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thepastisalreadywritten · 7 months ago

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Zhiying Zeng’s eyes begin to sparkle and her gestures become more animated as she recounts the day her lifelong Olympic dream came true.

She had to wait longer than most athletes, too: At 58 years old, Zeng will be one of the oldest Olympians at Paris 2024.

But for Zeng, whose Olympic journey began in China in the 1970s and culminated in qualification for Chile’s table tennis team earlier this year, it was worth the wait.

She had even retired from professional table tennis aged 20 – something which allowed her the opportunity to uproot her life in Asia and move across the Pacific Ocean to Chile – and at one stage went almost 20 years without playing.

“It was the biggest dream of my life,” she tells CNN Sport with a thick, unmistakable Chilean lilt.

“Even when I was a little girl and they would ask me what my dream was, I would say: ‘Become an Olympian.’”

Chile has now been Zeng’s home for 35 years and she is as Chilean as they come.

She is known in her adopted country as ‘Tania’ – because Chileans struggle pronouncing the Z in her name – and her favorite dish is pantruca, a kind of dumpling soup.

She also eats beans, a staple of the Chilean diet, every week.

Zeng loves empanadas, too, but doesn’t indulge too much now that she’s an elite athlete again. “Too many calories,” she laughs.

From China to Chile

Zeng was born in Guangzhou in 1966 and picked up a paddle almost as soon as she was physically able.

Her mother was a table tennis coach, which meant the then-government housed the family next to a sports complex, allowing Zeng to train every day and surround herself with professional players.

She was trained by her mother until the age of nine when, Zeng says, she became a typical grumpy child that didn’t want to be coached by a parent.

So her mother enrolled her in a school that employed a table tennis coach and after nearly two years, aged 11, she entered an elite sports academy.

Even in China, by far the world’s most dominant table tennis nation, Zeng’s talents were evident from an early age.

She became a national junior champion and won several regional tournaments before turning professional at the age of 12.

When she was 16, she was called up to the Chinese table tennis team for the first time.

“So many players in China have that dream because it’s so hard to achieve,” she says.

However, in 1986, two years before table tennis made its Olympic debut at the Games in Seoul, the “two color rule” was introduced, meaning the two sides of the paddle now had to be different colors instead of both black.

Zeng explains that the two faces of the paddle produce different types of effects on the ball and she would regularly rotate it in her hand to confuse opponents.

The different colored faces meant opponents could better predict her shots.

“The change of rules affected my game a lot,” she recalls. “That’s when I had a big downturn and left the national team.”

It was a painful moment for Zeng, who says she idolized players who were not much older than her that had already become Asian or world champions, and she was desperate to follow in their footsteps.

But the rule change paved the way for the next chapter in Zeng’s remarkable story.

In 1989, she received an invitation to coach schoolchildren in Arica, a city in northernmost Chile.

It was a job she adored, but it wasn’t until 2003 that she picked up the paddle to play competitive table tennis again.

She wanted to introduce her son, who was 13 at the time, to the sport in order to drag him away from playing too many video games and watching too much television.

In 2004 and 2005, Zeng comfortably won two national tournaments but once again stopped playing when her son was old enough to go to training on his own and travel with the team’s coach.

Third time’s a charm

Zeng only picked up a paddle again when the Covid-19 pandemic struck.

“More than anything, just to exercise because we weren’t doing anything locked down in the house except eating!” she laughs.

“I got the bug and, once we were able to leave, I immediately wanted to play against someone to see what level I was at – and see if I could I still run or not.”

She contacted the federation in Iquique, where she lives today and owns a furniture business, and was soon playing – and winning – regional tournaments against mostly men given there were few female players.

“That gave me a lot of confidence,” she says.

“I had no problems with running, with fatigue or anything. I wanted to know how much more I could do.”

In 2022, the Chilean Table Tennis Federation sent an announcement to the regional associations that it was hosting a tournament to put together a team for the 2023 South American Table Tennis Championships.

Despite her success, Zeng was skeptical about going.

All of the best players in the country would be there and she doubted that she would be able to keep up.

In the end, she only went because a friend managed to convince her.

“‘Go and find out if you can compete or not. If not, at least you’ll be left with no doubts,’” she recalls her friend telling her. “I thought she had a point.”

Zeng qualified for the team, of course, and led Chile to first place in the team tournament, while also coming second in the singles and women’s doubles.

“I forgot what I was afraid of and what I was worried about,” she says.

But it wasn’t until the 2023 Pan American Games in Santiago that her life really changed.

After her first appearance at the tournament, Zeng became a national icon overnight.

After losing the first two sets in her opening match, Zeng rattled off four straight to win 4-2 in front of her new adoring fans.

Chileans gave her the nickname ‘Tia Tania’ – Auntie Tania – and the AP reported that one young fan said he had gone just to watch the “table tennis grandma.”

Even Chilean President Gabriel Boric became a fan and congratulated her on a “tremendous” victory.

Zeng, who will play Lebanon’s Mariana Sahakian in the preliminary rounds of Paris 2024 on Saturday, says being in Santiago as an athlete during the Pan Am Games was a surreal experience.

She spent much of her time with other athletes, going out to dinner and taking photos.

“I lived like that when I was 15,” she says, recalling her time as a professional in China.

“It had been a long time since I experienced something like this. I was like an excited teenager again. I forgot I was 56!”

It proved to be a successful tournament on the table, too, as Zeng won team bronze for Chile alongside Daniela Ortega and Paulina Vega.

Zeng’s sons also noticed that her Instagram following had grown by almost 10,000 in a matter of days and had to teach her how to use social media, so she could keep her hordes of new fans updated.

Finally, 38 years after she gave up on her Olympic dream, Zeng qualified for Paris 2024 at a pre-Olympic qualifying tournament in Lima, Peru, in May this year.

Zeng says she didn’t sleep at all the night before the deciding game as she played out every imaginable scenario in her head.

On match point, when she went to collect the ball, her mind again began to run wild.

“Calm, calm,” Zeng, who says mental fortitude is her biggest asset in table tennis, repeated to herself. “You’ve got one more point.”

After winning match point, the emotion of everything she had experienced in the sport came flooding out.

Her father, who is 92 and regularly visits her in Chile, and her brother stayed up until 5 a.m. in China to watch the match, while her husband and friends were in Lima to celebrate the moment with her.

“My dad was able to see his daughter qualify for the Olympics,” she says, visibly emotional.

“He used to take me to training and to matches when I was a girl and now at 57, I made it. I made it.”

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eddiemunson-reader-shame · 2 months ago

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A Freak and A Basket Case: The Seven Inches of Satanic Panic Edition

Chapter 3: Here Comes The Feeling

“ Oh God, where were you when I needed you?

I know that you, no,

You would never have betrayed me… ”

A/N: I’m back, bitches.

I took a break between Gladiator fics to pretty up chapter 3 of my OC fic. This was a really fun one to gussy up, especially during the rewriting of the Dune flashback. I don’t know what kind of hold Dune has on me, but it’s very much still there. However I’m more hung up on the 1984 version, Kyle MacLachlan has me in a chokehold.

Hope you all enjoy. Thanks so much for sticking with me so far.

Masterlist | Previous

Credits: Dividers by @strangergraphics-archive

Tag List: @melodymunson @writhingg @jozstankovich @rxqueenotd @trashmouth-richie @i-trash-about-things @ali-r3n @somnambulic-thing @mothmans-left-buttcheek @theold-ultraviolence

Warnings: Direct reference to specific instances of period typical racism, references to drug use, some smutty themes

“You ever read Clan of the Cave Bear?” Alejandra asked.

It was such a non sequitur. She heard an obnoxious snort threaten to turn into laughter.

“No, what… what the hell is that?” Eddie was red faced. Giggling.

“Prehistoric science fiction, bro.” She said in a low voice, “Caveman shit.”

“Cavemen?!”

Eddie guffawed. Covering his face with his hands as his giggles threatened again.

“It’s not funny!” She whined, unable to control her own cackling.

The distinctly pungent, acrid odor of Eddie’s own stash of what he called “longbottom leaf” (really, just a bad code name for his own recreational reefer) had already gone stale in the enclosed space they found themselves in. The shared smoke had gone stale in her baby lungs, and Alejandra coughed as she laughed.

“I’m so… ha! I… I’m sorry…” Eddie insisted, taking a deep breath and exhaling through pursed lips. “I’m sorry. But you said… you said it’s about cavemen?”

It took Alejandra a while to maintain herself. Spittle had shot down the wrong pipe and made her nearly gag. Holding up a finger, she made sure it all hacked out, inhaled deeply, then nodded with a grin.

“Yeah like, a girl from the Cro-Magnon people gets adopted by a group of Neanderthals and she becomes this hunter who’s all bad, right?” She said, moving her hands as though she was holding a spear, “Then she gets kicked out of her cave after giving up her son to start her own path, and the second book opens up with her in this valley where she tames a horse and a lion cub. Real girl power shit. But it’s crap.”

“Why crap?”

“Because the girl then turns into this air headed romance novel heroine, and she meets her perfect jock caveman boyfriend.” Alejandra said. “And the book gets all torcido in the second novel. You wanna know what her boyfriend Jondalar’s biggest flaw is?”

Eddie raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by Alejandra’s retelling of the best selling prehistoric fiction novel.

"Lay it on me. What's the great character flaw of Jondalar, the Flintstone-era Mr. Perfect?"

“He’s sad because no girl on earth can handle his huge fucking wiener.”

Eddie screamed.

Honest to god screamed.

Screamed like a banshee being gutted, and then dissolved into the worst fit of laughter she had ever seen. Eddie collapsed against the van door, laughing so hard Alejandra could have sworn she saw his butt cheeks clenching in his worn Wrangler Jeans. The kind of clenching that comes from trying not to laugh so hard you accidentally fart.

Eddie took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, but the idea of a sad, dimwitted caveman crying over his mammoth dick was too much.

"I swea… I… I swear… Oh Jesus H. Christ!” he paused, wheezing before he finally inhaled and managed to speak, “God dammit. What the fuck is this… How in hell did edgy caveman sex even get the go ahead from a publisher?!"

“Evidently Jean M. Auel had a lot of money and a lot of free time to be traveling to sites where they dug up remains. So the first one was just creative enough to get published, then the second sold purely on sex.”

Alejandra sat up straight on the leather seats of Eddie’s 1979 GMC Gaucho. Her fingers danced along the leather of the back bench seat, silently enjoying the tactile wonderland where the top grain of the leather had begun to disintegrate.

“Like… imagine though?” She said, voice lowering to a conspiratory whisper, as if Jean M. Auel herself was squatting outside of the windows listening in, “You spend all kinds of money to actually learn how to make stone tools and a lean to, and then you go and fuck it all up writing about sad peepee man over here.”

Eddie laughed even harder, his shoulders shaking and his face now burning red as a tomato.

"Peepee man, oh my fucking God... all that free time and money to learn about the Stone Age, just to turn it into a cringe-fest with Jondalar and his mammoth-size... oh shit!"

There was a frantic scrambling to prevent disaster after Eddie’s muddy Reeboks knocked over a full ashtray— a yellowed glass relic perched haphazardly on the front seat’s armrest. A few old roaches flew with the stubby blunt in a sea of ashes onto the already filthy floor. Eddie looked at Alejandra, looked at the mess, then began howling again with laughter. She burst into laughter too, a delayed reaction when she realized what happened.

When they both finally looked up at one another after a moment of calm, she noticed Eddie was staring directly at her, smiling widely.

“Damn… you're a bundle of laughs when you're stoned, aren't you? I’ve never met a dork like you who was so captivated by prehistoric wiener.”

“What?! No! I don’t want Jondalar’s unwashed dong!”

“Oh you totally do. What, you like ‘em big like a third leg?”

Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Eddie made a buzzing elephant-like sound, sticking his forearm near his crotch and flapping upwards for emphasis.

“Stop it…” Alejandra threatened, shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter, “Don’t make me laugh… I… I’m gonna pee…!”

He was about five seconds away from laughter himself. Biting his lower lip to stop the sound.

“Oh? You want me to stop? Because believe it or not, I’ve got a whole arsenal of stupid shit I can whip out to see how bad you really need to pee… I just don’t have the mammoth trunk package you want me to whip out—…”

A loud yelp erupted from his throat, followed by laughter when Alejandra began swatting him with her Carhartt jacket. The fabric made a snapping sound as it connected with his skin. Eddie wasted no time to hit her back with his denim vest.

They looked like two jocks in the midst of a locker room towel brawl, the jackets making a solid thwack against bare skin amidst their howling and animalistic grunting noises that started up after Eddie started screeching like a capuchin.

Before the van, before the two of them shared the reefer, Eddie had still been holding Alejandra by the waist back at Hawkins High. The two of them were hellbent on basking in the presence of one another, interrupted only when the bell rang to dismiss first period, and Alejandra had honest to god pouted when she heard the obnoxiously loud clanging.

“Don’t make that face.” Eddie had grinned, “Who says we’re going to second period?”

“Huh?!”

“You really think I’m going to let you go to class? Away from me? Hell no, we’ve got better things to do. You’re sticking with me today, lamb chop.”

His voice dropped down into a conspirator’s whisper, hot breath ghosting along her ear as he spoke again.

“Unless…” he teased, “You wanna… you know, be a good girl and go to second period…?”

“Hell no.”

“Didn’t think so.” He grinned. “After all, we only just started getting properly acquainted. What say you to us having a little alone time in my rather… unorthodox school hang out spots?”

He gave a light squeeze. A promise of an exciting adventure.

Alejandra scowled.

“… Bro, I don’t even wanna be at school.” she murmured. “I hate it here.”

His expression softened.

Maybe it was the hint of vulnerability in her voice, or the fact that she looked wilted and drained from her attempts at biting back at the masses. Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. Lamb chop said she didn’t want to be here, and Eddie seemed determined to make it happen. Desperately trying to please her, from the looks of things.

“Yeah, okay… no, I feel you. This dump was never designed for us cool cats. Let’s face it, we’re too cool for school, lamb chop.”

For a moment Alejandra looked around. Confused as to who Eddie was talking to. Who the hell around here was cool besides him? Certainly not her.

“New game plan: let’s ditch class and go on an adventure. Just you and me.” He said, holding firm to her waist.

“Okay but like… What’s there to do here?”

“Hawkins is our oyster. There’s a lot we can do. We could go cruising, drive to the park, or the lake. There’s even an abandoned scary house on Denfield we can break into. Perfect place to get chased by ghosts, while accompanied by a psychedelic synth number. Hell, sky’s the limit. Anywhere’s more exciting than this shithole.”

“… there’s a lake?”

Alejandra knew lakes. Liked them even. Abiquiu back home was a particular favorite. With the outcropping of mountains in caramel and umber surrounding the blue water in summer, it was a perfect wilderness retreat. Surely, this Hawkins lake would at least be as picturesque with its midwestern greenery and lush forest.

“Yeah. Lover’s Lake. It’s quiet there on a school day. Especially now in the morning. Perfect for an adventure. You in?” Eddie asked.

“I wanna go!”

She sounded like a damn kid. So eager…

No one had ever invited her anywhere before like this. Plenty of her classmates back home ditched class and never faced consequence. One girl back in Pojoaque took off during a pizza party in Geometry— simply because she didn’t bring any cash to chip in— instead she just walked out of the room like nothing while Alejandra sat there watching at her desk, gaping like a fish.

She always wished she had the balls and audacity that girl had. Now she had the opportunity to grow a pair.

Eddie was grinning at her attitude.

“Atta girl! We’d better be sneaky about it, though. I don’t feel like catching hell from dirty old Higgs for a joyride.”

He didn’t wait for her to put out her hand. Eddie grabbed her sweaty palm and began walking to the front doors, dragging her along to follow.

Alejandra laced her fingers with his, eventually grabbing onto his arm as they weaved through throngs of students. Every now and then they looked behind them to see if anyone noticed their flight from Hawkins High. For the most part students and faculty alike avoided Eddie like the plague. Especially now that they saw him coming; with his features set in a resting bitch-faced scowl. A mousy stage five clinger like Alejandra wasn’t even a blip on their radar.

Once outside, the humid summer air punched them both in the face. By the time Eddie led her over to his van, parked all the way in the far corner of the lot, Alejandra was sweating and dying to get in it. She wiped the back of her neck with her hand, letting the cotton duck fabric of her jacket soak up the sweat like a thirsty wick.

Eddie finally parked the two of them in front of the vehicle, holding out his hand. The “ta-dah” was silent, but implied heavily.

“Allow me to introduce my valiant steed: Large Marge.” He said in a deep voice, “Your white-… well, uh, green horse for the day.”

“Large Marge?!”

They both burst out laughing. Eddie even did the Paul Reubens laugh— the one that sounded like a drunk version of The Road Runner, and Alejandra doubled over wheezing.

“A la ve, eres muy pendejo, bro.” Alex laughed.

Immediately she tried the door handle. Just gave it a yank without even making sure the door was unlocked (it was) and hopped into the passenger’s side. Eddie didn’t hesitate either, he just did the Peewee laugh again before he hopped in, slamming the door behind him and making the engine sputter to life when he stuck the key in the ignition.

Without looking in the rearview mirror to make sure anyone was behind him, Eddie peeled out of the lot the second he put the gear in reverse. Alejandra hadn’t even buckled in her belt before he was doing fifty in the school zone lane, hitting every speed bump and pothole on the way out.

"Jesus H., all it took was a Peewee Herman reference to get you in my van?! You're either fearless, oblivious, or just damn crazy," he laughed, rolling down the driver’s side window. “Did McGruff the Crime Dog teach you nothing? I’m pretty sure the first lesson was: don’t get in a strange man’s big ass van.”

“At this point I wouldn’t even care if you were Baron Harkonnen himself.” she said, re-adjusting her belt so it wasn’t strangling her, “I’d still go with you.”

"Well, I promise I'm nothing as sinister as Baron Harkonnen. Just a humble dork who appreciates good humor. Although, I do sometimes dabble in the melange trade." He winked at her as he steered the van.

The ever turning record of thought in Alejandra’s brain scratched to a halt.

Hold on…

“Hold the fucking phone… you… you actually know who the Baron is?” Alejandra asked, looking incredulous.

No one had ever been familiar with her references to Dune, and here was Eddie just casually dropping lines about the Siridar-Baron, and spice melange…

"Of course. Who doesn't know who Baron Vladimir Harkonnen is?" he replied casually, one hand steady on the steering wheel while the other fumbled for a cigarette in the pocket of his denim battle vest.

He must have done it a thousand times. Mesmerized, she watched as— with practiced ease— Eddie steered with one knee, lit his cigarette with one hand using a dented Zippo lighter, sucked in the sweet tobacco of filtered Camels, and blew the smoke out of the window he was cranking down with his remaining free hand.

"Dune's pretty much one of the major foundations for like, every science fiction world out there.” He said nonchalantly, one hand returning to the steering wheel, “It’s got everything. Space, politics, giant sandworms... Without Dune, they’d have Han Solo pushing either booger sugar or disco biscuits instead of spice, considering it was what shaped the sci-fi genre of the 70’s."

“Yeah but…” she protested, unsure how to voice what she was thinking.

"But what? You seem surprised I know of Dune's existence," Eddie said, scratching his chin as he turned onto Mulberry.

“I kind of am.” Alejandra admitted, chewing on her jacket cuff, “I never met no one who could really keep up with my weirding ways…”

She had been buried deep in the desert sands of Arrakis ever since second grade; ever since her father had been tasked with reading her a bedtime story.

Sick with pneumonia and bronchitis, the doctor told her parents that she had to be kept home at least a week, possibly two if the antibiotics did not work. And they hadn’t worked all that well.

Alejandra was inconsolable.

Second grade was so fun because Mrs. Viola made it fun, and at recess Alejandra always played Candy Candy with her best friend Yesenia— and this week it was Alejandra’s turn to be Candy. Yesenia had even promised to let her hold her stuffed raccoon toy.

Instead, her parents kept her home, and force fed Alejandra this disgusting bubblegum pink antibiotic syrup that made her gag. Dad wasn’t working at the time, it would be another month before he started back up with hauling. So instead of dealing with just mom and Jaime, Dad was there to make caldito and read to her from one of his hardcovers from the Waldenbooks in Dallas that he’d bought two summers ago.

The way Dad played the characters was magical. Alejandra loved the gentle intonations of his voice as he read in the Voice of the Kwisatz Haderac: Paul Usul Muad’Dib Atreides, his very birth orchestrated by one of the fearless women of the Bene Gesserit space witches.

Arrakis was Alejandra’s second home. An escape from the world that did not understand her. When she grew into adolescence and longed to be accepted, she filled her lonely days with yearning to ride through burning sand dunes atop Shai-Hulud. She wanted to hold the Gom Jabbar with Alia Atreides as she killed the evil Baron Harkonnen, and to drink the water of life with Lady Jessica to become the next Reverend Mother of Arrakis, the cunning harbinger of an abomination.

She even wanted to join Stilgar and Chani in their holy war, feeling like a Fremen child herself as she had been born and raised in the desert dunes just as they were… Alejandra knew the sacred importance of water, of self sufficiency among the burning sands, and of a culture that often dealt with the realities of the drug trade and the higher powers that orchestrated them.

Six novels and eleven years later, on all levels except physical, she was still very much buried under the spice tinged sands of Dune. If one bothered to look closely, she fancied they might have seen the way the sclera of her eyes had begun to tinge just the slightest hint of blue…

"I've read the first book and seen the David Lynch movie, I went with one of my friends last year." Eddie smiled, glancing over at her briefly before returning to the road, taking a long pull on his cigarette.

“You’re not the only person in Hawkins who's been tainted by the Weirding Way. So I’ll be privy to any little Bene Gesserit mind tricks you try on me, you little space witch.”

"You know, you're really different from anyone I've ever met before. I mean that in a good way."

It took her a second to remember that she was in Hawkins, not on a desert planet or even a desert state. Instead she was laying back on a leather bench seat, in the back of a green 1979 GMC Gaucho named Large Marge, smoking pot with a guy that looked exactly like Eddie Van Halen.

“I’m different?”

She was shocked. Almost offended. What? Was it not normal to get philosophical about prehistoric caveman fiction?

“That’s… that’s kinda cliche, don’t you think…?” She groused.

Eddie shrugged, his smirk turning into a lighthearted grin.

"Maybe it is cliche, but I mean it. You're not afraid to speak your mind, even if it's about some fictional dude's wiener."

Alejandra couldn’t help the giggle that came out, covering her face.

“… I guess so…” she finally admitted bashfully. “I guess I just didn’t realize people don’t talk about book characters like it’s some hot school gossip. I… I don’t really talk to a lot of other girls.”

It sounded shitty. Even she could admit that.

“I… I don’t really have friends.” She whispered, her face red.

It sounded selfish and shitty, like she hated other women for simply existing. When in reality, she wanted another girl to talk to. Above all else, Alejandra really was just like any other young woman. She craved affection, and attention, perhaps even more than was normal.

At times, she wanted to be part of the cliques she was always excluded from. Cliquey friends came with so many benefits: at any given time, you had an entourage with which to laugh and look cool with. Someone always was free to go with you to the bathroom, sometimes everyone all at once.

Cliquey groupies giggled and gushed over cute boys, and fixed each other’s curls in the mirror before class started. They traded gum, scrunchies, and various fads that circulated in and out of the school halls. Last year, friendship bracelets were the big thing that everyone got into, and girls would have hundreds of them layered on their wrists. It was a caste system of the teenaged-mind’s creation; whosoever did not fit in was not always publicly humiliated, but rather silently shunned.

Alejandra had shamefully made her own to wear on her wrist, but it was awkward getting asked who she was matching with— or, god forbid, getting confronted for copying another girl’s “colors”— so she stopped wearing them altogether.

"Hey… hey, lamb chop."

Eddie’s warm hand brushed against her bare shoulder, raising the goose flesh against her skin. She looked at his hand, refusing to make eye contact directly.

"You shouldn't say that.” Eddie said gently, “I'm sure there's plenty people in Hawkins who want to be your friend. You just... you need to find your people.”

The hurt of his words stung in her heart.

Find your people?

All she had done that first day was piss people off, and look where she ended up. Shoved into a locker for it. Screamed at. Got called a “wetback Elvira”. Got tripped, and caught her jacket on a doorknob. With the way small town rumor mills ran, she knew any attempts she made here on out to make a friend would be FUBAR— Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

“I don’t know… I don’t… I don’t think there’s really anyone on earth, let alone here in Hawkins, who wants to be my friend.”

Eddie paused for a moment, the deafening silence making Alejandra’s heart clench.

"I'd be your friend." He said after a moment.

Alejandra tensed up. Gulping. Not wanting to look him in the eyes.

“Really?” She whispered.

"Yeah. You're smart, you're funny, and you've got a love for fantasy. Those are all… that’s badass, dude."

She turned away. Looked at the bucket seat in front of her, thence to the parking break, thence to the floor and the scattered ashes infused with butts and roaches.

“Are you serious to me right now?”

Her voice was so small, so helpless. As if she couldn’t believe it. She said this as if she couldn’t even imagine Eddie, for all his laughter at her antics and his handsy nature, even wanted to consider being her friend. The idea was laughable. There was no way he liked her like that. Maybe she was just a fun time? Something silly to do on a Monday morning instead of school.

Maybe, she thought, maybe he was just secretly some deadbeat dude who wanted dirty sex and was promising friendship in exchange. Using promises of companionship and understanding as legal tender to exchange for her “goods and services”. Playing up acting like a good person, just so he could stick his smelly cock in some panocha, as her brother would often so eloquently warn her about.

For all she knew, Eddie could be just a typical pig. Wanting a warm hole in between looking for someone better looking, more conventionally attractive, to show off on his arm.

But Alejandra wasn’t sure what was more sad: the fact that she was making a judgement based on unfounded allegations, or the fact that she was so desperate for attention, that she was actually considering giving it up just so Eddie would speak kindness to her.

Eddie's grip on her shoulder tightened. After avoiding him so long, she couldn’t anymore when he turned her around to face him. Red rimmed, watery brown eyes bored holes into hers, curtained by black brown, wild curls.

"Yeah, really.” He murmured, “I'm serious. I'd be honored to have a friend like you."

He gave a soft, genuine smile, with his laugh lines cutting deep divots in his cheeks. Alejandra let out a breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.

“Well that’s real cool because I really like you and-…” she immediately slapped a hand over her mouth, a squeak erupting from the throat when she realized she had just admitted the quiet part out loud.

The reefer had made her tongue loose. Ordinarily she would have kept the affection she felt for Eddie under wraps until the day she died. Old Alejandra would have made an ass of herself agonizing over shooting her shot. Probably would have gone to her grave regretting never telling Eddie that she was starting to feel the dreaded “like” feelings.

Eddie's smirk faded into a look of surprise as he heard the words come vomiting out.

"Alejandra..."

He said her name softly, his eyes searching her face and taking in the flushed expression.

"You... you really like me?"

She didn’t look at him, just kept her mouth covered as she looked down shamefully. Slowly, she nodded her head yes.

“You know… I like you too.” Eddie murmured.

“You do…?”

“Yeah, I do. I like you a lot.”

“… even if I’m the weird kid you just met…?”

“Especially because you’re the weird kid I just met.” He scooted closer, cupping her face in his hands.

“You think you’re the only one in this van that does weird, out there shit? We’re both weird. We’re both freaks. I don't care if you're weird. I like it. I like you."

Her hands hesitantly reached up, palms over his as she stroked his fingers. Every little sensation was like magic. From the worn feel of his callouses, to the jewelry adorning his fingers, it was all so uniquely him. So very much Eddie, that her fingertips finally moved of their own accord and ran along the grooves and ridges of his many rings, finding comfort in the shapes and feel of the metal designs.

“… really warm…”

Eddie's breath hitched as he felt her hands on his. He let out a low, soft laugh.

"What’s warm? My hands?"

“Yeah…” Alejandra nodded. “And your rings too… People… people say that rings are cold but… yours… the metal band is warm…”

She looked up at Eddie, and noticed something magical happening.

When the morning sun hit just right, his iris glowed a warm amber, like cognac. And when the cognac of his eyes illuminated his face, she could see all the beautiful little lines he possessed: the eye bags, the early signs of crow's feet in the corners of his eyes when he smiled, those goddamn dimple divots on either side of his mouth… Even the way he smiled was mischievous.

She couldn’t help herself. Brown eyes darted down to his rosy lips, chapped and a little dry, but plump. Kissable lips.

Did he taste like cigarettes? Weed? Maybe minty, like toothpaste?

Slowly, Alejandra’s hands left Eddie’s and cupped his cheeks, and she found herself pressing lips against his. Eager to find out.

At first he stiffened, totally caught off guard by the movements. It took a second or two, but at last he began to reciprocate, immediately wrapping his arms around her and pressing her further into his chest.

This didn’t feel real. Alejandra couldn’t believe she was really doing this… A moment ago the two were having the time of their lives. Nearly pissing themselves with laughter, enjoying the bantering back and forth and being real friends.

His lips were chapped. Bitten perhaps during a bout of nervous habit, but… oh, so warm…

His fingers tangled in her curly hair, a wet lathing at her bottom lip as his tongue gently stroked across. Eddie was pulling desperately at her too, as if trying to get her to hop onto his lap, and Alejandra responded by eagerly scrambling onto him. She frowned when she realized he was licking at her bottom lip sloppily, rapidly, as if he was an eager Saint Bernard looking for peanut butter.

“What are you doing…?” Alejandra asked.

Eddie blinked, pulled out of his momentary stupor by the question. He quickly tried to explain himself, a hint of guilt in his voice.

"Fuck... I didn't mean to! I just... I thought... Oh shit, I'm sorry-..."

“No like… what are you doing with your tongue?” She asked, genuinely confused.

Eddie shook his head and blinked at the same time. As if resetting.

"It's... I’m kissing you? Y’know, like, Frenching? You stick your tongue out and... and kind of…”

What the fuck was he talking about?

It took her a hot minute. A really hot minute to figure it out, and just before Eddie made like he was going to push her off him, she clung to his arms.

“Like wait no, hold on… is that… is that what they’re doing on tv…?” Alejandra asked softly.

Eddie nodded awkwardly. Unsure of what to say.

"Yeah... yeah, it is. When you kiss and... then you kinda slip the tongue. It's called... making out…"

“I mean I know what making out is called but like… I didn’t know that’s what was happening… inside.” She said, feeling a little stupid.

"Are you telling me you've never kissed someone with tongue before?"

“… I’ve never kissed anyone in my life… let alone done that tongue thing.”

“Jesus H. Christ, you’re a fucking virgin!” Eddie laughed loudly and obnoxiously, as though reveling in the revelation of the awkward secret.

Now it was her turn to huff indignantly, only staying because Eddie had put his arms around her and held her in place.

“I’m sorr… sorry!” He wheezed. “I’m sorry! No… no that’s not funny.”

“Pinche mamon!” She hissed.

He shook his head, wiping a tear from his eye as he smiled at you gently. His hands began rubbing at her bare shoulders, enjoying the sight of her in a sleeveless, linen summer dress.

"Would you like to try it again...?” He asked softly, “The tongue thing?"

She curled soft legs around his thin waist, Chuck Taylors pressing into the armrest of the leather bench seats of the van. His body responded automatically, intimates standing to attention in a single fluid contraction of throbbing hot flesh through denim…

When she felt him get hard, how could she stay mad at him?

“Yeah… teach me, how do you do the tongue thing…?” She asked.

He gently pressed his forehead to hers, faces mere inches apart.

"Well, it's pretty simple."

He paused for a moment, leaning in slightly closer as he spoke in a soft, low voice.

"Gimme the Gene Simmons, like this..."

He slowly stuck his tongue out, the tip brushing against Alejandra’s lips. She giggled, mimicking him and laughing when his long tongue flicked against hers.

“Then what?” She asked. Words were a bit garbled because her tongue was still lolled out.

"Well, lamb chop, once our tongues are out, we... we kind of… You know…”

He paused, his eyes locked on her lips before leaning in a little closer.

"Start licking each other..."

“O-oh…”

Eddie smiled at the quiet, accepting response.

"Don't worry, we'll go slow. We don’t have anywhere to be." He said, eyes never quite leaving her lips.

"Close your eyes, lamb chop. You don’t keep them open when you kiss."

She obediently closed them, lips parted slightly as she felt Eddie’s warm breath caress her face. He evidently decided he would skip the gentle pecks and go for the tongue thing right away, so she kept her mouth a little open this time.

"Good girl.” He whispered, leaning in towards her, “You keep your mouth just like that…”

It was then she realized that not only did he taste like the Camels he smoked, but he also tasted like cheap beer, chocolate, and some kind of cereal she couldn’t quite place. All a myriad and fucked up mishmash of different flavors and scents that either complemented, or contradicted one another.

And Alejandra loved every single minute of it.

“ The flesh surrenders itself, he thought. Eternity takes back its own. Our bodies stirred these waters briefly, danced with a certain intoxication before the love of life and self, dealt with a few strange ideas, then submitted to the instruments of Time. What can we say of this? I occurred. I am not... yet, I occurred. ”

- Frank Herbert

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x oc #eddie munson fandom #stranger things x oc #stranger things x original character #eddie munson x original character #stranger things oc #stranger things original character #Spotify

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meichenxi · 10 months ago

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languages, travel, identity, grief

Maybe some of you have heard of Xu Zhimo's Second Farewell to Cambridge (徐志摩再別康橋 Translation: Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again, by Xu Zhimo | East Asia Student). It's an achingly lovely poem about a Chinese scholar who studied in the UK, and how he left so gently, taking nothing with him as he went. It brought me solace over the last year.

I thought for a very long time about how I felt about having to leave China, and what it felt like to mourn for a future that was never going to mine. I cried. How am I supposed to explain why? I'm not Chinese. I've got no family there, or a childhood to look back on. I couldn't explain it even to myself.

That pain was coupled with a type of uncertainty, a discomfort at myself for feeling so strongly. This feeling was not allowed. It meant - what? Something awful, probably. I was a racist, probably. I should hate myself, probably. Fetishization is the word that gets thrown around for white people and their time spent in East Asia at one end of the spectrum - at the other end it's just seen as embarrassing and deeply, you know, cringe. It's a self-interrogation - why do I feel so sad? Why do I feel this pull so strongly anyway, to a country that's not even mine? Why should it matter so much when I leave? I didn't feel like this grief has any sort of legitimacy. But it has taken from September - eight months after leaving - for me to pick up Chinese again.

I felt, for months, hollow and unsettled and drifting from place to place. I opened my textbook, and closed it again. The memories there were too painful. I'm not going to write about why I had to leave, but it wasn't by choice. I had loved the people in the school, even if it was for a short time. When you have no internet and are training eight hours a day, the days are coloured more sharply: bright and hurtful and wonderful all at once. We had no running water. It was in an abandoned hotel. I miss the monk at the temple door opposite the school, always on time at 6am to open it for our classes. I miss the folk at the local shop who invited me to watch films on their projector; once they killed a chicken for us. I miss the woman in the woods who gave me the chestnuts she had picked. I gave the chestnuts to the cook, and we steamed them and ate them by the lake. He wanted me to marry his son; he wanted it so strongly that he brought me pork, and desserts, and gave me paper, and promised me I could have a jade bracelet, that he would buy me a house. I miss the oldest martial arts teacher, who spoke in such strong dialect I could barely understand him. When I was sad and missing home one night, he told me that I should stay after dinner. In the silence and against the cicadas, he started to play the erhu for me. Later, my friend told me that he hadn't know what to say, how to comfort me; I was a foreigner and a young woman, after all. We had very little in common. But nobody has ever played a piece of music for me like that before.

And I miss X, my best friend there and partner in snack-smuggling crime. She is 19 years old, and a janitor's daughter, and one of the wisest people I have ever met. (She also rides an excellent motorbike, and lent me her hanfu, and we sped through the city giddy with our own daring and trying not to be caught.) We got matching haircuts; she had always wanted to cut her hair like a boy, and was too scared to do it alone. When I left, I told her to stay in touch: she shook her head. She said that some people were meant to know each other for some time, and no more. I think the death of friendship by attrition, by - as Elrond said! - the slow decay of time, is one of the saddest things of all. I deleted Wechat. I don't want to read over the old messages. By having this place - her, and the chestnuts, and the cicadas - as a memory, I can tuck it away it. I can keep it close.

I wrote a poem myself on the plane. That was the last I thought about China, the last thought I let myself have, in eight months. I kept myself away from it. It felt like a wound. And against that hollowness, there was constantly the question: Why should I have any right to miss this place? Who I am there? Why does it matter? We are all different people, wherever we go, and whoever we are with; we wear different skins, large or small. In China I was [...]. She was who I was. That name, that I introduced myself to people with - she was bright and friendly and tried to translate things just so. Everybody who goes as the only foreigner to a place - or the only foreigner that speaks the language - is a little bit self-obsessed. It happens. It's unfortunate, and something to guard against. But it also gives you its own kind of identity in a way: your identity is Foreigner. Your identity is a cultural bridge. Everyone you meet, in a country as friendly and curious as China, has questions about you. You stand with your feet in both worlds, and are not really part of either of them. That identity is easy to slip into, like cool water, like trying on new clothes. It's easier that thinking: who am I outside of that? Where am I going? I don't really know. I don't think anyone really does.

And then the second thing happens. I speak Chinese well, by this point. My accent is there, but it's slight. I am short, and have dark hair, and a generally similar build to many East Asians - so the questions I have got in the last few years have changed. Sometimes people think I have been raised here. Sometimes they think I am ethnically Russian, and nationally Chinese. Sometimes I get asked if I am half Chinese. Usually they know I am a Foreigner, 100% white - but not always. There is a peculiar rush that comes from that acceptance; from feeling the relief, just for fifteen minutes, that you belong. It's not about 'passing', or race-bending, or anything twisted - it's nothing so unnerving as that. It's just the human need to belong. Everyone gets tired of being stared at, after a while. And after a while, you start to think - I wish I understood. I wish they understood. I wish this were easy.

But then the conversation keeps going. You don't know a local word, or you misunderstand. You say something in a strange way, or you make a strange gesture, and the glass shatters, and - there you are again, naked again, exhausted again, explaining yourself again. That's the other half of it. There's solace in the Foreigner identity, because that means that's all you are. You don't have to think about your parents, or whether they worry about you so far from home; of course they do. The Foreigner is good and filial and a wonderful daughter. You can craft her into any shape you like. But it also marks you out again and again, endlessly and again, as Other.

There was a paper published a while ago that showed measures of acceptance of non-natives in native-speaking communities. It highlights a strange, but familiar experience to those who have lived abroad - the people who spoke the language to a medium level felt more accepted and less lonely than those that spoke the language to a high degree. It makes sense, and mirrors what I have found with both Chinese and German. When you speak a little Chinese, you are a wonder - a curiousity! Look at the Western girl go! People are kind, and curious, and will slow down to include you in conversations. You are thrilled with what you can access - all this knowledge, that other people don't have! Look how special you are!

And then you get better. And then you realise, cut by cut, that you will never be one of them. You don't want to be Chinese, per se; but you do want to be accepted. You are happy to be British; but you miss China like a wound, an old one, festering, even when it was never yours. How do you tell your family that you are not grieving a lost romance, a beautiful girl, but a language and a life? That there are words of majesty, of playfulness, that will never be yours? You speak well enough that people no longer bother to dumb things down, or explain them; you sit with your discomfort, smile painted on, because - you know. It's not bad. You understand most of it. And on the edge of that circle, smiling uncertainly, following the vast majority of what is being said, you are not clever enough and not witty enough to keep up with the chengyu, the cultural references, the slang, and the raucous laughter around you erupts, and you don't know what you've missed, and everybody says - she's quiet, that one. Maybe all the foreigners are? And all you are doing is sitting and feeling the distance between You and Them as heavy and as stifled in your chest as an ocean of dark.

So you go back. Back to your people. But when you sit with the other foreigners, you are apart. They laugh; what are these nutters doing? The Chinese don't make any sense. The Chinese do this - they do that. You sit there, and then there is a pressure building in your chest too, a discomfort, the desire to stand up and say - well, actually.

You are responsible for everything the Chinese teachers do, and have to explain things in a way that the students understand - Confucian thought, and Buddhist philosophy, translated in pithy bite-size adages for the West. You have no qualifications for this; everything you assert, you feel unsure. Uncertain. Someone else could explain it better, more nuanced, and you need to do more reading anyway - but here you are, and here they are, and you're the only one. And you do know. Not enough, but enough that their jokes, their pains, make you uncomfortable. You feel the need to defend both parties; to be a diplomat, every second of every day. In turn, when the students come to the teachers with problems, you have to translate their grievances in a way that the Chinese teachers will be sympathetic towards. Once I got asked: why do you never join us after class? Why are you always so quiet when you're not working? As a translator, you are always working. Every time you speak, you are working; what you choose to say, and what you choose to not say, and where you choose to intervene. You are building relationships, and disappearing, and you are becoming invisible, and you're a nothing, and you're everyone and you're nobody and nobody realises you are doing anything more than translating at all.

I wanted to stay. I couldn't have stayed. I wanted to be accepted as one of them. I wanted to be accepted for who I was. That means a foreigner. I wanted to be true to myself, which means that I would always be the Foreigner, which means I would always be apart from them. It is that contrast and juxtaposition which causes the grief. And there was never an ending to it, a resolution, a chance to reconcile myself (in China) with myself (in the UK), because all at once I had to leave. The grief comes most from the second arrow - not the pain of leaving, but the bewilderment of not knowing why I was in pain at all.

It's been eight months. Slowly, as spring comes, I feel like I am on surer ground. I can look at my old books, those painstaking notes, and I could look at new ones too and I'm starting to think, because this is what I tell my students, and maybe there's some truth in it - it's okay if you're not perfect. It's okay if you didn't achieve what you wanted to, and that the language - in its wholeness, and who can ever know that? - will never, not quite, be yours. It's the struggle and the process that means that I will know and understand Chinese in a different way, in my own way, in a slanted-to-reality sort of way, that is a treasure in and of itself. There is beauty in its brokenness too.

And there is sorrow, too. The sorrow that comes with easing yourself into a different life, and it holding you gently for a while. I sat there - I spoke to them. It's not only missing a place; it's missing a person you were, a stage of your life, for a time. It's knowing that a place has reached inside your ribs and taken root there - even if you don't return, you can never fully get rid of that again. You are two people now, with feet straddling two oceans. There are parts of you that loved and suffered and hated and grew in Chinese, not English. You can't explain that. You can't even begin. Sometimes - not often - you are a stranger in your own land. The poets spoke of that. In the age of fast travel, of the weekend break, we have forgotten the ways a place can burrow itself inside you, and find its own home.

It's not the same as the grief that someone Chinese will face. But it's still grief. I have put my life into Chinese. Maybe that is all it takes to grow love.

Now, I turn back to Chinese - as a foreigner, as Melissa, as myself. It's a bittersweet thing. I know that I cannot hold all of it. It will spill out, like the sun, and there is no way I can be that without losing myself and my history and my own green woods. But I think I am ready now. I am surer, and a little steadier on my feet.

#langblr #chinese #languages #culture #china #:(((((((((((

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cornistasiathecoblinking · 4 months ago

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Metropolis: We Built This City on Iron and Blood by Cornistasia Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M Fandoms: Megamind (2010) Relationships: Megamind/Roxanne Ritchi, Megamind & Minion, Metro Man & Roxanne Ritchi Characters: Roxanne Ritchi, Megamind, Original Characters, Doom Syndicate, The Warden (Megamind), Lady Scott (Megamind), Lord Scott (Megamind), Metro Man (Megamind), Minion (Megamind) Additional Tags: Alcohol, Drinking, Flirting, Humor, flirty banter, Canon NON compliant, Romance, Slow Burn, Adult Situations, Frottage, Grinding, Riding, world building, Secret Relationship, Shower Sex, Oral Sex, Enemies to Lovers, Mystery, Crime, Metro City, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Sex as Pain Relief, Self Medicating with sex, Car Sex, Come for the smut - stay for the historical fiction, Whump Summary: Cupid, the Roman god of love, desire, and attraction is widely considered to be the child of Venus and Mars. He is often depicted as winged, allegedly because lovers are flighty and likely to change their minds, and boyish because love can often be irrational. His symbols are the arrow and torch, "because love wounds and inflames the heart". The "Cupid's bow" is a facial feature where the double curve of a human upper lip is said to resemble the bow of Cupid; the peaks of the bow coincide with the philtral columns giving a prominent bow-like appearance. Words: 118,674 | Chapters: 10/15 | Language: English | Published: 2023-02-20 | Updated: 2024-11-03

(Once upon a time, due to their involvement during the American Civil War, Scott & Son’s Metal had become a household name within the Midwest! As miners and their families settled in for work, what had once been known as a trading post quickly grew into a thriving town, Iron Town as it would now be known, and Theodore Adam Scott the Third as its leader. By the eighteen-eighties, much to his father’s disappointment, Theodore Atlas Scott the Fourth, enchanted by the post industrial era world, desired not to continue the family business, but to seek out adventure! So, at sixteen, against his father’s wishes, armed with nothing more than his rucksack, the heir to the Scott fortune snuck aboard the next freighter on its way to Ontario, Canada. Over the next ten years, the boy traveled across the uncharted wildernesses of North America, signed on to every polar expedition he could get his hands on, traveling south across Greenland on dogsled to sail to Norway. From there he hopped, skipped, and jumped across Europe and Asia, the Mediterranean, and toured the safaris of Africa. A true adventurist, he traveled from one corner of the world to another, discovering its exotic secrets; from the height of the Himalayas to the darkest jungles, from the twilight of opium dens to the sun scorched deserts, his treks took him to far-off reaches, to places untouched by man. Whenever he did return to the ancestral Scott Manor, the treasures he would bring; ivory from Africa, silks, and spices from the Orient, precious gemstones fit for royalty, and the finest perfumes made from the rare ambergris! Exquisite furs, stuffed trophies from his hunts… Once, to the immense surprise of all, a living lion cub, whose symbol he appropriated as the crest of his house as the “winged lion;” which, in his words is, “The very symbol of wisdom, power, prosperity and a divine right to rule!” These gifts curried favor among those in Iron Town and by the time the young Scott finally assumed his role as the next head of the metalworks, he was already a husband and father. However, domestic life did not suit our dear Atlas… While the previous Scott men had focused on expanding the business, the current concentrated on bringing the world to his hometown. Heavily Influenced by the world of Bohemia, the man sought to bring such a world to this tiny, backwaters town. Over the decades, he enlisted contractors that met his exacting specifications; by utilizing the land’s natural hot springs, the waters of which, were historically revered for their healing qualities. The goal of this was to provide a club that would rival any other in America, a place for men to seek respite from the grind of life. The more he invested his family’s wealth into such extravagance more the elites and even their dignitary guests became lured in. Members of the club would have exclusive access to the Roman style bathhouses and Turkish spas. In the various dens, the finest spirits were served, delivered special from their origins in France, of sugarcane cultivated in the southern states, tobacco from Cuba, and the richest coffees from deep in the heart of Columbia. By nineteen hundred, Iron Town was reported to be the crown jewel of the northern midwest. All signs indicated that this was the dawning of a new era for the Scott family. Atlas was happy… for a time....

Previously, this fic was titled "Metrocity Noir" but thanks to the Evil Lair Discord, it was renamed to Metropolis: We Built This City on Iron and Blood It has a good ring to it, you think? Thanks friends!

Anyway, please enjoy. I struggled. I cried. I sweated. So this fic has my blood, sweat and tears in it.

Least now I can get to the NEXT chapter, FINALLY!

In it, we will see the Metro Man Museum's grand opening and finally get to meet Bernard!

#megamind #Megamind fanfiction #MetrocityNoir #metropolis #fanfiction

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cienie-isengardu · 4 months ago

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Bi-Han and Kuai Liang through the timelines, p.1

>> MORTAL KOMBAT II (1993)

Sub-Zero (Kuai Liang)'s BIO

"Thought to have been killed in the Shaolin Tournament, Sub-Zero mysteriously returns. It is believed he traveled into the Outworld to again attempt to assassinate Shang Tsung. To do so he must fight his way through Shao Kahn's tournament."

Sub-Zero (Kuai Liang)'s ENDING

"When Sub-Zero failed to return from the Shaolin tournament and rumor of Shang Tsung's survival reached the Lin Kuei clan, they immediately sent another assassin to complete the task. This new warrior is actually the younger brother of the original Sub-Zero. He enters the Outworld contest and accomplishes his task. He learns of Scorpion's foul vendetta against his brother, but will never know why his life was spared. Perhaps a third tournament is in his future?"

>> MORTAL KOMBAT II COLLECTOR'S EDITION COMIC BOOK (199?)

Liu Kang: You are not Sub-Zero. I saw him die. Murdered by Specter called Scorpion. Kuai Liang: Yes, we all have our ghosts. The Sub-Zero you saw killed was my older brother. He was stubborn in many ways. Refused to utilize modern technology on his missions. A shame, really. He was among the Lin Kuei's finest -- although fast becoming obsolete. I am taking his place -- and as I am slowly discovering, inheriting some of his ghosts. [...]

Scorpion (to Reptile): The Lin Kuei's life is not yours for the taking. Only I, Scorpion, will dictate when his life is over. For I am a warrior not of this Earth -- but from the very depths of its hell. My life was taken my Lin Kuei known as Sub-Zero. I killed my murderer, thus my journey for revenge is complete. This is not the same Sub-Zero. But I return with a new mission. I have taken a lifee -- now I must devote myself to protecting one. Kuai Liang: If this is my brother's assassin shouldn't I strike him down?

>> MORTAL KOMBAT: TOURNAMENT EDITION - “A COLD DAY IN HELL” (1995)

For the context: the main story of comics is about two teams, representing Outworld and Earthrealm that compete in Shao Kahn's game. "Bi-Han" took part in it as one of good guys and won the challenge for Earthrealm. However he paid for that victory with his life due to confrontation with Scorpion (Hanzo Hasashi). In the epilogue of comics, Lin Kuei ninjas are seen in Japan two months after "Bi-Han"'s death looking for "Kuai Liang":

Kuai Liang: Treachery and deceit were not part of the Lin Kuei Order when my brother was a part of it. I denounce this clan as being unworthy. Unworthy of the continued services of Sub-Zero.

>> MYTHOLOGIES: SUB-ZERO (1997)

From Game Official Site:

Somewhere in the northern most parts of Asia, there exists a secret clan of assassins and thieves known as the Lin Kuei. This group has existed for centuries and thrives on the evil intention of the people who pay for their services. Its warriors are chosen at birth to be raised apart from the workings of day to day civilization and are stripped of their former lives. Only the clan knows their existence. Each of them posses certain skills and abilities that set them apart from normal men. These abilities are passed on from generation to generation and honed throughout the experiences of life. Born in America, Sub-Zero was the oldest of three children, which included a brother and sister. Their mother wanted a normal life for her sons, who had already been chosen by the Lin Kuei to become warriors for the clan. She tried in vein to hide them from their father whose own life in America was only a cover for his true identity and purpose. Eventually they were found and their father returned with them to his homeland. Their mother and sister were never seen or heard from again. Sub-Zero learned of his ability as a young adult. It was passed on to him by his father, a fourth generation Lin Kuei warrior himself. The ability to harness the element of cold is one that takes years of practice. It's full potential realized only by those who've mastered it at the latest stages of life. Sub-Zero's skills have the ability to develop much faster than those of the other Lin Kuei. This was realized by the Lin Kuei Grandmasters who picked the young warrior to take his deceased father's place as the next Sub-Zero.

>> MORTAL KOMBAT 4 Limited Edition Comics (1997)

Narrator box: Several days later on Earth, Sub-Zero returns to China, to the ancient Temple of the Elements. The Temple's location is secret, but Sub-Zero learned how to find it from his older brother, the original Sub-Zero. *Flashback* Kuai Liang: What is the Temple of the Elements? Bi-Han: The Temple of the Elements exists to protect Shinnok's sacred amulet. The Amulet that keeps him trapped in the Netherrealm. It's protected by the four Elements -- Wind, Earth, Water and Fire. As long as the amulet remains on Earth, Shinnok cannot escape the Netherrealm. *End of flashback* Kuai Liang *holding his Sub-Zero's mask*: What has happened here brother? I came here to make peace with the gods of the Elements that you fought. But they're all gone. The Temple is unguarded.

Liu Kang: Sub-Zero! Kuai Liang: Liu's right. Shinnok is evil incarnate. I think my brother, the original Sub-Zero, had some sort of an encounter with Shinnok. Iy may be what caused the whole thing. It's up to us to put an end to this.

Side note: In Mythologies: Sub-Zero, Bi-Han said he had never heard about Shinnok or Netherrealm before:

Rayden: Do you realize what you've done?? Sub-Zero: I was just earning my living. Rayden: Your clan's ignorance and greed will cost this entire realm. You must now set things straight. Sub-Zero: Quan Chi could simply be a lunatic sorcerer. I've never heard of an elder god named Shinnok or of a place called the Netherealm. Rayden: Well, you'd better start believing in both, because you're going to the Netherealm and you're going to bring the amulet back. We must act quickly. I have no dominion in the Netherealm... You are reality's only hope. Sub-Zero: I'll do it, Thunder God... but only because I have no choice.

If Bi-Han, the "most cunning assassin and thief" according to Lin Kuei Grandmaster, had no idea of Netherrealm or threat of Shinnok, thus it is safe to assume Kuai Liang had no such knowledge either. Kuai Liang learning from his brother about Shinnok is mentioned in MK4 Sub-Zero's BIO (seen below).

(Mythologies: Sub-Zero's dialogues copied from here)

>> MORTAL KOMBAT 4 (1997)

Sub-Zero (Kuai Liang)'s BIO:

"After Shao Kahn's defeat at the hands of Earth's fighters, Sub-Zero's warrior clan known as the Lin Kuei is disbanded. But with the new threat brought on by Quan Chi, the ice warrior once again dons the familiar costume once worn by his brother, the original Sub-Zero. He also holds secrets passed onto him from his sibling... secrets that could hold the key to stopping Shinnok."

Kuai Liang's Ending:

youtube

Sub-Zero: The battle is finished! Your quest for vengeance is over, Scorpion! Scorpion: You cannot kill a dead man! You have defeated my physical form, but my soul is eternal. You will pay for the massacre of my clan and family! (Quan Chi sneaks up on Sub-Zero and knocks him down) Quan Chi: Well done, Sub-Zero. Like your brother before you, you have served my purposes well. Sub-Zero: I serve no one! Not the Lin Kuei, and not you! (Quan Chi stomps him) AAAUGH!!! Quan Chi: Scorpion agreed to fight for us in exchange for freedom from the Netherrealm. A deal I had no intention of fulfilling. By killing him, you saved us the trouble. Both you and Scorpion were pawns for Shinnok... (Scorpion stands up and uses his powers to make Quan Chi levitate) Scorpion!!! NOOOO- (Scorpion releases an energy sphere that destroys Quan Chi) Scorpion: Our battle is finished. You are now freed from my curse. Live well, Lin Kuei warrior.

(script copied from MK wiki)

Scorpion (Hanzo Hasashi)'s ending:

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Scorpion: By defeating you, Sub-Zero, I have avenged the death of my family and clan. Now my soul can finally rest. Sub-Zero: Your soul will never rest, Scorpion. The Lin Kuei may have been responsible for your murder... But your family's true killer still remains free... Scorpion: If you are not the murderer, then who is? Quan Chi: (comes in) I am the one you seek. To defeat my nemesis Sub-Zero, I needed the power of a spectre. You've done my bidding well, Scorpion. But now, I must return you to the Netherrealm. (Quan Chi performs a spell that starts engulfing Scorpion, intending to take him to the Netherrealm) Scorpion: NEVER!!! (runs towards Quan Chi and tackles him before disappearing. Both reappear in the Netherrealm) Quan Chi: NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

(script copied from MK wiki)

>> SHAOLIN MONKS (2004)

Sub-Zero (Kuai Liang)'s BIO:

"With his mastery of cold, Sub-Zero freezes his opponent into submission. Though his loyalties lie firmly with his clan, the Lin Kuei, his purpose in Outworld is known only to him."

Story Mode:

Kuai Liang: The man you saw die was my brother. And I am not even certain he is truly dead. I came here to avenge him and believe that he may still yet live in one form or another. I've been told that if I can find some vestige of his power... I may find him.

and

Kuai Liang: Don't take another step, or I'll stop you myself! Liu Kang: Sub-Zero... Kung Lao: What happened to Scorpion? I thought you were after him. Kuai Liang: I was. Scorpion is still here, but I will not allow you to face Noob Saibot. Liu Kang: Noob Saibot? Kung Lao (to Liu Kang): For all we know, this could be Shang Tsung. He's trying to stop us from getting the key to save Earth. Kuai Liang: Do not worry. He does not serve Shang Tsung. He is possessed by one of the Elder Gods. There is more than just Shang Tsung's attempt to invade Earthrealm. The gods are involved. Liu Kang: How do you know Noob Saibot is not a part of this? Kuai Liang: Because, I... I think he is my brother. If you want to defeat Shang Tsung, defeat Scorpion. [...] Liu Kang: If your brother is possessed, how can you help him? He'll most likely try to kill you again. Kuai Liang: I will find a way to free him. Kung Lao: That could take a long time. Kuai Liang: As long as it takes. Finding Scorpion should not be as hard. He wants to kill you.

#mortal kombat #sub zero brothers #sub zero #bi han #kuai liang #noob saibot #collecting data about ice brothers #because i miss them #Youtube

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toadifylackoffantasy · 18 days ago

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Chapter 35: Promises

Part 10/13

Previous Chapter Tumblr

Previous Chapter weebly (More NSFW)

CW: mention of Sergei

"Luis Acosta...That name rings a bell...Isn't he that elusive drug dealer who finally got caught five years ago?" "And a human trafficker." Finn swallowed. "Why him? He's safe in prison, isn't he?" "Thanks to me. I guess. When everything happened, I dragged myself into a rehab center in Isla Paradiso." Finn swallowed again. He hoped his body language was enough to make his father guess, but also didn't.

Tai's frown tightened. "What do you mean, thanks to you? And what do you mean, rehab... I also read that he owned some... Brothels... And traveled frequently to East and Southeast Asia because..." It was starting to dawn on him "...Don't tell me that..." "I lived with him for a few years. He...Loved me in his painful, evil way."

"My own son..." "I had left home with barely any resources, and at first he was pretty reasonable and I found everything exciting and... Then I wasn't... I was his private plaything... But I knew Flo was out there somewhere and still thought of me and that kept me alive and..." Finn kept stammering. "My own son abused by that monster. Excuse me, I have to make a phone call."

"Am I calling at an inconvenient time?" "Liú? Tai Liú? It's been a long time!" "I need your help." "Really? I'm surprised, you always kept everything so clean." "Not with that, with... Are you still in touch with..." He whispered the name.... "Manuel Torres?" "Oh, him...? What for..?" "You'll hear about it later, I want to discuss everything with him privately. Very important." "You will receive his details."

Full Chapter weebly (More NSFW)

Tumblr Chapter-posts

#florian pistache #pistache g3.35 #sims 3 stories #sims 3 #pistache gen 3 #ts3 #storychapter #finn liú #tai liú #Sergei Nikolayev/Luis Acosta #Manuel Torres

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ap-kinda-lit · 1 year ago

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Saiyan Squad AU (part 1) ⭐️

The Saiyan homeworld is Sadala (because Planet Vegeta is ridiculous), but its capital city is Vegeta, where, of course, the royal family resides. Sadala itself is a conglomerate of Australia, Asia, and Africa and the Saiyans are a mishmash akin to the Spartans, Celts, Aztecs, and Mongols. Sadala is pretty much like a space version of Australia: it’s a chaotic death trap from its climate and wildlife to its inhabitants. The Saiyans are made up of clans and have a feudal system, but they all serve the one ruling monarch.

Saiyans act as mercenaries and hunters. Like Predator, they are best known for traveling galaxies to find worthy opponents to fight. They’re feared and reviled as a race of barbaric savages.

They also look more animalistic: they have pointed ears, sharper teeth, claws, and some fur on their bodies.

Saiyans have had a feud with the Cold Empire for a very long time. At one point, they were allied together but the Cold Empire looked down at the Saiyans and began to subjugate them, so the Saiyans started resisting which led to all out war. When Frieza came to power, he amped up the war. He killed King Vegeta III but spared his young son, Vegeta III, to make the boy his puppet king/child hostage.

The city of Vegeta’s center is where the royalty live, while its outskirts is made up of the slums the third class inhabit. This is where Raditz and Kakarot are born and live with their parents Gine and Bardock. Gine serves as a cook to the troops and the residents while Bardock is a captain of his own troop. Gine and Bardock both teach the boys about hunting but Bardock is mostly in charge of their combat training. The boys start their formal training at five-years-old and are put in the same unit as young king Vegeta.

Raditz is the atypical rough and crass Saiyan boy, but Kakarot is another story. He inherited Gine’s kind heart and good nature, making him seem as weak by most Saiyans. He’s unfortunately treated as an outcast and subjected to bullying from his peers. However, he’s passionate and hard-working and wants to become a great and strong warrior, like his big brother and dad, so he’s committed to training hard. It pays off and he makes enough progress so that when his father Bardock talks with the higher-ups he’s able to convince them to put Kakarot on the same unit as Raditz and Vegeta under Nappa, Vegeta’s guardian.

The Saiyan-Frieza feud reaches its turn years later, when Vegeta approaches age fifteen. By then, he’s old enough by law to rule on his own and he’s determined to break free from Frieza’s grasp. As Vegeta begins to secure his independence and throne and wiggle free, Frieza has become fed up with the Saiyans and sees them as a genuine threat. The final nail in the coffin is when he and his men consult the Kanassans on the future of Frieza’s reign. A Kanassan oracle foretells that Frieza will meet his end at the hands of a golden warrior, presumed to be the legendary Super Saiyan. Frieza straight away comes up with a diabolical plan.

To everyone’s surprise, Frieza not only agrees to Vegeta ruling independently, he also agrees to signing a truce with the Saiyans and ending the bad blood for good. In celebration, a formal coronation is held for Vegeta along with ecstatic festivities all over Sadala. Every Saiyan is recalled back to homeworld for the momentous occasion. However, Bardock and his troop stumble upon Frieza’s real plan: to get all the Saiyans together in one place, make them vulnerable, and destroy them all along with their planet altogether. Bardock’s team is attacked and killed to quiet them but Bardock survives and despite being wounded he races to tell everyone and save his family.

Bardock barely makes it back in time. Just as he’s warning the others, Frieza’s soldiers attack and Frieza himself forms a Death Ball to strike at Sadala. Saiyans desperately try to fight back and escape, but many are killed by Frieza soldiers and many more as the Death Ball collides and the planet begins to destruct. Bardock fights on while trying desperately to find his family.

During Sadala’s destruction, Gine and teenaged Raditz and ten-year-old Kakarot manage to find a pod, but it can only fit two of them. Gine makes the boys get in and go without her, assuring it will all be fine (she knows she’s probably not going to make it, but at least her children will be safe). Sadala finally explodes into oblivion just as Raditz & Kakarot make it to safety. Bardock barely makes it out in time. Gine doesn’t make it.

The Saiyans are thusly reduced to the brink of extinction as only a few thousand remain. Surviving Saiyans flee to a desolated planet to recover. This includes Vegeta, Nappa, Raditz, Kakarot, and Bardock (who barely made it out in time). Because of his wounds, Bardock is put in a comatose state in a healing tank for a few days.

In spite of the loss of Sadala and the majority of the Saiyans, Vegeta swears revenge on Frieza. All remaining Saiyans are ordered to group up and spread out across the galaxies. The war against the Frieza Empire is to continue by any means necessary. Saiyans resort to whipping up secret settlements on planets and fighting back via piracy and guerrilla warfare. The endgame is to tear down Frieza’s empire brick by brick and, ultimately, kill Frieza himself.

Vegeta calls on Raditz and Kakarot to join him and Nappa on his quest to hunt and kill Frieza. Vegeta initially doesn’t want to include Kakarot, whom he deems a liability, but acquiesces.

Frieza puts out a bounty on each and every remaining Saiyan, most of all on the “so-called King of Saiyans” Vegeta.

And so, the Vegeta Force moves out. But they become known as the “Saiyan Squad”. Vegeta and Raditz don’t like it, but Kakarot thinks it’s a cool name.

#Saiyan squad au #my idea #notes #dragon ball #dragon ball z #dbz #saiyans #Sadala #Vegeta #Goku #kakarot #raditz #Bardock #Nappa #Gine #dragon ball au #alternate universe #Saiyan squad

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vioranhyperfixation · 11 months ago

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Damian : #011, it has come to my attention that you are unproductive at the leisure time you are excuse with during the time when I'm unavailable. And that's just improper.

#011 : um.. Then what I'm supposed to do? There's nothing here.

Damian : i have realized that too so I decided to brought upon you this

#011 : ???

Damian : this is doll's, a toy with a shell that have similarity to human that most use to play pretend.

Damian : that would also be the case for you. You shall use this doll's to help develop your productivity and creativity.

#011 : ahhh..

Damian : would you like to play it with me?

#011 : yeah!

Damian : then shall we make a series of stories with those doll? Let me start it, this girl is a star, her name is Khalila. She is a bright star, it just that she has a problem, she has not yet granted a human wish like all other star has done. So she was hoping to find someone to grant wish to, upon that thought she caught a brown girl looking hopefull at the sky and she thought, maybe this would be the day!

#011 :

Damian :

#011 :

#011 : uhhhh,, should I continue it?

Damian : yeah, just said anything you want

011 : "star, if you can hear me, please listen to my plea. My brothen had betrayed me and I'm left with the rubble of my home..

Damian : *nod and nudge him to continue

#011 : "I use to think that they would always stand besides me, I don't know they feel that that they are behind me! I- I just want the best for all of us!

Sometimes in the future at the wayne manor

Bruce : Rafi, is there anything you want to do on the weekend?

Rafi : yeah, I'm going to continue the ten wish

Bruce : is that a show you watch?

Tim : what it is about? I don't think I ever heard of that.

Rafi : of course you don't, because ten wish is not a show. It's my doll's lore on the 34th universe

Bruce : sorry?

Tim : well, that's interesting

Rafi : it is, currently my main character. River, is undergoing a survival competition to secure a position on the Catalyst. But because she is well known on her talent of fighting and intelligence she need to use other way to compete, and that's is by registering herself as a professional mourner

Bruce : what?

Rafi : you know, It is a tradition in South East Asia that a loud funeral will assist the dead as they travel to the afterlife, so professional mourners are hired to cry and weep loudly throughout the service. And she register herself as that. I mean, most of her loved one are dead, so she's pretty good at it. Crying and weeping that is.

Bruce : I don't think that's a good way to deal with having your loved one died.

Rafi : I don't want to hear that from someone going feral when his son died.

Bruce :

Tim :

Tim : yeah, I won't lie. It is pretty bad bruce

Rafi : anyway, it has been going pretty well on river part. On the other hand, things are going pretty badly on Khalila part. Jupiter and Neptunus heve yet to come back after the moon revolution.

Tim : wait- wait- you mean evolution?

Rafi : no, revolution.

Tim : okay- I think we skip a big part here.

Rafi : yeah, obviously. This is part 57, you skip 56 part, you're missing on a lot.

Tim : can't we, start from part one?

Rafi : god no, it's a lot. If we put it into book it can lead from 7 to 9 book! If you want to know about what you're missing at you can ask Jason, he listen from the start since we are at LoA. If you don't feel like asking then just skip it, you will understand later anyway.

Jason *who's putting a criminal body to a trash can : hatchuu-

Roy : bless you man

Jason : is someone talking about me? God I hope it's not Bruce.

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whencyclopedia · 3 months ago

Photo

Antipater (Macedonian General)

Antipater (c. 399-319 BCE) was a Macedonian statesman and loyal lieutenant of both Alexander the Great and his father Philip II of Macedon. As a regent in Alexander's absence, Antipater subdued rebellions and mollified uprisings, proving his unwavering loyalty for more than a decade. Unfortunately, a serious disagreement between the two led to a once trusted commander being implicated in the suspected poisoning of one of history's greatest leaders.

Early Career

Antipater had always been considered a trustworthy commander, representing Philip at Athens in 346 BCE. Following the Battle of Chaeronea in 338 BCE, he was entrusted with the task of accompanying the young Alexander in taking the ashes of fallen Athenians killed in battle to the city. After Philip's assassination by the disgruntled Pausanias, a disagreement arose among the nobility as to who was the rightful heir to the throne of Macedon. At a meeting presided by Antipater, several nobles voiced support for Amyntas, the son of Philip's brother Perdiccas. Some of these men disliked Alexander only because his mother was not a true Macedonian. However, Antipater and fellow commander Parmenio, who was in Asia Minor at the time, remained loyal to Alexander, so with the urging of his doting mother, Olympias, Alexander became king at the age of 20.

The first few years of his reign were not easy for the young king. Following his father's death, Alexander found not only his ability but also the strength of Macedon's control over Greece threatened. While the young king and his army traveled northward to secure Thrace in 335 BCE, Antipater remained in Macedon, serving as his deputy. While in Thrace, word of Alexander's supposed death made its way to the Greek city of Thebes and they revolted. When they heard of the approaching the Macedonian army, they assumed, incorrectly, that it was under the command of Antipater. Wrong! It was Alexander, and the city would suffer. The rest of Greek city-states - except for Sparta - quickly realized the true strength of Alexander and submitted willingly to his leadership.

#History #Agis #AlexandertheGreat #Alexander #WHE #[#]

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onwardnozward · 4 months ago

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The Great and Terrible Humbug of Nebraska

Oscar Zoroaster Diggs was the son of a failed politician, growing up for the first part of his childhood in Omaha, Nebraska during the 1840s. His father was a cowardly humbug, relying upon the blinding greed of others to achieve his goals, however the one thing he was capable of teaching his son was how not to achieve success. Oscar was a dreamer, he saw the potential in his father’s lies, in the stupidity of men in power. From a young age, he knew the only thing he lacked was his own power to put his ideas into action.

The sins of his father would later catch up to the man, as he left Oscar behind without as much as a note before skipping town. The kid would roam for a while, before falling in with a traveling circus having stopped for a rest. It was here that Oscar would find his first home, finding familiarity in the carnie circuit as he got to experience adventure upon the midwestern prairies of the 1850s, and here where he earned his title and act, “the Great and Powerful O.Z., Sorcerer Extraordinaire from Faraway Lands.” Merely a con, he fabricated a story of having learned the Ancient Wisdom from the great crowned mystics and monks from Europe to Asia, using his learned talents for the manipulation of divination cards, sleight of hand, illusion, ventriloquism and mimicry in order to sell his act.

Years would pass, acts would be traded in for others and money would be lost with it, as well as general disinterest as the country closed in upon war. Oscar had grown almost disinterested in the circus, as his dreams of power had regained traction with his age. He tired of performing illusions to the everyday uneducated bumpkin in exchange for spare change. During his travels in the circus, he had overheard the older carnies and magicians talk of practices from older societies, of grimoires that held the key to power, the ability to control the very weave of reality. He had replaced his hobby of illusion and tarot divination with a true devotion to uncovering the secrets of the occult and ancient mysticism. It was during this time that he would become associated with the high ranking clerics and priests of the Theosophical Society, and the truth of the stories that had fueled his new found passion, the Lemegeton.

Many phony replicas had been produced in the centuries since its binding, however after tracing down the origins of the grimoires mythology, digging through many crypts only ‘said-to-be’ belonging to obsolete kings, Oscar would uncover the reason as to why the true Lemegeton had never been recovered; the court sorcerers of the dead king had recited a ritual to hide the book away beyond the veil of mortality, within the Other World.

Oscar Zoroaster Diggs was the son of a failed politician, desperate to prove he was better than the hand he was dealt. In the 1870s, he would research the ceremony to cross the planes of reality under the tutelage of his former associates, arrange the proper sacrifices, and hijack an old hot air balloon used for advertising the circus to sail into the arcane vortex ripped into the atmosphere by the ritual.

#land of oz #oz #the wizard of oz #wicked movie #oz the great and powerful #wizard of oz #l frank baum #wicked #occult

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salparadiselost · 1 year ago

Note

Do you have any headcanons or blurbs about To Hear, To See, To Smile by chance? I love abomination batboys so much🥺

I have this blurb. It may show up as a beginning of a story one day. Me and @jube514 were actually writing it out for a bit, but we kinda lost the plot. I do think the lore implications are fun though. IDK if it will ever fully develop, but this is the intro scene. -----

Bruce ambles behind his pack of children, slowly bringing up the rear in their little journey to the Gotham Museum of Science & History. It’s the middle of a day on a weekday, timed exactly to when the museum would be the least busy.

And yet, there’s still some people milling about, floating through exhibits, and subtly avoiding his sons as they tear through centuries of humanity.

“I want to do the Egypt section next,” Dick gripes as his siblings drag him in the exact opposite direction of the Egypt section. They had already done South America, Africa, only part of Asia, and had just finished up with the “The Fight for a Better America: The Wake of the Civil War”. Now they were traveling out of the Americas more towards the European section.

“We will get to Egypt, Dickie,” Jason growled, shoving Dick with a shoulder. “But that’s on the entire other side of the museum. It’s going to be our last stop.”

“Well, it could have been done sooner if someone hadn’t wanted to look at the most depressing photos I’ve ever seen.”

Jason’s head reared back and Bruce rolled his eyes. He hoped his boys would eventually grow out of the phase where their favourite sibling bonding activity was bickering with each other.

Tim freezes as they enter the next exhibit of the museum, making Dick and Jason abruptly end their argument about ‘The Dead of Antietam’ to avoid almost slamming into him.

“Move it, Timbo,” Jason growls, the sound harsher than was actually meant. His human form flickers for a second (too wide a maw, too many teeth), but Jason brings it under control with practiced ease and only a twitch of his glamored-on nose. If his puppyish ears were out, they would be flat against his skull.

They knew that they needed to be very solidly human while they were in public places nowadays. Bruce didn’t want any threats made against them, more afraid of his boys getting hurt than saving the sanity of the general public to be honest. The man already had too many close calls with one of his boys flickering and resulting in some instinct-crazed person deciding they would try to be a hero by attacking his sons.

They’re called many names by many cultures– engkanto, fae, yōkai– but the scientific name of what they are in papers is H. admonition solitaria. God’s lonely rebuke.

There are several theories on how the etymology went from ‘admonition’ to ‘abominations’, but that’s what they’re called colloquially nowadays. The wretched. Monsters. Abominations.

No matter what they are called, the reaction they get has always been the same, often triggering the same primal instinct to hurt, maim, kill, on humans.

These creatures drove regular people to do things they normally wouldn’t do– like maybe pull a knife on a ten-year-old’s throat as he held his father’s hand, or attempt to slam a small teen into the wall while they waited for ice cream. The affected humans never quite remembered why they had attacked the child — only that there was something deeply, inherently, wrong with the boys to receive such an attack.

It was a wrong that followed them from the very start. They could never quite shake it off. It drove them to cry into comfort, to home– to Bruce’s shoulder as he held their same shaking body and tried desperately to calm away the scare.

It made public outings dangerous, but Bruce wouldn’t lock his boys up in the Manor, even if it was the safest option. All three of them had been trapped for too much time in their short lives; Bruce wasn’t willing to be another jailer.

Hence, the visit to Gotham’s Science & History Museum. But only with certain parameters, of Bruce being right by their sides, and only in the middle of the day on a Wednesday when foot traffic would be at its lowest.

Dick sighs and pushes Jason to the side so they could walk around Tim.

“Come on,” Dick tells his younger brothers gently, his eyes crinkling at the corners with his smile. “You don’t want Bruce to leave you behind, do you?”

Bruce nearly scoffs at the implication.

As if he would ever abandon any one of his children.

Jason stalks his way over to Bruce’s side, ignoring the way the people move away from him out of instinct. There weren’t any indications the fellow museum-goers even register he was there, just that there’s something wrong in the air and they have to scuttle outwards to the edges of the exhibit as soon as they can.

Most people are like that– like they could sense the (many, so, so many) teeth even if they could not see them.

Soon, only Bruce, his children, and the silent paintings of the exhibit remained in the room.

Jason makes his way to Bruce’s side, unconsciously bumping their sides together in a greeting that was more creature than human, but also a habit of Jason’s. Bruce found it to be wildly endearing.

Despite how human all of them looked, they always carried some bits of their creature bodies.

Dick is tactile as a bird, and even more so when he has a pair of hands. He’s constantly touching, grooming, or checking that one of his siblings is there next to him.

He always listens, too. Of course, he always listened– is listening– but that was because of his species, with their (way too many) ears. Dick, as a constantly talking and touching brother, is because of his personality– someone who’s unlearning touch as something that hurts, that touch can be soft and caring, after all these years.

Jason, although he’s a wolf only in the vaguest sense, is prone to leaning up on his ‘pack’ and didn’t hesitate to show his teeth in a smirk or a (wide, too wide set) grin. Bruce knows that despite his comfort, the boy still fought to keep some of his more canine growls out of his throat.

(Or, especially when he had been younger, to keep himself from biting visiting aristocrats who had patted his head and had complimented him on ‘developing manners despite being born in that horrid Alley’.)

Tim showed his alternative form in very different ways, unlike his brothers. He wasn’t bound to an animal (the way teeths were wolves and ears were birds), as his shadowy form was more fluid than form. He could be anything if he wanted to. Small or large. Solid as stone or as ever-changing as water.

He showed he was something more by his stares and that, when he looked at you, you were always sure that (many, many more oh my god there’s too many) eyes looked back.

A smile too wide, eyes too knowing, a face too distorted.

“Tim, what’s wrong?” The concern in Dick’s voice jolts Bruce out of his own head and makes him look toward their youngest.

Tim is still standing in the entryway, eyes wide and fixed upon the exhibit stand in the middle of the room.

For the first time, Bruce truly looks at it.

It’s a crystal ball but with some kind of dark fluid suspended in the middle. The ball was on a moving pedestal that constantly turned it, making the dark fluid swirl almost hypnotically in the sphere.

He guessed it was a display for ferrofluid, a magnetic fluid that was reacting to whatever charge was in the pedestal. A metallic ink that was constantly fleeing from the magnet underneath it.

“Tim?” He asks, looking back toward his son. Dick’s face is growing more concerned by the second and even Jason began to shuffle at Bruce’s side anxiously.

Tim shudders, eyes snapping towards Bruce. For a second, just a second, he looks scared and deeply unsettled in a way that inevitably puts Bruce on edge. Then, he schools his features and forces himself to look calmer.

Bruce doesn’t doubt that Dick could hear Tim’s quicker heartbeat and that Jason could taste the sour tang of his discomfort.

“I… It’s fine. I’m being stupid,” Tim mutters, edging into the room like he thought the exhibit was going to bite him.

It set off all the alarm bells in Bruce’s head.

It reminds him of the crying little boy in the Drake Manor who had constantly insisted that he was fine despite being blindfolded and locked alone in a room. Bruce still can’t stop the bile that rises to his throat when he thinks about the iron marks on Tim’s scarred skin.

Tim is scared. Bruce didn’t need to listen or taste to know that. Something is scaring Tim.

But what, and most importantly, why?

His eyes went back to the crystal ball and the churning fluid within it.

Was it…

“Hi!” A bright voice interrupts and all of their attentions snaps toward the chirpy museum volunteer that bounces into the room. “I saw you were interested in the crystal ball. Do you have any questions?”

Bruce is just about to say ‘no, thank you’, but Tim cuts in before he could.

“Yes,” Tim says, walking forward toward the crystal ball. He gives her a handsome gala smile. One that said Martha’s Vineyard summers and expensive polo shirts tucked into even more expensive jeans. Bruce could see it cracking at the edges, shadows flickering at the seams of his mouth. “What is it exactly? What’s in it?”

“Of course!” She replies, merrily walking towards the exhibit. She holds her arms out like she’s presenting a show rather than some display case.

“This is a crystal ball from the 12th century and we estimate its origin to be Romania, however this type of object is known to travel around so it’s impossible to know for sure. Crystal balls, like this one, were used in gypsy fortune telling—“ Bruce catches Dick’s flinch at the slur and the way he edges away from the volunteer and back towards Bruce and Jason “—and it traveled with them in their caravans so they could use them to predict the future for customers. This one, in particular, is a beautiful specimen and on loan from Rome.”

Tim nods along with the explanation, but his pinched look doesn’t waver. “And the inside?”

Her smile gets impossibly wider. “That’s the most interesting part. Nobody knows for sure and we’re hesitant to crack a ball open because they are so rare, but legend says that the black fluid is Seer blood and bone. The fortune tellers taught that it helped them see into the future and into other realms.”

Bruce’s breath catches in his chest and he watches Tim’s face pale.

“Seer? Like an– like an abomination?” His voice trips up on the last word. The volunteer’s voice only gets more excited.

“Yes, the gypsies were quite adept in hunting down the seeing abominations. They were well known across Europe for their prowess and the little villages would hire them to take care of a seeing Abomination if they had one lurking about. The people were said to train owls to hunt them.”

“Owls?” It was Dick who asks this time.

“Yeah, owls! Although, it’s just a legend because scientists don’t know how they possibly could have trained any birds given their technology. Any modern attempts have failed to replicate any of them and it’s not like they were prioritizing making manuals when they had monsters to hunt.

The hunting owls of the gypsies are common figures in European myths, though. They are said to have been great listeners and able to follow any of their trainers’ commands. They were used primarily to hunt Seeing abominations, but could also be used to bring down deer and boars. The gypsies treasured them and were said to sleep with them in their caravans, treating them almost like they were their children. Many European kings tried to steal the owls from them, but… well let’s just say it never ended up good for the Kings.”

Her smile turns a little dark, but then suddenly, it brightens.

“Do you have any more questions?”

#kay speaks #kay writes #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #abomination au #to hear

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