit with your halo?”

Al looks down at himself and laughs sheepishly, smoothing down the front of his t-shirt. “I wanted to do a toga with a sheet, but it’s way too cold. I just dressed up ‘cause Katie wanted me to. The halo was the quickest thing.”

“It works,” Dean assures him, suddenly wanting Al to feel good about himself. He shuffles his feet a little, kicking at the fallen leaves littering the walkway. Al smiles at him and something grows in Dean’s chest, a warm, glowing ball, making everything feel tight and tingly. He’s not sure what to do with it.

Sam appears at his elbow suddenly, much to Dean’s relief. He ruffles Sam’s hair. “What’d you get?”

Already chewing on something that looks very caramelly as it squishes between his teeth, Sam holds out the first-aid kit. “She gave me two big ones!” he announces around his mouthful. Two full-sized Milky Ways, one already half-unwrapped, slide around in the box.

“Cool,” Dean says. “Don’t get a stomachache.”

“They’re gonna get stomachaches,” Al says ruefully as Sam and Katie bounce down the driveway to hit the next house. “We should steal some of their candy, y’know, just to protect them.”

The word protect briefly jolts Dean out of his growing sense of relaxation and he sneakily pats his chest, feeling the sheathed knife tucked away in the inside pocket. He makes sure he can still see Sammy (now bounding up the walkway of the next house), and takes a breath. Everything’s under control.

“You okay?” Al’s looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together, a lock of dark hair falling into the crease. He has nice hair, Dean decides. Floppy and kind of messy, squished flat in the middle by the band of the pipe cleaner halo.

“Yep,” he says, forcing the cheer into his voice. If Al notices, he doesn’t say anything. They continue to follow their siblings through the neighborhood, leaving some distance so they can talk. Al tells Dean about school, that he likes science and hates history, that his favorite band is Journey, that he wants to play soccer but his dad wants him to play football, and that he wants to be a veterinarian.

“I like cars,” Dean says in response. “I’m not great at school. Not sure what I wanna do when I grow up.”

Not sure how to tell you that I’ll probably be hunting monsters for the rest of my life.

Al leans on the picket fence of the house that they’re currently waiting outside. “You could be a teacher,” he says.

Dean narrows his eyes at him in confusion. “I just told you I’m bad at school.”

Al shrugs. “My favorite teacher says he didn’t like school. That’s why he’s so good at helping us. He gets it.”

The heavy layer of clouds above them breaks, and a ray of moonlight lands across Al’s face. They’re standing between streetlights, so the silvery glow makes Al’s blueish eyes gleam. Dean finds he has to breathe a little harder than normal. He shakes his head.

“Nah, if anyone’s gonna be a teacher, it’s Sammy. He’s really smart.”

Al hums and pushes off the fence. Sam and Katie are moving on again. “I don’t know, man. You seem smart to me.” He pats Dean on the shoulder, the warmth of his hand seeping through Dean’s threadbare jacket.

In the relative darkness, Dean smiles so hard his eyes squeeze shut.

Eventually, they’ve stopped at every house in the neighborhood. Dean’s pockets are full of the candy that doesn’t fit into Sam’s overflowing first-aid kit. Al’s coat pockets are bulging, too. Sam and Katie run sugar-hyped circles under a streetlight while Dean and Al stand on the corner, looking at each other a bit awkwardly.

“Uh-- I’m glad we ran into you guys,” Al says finally. “You’re really cool.”

Dean’s glad that he’s the one facing away from the streetlight, because his cheeks heat up and probably look way pinker than they would from just the cold.

“You too,” he says. “Wish we lived around here.”

“Where do you live?” Al asks. “You know, just in case we ever take a road trip.”

Unless your destination’s my dad’s car, I don’t think you’re gonna run into me.

“Sioux Falls,” he says. “South Dakota. I live with my uncle.”

If Al finds that strange, he doesn’t pry. Dean could hug him. He wants to hug him.

Katie comes barrelling over, dragging her pillowcase of candy along the pavement. She’s huffing from running around, ghost sheet dangling half off her body. “Al, I’m soooo tired.” She flops against her brother. Sam comes trotting up behind her and grins at Dean. Dean tries to smile back, but there’s a lump in his throat, something that’s making it hard to breathe.

Al pats Katie on the head. “We should probably go home, anyway. It’s getting late.”

Still taking tight little breaths, Dean nods. “Uh-- yeah, us too. See if Sam can sleep off the sugar rush.”

“How long are you staying with your grandparents?” Al asks.

Dean looks at his feet. Weighs the pros and cons of sneaking out again. He’d have to take Sam; there aren’t actually any grandparents who could watch him.

He can’t risk it.

“We’re going home tomorrow morning,” he says, every word dropping like lead. Sam shoots him a confused look, but he ignores it.

Unless he’s imagining it, Al’s face seems to fall. “Aw, too bad. Wait! Hang on.” He rummages through his candy-heavy pockets until he pulls out a little spiral notebook and a nub of a pencil. He writes something on a page and rips it out. He hands it to Dean.

“Our phone number,” he says with a little smile. He steps forward and the streetlight catches his eyes again. Dean thinks that in the sunlight, they’d be bright blue. Al gestures at the paper. “You’ve got a phone at your uncle’s, right? Maybe you can call me sometime.”

There are way too many feelings jumbling around in Dean’s chest for him to say anything coherent, so he just nods. Al smiles wider. “Cool. I’m happy we met you.” He takes one more step forward and — Dean stops breathing altogether — wraps his arms briefly around Dean’s shoulders. He’s very warm. His hair smells good. Dean’s brain doesn’t catch up quite in time, and he misses his chance to hug back. The edge of Al’s halo brushes Dean’s forehead as he pulls away.

“Thanks for hanging out,” Al says, putting his arm around Katie’s shoulders and turning to go. “Have a good drive back home!”

Dean clears his throat. “Bye, guys,” he says lamely. Sam waves enthusiastically to make up for it. They stand under the streetlight for a long few minutes, watching Al and Katie go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sam manages to eat every piece of candy by Thursday morning, which is the day they’re supposed to hear from John. Dean makes him eat canned vegetable soup in between meals of Mars bars and Skittles. They scrounge the motel room for wrappers, tossing them all into a big garbage bag that Dean’s going to throw into the dumpster outside. He finishes folding the laundry, counts the money to make sure it’s all there, re-packs the first aid kit, and puts the sheet back on the bed without the safety pins.

Anytime the unease creeps in about having broken the rules, he looks at his brother’s shining face and pushes it back down. He and Sam rehearse their story in case John asks them what they did and Sam even finishes all of his worksheets. Dean folds them up and hides them at the very bottom of his duffle. He tells Sam he put them into the mailbox in the motel office.

And every few hours, he pulls the folded little piece of notebook paper out of his pocket and looks at it. In careful handwriting, Al had written:

Alan Montgomery

(from Halloween. I hope you call.)

And his phone number.

Thursday afternoon, Dean takes the candy-wrapper garbage bag out to the parking lot. At the last second, he pulls Al’s note out of his jeans. After a long moment of reading and re-reading it, he gently folds it back up and tosses it into the bag. He throws the whole thing into the dumpster.

But not before memorizing the number.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John gets home late Thursday night. Before they check out of the motel on Friday, John sits Dean down on the toilet seat in the bathroom and pulls out his electric clippers.

While John has his back turned, plugging in the clippers by the sink, Dean pushes his hand through his hair, feeling the soft strands bunch up between his fingers and fall back down onto his ears. He remembers Al’s messy hair brushing his cheek when they hugged.

John flips the clippers on and the buzzing fills the bathroom. For the second time, Dean is glad that the mirror is shattered.

With every lock of hair that tumbles to the ground, Dean recites Al’s number in his head.

“There,” John says gruffly, after the floor and Dean’s lap are littered with honey brown strands. “You look like a man again.”

Dean stands up, brushing off his jeans. His head feels cold. “I’ll get a broom,” he says.

He’s halfway out the bathroom door when John says “Dean.”

Dean freezes, already wondering where he left a wrapper, how John found the garbage bag, if Sam let something slip. He slowly turns back. John’s wrapping the cord around the clippers.

“I need you to come on the next hunt. We’ll drop Sam off at Bobby’s.”

Bobby’s, where the telephone is. Dean’s heart beats hard for a different reason now. He tries to look casual. “Are we gonna stay for a bit?”

John’s already shaking his head before Dean’s done talking. He pushes past him and drops the clippers into his duffel bag on the bed. “No. We’ll be on the road for a while.” He stops and looks at Dean. “Weren’t you going to find a broom?”

Dean loads a dustpan with his hair and empties it on top of the garbage bag in the dumpster.

He whispers Al’s number again.

[moiraineswife]

Mine - A Navani/Raboniel Fic

IT’S TIME FOR THE GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY. 

Title: Mine

Rating: M  Content warnings: Violence. Sexy violence. But still violence.

Summary:  Set during Rhythm of War. THEORETICALLY it’s canon-compliant. Just gayer. After several failed attempts, The Pursuer sends men to bring him Navani, believing Kaladin will come to the Queen’s aid if she’s in danger. Raboniel takes issue with this, and refuses to allow them to take Navani.

Teaser: ‘“You will tell him that Navani is mine. If he may claim that Windrunner, then I claim her. He will not touch her. He will not send men to take her from me. He will not so much as think of her or utter her name without my knowledge and consent. She is mine, and I will send every one of his worthless soldiers back to Braize screaming if that is what it takes to make that known throughout this tower.”’

Link: AO3

It had been a long time since Navani had studied by candlelight. 

Glowing gemstones had ruled her life for so long now. Woven into her hair as a symbol of status in Gavilar’s court. 

Counting spheres as the cost of conquest had piled on her shoulders as her husband had drunk, and killed, and warred his way to glory, with no idea what she did in the background to prevent his fledgling kingdom suffering economic and social collapse in the wake of his passing. 

Powering the fabrials that had brought her such joy and fulfilment, a constant support in her life. 

Now the Stormlight that fueled the Radiants as most of her family was pulled into this war. 

Raboniel preferred to work by candlelight. She said it soothed her, and reminded her of days when she’d been younger. Stormlight had not been plentiful for Fused in eras gone by. Odium had disapproved of it surrounding them, and Voidlight was a poor source of illumination. 

Navani had to admit they brought a certain warmth to the small room she was ensconced in with Raboniel. They were alone together now, as Raboniel had just dismissed the guards, who had been visibly wilting, and told them to send a replacement team down to them instead. 

There was no sound save the soft scratching of their pens on the notebook between them. Raboniel was studying her latest addition, making small, careful notations in the women’s script. 

One could tell a lot about another’s script, Navani felt. Jasnah’s for example, was pristine, a perfect example of the women’s script, honed over much time. Dalinar’s was less practiced, with large, bold lines, each word somehow making its own statement upon the page. 

Raboniel’s was sharper than Navani’s, more cramped. This was to be expected, given her unfamiliarity with it, but she wrote curiously, each spike and line written with a differing pressure or firmness, to a rhythm, she realised. Right now that rhythm was frantic, her eyes focused, entirely consumed by the work.

Navani understood that feeling. Like Raboniel, she had been many things to many people over her years. Mother, mentor, wife, queen. For herself, she was a scholar. Yes. A scholar. It was still sometimes difficult to ignore the words whispered in Gavilar’s voice at the back of her mind that told her she was nothing herself. Always defined by what she was to, and what she could get from, others. 

Raboniel had helped her see things differently. This was who she was. Navani. Not Queen Navani. Not Brightness Kholin. Just Navani. Navani was a creator, an inventor, a scholar, a pursuer of secrets, and she thrived in this environment. 

She felt the same way about Raboniel. 

She was many things to many people as well. A mother, certainly, even now that Essu was dead, by her own hand, she would never stop being a mother. A soldier, and a war leader. A servant of Odium. An immortal Fused reborn. A Voidbringer, in the minds of many humans. 

Raboniel, however, not the Lady of Pains, the Lady of Wishes, Ancient One, or General, just Raboniel was as Navani was: a scholar. She too thrived on this. She had ulterior motives, certainly, Navani had already seen several of them. 

Yet even without them, she felt sure she would be driven, as Navani was herself, by the question, the seeking, the taste of new knowledge, the thrill of uncovering things that had been buried for millenia, of cracking puzzles buried in the very fabric of their world that no-one had ever cracked before. 

In her heart, in the deepest, most fundamental fabric of her soul, Raboniel was a scholar. And in that way, mortal and immortal, Fused and human, their essence was the same. And it sang in harmony with one another in these moments, cloistered alone together, picking out the mysteries of ages gone by. 

It was a strangely intimate process. Navani had always worked in groups before. She had flitted between ardents and engineers and storm wardens like an insect pollinating flowers, bringing little bits of insight or inspiration, but never lingering with any. 

With this project, she had worked exclusively with Raboniel, for hours and hours at a time. They had only had one another to feed off of and consume with their theories, and thoughts, and ideas, and experiments. 

She felt as though she knew this woman, felt as though she connected with her, in a way she had rarely done with another human so swiftly. 

She adored the bones of Dalinar, she truly did. But it had taken a while to understand him. Part of the reason she had taken such time between Gavilar and Dalinar in their youth was that it took her a while to feel she knew a person, and was close enough to commit to them. 

How wrong she had been, in mistaking Gavilar’s mask for the truth of him. While she had missed the good heart buried beneath the layers of scar tissue Dalinar had hidden it behind all those years ago. 

Raboniel, though, she felt she knew her, knew her, beneath the blood and bones, straight to the soul, the moment they had first worked on Rhythm of War together, and she had looked into her eyes, and found that same bright, consuming, almost manic light gleaming in them that lived within her, too. 

With a small nod, her rhythm shifting to one of satisfaction, Raboniel pushed the notebook back towards Navani, gesturing her to the new notes that had been made in the Fused’s hand. 

As she bent to examine it, however, Raboniel sat up beside her, straight and intent, head turning towards the door. The way she sat when they were not alone, when she was a regal Fused, not a scholar. 

Navani turned, too, and found six of the Pursuer’s Fused soldiers standing in the doorway. 

Raboniel did not seem surprised. If anything she seemed...Resigned. 

Navani was not overly aware of the situation in the tower, but she knew that tension between the Pursuer and Raboniel’s calmer, more reasonable rule were straining. Especially as his hunt for Kaladin continued to refuse to bear fruit.  

Raboniel stood, and a power seemed to radiate from her, as if she were a perfect gemstone, containing an immortality’s worth of stormlight pulsing within. 

She was rather impressed that the soldiers didn’t turn and flee at once, as Raboniel reached her height and stared them down without a flicker of fear, despite being outnumbered six to one.  

“Our master has sent us,” the lead soldier said, red eyes gleaming as they flickered from Raboniel to Navani, still sat at the desk behind Raboniel, who suddenly felt like a shield against that hungry gaze. 

“I thought that he might,” Raboniel replied, her rhythm becoming dark and tempestuous. 

“Then you know why we are here, Lady of Wishes,” said another, taking a step forwards, “This can be resolved without any bloodshed.” 

Bloodshed? Navani felt herself growing cold. On some instinct, she picked up the Rhythm of War notebook and began to try to surreptitiously move to the back of the room. Putting as much distance between herself and these men seemed the most sensible course of action now. 

One of them noticed her, and began to hum in a loud, derisive rhythm, jeering, “See how it runs. The fear is obvious! She knows she is pursued.” 

Pursued? They were here for her? 

Raboniel glanced over her shoulder, long hair strands swishing around her like a cape as she did. She gave Navani a small nod, telling her she had done the right thing. 

“Do not fear such as these, Navani,” she said, her rhythm soft but strong, pulsing against Navani, almost strengthening her, “They do not warrant any reaction from yourself.” 

“It is true, then?” the lead soldier said, his rhythm scathing, his tone far bolder than any she had heard taken with Raboniel before, “You have grown fond of his human pet of yours, and it has made you weak, sucked the passion from you and put it into her instead.” 

Raboniel actually growled at him, her rhythm becoming dark and dangerous, Voidlight collecting around her hand as she stared the soldier down, “Do not forget yourself, Devail,” she said, her rhythm an angry, swirling snarl of sound. “I am not some common Fused like Lezian, and if you speak to me in such a way again you will regret it for the rest of your pathetic immortal existence, I swear to you.” 

Navani trembled and the words were not even directed at her. The soldier took a step backwards, humming softly in a rhythm of apology. As well he might. 

Raboniel took a breath, and looked at each of the men in turn, giving them a long, piercing look, “Is this something you truly wish to do?” she asked them quietly. 

“We’re under orders, Lady of Wishes,” the lead soldier said, “We’re not to use violence as a primary method of achieving those orders, but the Pursuer expects resistance. In that case, he says we are to achieve our goal at all costs.” 

Raboniel hummed a sharp, destructive rhythm, “You would raise your weapons against me, truly?” 

Oh Stormfather, Navani thought, trembling. This could turn ugly, well and truly. Raboniel was a competent warrior, she was sure, but she was primarily a scholar, thinker, and organiser, from what Navani had seen. The Pursuer’s men were among the most finely trained, as brutal and bloodthirsty as their master. 

“We would take up arms against one who tried to defend a human, Lady of Wishes,” the soldier said again, his rhythm respectful, but firm. 

Raboniel shook his head, “Lezian is a fool,” she hissed, “What does he possibly wish to accomplish with the queen that could be more than what I have accomplished with her?” 

“He will use her to lure his prize,” the soldier Raboniel had named Devail said, an indecent hunger in his eyes as he once again looked past Raboniel to Navnai, cowering on the floor behind them, feeling like a hog in a pen at a slaughter market beneath that gaze. 

“The Pursuer believes he can use the queen to draw forth Stormblessed,” the lead soldier said, “He would of course come to the defence of his queen were she threatened.” 

“Or publicly executed,” Devail added, with a gleeful grin. 

Navani quivered. She had rarely felt so helpless. She held the Rhythm of War against her chest, as though it could do anything to help her. She had no weapons, not even her customary painrial. She was tired, and weak, and fragile. 

If Raboniel gave her over to these men there would be nothing she could do to stop it. 

“He thinks to set an ambush for the Windrunner, using something the man will seek to defend to draw him to a place of contest, does he?” Raboniel asked, and her rhythm sounded strangely amused. Perhaps Navani could not read her correctly. 

“You are wise as ever Lady of Wishes,” the lead Fused said, with a small bow of the head, “This is indeed his intention.” 

“And why should it work this time when he has failed twice already, with far more fixed and defensible locations at the shield points?” Raboniel demanded scornfully. 

Devial took an angry step forwards but, wisely, his commander restrained him. 

“I will not relinquish an asset to him for the sake of his wounded, failing pride,” Raboniel continued derisively, “Navani is of far more use to me than Lezian could ever fathom to put her to in his wildest moment of clarity and intelligence.” 

“We are under orders, Lady,” the lead soldier said, “Our master was quite...Insistent.” 

“And you think I cannot be equally so?” Raboniel said, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning. “Return to your master and tell him that he has no authority to issue me with orders in this tower, or anywhere. Tell him he should count himself lucky I do not escalate this insult and return him to Braize, screaming. And tell him that if he wants to request something of me in future, then I expect him to pay me the respect I am due and come himself.” 

With that, she turned her back on them, as though done with them. Navani had to clap her safehand to her mouth to stop herself uttering a warning. It seemed so foolhardy for Raboniel to put her back to these men. 

The tension inside her was vibrating like a lost tone. She could barely breathe for the pressure of it welling inside her. Her eyes flicked up towards Raboniel’s face and found it wearing a soft, reassuring smile. 

“This was not an option our master will allow us to pursue, lady,” the lead soldier said, quietly. 

The Fused behind him drew their weapons, holding them in distinctly aggressive postures. 

Raboniel sighed heavily and turned slowly back to face them. 

“Perhaps I was not clear enough, captain,” she said, her voice quiet and dangerous, “I am giving you this chance to return to your master and have him confront me himself. Take it.”  

“I cannot, lady,” he said, shaking his head, “We were prepared for this eventuality, our master-” 

“If your master wishes so much for me to bleed him,” Raboniel growled, “Then perhaps he can cease being so cowardly and face me himself.” 

Devial made a noise of outrage at that, and several of the others hummed to an angry rhythm. “He already has his prey!” one of them called, “It would break centuries of tradition were he to pursue another before he has claimed the life of the Windrunner.”  

“What a convenient excuse,” Raboniel said scathingly. 

“We have no quarrel with you, lady,” the lead soldier interrupted, “We only want the queen.” 

“Then that is your quarrel with me, captain,” Raboniel snapped, “Navani is mine. As I have made clear to your master, and indeed to all who reside in this tower. If you wish to harm her, or indeed remove her from this room without my authority, then there will be a quarrel.” 

Navani felt almost breathless, as Raboniel glowered down at these men, heavily armoured, ancient, powerful, returned over and over to kill. And she stood her ground and stared them down to protect her. 

A part of her wanted to protest, wanted to stop this hopeless fight before it began. Raboniel being killed might have once been a desirable outcome, but her honour in this moment would not allow the woman to get herself killed protecting Navani, when the outcome would be the same. 

Yet these men terrified her. She did not want to leave this safe, quiet, candlelit room, her books, her scholarship, her safety that she enjoyed with Raboniel. 

She stayed quiet. Cowardly. And watched with wide eyes. 

“Then a quarrel it shall be,” the captain said, sounding resigned, but not altogether surprised. 

They had expected this? They had expected Raboniel to stubbornly face her death rather than simply handing Navani over? 

“Then come, quarrel with me,” Raboniel said in a dangerous hiss, drawing twin blades from her hips as she spoke, “And do make it quick, captain, I have work I must yet attend to tonight. 

There was a moment. A single, eternal moment that hung in silence for a cluster of frantic heartbeats. Like the breath of calm and quiet before the full force of the stormwall was brought to bear upon the world. 

Raboniel and the Pursuer’s men faced one another, Raboniel crouched low in an offensive stance, the men standing in a furious formation, weapons drawn, carapace gleaming, the flickering candlelight casting deadly shadows across their inhuman faces. 

Navani cowered in her corner and whispered a soft prayer to the Almighty, hands clutched over her chest, wishing, absurdly, that she had a glyphward to burn. 

Then the stormwall hit, and Navani pressed herself back against the wall, as if she could push herself into it and escape the cacophony of death and violence that erupted around her like a highstorm. She felt vulnerable, exposed, tied out to bear it alone, with no shield against what was coming. 

Except that she was not alone. Raboniel stood in front of her, protective, a shield against the horrors that had come for her. 

The Pursuer’s men moved forwards in a tight formation and they seemed, absurdly, wary. Though they were six warriors against one scholar, they seemed to actually fear Raboniel. 

A heartbeat later, Navani understood why. 

The men came for her, but she did not wait for them. In a single bound, she crossed the distance between them, and landed in their midst, blades flashing, teeth bared, hair flying like a banner behind her. 

Navani gasped as both of her blades - thinner, and shorter, than a common lighteyes side sword, pierced both eyes of a Fused in the centre of the group. He went down with her landing on his chest, like a mink atop a thrashing rat, his flailing limbs knocking into his companions and sowing chaos in their tight formation. 

Raboniel grinned a feral, dangerous smile at the others around her, then leapt, yanking her blades from the corpse of the Fused beneath her, and scraping along the carapace of the men before her. 

The noise it made was awful, and Navani clapped her hands to her ears. The scraping, shrieking sounded like a dirge of death, and the men around her flinched at the sound of it. 

This was clearly the reaction Raboniel had anticipated, for she sprang backwards out of the chaotic fray, putting her back once more to Navani, keeping herself carefully between her and the Pursuer’s men. 

She jerked her chin towards them, inviting them to come and take her if they could, and Navani felt a chill of understanding. 

In essence, this woman was like her. They were both scholars, driven by their passion for learning, for teasing the secrets from Roshar that it tried so hard to hide from them. But she was more. Far more. And one aspect of herself was this. 

The Lady of Pains. A Herald in her own right. A Herald of Death. Bearer of devastation and violence. A woman who held a sword as easily as she held a pen, and unravelled men with as much skill and precision as she unravelled secrets. 

She spun, both blades whirling through the air, flashing in the candlelight, casting terrible, dancing shadows against the walls. She caught another Fused in the throat and he stumbled, but Voidlight glowed from the wound, healing it. 

Before that could complete, she stepped in to him and rammed her blade, designed, Navani saw now, to pierce armour - or carapace - into his chest, and Navani heard the telltale crack as his gemheart shattered. 

A sword clattered against her back and she turned, snarling, blood flying from her blades, and parried the next swing that should have taken her head from her shoulders. She caught the blade between both of her own, crossed like a chasmfiend’s mandibles, and twisted, shattering the wrist of its bearer. 

He dropped the sword, screaming, and Raboniel moved in as though she might have kissed him, but breathed out, engulfing him in a cloud of blackness that began to devour his flesh while he howled in pain, clawing at it and writhing on the floor. 

Navani had thought herself a connoisseur of death. She had watched countless duels in her life, attended many wars. Her first husband had begun a war of conquest which had often spilled blood upon those closest to him. Her current husband waged a war for the world itself. Navani had seen the aftermath of battles, had even seen a few battles themselves. 

She had never seen anything like this. 

Raboniel moved faster than she would have believed, blades a silver blur, Voidlight rising from her skin as she swayed. 

Dalinar and Gavilar had been skilled. They had talent, practice, and shards to cause devastation. But this? This was an immortal who had been singing to a rhythm of war and death at Odium’s bidding from the moment she had drawn breath. 

She was like a shard all her own. Created to kill. She was like a highstorm, these men a foolish cry for it to quiet its winds, utterly lost to its fury and tempest. 

One of the men cracked the head of a spear against her shoulder and she turned, grasping at the staff. It crumbled to dust at her touch, but the blade remained intact. It fell, as if in slow motion, and she snatched and hurled it across the room, lodging it in the forehead of another who dropped instantly. 

The now weaponless man stared at her with eyes wide, full of fear, then full of nothing but death as Raboniel took both blades and rammed them, one on either side, into his chest, piercing directly to his gemheart. 

Pain flashed unexpectedly into Navani’s awareness. 

She looked down to find a knife slashing against her arm. A second later, it was at her neck, and she screamed, unable to stop herself, as Devial grabbed her and pulled her against him, blade held tight against her throat, sharp blade scraping the skin. 

Raboniel turned at once, locking on to the sound. She stumbled, as the captain struck her from behind. Without looking, her entire aspect focused on Navni, she whipped a knife from her belt and flung it behind her, narrowly missing the captain, who had to dance aside to avoid it. 

“Enough, Raboniel,” Devial panted, his breath hot in Navani’s ear, “I have her. Set down your blades. I promise I won’t torture her too much before I cut her pretty head off if you do.” 

Raboniel stalked towards him, her eyes blazing like the fires of Damnation, burning with hatred and disgust, each step that of a calculating predator. 

“Release her, Devial,” she breathed softly, a trickle of blood streaming from the corner of her mouth as she bared her fangs at him, “Or I will send you back to Odium begging never to be Returned again lest you be forced to face me and the torments I will unleash upon your worthless form again.” 

Devial laughed, and pressed the blade harder against Navani’s throat in answer. 

“So be it,” Raboniel whispered. 

She moved blindingly, far more quickly than Navnai had yet seen from her. In an instant, she had the blade at her neck in her hands, and it vanished to dust in a heartbeat, Navani dropping to the floor and scrambling away from the battling Fused, clutching at her throat in terror. 

Devial swung for Raboniel’s neck as his captain prowled around them, forcing Raboniel to keep one blade guarding her exposed back. 

Navani wanted to help but storms. She was just a scholar, and she would only get in the way. All she could do was whisper another frantic prayer to the Almighty. Something she never believed she’d utter for Raboniel’s sake. 

“You committed a gross slight against me just now, Devial,” Raboniel called to him, her eyes narrowed, “I will have you correct it before I send you back to Braize.” 

“Oh?” he said, “And what was that?” 

“You forgot my title when you addressed me in your scorn,” she said quietly, “I would remind you of it.” 

With that she lunged for him, throwing another dagger as she did, catching the captain in the hand so he could not intervene as she and Devial slammed to the floor. 

She rammed him through the stomach with both of her strange, pointed blades, pinning him in place as he writhed. Then she pressed her hand to him, forcing Voidlight into him, and caused his carapace to ignite, first like smouldering coals, then a roaring bonfire. 

Raboniel did not seem bothered by the heat as it engulfed him, writhing and screaming beneath her.  

She leaned in close to him, ripping her blades free of his abdomen, sending blood gushing from the wound it left, “I am the Lady of Pains, Devial,” she whispered to him, close and soft as she might to a lover. Then she rammed her blade into his chest and twisted, “My will in this tower is law. My word is final and absolute. And you will pay me the respect I am due by that title. Lest I remind you once more of its origin.” 

Navani had thought she would use her second blade to end Devial, puncturing either his gemheart or his spinal cord to finish him. 

Instead she rose from him, stepping away, leaving him writhing, consumed by flames and agony. His Voidlight supply healed him. Not fast enough to escape the death that was coming, but enough to prolong it, to ensure his last breaths would be spent in pain. 

Navani found she could not feel too sorry, but she did look away from him, watching to where Raboniel stalked towards the last of the men. Their leader, the captain, who cowered on his knees before her. 

He tossed aside his blade as she approached him, “I yield, Lady of Pains,” he said, voice cracking with fear. 

“Oh?” she said, sounding faintly amused, “And you would have allowed me to yield to you, or to Devial, had I been so pitiful as to demand that mercy, would you?” she demanded, rhythm pulsing with derision. 

“I, I-” the man panted, floundering, red eyes wide and terrified as he stared up at her. 

“Do not answer,” she snapped, “I do not need to hear you lie to me as a final insult for this day’s nonsense. I do not wish to hear you speak another word to me while you hold this body, lest I be reminded of this encounter, and your worthless part in it. Do I make myself clear?” 

The captain nodded frantically, humming to a remorseful, subservient rhythm. 

“Good,” she said, coldly. “You will return to Lezian, and you will tell him that my patience with him is growing thin, and if he thinks to test it again, he will be sorry. As sorry as Devial, there,” she said. 

As she spoke, she jerked her head towards the Fused behind them, now spasming and whimpering his last. 

The echoing silence left in the wake of his death was somehow worse than his screams. 

“You will tell him that Navani is mine. If he may claim that Windrunner, then I claim her. He will not touch her. He will not send men to take her from me. He will not so much as think of her or utter her name without my knowledge and consent. She is mine, and I will send every one of his worthless soldiers back to Braize screaming if that is what it takes to make that known throughout this tower.” 

She gave the captain a shove, sending him stumbling away from her. He scrambled to his feet, hovering, waiting to see if there was more she wished of him. 

“Get out of my sight,” she spat, waving a dismissive hand. 

He bolted at once. 

Navani sat, stunned, in the corner of the room, staring with wide eyes at the aftermath of what had happened. She put her fingers to her neck, feeling the faint cut there. It was not bad. Barely a scratch, in truth. But the memory of that blade against her skin, the feeling of the Fused’s clammy hands holding her, pressing her against him, as he spoke so lovingly of torturing her, made her want to claw herself out of her own body just to escape the memories. 

She was jolted back to her surroundings as Raboniel walked to her and crouched down beside her. 

She looked tired. Not physically tired, though. Voidlight, like Stormlight, would support her and stave off fatigue. She looked soul tired. The kind of tiredness that Navani saw when she looked into her eyes as she spoke of the war that had gone on so long for her. 

She had been created to kill, made to bring death to this world on Odium’s orders. She did it well. So very, very well. But she was tired of it. Ready to rest, to sleep, at long last. She was rusted through to her core, done, and finished. The only death she wanted now was her own, Navani was sure. 

“Are you alright?” Raboniel asked quietly, and Navani’s eyes snapped back to her eyes, focusing herself on them. 

“I-” Navani said, her voice shaking.

She wanted to say that she was fine, and she was, in comparison to everyone else in this room, Navani had absolutely nothing to complain about. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she kept repeating that single sound, in a progressively higher voice, shaking violently. 

“It will pass,” Raboniel said, gently, “Come here,” she coaxed Navani to her feet and led her into the small side room that connected to their study, away from the death. 

She settled her on the couch, poured her some strong sapphire wine and pushed the cup into her hands. Then she glanced to the next room, where Fused were calling in their own language, crying out. 

“Stay there,” Raboniel said quietly, “I will return for you in a moment.” 

Navani almost laughed at that command. It was the most unnecessary she had ever been given in her life. She couldn’t have moved if a highstorm had torn off the roof and come ripping through the room. 

Flashes of the battle continued to play out, against her will. Above it all, the look in Raboniel’s eyes as she had defended Navani. 

That had been more than a woman protecting an important asset from a political rival. More even than a necessary academic ally. That had been...Real. True, fierce protectiveness. And her declaration that Navani was hers? That she would murder her way through all of the Pursuer’s men if that was what it took to keep her safe? Storms. Storms. It was too much. 

She sat on the couch, staring into the violet depths of her wine, unable to bring it to her lips. It was taking all of her concentration and will to keep herself in check enough to stop it slopping over the sides with how her hands were shaking. 

Raboniel re-entered the room a moment later, crouching down in front of Navani with a bowl of some kind of clear, strong-smelling liquid and some other supplies she could not take in. 

“The guards I sent for arrived,” she said, quietly, “The Pursuer’s men drugged our earlier group, so that they would become more tired, more quickly, hoping I would send for replacements. I have asked them to put our rooms in order for us. They will take care of the-” 

“You saved my life,” Navani interrupted, hoarsely. 

She had been listening to what Raboniel had said, and a part of her mind recognised that it was important. But that part of her was composed, and in command, and poised. And Navani had never felt less like that in her life. So that part of her mind was most certainly not in charge at the moment. 

Raboniel paused, watching Navani with a strange expression. 

Then she set down her things and said, simply, “Yes. I did. You think I would simply have handed you over to them?” she asked. 

“I would have, if I had been in your position,” Navani replied. 

The words were coming out clipped and jerky. She was still staring straight ahead, not thinking clearly. What was she saying? She shouldn’t be telling her that. Next time she might not stand between Navani and those monsters. 

Curiously, Raboniel smiled, “I appreciate your honesty, Navani,” she said to a quiet rhythm, “But I do not think it is true. You would not have allowed someone to take a friend in your care.” 

“That’s what I am to you?” Navani asked, managing to tear her eyes from the spot on the wall she’d been fixating on, “A friend?” 

Raboniel hummed a soft rhythm she could not interpret. 

She did not answer, but gestured to Navani’s arm and said, “You were wounded, I would clean and stitch that for you, to prevent infection. I shall have the surgeons attend you tomorrow, but I do not want anyone else coming in or out of here tonight. It will be secured by my guards, and I will remain with you, in case Lezian attempts to strike again, thinking me weakened.” 

Navani nodded numbly, barely taking in what Raboniel was saying. Then. Wounded? 

She looked down and saw that, indeed, her havah was torn, and there was a long gash in her shoulder where Devial had first grabbed her. Made by a dagger, she thought? Or had it been his claws? She wasn’t sure. It was all a blur. It was all- Oh storms. 

Raboniel was achingly gentle as she began to unbutton her havah, saying quietly, “I need to move this out of my way, to work on you.” 

Navani nodded vaguely again. She would have let Raboniel do almost anything to her in this state. Some part of her, deeper than conscious sense or reason, trusted this woman. It had identified her as safe, the only safe thing left in her world. 

On a base, instinctual level, that part had seen this woman stand before her, fight to the death to defend her, then come to her afterwards to care for her. In her frantic, terrified state, an anxiety beyond panic or hysteria, she clung to whatever instinct guided her to, and right now, instinct guided her to Raboniel. 

Raboniel prodded gently at the wound in Navani’s shoulder, “Not bad,” she assessed, the quiet scholar returned once more, the feral, violent intensity of the battle gone now they were alone together again. “It will hurt, I am sure, but should cause no lasting damage.” 

“It doesn’t,” Navani replied mechanically, as Raboniel began to clean it, “Hurt,” she added, rather foolishly. 

Raboniel nodded, “Be grateful for that reprieve,” she said, wryly, “It will, once your mind catches up with what your body has just experienced.” 

“It was so much,” Navani whispered. 

The part of her brain that still had a wit left, chided her for the foolish comments, pointing out that Raboniel would not want to hear such babbling from her. 

Raboniel only nodded however, “Your first time is always a lot. The next will be easier.” 

Navani trembled and violently shook her head, “I do not want there to be a next time,” she said, swallowing hard. 

“None of us ever do, Navani,” Raboniel said quietly, “Each time I am forced to pick up my blades and kill again, I hope it will be the last. It never is. I told myself I should stop hoping it will be, as that is foolish, and repeated evidence has been put in front of me that there will always be more. Yet some time will be the last. So I hope for it. Still. I hope for it.” 

“I’m sorry,” Navani said, stupidly, as though she had anything to apologise for, as though any of this had been by her design, “That you had to kill again today on my behalf.” 

“Do not apologise, Navani,” Raboniel said softly, removing a curved needle and surgeon’s thread from the small pile beside her, “For all the times I have had to kill most recently, you have been the most worthy reason I have done so.” 

Their eyes met, and a flicker of warmth flared in Navani, pushing through the cold fog that had descended upon her after the battle. 

Clumsily, she reached out and cupped Raboniel’s cheek in her hand, stopping her from looking away, and taking that warmth with her, keeping her in place, looking at her, for just a little longer. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, voice hoarse again, but sounding more like her. 

Raboniel placed a gentle hand over Navani’s, then smiled and, sounding faintly amused as she hummed, said, “I appreciate the sentiment Navani, truly, but I need two hands to finish my stitching.” 

Navani blushed as she realised she had clutched onto Raboniel’s hand without realising, seeking to anchor herself in this moment of chaos and terror. She released her, and focused instead, watching Raboniel’s movements as she stitched. 

The pattern was not the one favoured by modern human surgeons, but the stitches were neat, precise, and well-judged. She was obviously practiced. 

“I wouldn’t have thought this was a skill you would need to have,” Navani said, finding that she needed to say something, unwilling to let the moment lapse into silence, “Given that you can use Voidlight to heal yourself.” 

Raboniel hummed quietly, nodding, “This is true. But it was a skill I had acquired before I became Fused.” She looked up to see Navani’s curious look, and explained, “My mother was a seamstress, many years ago, and she taught me.” 

“You remember it?” Navani asked, amazed, “From so long ago?” 

“I maintained the skill, over many years, and many returns,” she explained quietly, “It was not something that I wished to lose. I taught Essu, also, when she-” she faltered for a moment, and Navani squeezed her hand. Raboniel took a breath and continued, “I wanted her to have skills beyond what Odium wished her to know in order to kill. I thought, perhaps, it may help, to have an anchor, something familiar, not drenched in blood, to return to. It was not enough.” 

She trailed off, and though it made her feel as though she were being repeatedly stabbed, Navani allowed the silence to swallow them, not wishing to interrupt Raboniel’s moment of grief. 

A guard glanced into the room as Raboniel finished up, and Navani jumped so badly that Raboniel almost tore out the row of stitches she’d just finished. 

Resting a hand gently on Navani’s knee, Raboniel turned and said, “Speak.” 

“The area is secure, Ancient One,” the guard said, giving her a salute, “We will remain in the outer chamber, with you and the Queen protected here. If we see any of the Pursuer’s men, we shall call for you at once.” 

“Thank you, Vardwi,” Raboniel said, nodding in thanks to the guard, who withdrew with a respectful nod. 

“Will they come for me again?” Navani found herself asking. 

The usual filter that existed between her brain and her mouth seemed to have broken, and she could not stop her tongue giving voice to her fears. 

Raboniel looked at her, eyes steady, intense, “I will not lie, they may,” she said quietly, “But if they do the result shall be the same. They shall not have you. Though we Fused are of Odium, you will find that I can keep my oath as well as your Bondsmith, Navani.” 

“You would do that?” she breathed, “You would cut down your own, possibly anger Odium...For me?” 

“You have proven yourself, Voice of Lights,” Raboniel said simply, placing hands on her knees and starting to rise, “And you are mine. Under my protection and in my care. It would shame me, were I to allow Lezian to harm you. It-” 

She broke off suddenly, swaying slightly in place, putting a hand to her head. Navani reached out to steady her, alarmed, guiding her back down onto the couch she was on. 

“What is it?” she asked, sharply, alarmed. 

Raboniel groaned, “It appears that I have a dagger in my back,” she said, conversationally. Her eyes twinkled as she glanced to Navani, “I might have suspected you as the source of it, if I did not know better Navani" she murmured with a smile. “I will need to ask you to remove it, however.” 

“What?” Navani said, feeling suddenly a little faint. 

“It appears I have shifted the blade while moving, it has nicked my lung, which is beginning to fill with blood. It’s a rather unpleasant sensation,” Raboniel informed her matter-of-factly, as if there was a problem in one of their experiments. “Voidlight has healed me as it can around the wound, but cannot repair my lung while there is a dagger in the way. I will need you to take it out.” 

Navani swallowed as Raboniel turned in place, and she spotted the hilt of the dagger protruding from her back, just beneath her ribcage. 

“Stormfather,” she whispered hoarsely. She reached out to grip the hilt and pull it free, but her hands were shaking so badly. “I, I can’t Raboniel,” she said, staring at the blade, at the blood leaking from the wound, remembering the terror that had only just passed. “My hands- My hands won’t stop shaking, I can’t, I-” 

Raboniel turned, wincing as that shifted the blade again, and held Navani’s hands in her own, “You can,” she said, her rhythm comforting. “It is only shock, Navani, it shall pass. But I need you to do this for me now, do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Navani whispered, taking a deep breath and trying to master herself, “Yes, I. Yes.” 

Raboniel turned in place again, coughing and spitting up blood as she did so. Navani trembled, then wrapped her freehand around the hilt of the dagger, bracing the other against Raboniel’s back. 

“Are you ready?” she asked, shakily. 

“Make it quick,” Raboniel answered, “One, swift motion. And do resist the temptation to try to ram it into my gemheart, won’t you?” she added, glancing over her shoulder and smirking, “That would be rather poor repayment, don’t you think?” 

“I wouldn’t,” Navani said, and knew that it was true. 

Once she might have done. Once she would have taken a knife willingly presented to her in the back of this Fused, and thrown it all to the winds in an attempt to rid herself, and this tower, of her. But she couldn’t. She knew that. And not just because Raboniel had risked her life to save her tonight. 

Navani took a deep breath, then yanked, swift and sure as she could manage. The knife resisted her, the skin having healed up around her, and Raboniel buried a scream in the cushions of the couch beside her as Navani tore the wound open again. 

Then her body slumped, relaxing, and Voidlight began to heal the wound, leaving Navani quivering with a knife in her hands. 

Raboniel turned and took it from her, gently, then used a handkerchief to wipe the blood from it before handing it back, hilt first. 

“You should have some way to protect yourself,” she said, firmly. “Even if you have no training, it is not too difficult to ram the sharp end somewhere that seems painful.” 

Navani nodded and accepted the blade with trembling hands. Then, with nowhere to currently sheathe it, and no desire to be in contact with it, and the memories it carried with it, she set it aside on the arm of the chair. 

“What now?” she asked, slightly tremulously. 

“We shall rest,” Raboniel said, firmly, “It is late, and you look as though you’re ready to faint with exhaustion and stress.” 

She got to her feet, and Navani found herself grabbing for her hand again, saying urgently, “Where are you going?” 

Raboniel crouched down and covered her hand with her own, squeezing, “To speak with my guards,” she said, humming to a soothing rhythm, “And to inspect the defences they have set up against Lezian’s men for tonight.” 

“You will return?” Navani asked, feeling an absolute fool the moment the words were out of her mouth, yet somehow grateful to her fool self for asking it, so she might hear the answer. 

Raboniel hummed in affirmation, “I will not leave you, Navani,” she promised quietly, “I shall remain here tonight with you. And none shall harm you. I swear it.” 

Navani nodded, then released Raboniel and allowed her to step from the small side chamber back into the main study to converse with her guards. 

Trembling, Navani managed to will enough control into her shaking legs to get them to carry her to the small writing desk in the corner. 

There, she took a scrap of parchment, brushpen, and ink, and painted a glyphward of thanks, which she burned in one of Raboniel’s candles. 

***