#the most obvious way to experience this would probably be a tall person swapping with a short person

[prismatoxic]

okay, shipping brainrot from my last post aside, i'm still thinking about the shapeshifter arc. the other sites i use don't have inline posting or do but it's clunky, so i guess i'm theorizing here. some of this may seem obvious; bear with me, i'm not trying to be patronizing, just working through things. this will probably be long.

(edit: i've since learned there's canon explanations for all of this. regrettably i don't like them. enjoy my ideas of what would be better maybe? but keep in mind i wrote this before i knew it had been explained anywhere else.)

(edit again: i've done a 180 and come fully around on the canon explanations! i have a lot of thoughts about them but this isn't the post for that. anyway i'm disabling reblogs, sorry. you can still look at this if you want)

laios reveals what he knows of shapeshifters, and that they function on memory:

no one ever really suggests in chapters 39 or 40 who thought of which fake except in the case of which ones laios must have thought of, but i want to posit who i think each one came from, and what it means narratively if i'm right. so, mostly a thought experiment/character study that i could be wrong about or that was never meant to be clearly defined in the first place. but maybe fun to think about? (i'm sure other people have done this before too, but i think it'll be fun to write up.)

from the outset, i think it's worth mentioning that chilchuck knows all three laios fakes are, in fact, fakes. two chilchucks say this, but the one on the right is the real one. senshi and marcille immediately corroborate this, though we can't tell which of them it is except that it's not any of the really obvious fakes.

what i think this suggests is that, brought to the surface, the warped perceptions of the rest of the party that chilchuck, senshi, and marcille have can be easily discerned when compared with the real thing. each of these laioses is from one of them, but they immediately figure out none of them are right with the real laios right there in the room. this is important.

as for who's who...

i think it's fair to assume that giant laios is from chilchuck. laios is the tallest member of their party, at six feet; while chilchuck sees marcille and senshi as their correct heights, laios is a giant to him, and his bulky armor doesn't help. that's why, even if this is his perception, it's glaringly obvious that it's wrong as soon as it's made physical. it's the only big one, and easily falls into the camp of "doesn't seem to know much about monsters" that the others also do.

stupid laios is, i think, from marcille. because the giant one is so likely chilchuck's and i don't think senshi sees laios as someone who stupidly wants to eat everything (even if senshi's opinion of him isn't stellar right now, "i have to eat it" wouldn't be paired with being an idiot to senshi), it tracks that marcille would be the one to remember him this way. to someone who doesn't appreciate their monster eating and otherwise thinks he's an idiot just as much as the others do, dumbly muttering about eating things seems like a reasonable portrayal of laios.

feminine laios, then, is from senshi. i think his physical perception of the other party members is the most off-base; this is likely because he's known them for the least amount of time, and his idea of what they look like is based more on their races than anything else. i think the resemblance to falin might not be intentional--someone suggested to me the other day that the dwarf perception of tall-men is probably more feminine in contrast to how Macho dwarfs are. i think that makes sense (if it ever comes up canonically, i haven't seen it yet). laios and falin do just... look like gender-swapped versions of each other, also. so if senshi sees laios as a feminine person, well... that just winds up looking like falin.

so this leaves us with only the real laios. confronted with their perceptions of him, his friends can immediately tell all three are incorrect.

moving on, we eliminate the three most obvious fakes from the rest of the party, starting with marcille:

if we take into account what i just said about senshi, i think this is his. racial stereotypes about elves being what they are, him not knowing the party as well as the other members do... she stands out, and that's why.

now this is where things start to get interesting.

the next two fakes to be eliminated aren't so blatantly incorrect that they can be struck right out at a glance, but it's not hard to notice the flaws when you look closer, and chilchucks A and B are the ones to point it out. chilchuck is naturally observant; most of his fakes seem to emulate this. (the one who addresses the fakes is A, the real one, but B is proving himself able to pick up on the things A notices. this is important.)

notably, chilchuck and senshi assume these must be laios's versions of them.

we can assume this is correct, if we want to. we can take the framing of this as being an intentional reflection of the truth.

or... or... we can look a little deeper. we can wonder if, perhaps, this isn't a reflection of laios, but a reflection of his friends and what they think of him. laios may not immediately notice the problems, but i don't think it's because he doesn't remember these details. i don't think laios sees much of anything in vague terms; he's observant in his own right, but in ways he doesn't really recognize, nor does anyone else. i think he was so focused on their faces and mannerisms that he didn't notice the bigger picture, glossing over something because so many other factors are at play.

senshi and chilchuck think laios doesn't take notice of things, but the vast majority of the shapeshifter arc is about them and marcille not trusting laios's judgement as it is, given how things went recently. is it possible there's more to their assumptions here than what the text explicitly says? i think so!

so then who do these two belong to? marcille, i think.

if we assume dumb laios is hers, then we can also assume her perceptions of the others are kind of broad and vague. she doesn't think poorly of them, necessarily (at least not in as obvious a way as she does with laios, who, i'll remind you, she's currently upset with), but she doesn't commit unimportant details to memory, like chilchuck's neck band or the damage to senshi's helmet.

we've got three more "obvious" fakes to get through, and laios offers another lore tidbit on how the shapeshifters work:

anyway, the first of the next round is marcille again, setting the stage for how these three next fakes are eliminated.

marcille changes her hairstyle all the time, so this isn't a surprise. the last one pictured here winds up being our next fake, as indicated by her grimoire:

so the fake marcille in this section is the one with the most visibly different hair texture (who even draws attention to this), and the spellbook that's woefully incompetent. i think she's from chilchuck.

he's observant, as i said before; even if he didn't commit her hair to memory, he did remember the stuff she's said about how important hair is to magic. maybe that's why the texture is so striking. more importantly, chilchuck isn't wary of magic quite the way senshi is, but he also doesn't understand it. the general tone of the low-quality grimoire also just... sounds like the way he'd frame something like that. (plus, the "how to turn back time" bit is a thing he specifically called her on when she suggested it a few chapters ago.)

so the next fake chilchuck and senshi are revealed via their tools:

i think the chubby-cheeked chilchuck with the simple lockpicks is from senshi, and i think the ordinary-looking senshi with the simple cookware is from chilchuck. the former speaks for itself--senshi sees chilchuck as a child, and knows absolutely nothing about picking locks. as for the fake senshi, chilchuck has a decent mental image of him but knows nothing about cookware.

so now we're down to the final three fakes, and there's only one person left who they could be from: laios. nobody thinks this, not even laios himself, but i want to explore the concept because i think it has extreme merit. the three remaining fakes have some key similarities between them, namely in that they're all close enough interpretations that making a distinction is difficult. they look a tiny bit different, but both the real people and their fakes make plausible cases for why they're the actual person. i want to talk about why i think laios is the one who made that so, and what that means about him.

chapter 39 ends with all his companions--real and fake--doubting his skills. seeing a pattern?

chapter 40 opens with laios determined to regain his friends' trust in him...

...while his friends (and their fakes) talk about how he's liable to like the fakes more, because they're monsters.

this is a needlessly cruel interpretation of laios, but after how things went post-falin-rescue, it's not a surprise. they see him as reckless and single-minded, more interested in the things he's weird about than in the people around him.

laios is really bad at talking about what he's thinking--not because he's hiding it, but because it doesn't occur to him that it's important. meeting the lunatic magician in the paintings is a prime example of this, but he does it a lot. they likely have no idea why he told toshiro about falin and the black magic; to them, laios was being flippant with sensitive information, not worrying about their safety. to laios? he was trying to get help. he trusted toshiro, and his perception of their friendship made him think the information would help them gain an ally who cared about falin as much as they do. he wasn't trying to put falin or marcille in danger--far from it, in fact. but he didn't tell his friends about his thought process. he didn't think it was important to share.

(he's autistic but we all know this. moving on)

so, we have laios's plan: the pairs cook together, while he watches for behavioral differences to discern who's who. it doesn't occur to him, or anyone else, that the people he's watching for mistakes are his own perceptions of his friends. and now we get into the meat of why i wanted to write this post.

assuming i'm correct... let's talk about laios's view of his friends, and how he challenges those perceptions.

starting with my favorite, chilchuck:

chilchuck A, of course, is in fact the real one. this is a pretty significant character moment for him too, in my opinion; we know he has difficulty expressing his emotions, and that a lot of his conflicts so far have stemmed from that. the fact that "chilchuck B asked for help with a menial task" is a gotcha moment to him is... telling. not only because it's so obvious to him, but because it's not obvious to any of his companions. he thinks they know this about him, but he's never openly expressed anything to make them think this is an issue he'd have, in addition to having sought help in the past.

his "convictions and pride and all that" seems to them like someone trying to convince them of something, not someone reminding them of facts he assumes they know.

anyway, back to laios. if we accept that chilchuck B is made from his memories, this suggests several things. first of all, chilchuck B is, despite his softer eyes and willingness to ask for help, still a fairly accurate portrayal of chilchuck. he's easily annoyed and he's observant, two traits chilchuck is known for. i think the reason chilchuck B has the kinder eyes and the more gentle disposition is because to laios, those things are indicative of someone being a good person, and he very much thinks chilchuck is a good person.

we know laios isn't especially good at reading people in general. thus, his idea of who his friends are is skewed in broad strokes, but not in the ways they think. he knows who chilchuck is, but he also associates chilchuck with his own ideas of what makes someone "good", which results in a chilchuck who's less rough around the edges. confronted with this--the real chilchuck asking him if he can tell--laios compares the two and thinks, reasonably speaking, the nicer one who trusts him has to be the friend he respects so much.

senshi and marcille also want to accept this chilchuck, likely for similar reasons. they also respect and care for him; they've seen him go through a lot. laios's ideal of him is just that, ideal. in a roundabout way, it's only their deep fondness for who chilchuck really is that makes them want to see him this way.

next up, we have marcille.

the fake, marcille A, is a radical departure from what makes chilchuck B a fake. laios notes that the real marcille is exactly the same as she always is. the reason, then, that marcille A confuses him--and the others--is that after everything they've been through, their perception of her has changed radically.

if we look back to senshi and chilchuck's marcilles, it's readily apparent when they're eliminated that both interpretations hinge on the knowledge that she performs black magic. senshi's tries to use it to prove herself; chilchuck's has a grimoire loudly proclaiming it's what she does. contrast this to marcille A: she doesn't mention black magic at all, and her grimoire looks strikingly similar to the real one.

that's because laios doesn't think her performing black magic changes anything about who she is. her doing so proved her to be just as dedicated to falin as he himself is, and the knowledge that her goals involve it doesn't faze him. (additionally, marcille has been teaching him magic, and falin had tried in the past. though his image of a grimoire is flawed to someone experienced, to anyone else it looks fine.) thus, marcille A isn't a flagrant black magic wielder; she's someone who's been fundamentally changed by what they--and falin--went through.

let's go back to chapter 27:

chilchuck and senshi are appalled, and will continue to be. while they ultimately don't prevent marcille from doing this, and care enough about both her and laios (and in chilchuck's case, falin as well) to be in tentative support, this changes their view of her in a negative way. she's dangerous now, in a way she wasn't before, but she's still marcille--goofy and a little reckless. thus, their views of her, and the illusions that result.

laios's opinion of her changes for the better.

she is, all at once, both competent and loyally dedicated. she will stop at nothing to help falin. whatever goofiness she exhibited before now is gone, replaced by the cold demeanor of someone who is doing something extremely dangerous for reasons that are inherently selfish, but ultimately too important to reject.

thus, we return to marcille A: cold, sharp, dedicated. not reckless or goofy, but methodical and haunted. she may have returned to "normal" since they left the castle town, but laios's opinion of her, and understanding of her love for falin, has been forever changed.

so faced with the real marcille--still silly, still whining, still frequently annoyed with him--he's confused, because that's deeply familiar, but it doesn't line up with what he knows about her now.

the truth, of course, is nuanced--these things are true about marcille, but only under duress; it's similar to how laios becomes a competent leader when the going gets tough. she has this within her, but it's not her default state of being. still, the shapeshifter picks up on the strongest memories laios has of her, this new interpretation of someone he thought he knew.

now then--onto senshi, the punchline of this particular joke about the differences between the copies. i still think it says a lot.

i think this one speaks for itself, though i find chilchuck's agreement interesting. senshi is the newest member of the team; little is known about him. laios happily notes that senshi "always looks cool" while chilchuck says he looks normal (and chilchuck B insults the real one). laios sees senshi this way because he thinks senshi is cool as hell, and this manifests in an idealized version of a face he's not as familiar with as he is with chilchuck and marcille.

this is clearly comedy, but it also speaks to the same desire to see the best in the rest of the party. marcille is the only one who notices likely because her opinion of senshi isn't so romanticized. chilchuck's senshi, of note, wasn't a perfect replica: we don't see much of him after the obvious fakes are hauled off, but he's a little squashed (he's the top one):

which indicates that chilchuck's visual memory of senshi is already flawed. if we compare this to giant laios and the marcille with the unique hair texture, it tells us chilchuck's attention to detail is more specific than the others'; he can remember the hole in the helmet, the importance of hair, but he doesn't quite see the bigger picture. giant laios is also surprisingly... rugged? which i imagine has to do with chilchuck's perception of him as a tall-man. (or maybe how he clearly has trouble seeing laios's face half the time, lmao...)

anyway. laios thinks senshi is super cool and chilchuck has an imperfect idea of what senshi look like as it is. (i wonder if chilchuck is some degree of faceblind? not enough to not recognize someone at all, but can't pinpoint specifics.)

and so, we arrive at the moment of truth.

so let's go over what i'm theorizing here... all the remaining fakes are illusions based on how laios sees his friends. the illusions manage to make mistakes that reveal the truth to him, but i think the reason for that harkens back to what laios said earlier... the illusions are being updated over time.

laios isn't considering any of the things that give the fakes away until this moment. if it had taken a little longer to resolve things, maybe they'd have started course-correcting, but they aren't given the chance. laios makes sure they aren't--he acts very quickly. even as he presents the three pairs with his findings, he's aware that everything will fall apart as soon as he does... and he's banking on that. while the shapeshifter illusions defend themselves from being killed, he gets right to the heart of the matter in the only way he knows how: confronting the actual monster involved.

when all's said and done, laios reveals how he figured it out:

potentially of note, all of these details happened before the red dragon fight. chilchuck fighting a mimic and revealing his history with them, senshi gushing about the dungeon's ecosystem, and marcille being attacked by the undine weren't super recent memories. when laios brought them forth in his mind, he had a delay before the shapeshifter updated its illusions.

well... except with marcille. marcille A actually didn't show her hand so easily; it was the real marcille's carelessness that proved her identity.

but what this suggests is that, when confronted with the realities of marcille versus his idealized version of her, laios had to make a choice: did it make more sense for her to have been radically changed by the revival and subsequent loss of falin, or was the presence of a marcille he knew so well proof of an illusion? she was the one who was the most different, and as such, the contrast was the same one that eliminated all three laioses at the start: with the real thing in the room, the fake became apparent.

so, to reach a conclusion: one again, laios has proven he's not as scatterbrained as his companions think, but this time he did so on a more personal level than usual. to them, he reveals that he knows their quirks enough to define them by such when they're otherwise faced with convincing copies. to us, the readers, if we accept what i've suggested here... he's revealed a lot more. he respects, admires, and idolizes his friends, all out of fondness: he wants to see them in an ideal way, whatever that means for each of them as individuals.

anyway thanks for coming to my TED talk

[driftward]

Title: FFXIV Write 2023 - 9. Fair Characters: Scions of the Seventh Dawn Rating: Teen Summary: What kind of game -is- this anyroad Notes: None

G'raha floated along the outskirts of the party that was happening at the Baldesion Annex, taking in the sights and sounds, ever observing. Scions past and present milled around in small groups, talking shop, swapping stories, and playing games. There was one table in particular that held his attention, however.

Thancred had invited him to a game of cards, and he had politely declined at the time, which Thancred had taken in stride. Now Thancred sat with some of the older, more long-running members of their group, deeply engrossed in their game, an island in the greater ocean of activity that was the Annex space.

While Thancred may have meant to invite G'raha, the person who was now watching was the Crystal Exarch. Decades heaped upon decades of experience had taught him how to observe, how to watch, how to care, and how to make his move, and he was bringing that to bear now. Part of that was a simple desire to know what he would be up against when he did at last bring himself to the table.

Another part of it was a bit of boyish glee at the idea of having a shot at showing up these living legends. A crow swooping in on his first day at the table, to steal their chips at play! It would make for a fabulous tale.

But some stories needed more work than others, and he was intent on making sure his would have the desired outcome. So, first, he observed the players, each in turn.

Thancred and Urianger were interesting, each more alike than he suspected either would ever admit to. Both were consummate bluffers at the table. Both played the long game. Urianger did so through blatant misdirection, seeming to have obvious tells, his face telling a story as cards were dealt and played. However, as G'raha stole glances, he noticed how the man was perhaps the most careful at the table with his plays and his bids, chips dancing around mathematical uncertainties. Thancred on the other hand simply hid in plain sight, carrying on conversations, his face seeming to be open but in truth betraying nothing. He went for larger plays than Urianger did, but smoothed out his activity over time. And between the two, G'raha was certain that Urianger was playing to the math, while Thancred was playing to the people.

He'd have to watch more games to be sure.

Moving on, Aenor was much like Thancred, except more boisterous, living up the bard traditions of tall tales with taller heroes, sharing herself readily at the table. Thancred was reading people, but Aenor was engaging them, applying social nudges, and making some of the largest plays of the game. Boom or bust cycles seemed her way, and G'raha wondered which would win out.

Hoary, G'raha was not sure how Hoary was even in the game still. Every table had its mark, and with his obvious tells and the way he kept falling for Aenor's gambits, he seemed to be the one for this group. He did not grow frustrated, however, and G'raha suspected his good humor and willingness to take advice and pointers led the group to go easy on him.

And certainly, it probably helped Hoary that Y'shtola was playing him a bit. It was in the best interest of a canny player to do so, G'raha realised, and keeping Hoary around until endgame meant she could play the others to defeat and leave herself with an easy cleanup. That kind of clever deviousness he might have expected to come from Thancred, had he been asked before hand, but he was perhaps not surprised to find out that she had the capacity for that kind of cold-bloodedness. And as he watched, he found that her self control meant that she had no tells at all. She was completely unreadable, and so he found himself having to try to catch her plays, to see if there was at least some pattern he could glean. In the end, he only figured that of the entire group, she was the least likely to bluff, and if Urianger was playing to mathematical likelihoods, she was playing to mathematical precision.

It was when he was watching Coultenet that the first real discrepancy came up. If every table had a mark, every table also had its quiet player, and Coultenet was that for this table. Watching carefully. Playing carefully. G'raha was more than experienced enough to know that he could not ignore any of them, no matter how unseeming they may be at first blush, and though the quiet ones often went overlooked by less canny individuals, they could often hold surprises. So he made certain he was paying attention to Coultenet's play, and that was when he saw it.

Something exchanged carefully behind Thancred's back, between Hoary and Coultenet, so smoothly that they must have had some sort of agreed upon signal before hand.

G'raha boggled at seeing such a brazen display of cheating. He thought to intercede, but decided to hold, instead, and watch carefully for further evidence of malfeasance. Better to wait and see if they tried again, and expose them in the act. Though inwardly, he felt his mind coil upon itself. How could they do this to their friends, he wondered.

In fact, he wondered if he -had- seen it anything at all, even. The movement had been swift, and he hadn't really caught full sight of what had changed hands. It was possible it was instead perhaps a note, a message, meant more for privacy so as to not disrupt the game, and not a method of deception being acted out between two otherwise quite honorable men.

"Something the matter, G'raha? You're staring." asked Krile, wandering up to him with a small plate of canapés. She held it up, and he gratefully took one.

"I am... not certain," he said. Krile glanced over, and smiled faintly.

"Wish I could still keep up with them," she said.

"Ah," he said distractedly, turning his attention to her only slowly. "I would think your talents with your blessings might give you an edge."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" she replied cryptically, but she did not expand further as she instead shifted the conversation to talking about the restoration work, and he lost track of the game for a while.

But it stayed, in the back of his mind, bothering him.

When she took a moment to step away for some other business, he turned his attention back to the game, looking carefully at Thancred's back. Hoary and Coultenet had not made another exchange as far as he could tell, but if it did happen again, he wished to catch it.

Which is how he caught when Thancred reached up to scratch the back of his neck, and as he did so, G'raha was nearly certain he saw a flicker of fingers and slight-of-hand whispering a card from his collar to his sleeve.

Surely not. Not Thancred, of all people. Honorable, reliable, loyal Thancred. Thancred was the dashing rogue that rescued princesses from towers and oracles from keeps, not a scoundrel who cheated at cards.

Now, G'raha refused to believe what he was seeing. He simply had to be mistaken. So he began to watch the game like a paranoid man. Before he had been looking at faces and bodies for tells, cards and chips for statistics, plays and gambits for strategies. Now he watched the whole table, behind it, under it, around it, for hints and signs of further malfeasance. He orbited the table, making sure to engage with other activities and people in the Annex, attempting to be as clandestine as he knew how - and the Exarch knew how! - but before, he had only been idly keeping an eye on the game. Now, he was watching it.

And so he saw.

He had an idle thought earlier that Urianger had an odd way of shuffling, but now he was certain, the man was stacking the deck when it was his turn to shuffle, the way his deft fingers flexed and bent and slid cards in where he wanted them. Coultenet and Hoary had an entire second language they were using above the table, too subtle to call out, but there nonetheless. Aenor he caught palming chips at one point. And just when he thought that perhaps Y'shtola, at least, was playing a clean game, he thought he chanced to notice a pattern in where she tended to glance during those times she looked away from the game.

A nixie, one of its little droplet hands showing a number, and the other a card suit, floating almost invisibly high in the rafters, drifting behind different players.

It was then that Krile found his way back to him, and she laughed. He blinked down at her, and felt his jaw snap shut. He was not aware he had been gawping.

"Feeling left out, G'raha?" asked Krile. "They're always happy to have another, and I'm afraid I'm poor sport these days."

G'raha tried to sit on the ground as casually as he could manage, to look like he was just taking a seat next to his good friend, but he gestured her closer. When she was quite near, G'raha dropped his voice to just be barely audible.

"Krile, I am not quite sure how to broach this topic, so I ask your apologies. But I believe every single player at that table is cheating."

Krile looked at him, her eyes wide and mouth agape in shock for a brief moment, before that expression melted away into the broad smile and crinkled eyes of amusement as she covered her mouth and giggled at him.

"Why, of course they are, Raha," she said conversationally. "For you see, that's the game."

He squinched his eyes shut for several long moments, trying to process that.

"That's the game?"

"Oh, yes! Just so. I think they must have gotten bored of the more traditional way of playing ages ago, or perhaps one of them started and the rest of them joined in. But to be certain, they are all indeed cheating. The trick is how long they can go without being caught by their peers, or to successfully keep up the cheat until one of them wins."

G'raha stared over at the table, as the endgame apparently occurred. Urianger stood up theatrically, picking up his last hand and fanning the cards out in front of him before taking a dramatic bow. Aenor booed playfully while Thancred clapped at his success. Hoary sheepishly rubbed the back of his head and Y'shtola lifted a glass to Urianger in recognition.

(The after game conversations were starting. "You've somehow gotten even better at controlling your tells," he caught Thancred saying conversationally to Y'shtola. "Well, now that I enjoy the nigh fanatical joy of game in the company of a mathematical savant these days, I find I must needs expand my other talents to keep up," she replied cooly. Coultenet and Hoary exchanged some kind of complicated handshake while Aenor complained about how she could not quite figure out their secret language and wanted in on that action next time)

"That hardly seems fair," he said, distantly, finding himself unable to believe this of his friends, of these living legends, of these stalwart heroes.

Of this table of absolutely shameless cheaters.

[oflgtfol]

one thing with body swaps that are like almost never touched upon is just. how weird it’d be to be in another person’s body. like i’d think even down to like, just the length of one’s limbs would be unfamiliar. you’re so used to YOUR body, you’ve never been in another body before, and we’re all different sizes and shapes? you’re used to your arms being x distance. youre used to the shape of your hands, the texture, the look and feel of them. your height, the length of your legs, the shape of your jaw and mouth, your eyes, the shape of your shoulders, the way clothes fit on you. even down to nose shape like, you dont ever notice your nose in your field of view (unless you intend to) because you’re just to used to it - but your nose has a very specific size and shape that varies with every person. you dont notice your own nose but what about when your nose isnt yours anymore?

these are all little things that you never notice! you’ve inhabited this body for so long that they’re YOURS and theres no reason to think about it. this is the only experience you have, the only body you’ve ever had. if you’re suddenly in another body then like. just IMAGINE how foreign it must feel to be in another body. we all know the whole “look in a mirror, its not you staring back” but i’d imagine it’d go even beyond the most obvious visual changes

[sodomitecastiel]

Do you have any recommended spn fics? To be restored is consuming all of my non fenario brainspace

This is in no way an exhaustive list - @jewishcharliebradbury is the one to go for that - but these are some favorites of mine, please always heed their tags just in case!

Putting it under a readmore because I'm a wordy bastard:

Sky Verse by starandrea: Angelic civil war! The crispest, most in-character dialogue! Vast, sprawling worldbuilding! Dean and Cas get together and are very bad at it for a long time! This series obsesses me the way other people are obsessed with dta (which I have not read for fear of commitment but fully intend to eventually).

To Be Restored by serenetyfails: You mentioned this one already but it's worth repeating - it's my favorite trans spn fic that I didn't write myself. Cas's transmasc identity is handled so carefully and so competently, Dean flips out in a way that's both in character and still kind to him, and Sam and Rowena are wonderfully fleshed out. I think many people would look at the premise and worry it's either misogynistic or fetishy, but it's neither, it's such a love letter to Cas's well-earned masculinity. Also, I'm obsessed with Rowena knowing and being buddies with a lot of trans women witches :)

Talk Therapy by shara: This is one of my favorite 'Dean is bad at asking for things' fics, it deals with his inability to want things past what he can give to others really well. I also appreciate that not everything in their relationship is fixed just because they're together, although the amount they love each other is always obvious.

Epilogue by JayneL: A weird little time travel story that is NOT a fixit for endverse, but is exceptionally kind to endverse Cas anyway. It aches very badly. I remember it being pretty trippy but also having to sit and look at the ceiling a while after reading it.

The Love Story of the Runner Up by Margo_Kim: Cas dates a normal human man with a good soul for a little while before he gets with Dean. Both of them know it isn't for forever, but they look after each other anyway. Told through the lens of story-swapping between gay friends and written with so much care & love. (You can thank @okologie for finding this one and making me read it despite my reservations.)

where the weeds take root by deathbanjo: Everyone recommends this fic but it's for a reason. Probably the best post-retirement fic there is, and definitely helped me form the neural connections to write Fenario, haha, I can't recommend this one enough. The complicated Dean and Sam issues are held with just as much weight as the Dean and Cas ones, although both are handled gently.

you and me in the war of the end times by stickthelanding (@tallahasseemp3): Alma knocked it out of the park with this one. THEE shotgunning fic. I've reread it more times than I can count, it has the loveliest atmosphere. I want to gnaw on this prose, said with love!

A Drinking Song by Balder12: Endverse snapshot. This one is mostly just bone hurting juice but it's one of my favorite characterizations of them - sometimes I find that endverse stories either make Cas way too soft or fucked up in a way I find goes too far in a direction I don't agree with, this one feels pitch perfect.

Everyone Is Trying to Get to the Bar by Balder12: All time fave angel true form fic!!! It's deliciously weird and fun, definitely a mind-melter. I only read it the once but sometimes I think about it and get a funny little shiver.

Tall Grass by aeli_kindara: This is another 'universal favorite', but also for good reason. Extraordinarily tender, it's my personal favorite Cas-grows-a-garden post canon story, especially because it manages to write a jealousy plotline that doesn't make me want to bite and kill. Dean's voice is exactly right and everything unfurls with this tender inevitability, idk how else to describe it! It also ends on a final image that's so lovely it's seared into my brain.

Dean (and Cas') Top 13 Zepp Traxx by pantheon_of_discord: Nobody does vignettes like supernatural writers. I love the way the road feels in this one, and how carefully picked each moment is. A string of pearls, this fic.

There's Only One Sure Thing That I Know by blinkiesays: Dean and Cas get trapped in the midwest by a curse that doesn't let them leave the state, and they want to break it until they don't. Being trapped gives them an excuse to want to settle down, but the route they take to get there is, of course, circuitous. This one hurts a little because it takes place while Sam is dead, but it isn't gratuitous in its sadness. Sweet and melancholy.

the taste of gravel in the mouth by deathbanjo: FAVE FAVE FAVE FAVE. I push this one at everyone I can. I'm extremely picky about 'Dean's self loathing' fics, mainly because I think it can veer easily into melodrama, but this author weaves Dean's self hatred and his anger together very seamlessly, in a way that feels real to the show. Also, Cas is perfect.

sweeter coming from my hand by perilously: A story that I liked before Nov5 and withstood the test of time!! Dean and Cas get married/soul-bound in order to both remove the Mark of Cain and fix Cas's grace. Features a formative scene for me where Cas expresses worries about if he has a soul and Dean raps knuckles on his chest, going, "knock knock, sounds like a soul in there." If you like this one, perilously has many good fics that are just as in character.

On Labor by a_good_soldier: I very nearly couldn't finish this one, but not because it's bad, haha. The premise just makes me want to tear my clothes in mourning - Dean knows Cas is in love with him, after getting him back from the Empty, and decides that he should give him what he wants without realizing that he wants it too. Dean performatively dating Cas while trying to talk himself into liking it (not knowing that he does actually like it) is exactly the kind of convoluted bullshit Dean's internalized homophobia would do to him. Nauseating and spectacular. Sticks in your brain for weeks.

canticles by 2street2car: An excellent 'weird girl best friends' fic. After striking out at the brothel, Dean decides to treat Cas to the "first date experience" himself, since the guy might die the next day. To sum it up succinctly: the rituals are intricate. And dirty dancing is referenced!

we shovel all the ashes out by xylodemon: As the author states themself, this fic is a love letter to California - it's a road trip casefic that's so rooted in place, the setting is rich and lush and the atmosphere makes me ache, and not just because it's set in my home state! I saved this one for last because this is another prolific author who has many stories I come back to again and again (Sweet Home and Love: A Retrospective are particularly good), they really don't miss. Usually when I read fic, it's a mad dash to the finish, but I took my time with this one. I highly encourage you to do the same :)

[theauthorandtheartist]

Cliches

This goes along with the Dannymay day 7 prompt: 2nd chances

I don’t know where I came up with this. I just started writing and didn’t stop. I tried to do a story without using dialogue, and I think I succeeded. I had to write this for a school assignment, so I had to explain the Danny Phantom world a bit because my teacher had no idea what it is. 

Cliches are a wonderful thing. We cling to them like lifelines, hoping for a good "happily ever after" to make everything better. In fact, I'm sure you were expecting a "Once upon a time" to start off the story now weren't you.

Yeah, you were.

Well I'm sorry to disappoint you, but here, there are no cliches. No long-lived and well-loved story arcs to follow, no "good guys" or "bad guys" or save the world scenarios. Here, the princess rescues the prince and the dragon is locked in the tower. Here, the evil stepfather can't get the upper hand over his rebellious teen son. Here, the protagonists are monsters and the villains are heroes.

Probably the only cliche in the whole story is the existence of myself, the narrator, who will shamelessly add my own thoughts and commentary to the story as I please; simply because I can.

Pleased to meet you.

Now, with hasty introductions out of the way, let’s get down to business. I am here to tell you a story, though I’m sure you already knew that. It is my job as narrator, to lovingly guide you through the history, lore, and thrilling storyline that the author has painstakingly crafted for you to enjoy. You’re welcome. 

Let’s just jump straight into it shall we? I’m sure you already know everything there is to know about Amnity Park, and you don’t need me to tell you about their slightly paranormal pest problem. Surely you don’t need me to inform you about the daily ghost attacks, or the ghostly superhero known as Phantom who repeatedly confronts the angry spirit and either persuades them or forces them back across the veil. Assuredly, you know all about Phantom’s tragic backstory, of how he was caught in the veil between dimensions, and was officially turned into Schrödinger’s boy -both living and dead simultaneously. Of course you already know about the struggles of being both a hero and a high school student, missing class and skipping sleep in order to keep his city (and his secret) safe. I don’t need to tell you about the ghost hunters in town, who relentlessly hunt and attack Phantom without warning, oblivious that he is their son. 

No, you already knew all of that. 

Still, it is quite tragic to see a family pitted against one another, even if it is due to ignorance. Danny Phantom is nowhere near being ready to confide in his parents, but progress always starts with a first step. This story is that first step. 

Let’s meet our protagonist, shall we? 

Daniel James Fenton -or Danny, as he prefers to be called- is a good looking kid. Tall and muscular, without the air of privilege or haughtiness that often surrounds such people. His messy black hair and sparkling blue eyes are enough to make any girl swoon, though he does not seek out such attention, preferring instead to mess around with his two best friends. While most boys his age spend their nights drinking or partying, Danny spends his stargazing (or more recently, ghost fighting). He truly is the ideal high school boyfriend -but don’t let him hear me say that, he’s a flustered dork most of the time. He does his best to avoid the limelight, even letting the other kids bully him if it means that he won’t be looked at twice. 

Danny Phantom however, has no qualms with spotlights. In fact, he doesn’t mind them at all as long as they don’t get in the way or result in other people getting hurt. His ghostly form does not look dissimilar to Fenton, swapping black hair for blinding white and blue eyes for toxic green. His normal T-shirt and jeans shift into a full body, black HAZMAT suit with white gloves and the trademark DP logo on the front. It is rather easy to spot, especially when he’s flying around and glowing. 

To hide his alternate identity, Danny created two different personas for his two halves, slipping seamlessly into character whenever it is needed. Phantom is brash and hot-headed, a master at distracting his enemies with witty banter and endless puns. Fenton is cowardly and shy, infamous for being too clumsy to handle glassware. Fenton is terrified of ghosts, Phantom hunts them. Phantom is willing to sacrifice his own safety and wellbeing for others, Fenton gets misty-eyed over papercuts. This way, even if someone had thought that a ghost and a human could be the same, no one would ever suspect the two to be connected. 

It was crucial that the two were never suspected. If the world knew that half-ghosts  existed, Danny’s identity as a human would be overshadowed by his identity as a ghost. Ghosts don’t have rights, therefore Danny wouldn’t have rights. There would be nothing to stop anyone from marching down and kidnapping him for use in loads of painful and most likely unethical experiments. After all, the popular opinion on ghosts was that they were evil, semi-sentient projections who could feel no pain. That doesn’t do much to help his case. 

The people need to be convinced that Phantom was a hero, and that process starts with his parents. The Fentons are the leading ghost hunters in Amnity, and they have dedicated their life to catching and researching ghosts, even if they aren’t very good at it. They are a perfect team. Maddie is thin and slender, and her blue HAZMAT suit does nothing to hide her curves, but she is not weak in the slightest. Her proficiency in martial arts and science is renowned throughout the city, and every thug knows not to mess with the red-haired mother. Jack, however, has the dexterity of a brick wall and the mass to rival an elephant. He looms menacingly over all who approach him, but his childish nature and agreeable personality make it easy for him to interact with others -even if he is a little too passionate about his profession. 

 The Fentons are stubborn, but not bullheaded. They can see reason when they need to, and unfortunately, with the infamous Phantom of Amnity Park bleeding out on their doorstep, they need to reevaluate their theories. 

Phantom lay slumped against the porch railing, eyelids fluttering as he struggled to remain awake. It was a rather gruesome sight, and if Maddie didn’t know that he was a ghost, then she would be furious at whoever dared do this to a child. His right arm pressed hard against his wounded side, soaking the white glove in acid-green, ectoplasmic blood. A nasty gash on his forehead leaked the same vile liquid into his snowy white hair, plastering it against his sweaty, pale skin. In all honesty, he looked like he had brought a toothpick to a knife fight. 

The Fentons frowned at each other, debating their next move. They knew how this happened, news of Phantom’s latest battle against the hunter ghost known as Skulker had been broadcasted on every television for the past three hours, what they didn’t know, and couldn’t figure out, was why Phantom had come here. They were his enemies, for all intents and purposes, they were very loud about their threats to rip him apart. But here he was, bleeding out on their porch, and Maddie found herself fighting between her hunter’s curiosity and her motherly worry. 

Phantom didn’t look older than her own son, Danny. She hadn’t noticed that before, but now it was painfully obvious how young he was. It also struck her that he was a ghost, which means at some point or another Phantom had been alive. She couldn’t imagine losing Danny, and this ghost didn’t look older than seventeen. 

She sighed, and scooped the hero up into her arms. The hunting could wait. It was against the hunter’s code to kill anything that you hadn’t weakened yourself, anyways, best to fix him up and let him be on his way. She could chase him down again later. 

Now I know you’re thinking, “but Mr. Narrator, isn’t the hunter nursing the huntee back to health and becoming friends a huge cliche?” And to that I say, yes. However, that is not what we’re doing here. They do not become friends and instantly trust each other because of this little incident. This is a first step, nothing more. 

After calming her husband’s fears, and assuring him that she was fine, Maddie cleared off the dining room table and laid the ghost on top. He had lost consciousness at some point while she moved him, and his head lolled back as she set him down. She frowned at the ghost, listening to his labored breaths. Ghosts didn’t need to breathe, but Phantom had always insisted. She never knew why. 

Jack walked up the stairs from the lab, carrying a spool of glowing green thread. Phantom’s wounds would need stitches, and the special thread wouldn’t fall out when he used his power of intangibility. Silently, she stitched up his side, flinching at his whimpers he made every time the needle made contact. She had to remind herself that he was a ghost, and therefore couldn’t feel pain. Any reaction he gave was just part of an elaborate ruse. 

You and I both know that wasn’t true.

She nodded as Jack brought her some bandages, holding his head upright in order for her to wrap them around his ectoplasm-stained hair. A neon green stain spread out on the tabletop, seeping into the wood. This was fine, she would just have to clean it later so the ectoplasm didn’t bring any food to life. 

Satisfied that there were no other major lacerations, she once again scooped up the teenaged hero and moved him slowly to the couch. His unnecessary breathing had evened out, and she could feel a faint, slow, rhythmic thump against the fingers pressed on the base of his neck. It couldn’t be a heartbeat. Ghosts don’t have heartbeats. It must’ve been her imagination. 

As you can see, Maddie is not very receptive to new ideas. 

Laying him on the couch, she expertly ignored the slight hiss he made as his stitches stretched. He began to softly snore. She left the room. Jack was not much help when she explained what she’d felt, merely parroting her feelings back to her with a few insults directed at the ghostly species thrown in. “Ectoplasmic scum” was a popular one, along with “spook” and “monster.” Maddie didn’t know why she didn’t agree with those insults anymore. 

A soft groan echoed from the other room, and Jack jumped to his feet to grab weapons. Maddie stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. Phantom was no threat now, maybe she could get some answers out of him. A strangled, frightened yelp called from the living room, along with a loud thump and a groan. Upon investigation, she found Phantom on the living room carpet, curled up into a ball and shaking. A small pool of his green blood had soaked through the bandages and was now leaving little polka-dots on the rug. 

Phantom apologized for the carpet. 

At first, Maddie was taken aback. Phantom was hurt. Phantom had nearly died. Again. And he was apologizing about the stains on her rug. She didn’t expect most humans to be that selfless, much less a ghost. Nevertheless, Phantom was apologizing for the carpet, as a thin line of green dribbled down from the corner of his mouth. 

She sighed and drew closer, eyes softening as Phantom flinched and tried to back away. She continued to advance, slower this time, and murmured words of encouragement as she approached. The ghosts glowing eyes held suspicion, but he did not flinch away this time. His usual witty banter was gone, much to Maddie’s worry, replaced by the soft pleas of a frightened child. A child faced with death, who did not want to die. 

She called Jack into the room, and asked him to grab some bedding from the storage closet. She had made up her mind. Phantom was not a threat. Jack warily nodded and left to do as she asked, and Maddie gently took Phantom up in her arms again, wiping the green liquid from his face. He stiffened at the contact, but made no move to escape. 

Soon enough, Jack returned with a feather comforter and several pillows. With Phantom’s telekinetic help, they made a soft nest and placed him gently inside. Maddie fussed over him as Jack stood to the side suspiciously. 

Needless to say, Phantom was very confused. Why was his parents helping him? They hate Phantom. Did they see him change back into human form? Is that why they're being so nice? No, Maddie kept calling him “Phantom,” if she knew, she would call him “Danny” or “Sweety.” His secret was safe for now. 

That still begged the question of why they were helping him, and when he asked, their only reply was along the lines of “you’re not a threat,” which really did more harm than good when it came to calming his nerves. 

Nevertheless, they had saved him, and so when Maddie asked for an interview, Phantom didn’t decline. Their questions were standard, if a bit rude. They were nothing he hadn’t answered before, and he only had to lie twice, when their questions got a little too personal. He refused to answer how he died. They didn’t need to know that. 

His healing factor had kicked in, rapidly knitting the skin back together and repairing the damage to his muscles. The room had gotten progressively more relaxed as time went on, and Jack was no longer shooting glares at him from across the room. Instead, he was questioning him with just as much zeal as Maddie. However, Phantom could feel his time here drawing to a close. Danny Fenton needed to be back home before curfew, and he couldn’t do that if Danny Phantom was in the living room. 

Hastily making an excuse to leave, he said goodbye to his parents and phased through the door before they could catch him. His head, which had been overtaken by an awful headache, protested as he flew down the street and into an alley, but he paid it no mind. Unwinding the bandages around his head, Phantom felt his transformation overtake him. 

His heartbeat sped up, his temperature rose, and his breathing grew more frequent. Granted, his heartbeat and breathing still weren’t exactly fast, and his temperature wasn’t exactly warm, but he could pass as human and that’s all that mattered. Seconds later, Danny Fenton exited the alley and headed home, walking carefully as not to disturb the stitched side under his shirt. 

When he arrived home, his parents were whispering in hushed voices, glancing over at the couch occasionally. They greeted him excitedly as he walked inside, before running downstairs to the lab to go over what Phantom had told them. What Danny had told them. 

He sighed and scaled the steps, making a beeline for the door to his room. He should start his homework, but then again, chances are the ghosts aren’t going to let him sleep tonight, so he should take a nap while he can. Not bothering to change clothes, Danny flopped onto his mattress, asleep before he hit the covers. 

In the later weeks, the Fentons would continue to search for Phantom. However, now it was for conversational purposes instead of experimental ones.  He even visited on his own time once or twice for a chat. The overall acceptance of Phantom increased as well, because if the ghost hunters thought he was okay, then the rest of the people would follow. It wasn’t perfect, but it was better than before, and that’s all Danny could really ask for. 

Who knew it took nearly dying to repair broken relationships? 

Well, I did, for one, but I don’t count. I already know how Danny’s story ends. I know how his secret is revealed, and how his parents react. I know who will hurt him, who will betray him, and who will make amends. I know lots of things, including this: Danny will not live happily ever after. He just won't. There will always be more ghosts to fight, more threats to his friends and family, and he will not live happily ever after. His life will be filled with struggle and pain, and there’s nothing I can do to stop that. 

His afterlife however...well, that’s another story. 

I should tell you sometime.

[fantroll-purgatory]

@plumb1tes

(The image was made by me)

It’s a real good image. I want to let you know from the beginning of this review that CD and I have both been raving about what a good troll Charyl is from the second she set (prosthetic) foot in our inbox. She’s so so creepy and we both love her so much.

FIRST: Alternia, and she’s closer to being in the Hiveswap setting then the Hivebent one.

I think given our current info re: Hiveswap all that tells us is that she is living before Feferi was hatched.

Name (preferably include how you came up with it and why): Charyl (derived from one of the Deathstalker scorpion’s venom known to cause paralysis) Thytue (from a genus of scorpion called ‘Tityus’)

Age: 7.85 sweeps

Strife Specibus: Needlekind (the sewing kind)

I like it, especially since you can also swap it with the hypodermic kind. If I may suggest another option, maybe stringkind? She could use anything from silly string (comedic), to thread (thematic), to fishing line (deadly).

Fetch Modus: I can never think of a good one, lol.

I have two for you! The first is a simple SINGING MODUS based off Singer sewing machines.

The second is a CLAW CRANE MODUS like the ones you see in arcades and are invariably rigged to some extent. I like this for a few reasons:

1) it harkens back to her toy theme which is present throughout her bio, and

2) you could have the “claw” of this modus be her limp doll hand, which would just look so creepy.

Blood color: Cerulean,

Symbol and meaning: Scorrius, sign of the cunning (Hope + Derse)

We’ll get to that later in your bio!

Trolltag: tetraplegicTrinket (it’s referring to her dolls, which are trolls that are essentially permanently paralyzed, and she dolls them up)

It’s a good name! If you want to alter it slightly you can go for quadriplegicTinkerer so her abbreviation can be QT.

Quirk: Sh3 tr13s to 1ncoporat3 h3r s1gn 1n h3r sp33ch! (i want to find something that suits her better, if you have any suggestions!)

|-|-|-|- H(::)w about that she begins and ends her sentences with f(::)ur stitches and replaces “o” with (::)? -|-|-|-|

|-|-|-|- B(::)th as a d(::)llmaker and as s(::)me(::)ne with bifurcated visi(::)n eightf(::)ld? -|-|-|-|

|-|-|-|- Als(::) it mimics the cutesy way s(::)me l(::)lita girls talk by making their (::)’s r(::)under -|-|-|-|

Special Abilities (if any): Vision eightfold, with it being split to both her eyeballs, to appear like buttons, going along with her doll-like theme. It doesn’t really do much for her.

I mean tbh that holds up. We don’t know how much of Vriska’s own abilities were from her vision eightfold, her psychic mutation, or her eventual role as a Thief of Light. The girl had a lot of stuff going on.

Lusus: ScorpionMom, a giant scorpion that paralyzes Charyl’s dolls for her with her giant stinger. She also eats the trolls that die after being turned into dolls. Charyl also laces her needles with her lusus’s poison, to kidnap trolls she finds fit for being turned into dolls. Their relationship is pretty good, all things considered, though ScorpionMom keeps to herself, most of the time. This adds on to Charyl’s feeling of isolation.

I think this is oddly permissive for a ceruleanblood lusus; while Vriska’s Spidermom was obviously an extreme case, it seems that bigger lusii generally need to get fed, and will not necessarily take kindly to their ward dangling almost-available food in front of them while they finish playing with it. I think it makes more sense that Charyl uses her lusus’s poison to paralyze (and eventually kill) her victims where Scorpionmom’s full sting would out-and-out kill a troll. It can still play into her isolation because she’ll need to work to keep away from her mom while her doll is still alive, and it still gives her an easy method of getting rid of the bodies.

Apperance: She is a tall troll, around 5’9, and rather thin. Charyl has vision eightfold, though split, and makes her eyes look like buttons. She styles her hair into two long twintails, and a bow wrapped around her horn that has her symbol on it. Charyl dresses in gothic trollita garb, which is mostly made by herself, consisting of a black, frilly dress with a cerulean bow, and mary janes, and knee-high socks.

GOTHIC TROLLITA. HOLY SHIT I LOVE IT.

Charyl is a quadruple amputee, from an accident where one of her dolls, a fellow cerulean blood, was under-dosed, and managed to mind control Charyl into breaking and contorting her own limbs, as a way of revenge. The cerulean blood escaped, and Charyl managed to recover from the life-threatening experience. She managed to take some rather large doll parts, and fashion them into workable replacement limbs with the help of an acquaintance experienced in robotics.

Hm. So I like the premise of this a lot. With that said, do we have evidence that psychic cerlueanbloods can influence their peers? After all, part of what makes them so dangerous is that they have psychic abilities on par with a lowblood sans their requisite vulnerabilities. If I may suggest a different scenario with a similar outcome, perhaps an indigoblood with a particularly STRONG immune system failed to succumb to the poison in the expected timeframe and overcame her with their remaining strength. This could spur her distaste for kidnapping highbloods and still leave her disabled.

Personality: She’s pretty bubbly and energetic, and quite motherly. Sometimes she wishes she were a jadeblood so she could take care of a wriggler. She also treats her dolls (both living and nonliving), like her children, loving to dress them up and take care of their needs. However she is also very controlling, and is quite uncomfortable whenever she isn’t able to offer her opinion, or do things how she wants.

She’s pretty spoiled from her highblood upbringing, but is equally friendly to both highbloods and lowbloods, due to her not caring about the hemospectrum that much (though she turns more lowbloods into her dolls than highbloods, due to them being easier to abduct). Charyl is a lonely troll, and uses her dolls as a way to not feel as alone as she does, due to her lack of friends outside of the ones she meets online.

Yeah kidnapping lowbloods sure is easier when everything about the hemospectrum makes them easier to kill huh?

Due to the experience with the cerulean blood (which is one of the reasons why she prefers lowbloods for her dolls), she hardly leaves her hive, aside from going outside to find new victims. She is also socially awkward, and prefers the company of her dolls, mostly due to not fearing the social apprehension she feels when interacting with highbloods.

Interests: Charyl absolutely loves fashion, especially gothic trollita clothes. She likes sewing, and making her own dresses and accessories, for herself, and also her dolls.

If it wasn’t obvious, she also is obsessed with dolls, though her favorite type are the trolls she kidnaps, and permanently paralyze with her lusus’s poison. Most are unable to speak, and eventually die to the poison. Charyl dotes on them, dressing them up and taking care of their needs. She has a rather large collection of both living and nonliving dolls.

Charyl also likes playing doctor, though treats “patients” through the process of bloodletting, with the same needles she uses for her sewing.

Title: (got any suggestions?)

I do, because I don’t think she’s actually a Hope player. I mean if we wanted to stay on that track she’d be more likely to be a Rage player because her whole schtick is narrowing her own and others’ options, and I could make arguments for her being a Life or a Doom player, buuuuut.

You’ve made her bio one that’s very Of Things. She likes having material things, whether they’re bodies or dolls or clothes. And her hobby of kidnapping real, actual trolls to turn them into dolls is technically a form of recycling and of creativity.

Basically, she’s a fucked-up kind of Space player. More specifically, she’s a Thief of Space, which is GREAT because she’s like if Kanaya and Vriska had a creepy and fashionable lovechild, ESPECIALLY given that you said she sometimes wishes she was a jadeblood!

Her inverse would be a Page of Time, which I think kind of works given that she’s effectively fucking with others’ time both by freezing their progress and by dramatically shortening their lives!

Land: Doesn’t have one yet! Still on the fence on if she’ll actually play sburb or not

That’s fine! For the sake of argument let’s say her land is Land of Chloroform and Frogs (LOCAF). All these frogs just floating in chloroform. Maybe some of them are splayed out like an anatomical diagram. Maybe some of them have been taxidermied. Many of them will be dissected like a high school bio unit. It’ll certainly make it easy to see which frog have the anatomical traits you want in the future Bilious Slick. The Land probably isn’t even safe to traverse without a gas mask given how damn fast the stuff works. It’s macabre and fits really well with how Space players’ frogs tend to be frozen in time in some manner.

Dream Planet: Derse

I definitely agree that she’s a Dersite given how much she seems to be in her head. With that, she’s a Scorga, sign of the Deviser, which sufficiently vague that I guess it works?

…Oh MAN I just looked that one up and the fuckin’ arrow tail looks like a scorpion poised to strike! It’s perfect for her!

Thanks again!

Thank YOU for this creepy creepy lady! My redesign will be very very minimal but HOO BOY did I have fun making her sprite!

This is gonna come with my requisite list of credits especially because I do not have a tablet and had no goddamn idea where to start with spriting her dress. That base is from deviantart user Thefantrolls and was then heavily edited to match your picture. The horns are straight-up Vriska’s, the bow is from naphal, and the hair was made by compositing like 4 different fan-troll templates.

For the redesign, I used a prosthetic base by hmnj to make it a little more obvious that her legs are prosthetic while maintaining the doll aesthetic. For the hair I wanted to do the scorpion callback but didn’t want to do anything as obvious as the stinger braid (especially since it might lose the lolita aesthetic), so I took a note from Gothorita’s design and tried to give her scorpion claw buns?

Anyway thank you again for this scary scary woman I can’t wait to see her in action.

-TR

[stevensavage]

Playing Producer: What Would An Overwatch RPG Need To Be?

(This column is posted at www.StevenSavage.com and Steve's Tumblr.  Find out more at my newsletter.)

Taking a break from my more dramatic posts to do a bit of game analysis here -  I'm playing Product Owner and Producer in my head asking just what an RPG of hit game Overwatch would need.  Last column I identified that it's probably viable and has good synergy, but it can't be too much like the core game and probably wouldn't be good to introduce to the market for at least 3 years.    Also feel free to use any of these ideas.

It's also a fun look and exercise to think about products like games and products.  So now let's move on to asking just what an Overwatch RPG would have to be to meet the market we know.

It Must Be Lore Filled

Overwatch has a lot of Lore, individual and worldwide. Any RPG/MMO of Overwatch has to be fairly dripping with lore and details. It should be enough that you don't feel you're playing a game, but reading a book or a seeing a movie.

That's a tall order, but also a place the game can stand out. What an Overwatch RPG/MMO needs to be is the SF/Superhero version of the Fallen London Universe; you have to feel immersed in a place, a lore and a feel when you play or it doesn't work. It has to be designed down to wording choices and colors.

In addition, Lore has to be everyhwere. Hunting down Lore has become a part of Overwatch fandom, which means sticking it everywhere. You want people crawling through restrooms in Junkertown to discover a photo taped to the underside of a label on a pipe. Then they get an achievement.

If this is done right, then right here you can differentiate it from most games - and get people interested. If you can get people who like Lore but not a frenetic FPS, you win.

This of course drives a lot of other choices.

NOTE: Imagine if the first person to discover new lore got a special item or title, and the first 100 also got some bonus. There should also be some kind of experience gain or benefit for lore discovery for each character.

It Must Be Playable In Chunks

One of the great things about Overwatch is that I can sit down, play for 15 minutes, and walk away. I often don't but its tight mission structure means I can. When I do. Which is rarely.

A problem with MMO's is that they can consume people's time - I think that actually drives people away. But you also want retention. Playable small chunks means you get both - people can grind away, but you don't drive them away with long slogs or a massive commitment.

Thus every mission should probably be small, or several independent missions strung together, enough for people to get in, adventure, and get out. This of course fits Overwatch's military-meets-superhero style - go and do the mission and get out. Or if your Reyes, screw them up and then listen to your team complain.

Larger missions, as noted could be strung together - which also provides the bonus that people can play large content how they want. That increases retention, allows your friend to go to the bahtroom before your team starts the next mission, or just finish something off later. Sure we might have some larger/longer raids and such but make this the core.

NOTE: Provide titles, items, cosmetics, etc. to people who complete various numbers of mission. Also, for the people who love marathons, provide the same for people who do various numbers of missions IN A ROW.

It Must Be Social

An Overwatch RPG must be social. Despite complaints about toxicity in the community, I think those complains exist because it clashes with the overall spirit of the community. Overwatch fans love lore, speculation, teaming up, and exchanging fan art and such. I find it surprising positive, cynic that I am.

So any Overwatch game has to be a social engine big enough people can feel part of the community. I'd say if Overwatch RPG/MMO's social features are so interesting you're templted to play ONLY to use them then you win.

This almost certainly means:

Strong matchmaking tools.

Strong social tools to keep up with people.

Gift giving and exchanges of stuff in game (or purchased, we need those microtransactions)

Toxicity control and blocking tools. I almost wonder if a kind of LinkedIn recommendation system could work.

Home/room crafting. That's becoming de rigeur, so put it on in.

Crafting things for others.

Bonuses for good social behavior.

Social areas and events in the game.

Community things like fashion shows, backstories, and art contests.

Social tools have to pretty much appeal to people from Day 1 - you need an embarassment of riches that's also managable and comprehendible.

NOTE: There should be missions or mission parts that are non-combat where characters solve puzzles or just go and talk to people. This would not only fit Overwatch, but also encourage social activities.

It Must Tie Into The Big Picture

The game has to tie into the Overwatch universe in a meaningful way. Characters can't be sitting on the sidelines forever in the shadows of everyone else - they have to make their own paths.  They can't outshine the heroes of Overwatch the game, but also have to achieve things.  The Lore of the game has to tie into their experiences to bring the in-game fiction and the player experience together.

To me this means:

Things the characters do and missions they're assigned should fit the Overwatch universe.

* Lots of in-game events and special events - maybe even one time - to make it feel like things evolve. STO is a great example of this.

Use of proper settings - while exploring new ones. For instance, you know at some point everyone will want to go to Junkertown or the Moon.

Evolve the storyline to a point where it allows for people to create masses of new heroes (I figure it'd be set a few years after the Recall) to have their own tales.

Have missions and events that let characters "own" their own experiences.

Move the story along for the other Overwatch characters - their achievements should change the game for the players, but they players should make their own way.

This'll take effort - and constant content. But if you make it feel like a living world, that will keep people interested. Plus if it can tie into the game and media . . .

NOTE: This is going to take real work, to truly be a media production with growing lore and a world.  It'll be like running a TV show.

Characters Must Matter

Overwatch at its heart is about people making a difference. Oh, it may be a terrible difference. It may be for revenge or greed or dressing like a human Hot Topic. But people in the story have impact.

That has to translate to the game. Which will be challenging, but players have to feel their story is important - and it has to be made important.

Some thoughts on that:

Have regular events where the winning "faction" get some bonus or achieves some victory. That should create temporary in-game alterations and may give some bonus to those who participated.

Have areas that are territorial battles, where factions can take control. Good for PvP.

Have people contribute time or resources to non-combat events to get results - like building new areas.

Have characters have their own storylines and choices for certain elements that have impact; such as choosing which character to agree with in a conflict.

Characters in game must comment on action and character actions.

Players must get a chance to make unique in-game choices, such as crafting or getting rare loot or costumes.

NOTE: This will need special attention in the game design - it will need to be core.

It Must Be Personal

The game must have a very personal feel to it - almost intimate. your character's choices, actions, factions, and so on must make the game feel unique. It should feel that, if you started over, you'd experience an entirely diffrent game.

Many of the common things in RPGs and MMOs do this - character choices, cosmetics, factions. Those, obviously would be here - especially cosmetics, it's Overwatch.

May of the above items would personalize it - and I'll cover characters in a separate post.  But I think an Overwatch RPG MMO needs to make most missions personal, unique.

Here's what I think it'd need.

Event/historical missions should have a personal quality or at least a random quality. Maybe an end boss is customized for your loadout.

Missions should be multi-option. Choice should matter and bring about different results.

Missions must be able to fail and have partial successes.

Have a reputation system, but not one that's simple - your reputation should be a kind of reputation.  You may be popular with Overwatch, or Talon, but what kind of popularity - the killer who gets sent to gun down enemies, or the team player who gets rescue missions.

Most missions should be - I'm seriously - randomized, procedural, and/or customized. A mission you play should be unique and unrepeatable. That experience is for you and your team alone.

Actions should have effects over time. Maybe your character ends up constantly annoying Doomfist and thus he is swapped in for a boss in another mission as he seeks revenge. Have enough successful missions at Blizzard World and someone mentions it later or it unlocks a special scripted mission.

But what of the Lore, which is a bit hard when you have random missions? I've got an idea for that too - Virtual Reality. As you "rank up" in your faction, you can experience "simulated" story missions as "training." This loads in lore and gives scripted missions - it's just not the main source of story. It'd be like the Overwatch Archives.

Everyone gets their own story - and everyone gets to relive the same history together.

In A Nutshell

So to round up an Overwatch RPG that I think would succeed would be a lore-soaked social game that provides a lot of randomized missions on top of more scripted ones, has a shifting/changing setting based on actions, and produces a highly personal player experience.

Is this doable? Actually, I think so. Most of the parts are obvious or in place, it's probably the procedural balance and elements that'd take work.

Next up - characters.

- Steve

www.StevenSavage.com

www.InformoTron.com

[theeurekaproject]

Fracti Loca

As an Imperatrix, Acidalia should not have been afraid to go to any part of her own planet. She was their servant of state, their protector, their liberator—there was no justification for being scared to go near those she was fighting for.

As an ordinary human being, Acidalia was terrified.

It probably said something about Eleutheria that she was more confident waltzing into an alien starship and telling them that fine, sure, she’d help them, but she had to settle her own little war first, than she was wandering the Underground. Her own planet and its people were scarier than the Mira, and that unsettled her.

And Lyra… Lyra couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. Acidalia had gotten involved with the Revolution earlier than that, but she also had much more of a general idea of what she was doing. The Eleutherian court was filled with contempt and lies and secret plots, and she knew well how to navigate the tangled web that was politics. She didn’t doubt Lyra’s intelligence, but she knew that Lyra didn’t have any of the experience she had, nor did any of the other girls. Athena, Carina, Cressida… they had no idea what they were doing. They’d never seen how ugly war could get. If they knew more about the Revolution, Acidalia doubted they would all be so eager to join.

Then again, what would happen to them if they didn’t? The planet had quickly descended into open war. They’d be dead if they didn’t pick a side.

Still, it felt wrong, somehow, to have people so young in a conflict so big.

Acidalia knew she was only a few years older than the girl she called young, but she didn’t quite feel young anymore. She certainly didn’t look like a teenage girl. Without the makeup and the regalia, she looked like a woman who’d been through too much. Her left wrist kept swelling and, from the pain, she could tell it was either sprained or broken. Those goddamn shards of glass were still biting into her foot, though the pain had gotten duller—or maybe she’d just stopped feeling it so badly. Everything hurt and she knew she should see a medic, but that was impossible right now. There was no time to stop, to take one breath, no time to do anything but keep soldiering on, because so many couldn’t. Because T couldn’t.

She was so close to the place where he died. His corpse was so near, and she wanted to recover it so badly, even though every last vestige of sanity in her body was screaming at her that this was a very bad idea. The soldiers had their traditions—they spaced bodies, so they could be among the stars, return to the elements they were created from. It could give Ace some closure—Ace, who broke Acidalia’s heart every time she thought of him. What had happened? Were his last memories of his best friend T running off with a quick goodbye, hoping he’d be back soon and knowing he probably wouldn’t? What was he thinking? He’d lost a brother just like she’d lost hers; he couldn’t have been remotely okay. She wasn’t okay, either, but she’d had years of political training to hide it.

And that’s what scared her most about the Underworld—that political training wouldn’t help her even slightly.

Everything about that place was so foreign to someone like her. Even the colors were unfamiliar. It took her over an hour to hunt down the only black thing she owned—the military uniform she was supposed to wear when she wanted to be be addressed as the commander in chief—and take all the colorful parts off, and even then it didn’t look right. With a helmet and a visor on, and her hair pulled back into a ponytail, Acidalia hoped she’d look enough like an ordinary person to pass for any other fleeing footman, but she’d never been able to take off the Imperial crown before—at least, in a metaphorical sense. How did normal people even talk to each other? Acidalia couldn’t come off as normal if she tried.

Maybe if she ran quickly enough and brandished her gun a lot, nobody would ask her any questions. One could hope.

Wincing because the boots pressed right against the arch of her foot—she’d given herself a glass splinter at some point, probably when she was running from Cassiopeia—,he stood and opened the door. Andromeda and Lyra stood against the wall, Andy clearly bored and playing games on her metadit. They’d swapped clothes; Lyra was in Andromeda’s black evening gown, but she’d hiked up the front with very visible safety pins to make it several feet shorter. She’d also found body glitter and put so much of it on that she literally glowed, and the amount of makeup on her face could have worked for six people. Acidalia didn’t even know she owned lipstick that color purple or eyeshadow that bright—the sheer, eye-bleeding fluorescence of it almost felt sacrilegious, and it made Lyra look like a very young child who had gotten into her mother’s makeup bag. The overall effect was enhanced by the fact that she was wearing Acidalia’s bronzer, which was in a tone that very much did not match her skin color. On a Martian woman, it worked; on a Terran woman, it looked like a spray tan. It was smart, though; Lyra looked like a regular teenage girl who was making poor fashion decisions. Acidalia felt too polished.

Andromeda looked at her for a minute. “No,” she said definitively after a couple of seconds. “No what?” Acidalia asked.

Andromeda sighed. “No. Just… no. No one dresses like that, ever. You look like you belong on a propaganda poster. That makeup and that uniform… no.”

Lyra bit her lip. “She’s right.”

“Explain to me what I’m supposed to look like, then.”

“Shorter hair-“ Andromeda began.

“Not happening, next point,” Acidalia interrupted.

“-torn up clothes, worse makeup. Well, it depends on whether you’re trying to be a Labora or a Cantator, because-“

“We don’t have time for this,” Acidalia decided. “I don’t have any other clothes, and we need to get going.” “At least take off the corset,” Andromeda said.

“How can you even tell I’m wearing a corset?” “Because you always wear corsets? Seriously, you look nowhere near what a normal Cantator looks like. You look like an escort, not a hooker.” “I wasn’t exactly aiming for either of those things,” Acidalia replied. “How do I look like an escort?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lyra interrupted.

“She does look like an escort, right?” Andromeda asked.

Lyra looked at Andromeda in that way people did when they weren’t sure what to say, confirming in Acidalia’s mind that she did indeed look like an escort. Fantastic, she thought.

“We should get going,” Lyra said quickly, obviously not wanting to offend anyone.

“Yes, we should.” Acidalia tightened her top around her waist, now mildly self-conscious about the fact that she had inadvertently dressed herself like a semi-classy prostitute. Then she was annoyed at herself for even caring about how she looked when they were facing interstellar war.

“I’ll have the smaller ships trail you,” Andromeda said, “but not far up enough to make it obvious. We can’t let people know who you are.” “Got it,” Lyra replied. “It shouldn’t be that bad. This is where I grew up; I know these streets like the back of my hand. Just as long as the Imperatrix can get into the Terminal-“

“They scan for DNA, irisis, fingerprints, et cetera,” Acidalia said. “My mother couldn’t lock me out if she tried—the system knows I’m a Cipher. There should be no problem with me getting in, the issue lies in getting there in the first place. Every second we stand here is a second we waste. We should leave.”

“All right,” Lyra said, swallowing. “Let’s… leave, I guess.”

“Let’s leave, indeed,” Acidalia replied, as Andromeda called “no normal person says ‘indeed!’”

***

Acidalia hadn’t prepared herself for this blinding panic.

She felt as if she’d been dropped in the middle of a battlefield—which, to an extent, she had been. The very instant her feet touched the ground, she was surrounded by total chaos. Screaming people climbed over each other in tidal waves, running from something miles away. They were cursing, yelling in vulgar Latin, begging those around them to move! and get down! before they fell victim to the fires. Smoke rose to the sky in plumes of gray, pale and ghostlike against black buildings.

Lyra seemed barely surprised.

“It’s messier than usual down here,” she yelled over the din of the crowd.

“Do you think?” Acidalia asked.

“I can’t hear you!” Lyra shouted.

“Never mind-“ Something erupted in front of them, and white smoke rained down from above. Acidalia’s throat stung and her vision turned blurry. She pulled the visor and mask of her helmet down and stood up tall as the gas began to settle towards the ground in a thick, smoggy blanket. It had to be a type of mild irritant, she surmised, blinking to clear it from her eyes.

“You good?” Lyra called through the helmet’s mic, only visible as a shadowy, black silhouette. “This stuff looks dangerous.”

“I’m fine, you?” Someone pushed her to the ground in a blind panic. She rubbed her head and fought her way back up again.

“I’m okay, but we need to get out of here. Go left.”

“Which left? I can’t see anything.” She could make out the tiny, holographic numbers displayed inside her visor, and some brief flashes of neon light, but nothing substantial. Switching it to heat mode only showed the bright red bodies of people, crawling and stumbling over each other in pale blue-green clouds of gas.

“Hold tight. I’ll come get you.” Lyra’s voice sounded distant again, almost overshadowed by the screaming and coughing. Acidalia tugged her helmet down again, making sure that it was fastened tightly. Someone collapsed behind her, and she realized that this had to be much more than a mild irritant.

A tiny, black-gloved hand gripped her shoulder.

“Lyra?” she asked.

“Yeah, come with me.” She pulled Acidalia’s shoulder, seemingly confident in her ability to lead. Acidalia followed her, still trying to make out anything over the smoke. How did Lyra know exactly where she was going, navigating the piled-up people and the dilapidated chrome buildings like she’d been here a thousand times before? While Acidalia stumbled, trying to figure out where she was going, Lyra glided over everything effortlessly. Not being the one in charge for once felt strange.

The roads got less crowded suddenly, and living people were quickly replaced with corpses. The streets ran red with blood, literally—it poured from the mouths and eyes of the dead, coating the concrete in slick, half-clotted fluid. Coagulated reddish-brown goo clung to Acidalia’s boots. She couldn’t smell anything with her visor on, but she didn’t need to—the scent of death was in her mind anyway.

“In here,” Lyra said, entirely unaffected. She pulled Acidalia under the awning of a dilapidated building and pressed herself up against the wall, effectively fading into the background. “We’re the only two people standing up right now,” she said breathlessly. “We can’t just be running around—we’re going to get shot.”

“Right.” Acidalia leant against the wall, but it crumbled away partially when she put her weight on it. “Is this place stable?” Lyra shrugged. “No idea. It’s pretty old, I wouldn’t go up any higher.”

Acidalia surveyed the building quickly. It was all broken stone—stone that hadn’t been used in building material for eons. The top had long since fallen apart, and the rest of it looked like it was about to. This place was beyond dilapidated—it was a ruin, easily thousands of years old. Judging from the amounts of faded preservative on the stone, she could assume it had been restored a few times, and then built over and forgotten over centuries. The entire structure shook uneasily as the sound of a bomb run out a few miles away.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Acidalia decided. “This is about to crumble to pieces.”

“Good luck finding anywhere else,” Lyra replied. “This whole section of Appalachia is like this. Skyscrapers built over by starscrapers, I mean.” “Haven’t any of these buildings ever fallen and killed someone?” Acidalia asked.

“Sometimes. That’s why you’re supposed to steer clear of the ruins and stay underground, but a lot of people don’t do that. It’s probably fine-“

The building swayed again. A giant golden letter T fell from the heavens and landed a few hundred feet from their heads.

“I stand corrected, let’s get a move on,” Lyra said.

They started moving again, less quickly than before, trying not to upset the delicate architecture—though Acidalia supposed two people wouldn’t make much of a difference in the grand scheme of things, considering all of the bombs that were going off around them. Any misstep could result in a fiery death, but she decided to pretend that wasn’t true for the time being. Drawing a straight line is easier if you focus on the endpoint instead of the pen, she reasoned. Missions are like that. Think about the future, not the now. And hopefully, if death came crashing down from the heavens, it would happen too quickly for her to notice or care.

Lyra led the way, her tiny black boots dancing across the bloodstained streets. She was lighter than Acidalia, significantly so—she had no cybernetic implants or metal bones to weigh her down—and her footsteps didn’t cause as many tremors. The two walked on, the Imperatrix and the Cantator, for a mile or so, until Andromeda’s crackling, mechanical voice sounded in Acidalia’s headset. “Turn back. You’re heading straight into a massacre.”

“Wonderful,” Acidalia sighed. “We’re what?” Lyra asked. “I know this place, there’s nothing that would fall right there-“ “No, a bunch of people just got shot. Those outfits don’t protect you from laser blasts, you know.”

“Got it,” Lyra said, like she wasn’t even surprised. “How’s the deep underground?” “You’re thinking about going down there?” Andromeda asked. “Christ, I haven’t been in those tunnels in decades. I have no idea.”

“We have to,” Lyra replied. “The buildings up here are too shaky for us to get any higher, and the ground is a battlefield—did you see that gas they just released?”

“Fine. But be careful,” Andromeda warned, sounding like she didn’t actually care whether they were careful at all.

“What is she talking about?” Acidalia asked. “How do we get to the deeper underground?” In hindsight, she should have thought of the tunnels earlier; they were filled with factories and water treatment plants, the sorts of places whose only purpose was to supply the people who lived above them, and there wouldn’t be as many soldiers down there—just dangerous machinery. But she had no idea how one would even go about getting down there, and the tunnels were like catacombs—an inexperienced person could easily get lost.

“We find a transit station,” Lyra said. “There’s one a bit east of here, just a few blocks away. It might be flooded—sometimes the walls that hold the rivers back collapse—but it’s our best shot.”

“Flooded? Can you swim?” Acidalia asked. Lyra didn’t answer the question

Another blast rang out.

“Doesn’t matter,” Lyra said, almost defensively. “Time to go.” She grabbed Acidalia’s hand again and started to run, kicking up shiny glass dust from all the broken windows.

***

The “transit station” was a hole in the ground, a few feet in diameter, with a broken ladder swinging precariously, attached to the wall by only one side. It looked like death and smelled even worse, and it appeared to be designed so that very few people could enter or exit the darkness beneath. It was exactly the type of thing Alestra’s extensive taxes should have fixed… if they hadn’t gone towards buying another mansion in the South Seas.

“Are you sure going down here is a good idea?” Acidalia asked. “Can it support our weight?”

“It’s our only option.” Lyra grabbed onto the ladder and started to descend, eventually giving up and just sliding down on the exposed side like a child on a playground pole. Acidalia tried to do the same thing, landing with considerably more grace than her partner before immediately collapsing as something sharp dug into her foot.

“You okay?” Lyra asked.

“Yes, it’s just the glass in my boots. I’m fine.”

“Glass?” “Long story.” Acidalia stumbled to her feet and adjusted her shoes. Her socks felt hot and sticky with blood, but it was still better than wearing heels.

Unlike the surface, deep underground was quiet and empty. The sides of the main room were covered in grime-speckled, once-white gray tiles and signs reading the names of neighborhoods that didn’t exist outside of history books. A framed, stylized map on the wall showed a spiderweb of multicolored lines connecting places marked by numbers, like a graveyard of forgotten places and long-dead civilizations. Maybe, a thousand years ago, this had been a train station, and maybe, two thousand years before that, a subway. There was no sign of a struggle anywhere, no strange gas or fluid on the ground—just memories of antiquity. It wasn’t that the place was clean—far from it—but the lack of hysterical, wounded men and women made it look like heaven in comparison to the nightmare world above.

As they progressed ever-onward, walking on paved-over tracks, the walls turned to durametal, the floors to steel. Some of the small lights above were broken, shrouding the entire hall in a sort of dusky twilight. It was slightly claustrophobic down here, and very dark.

Lyra looked around for a few seconds before deciding on a direction. She pointed down a hallway and took off, dodging obstacles—tiny sets of cleaning equipment, tiny tool kits. She threw open a door with a loud clatter, and rows of tiny people dropped their tiny hammers, startled.

Five hundred pairs of pretty brown eyes belonging to five hundred sickly-looking little girls stared at the two of them. Their hair was cut short and their skin was a lackluster pale. None of them said anything. Like small robots, they went immediately back to what they were doing—mostly hitting the same spot with the same hammer over and over again before the conveyor belt moved, and they hit a different spot on the next metal sheet.

“Labora kids,” Lyra said.

“I know.” Acidalia knew exactly who they were, but something about seeing all of these children living like prisoners for no reason other than the crime of being born Labora made it a hundred times worse. There was no time for contemplation, though. Her feet moved more quickly than she did, and she found herself in the next room—five hundred barebones bunks and five hundred storage compartments filled with five hundred tiny, tiny uniforms.

A very small sniffle ran out through the room, echoing around the metal walls. One child, small enough to barely reach Acidalia’s waist, wiped her nose and pushed a broom. She looked dizzy, like she was about to collapse.

Acidalia was about to ignore her and leave- there was no time for any of this- but Lyra reached a pale hand out to the girl. “Are you okay?”

The child didn’t answer, looking fearfully at the both of them.

“It’s all good,” Lyra said. “I’m like you. In black, see?”

The girl relaxed slightly. Acidalia didn’t move, not wanting to be recognized.

“What are you doing?” Andromeda’s voice hissed in her ear.

“Lyra met a child,” Acidalia whispered.

“Listen, I know it sucks down there, but you can’t be doing this. Literally everything about this is a bad idea.“

“I know,” Acidalia said. “I have a feeling it wouldn’t go over well if you told her that, though.”

Lyra reached for the fastener of her helmet and pulled it off slowly, not wanting to startle the little girl. Evidently she’d frightened her anyway, because the child leapt backwards the minute she saw Lyra’s face, backing up against the wall.

“I’m not dangerous,” Lyra said. “I’m not going to hurt you-“

“Get away from me!” the girl shrieked in a voice not befitting one that small. “Leave me alone, meretrix!”

“We’re not-“

“I’m going to call the magistratum if you don’t get out! People like you aren’t supposed to be down here!”

“Lyra, let it go.” Acidalia put a hand on her partner’s shoulder.

“She’s sick,” Lyra said.

“Go!” the girl screamed. “Go! Get out! Even I won’t talk to a lupa like a cantrix!”

“All right, all right.” Lyra stumbled back nervously, like she was afraid of this tiny, sickly child. “We were just trying to help-“

“We don’t want the help of you people,” the girl snapped, and glared at the two. Acidalia pulled Lyra’s arm and dragged her towards what she assumed to be the exit.

The entire underground was a labyrinth of walls and long rooms, staffed by people as young as six years old and as old as around fifty. Acidalia was fully aware that none of these women could afford anti-aging genetic mods, and she didn’t want to think about why not a single person seemed over half a century old. Lyra, meanwhile, had seemingly lost her concentration. Andromeda was lecturing her in the headpiece, and Acidalia wasn’t paying much attention to her spiel, trying to focus on her objective. Get to the Terminal, send out the virus, get back to safety. It sounded so much simpler, listed out in her head like that. Three steps. Three things. It should be easy.

The stark black linoleum tiles creaked beneath her feet. Blood sloshed in her shoes, red-hot, weakly metallic and sickly-sweet. The factory machines whirred and whistled, emitting LED-lit smoke that rose up in the chambers like a ghost. Broken lights cast shadows on every piece of dust. Acidalia’s mouth and eyes still stung slightly from the gas, and she wondered again what type of poison it was and who had unleashed it. Every bone in her body hurt. It was sensory overload and sensory deprivation at the same time—there was almost nothing around, nothing to see or touch, but she noticed everything so clearly it was borderline overwhelming. Her breath picked up, even though she wasn’t sprinting or doing anything really strenuous, and the world felt hot, even though the deep earth was cold for the sake of keeping the machines functioning.

She recognized the sensation of panic immediately, and slowed her breathing, taking long, deep breaths. I can’t afford to panic right now. Her mind jumped back to her childhood, the way she’d have nervous breakdowns before every speech, the way she’d bottled everything up for the sake of being the perfect princess the world expected her to be.

Except this was much more dangerous than making a speech in front of a crowd of thousands. Now the risk wasn’t of embarrassing herself in front of a planet of trillions and disappointing her entire family—it was of getting killed and destroying everything her own movement had worked for. She couldn’t just be a perfect princess anymore. She had to be the perfect empress.

[thecinephale]

I was arguing with my sister about whether Friends was homophobic or not and it led me down a rabbit hole watching a 50 minute supercut of every homophobic/transphobic moment in Friends (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SsQ5za-J6I8). Some of it’s really not okay. Some of it actually seems to be commenting on the characters’ homophobia in a way that at least for the time might’ve been progressive. But most of it is just the kind of seemingly innocuous stuff that shapes our culture in a really harmful way. 

Since coming out I’ve had a lot of people ask me why it took until I was 23. Given what I knew about being trans, of course it did. Here is a list of every representation of trans people I saw (that I can remember) in film and tv throughout my childhood and adolescence. 

Friends - Chandler’s parent seems to be a trans woman. It’s somewhat hard to tell because she’s misgendered and dead named by most of the characters. Her attraction to men and wearing of women’s clothing is what Chandler considers to be the root of his emotional problems. She performs at a drag show in Las Vegas, she is very flamboyant, and she’s portrayed as very sexually aggressive (multiple jokes are made out of her coming onto Ross). She is played by Kathleen Turner. I prefer cis women to cis men playing a trans woman but here it just feels like a joke that his “father” could look so “womanly.” Ross and Monica’s dad says, “I didn’t even get to pretend like I’m okay with it” when pulled away at Chandler and Monica’s wedding. Chandler’s “dad” is played as a joke the whole series and any poignancy added when Monica convinces Chandler to invite her to the wedding is lost by the continued jokes at the wedding and throughout the series. Unrelated, Joey says he hooked up with a woman with a big Adam’s Apple. The other five friends comment that women don’t have Adam’s Apples. Joey having hooked up with a trans woman is the joke. I think about this scene all the time.

Naked Gun 33 1/3: The Final Insult - Anna Nicole Smith does a silhouetted striptease that ends with the reveal of a penis to Leslie Nielsen’s horror and induced vomiting. It’s funny because her having a penis is SO gross! Ha. Ha. Ha.

Ace Ventura: Pet Detective - Similar but even worse. When Ace Ventura realizes his crush/person he just kissed is a trans woman he has a full Jim Carrey freak out, eating a tube of toothpaste and showering like a cliche sexual assault victim (funny!). Then even worse at the end he reveals that she is trans by forcibly stripping her naked and revealing the outline of her genitalia tucked between her legs. This causes the dozens of cops and detectives witnessing this charade to gag. Because it’s SO gross!!!

Family Guy - There’s probably so much transphobia on this show that I don’t even remember and I certainly haven’t watched this show since high school so who knows with the later seasons. But the most obvious example was the very special episode with Quagmire’s dad coming out. There are a lot of awful jokes I don’t want to dwell on, but the worst is when Brian fills the room with vomit because he slept with her. This vomiting thing seems to be a trend.

Life of Brian - I take issue with Monty Python and lot of British comedy for constantly thinking putting a man in a dress equals comedy. I’m totally fine with sketch shows where men play women characters but the joke can’t be the gender swap. When I first tried wearing dresses outside I couldn’t shake the feeling of being a joke in a Monty Python sketch. Well, here the offense is more direct. Eric Idle’s character “wants to be a woman” and it’s played for laughs with the ultimate conclusion being that he’s detached from reality.

South Park - Similar to Family Guy I’m sure there’s transphobia throughout the series I don’t remember (plus Caitlyn Jenner jokes in recent seasons… yes I still watch for some reason). But the main issue is Mr. Garrison. “He” has gender confirmation surgery and it’s shown very graphically not in cartoon. It’s compared to Kyle wanting to be tall and black and Kyle’s dad wanting to be a dolphin. A lot of attention is given to Garrison’s testicles and ultimately in the show Garrison de-transitions. By the way, he eventually becomes the Trump surrogate and Jenner is the Pence surrogate. So the most anti-LGBTQ administration in decades is represented in the South Park world by two (?) trans people.

The Silence of the Lambs - When the Criterion Blu Ray comes out in a couple months I’m going to rewatch this and finally finish my longer piece on the movie. But we all know this one. Buffalo Bill skins women and dresses in their flesh while tucking her(?) genitals. “Would you fuck me? I’d fuck me” was a commonly repeated phrase thrown around by friends in high school. I think about that scene a lot when I look in the mirror.

Sleepaway Camp - Another in the genre of trans woman killers. The ending of this movie is really horrific. Re-watching it now, I still feel repulsed by Angela. The terrifying music, the slow camera pull back, Angela’s deranged face, the way the shadows make her transgender body look more beast than human. Oh and that she’s just dropped a human head on the ground. Writing up this list I rewatched a lot of terrible shit, but this one really hurts. Maybe because it’s still such an effective horror movie ending. Maybe because it doesn’t even give Angela any agency. It seems to imply she isn’t trans but was given forced surgery/hormones as a child. I guess this should make it better, but it makes it worse, because it implies trans people were just damaged as children. It really makes me want to cry.

Dog Day Afternoon - This is certainly one of the more sympathetic portrayals on this list even if the trans woman is played by a cis man, Chris Sarandon. Al Pacino’s Sonny robs the bank to get money for his lover’s gender confirmation surgery and the scene between them on the phone is rather poignant. Still, “Leon” is not exactly an enviable character and it all ends in tragedy.

Dressed to Kill - This movie is pretty directly a reimagining of Psycho. That movie isn’t on this list because the doctor explicitly says Norman is not a “transvestite” but it’s harmful influence is still clear. This movie does the opposite. The doctor here very clearly explains that Dr. Elliot “wanted to be a woman” and that’s what led her to kill. Lovely.

The 40 Year Old Virgin - Jay hires Andy a sex worker. She turns out to be a trans woman. Andy leaves. He’s upset at Jay. Many transphobic comments and lots of misgendering occurs. It’s a real hoot.

All About My Mother/Bad Education - I love Pedro Almódovar and I appreciate that he has always included trans characters and even cast trans actors sometimes. I don’t take issue with either of these movies. I personally didn’t see myself in them but sex work, HIV, and sexual abuse are all common experiences and totally have a place in stories about trans women. I haven’t seen either of these films since I was in high school and I’d be interested in revisiting them now.

Twin Peaks - David Duchovny plays Denise, a trans woman. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with the character, I suppose. But it also feels like including her is just to add further idiosyncrasy to Lynch’s world. Just like having a character called the One Armed Man is ableist. Lynch is gonna Lynch, but this character played by a cis man is certainly not some great representation like the revival seems to want to paint it as.

Dallas Buyers Club - Jared Leto’s Rayon is both comic relief and tragic masturbation all servicing the story of a cis straight man (in the movie… in real life he was bisexual). She never feels like a real person even as she’s meant to represent so many common experiences. Leto overacts and of course won the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor. It’s so exhausting being Oscar bait. But I guess it’s better than being a serial killer.

Maybe this explains why it took me until I was 23.

[faierius]

In His Shoes (3. We Don’t Talk About That)

               Noctis stared at his own face. Not a reflection. Not a picture. His own face. He was not meant to see himself from this angle, and it was disorienting. He assumed the others felt the same. Did he always look this way, or was there influence from his body’s current occupant? Surely this grouchy scowl wasn’t something which always adorned his features.

               “Highness.”

               His title coming out of his own mouth, in his voice. Weird. “Yeah?”

               “We’re supposed to be having a discussion here, remember?”

               “M’listening,” he answered, tilting his head. There was something morbidly fascinating about studying his own features through a different set of eyes.

               “You very clearly are not. Please, this is a serious situation, and I would appreciate it if you would treat it as such.”

               “I am! But c’mon, Specs. You have to admit this is a unique chance. Haven’t you ever been curious about how you look to someone else?”

               Sighing, Ignis pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ve never given it much thought, honestly. And looking at myself while talking to you is giving me a headache. Noctis, please I know this is an uncomfortable topic, but I really need you to focus.”

               Slouching against the side of the Regalia, Noct looked to where Gladio and Prompto were holding a similar conversation at their campsite. It was decided they needed to set some ground rules, and it was best done in confidence with the person they swapped with.

               “You and I will be experiencing things neither of us was meant to experience. This includes knowledge of one another’s bodies. Any daily functions should be performed with detachment as not to embarrass one another.”

               “Got it. Don’t stare at your junk when I have to pee.”

               “Prince Noctis!”

               “What?” he laughed. Maybe this was all taking its time to sink it, but the entire situation was laughable. Someone had to make jokes, even it, absurdly enough, it was him.

               “Please be a little less bawdy about this. If we want to come out of this ordeal more-or-less the same as we’ve gone in, some things need to be said. Now, given the status of our relationships, I feel we need to make a no physical contact policy. Engaging in any sort of romantic rendezvous would be a gross breach of trust.”

               Noctis cringed with his entire body. “I wouldn’t be caught dead messing around with that Behemoth.”

               Ignis’ brow twitched into a scowl. He was torn between telling Noctis that was his Behemoth he was insulting, and asking the man if he was so shallow he would no longer want anything to do with Prompto if he didn’t look like Prompto.

               “You’d better not get any ideas in your head, either,” Noctis grumbled, crossing his arms.

               Ignis scoffed. “Hardly. But on that note, any…marks we may find will remain undiscussed, understood?” Pink tinged his cheeks.

               “With the way you teased me and Prom, I never would have thought something like this would embarrass you, Specs.”

               “And I would have thought it would bother you more than it seems to be,” Ignis retorted.

               Noctis exhaled a sharp breath. “Apparently you don’t blush as easily as I do because I am mortified.” He readjusted the obnoxious glasses on his nose and sighed again. “I wanna talk about this stuff as much now as I did in middle school. Personal boundaries should be obvious.”

               Ignis nodded in agreement. “I also feel we should take time to acquaint ourselves with weapons and skills while we’re like this. It wouldn’t do to be caught unawares.”

               “Shouldn’t the first order of business be finding out what that daemon was and how we can reverse this?”

               “Ideally, yes. But should we find ourselves in combat, we ought to familiarize ourselves with the weapons we’ll be using. It shouldn’t be a problem for us, as we are well versed in various forms of combat. Those two, however, will have difficulty. Prompto, not having the stature for it, is unfamiliar with Great Swords, and Gladio hasn’t much experience with firearms.”

               Noctis dipped his head in a nod. The man had a point. “How do you think they’re getting on?” he asked, directing his attention to the two men pacing back and forth on the Haven.

               Ignis studied them for a while. “They aren’t as familiar with one another as we are. Boundaries may be a little more difficult for them to set.”

               “Prom’s really withdrawn about a lot of stuff. Will Gladio respect that?”

               “Give him a little more credit, Noctis. You ought to know the type of man he is.”

               “I do, but they were pretty mad at each other.”

               “So were we.”

               “I guess. I mean, I’m still exhausted, filthy, and pissed, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

               Hearing such casual wording come out of his mouth, in his voice, was bizarre, to say the least. Sighing through his nose, he watched Noctis as the young man kept his eyes on their friends. Though it was his own body, he could see Noctis inside. The way he moved, held himself, stood silently watching was very much like Noctis even though he was seeing the body of Ignis Scientia perform the actions. The same could be said for Prompto and Gladio. Their differences are stark, but body language went a long way as well. It was almost like watching the boys do imitations of one another. Amusing, in its own right.

               Prompto, in Gladio’s body, paced, fidgeted, and gestured as he spoke. Gladio, in Prompto’s much smaller frame, replied with only a few hand movements, standing tall with his chest puffed out. Like a puppy posturing to an adult dog.

               Ignis smirked.

               “Hey.”

               “Yes?”

               “I know Gladio’s in there, but that’s still my Prompto.”

               “Relax, Noctis.”

               The man narrowed his eyes, watching Ignis for a moment before turning back to observe the others.

               Up on the hill, Gladio and Prompto talked. Or argued. Or something.

               Prompto frowned. “They’re watching us.”

               “Probably trying to decide if we’re done.”

               “We would be if you’d be reasonable for two seconds.”

               Gladio sighed, rubbing a hand over his chin. He didn’t know if he could get used to the smooth skin of Prompto’s face. He’d had facial hair pretty much since the time he could grow it. “How am I being unreasonable?” he asked, blinking slowly.

               “Oh, I dunno, how about refusing to respect my privacy?” Prompto asked with an exaggerated gesture of his hands.

               “What privacy? The four of us spend every minute of the day together.”

               “I still have…secrets,” he muttered, eyes flicking subconsciously to the band which permanently adorned his wrist.

               Gladio didn’t miss the darting eyes. “This?” he asked, raising his arm. He looked up to see unfamiliar expressions crossing his own face. Fear being the most prominent.

               “Please, Gladio,” Prompto whispered, lips parted. “I know it’s asking a lot, but please don’t take that off. Don’t even look underneath. I’m begging you, pal.”

               Gladio frowned, seeing small, soft Prompto beneath the gruff, scared exterior that made Gladiolus Amicitia. He didn’t like any of this. “Okay. Relax, Prompto. Does Noct even know what you’re hiding under here?”

               Prompto gave a tiny shake of his head.

               “Oh.” Gladio dropped his arm and exhaled a heavy sigh. “Shit. Well, I won’t look. I know we’ve been at each other’s throats, but I’m not that much of an asshole.”

               Relief washed over what used to be Gladio’s face. “Thank you. Uh, one more thing?”

               “Yeah, sure.”

               “Please don’t go shirtless while you’re borrowing my body.”

               “Why? Too embarrassed by your scrawny body?” scoffed Gladio, making a show of flexing one arm and patting his bicep.

               “Hardly. I’ve got plenty of muscle,” Prompto answered, not taking the bait like Noct often did. “Though I do have some…image issues?”

               Gladio narrowed his eyes. “You, the embodiment of confidence and exuberant personality, have body image problems? I’m not buying it.”

               “Hey, we’ve all got problems, Mr. Never Wears A Shirt,” Prompto grumbled, eyeing his chest with disgust. “Despite being well-toned, I’m not a fan of the way my belly looks, and I prefer to keep it covered, okay?” He muttered the last few words, refusing to meet Gladio’s eye.

               “Okay, I can respect that.”

               “Anything you want me to do?” Prompto asked, feeling a little safer with his body in Gladio’s possession.

               The big guy thought for a moment. “Nah, I’m pretty much an open book.”

               Prompto scrubbed a hand over the cropped hair at the side of his head. “Okay, well, that’s easy enough.”

               “Just…don’t mess around with Noct while you’re in there.”

               “Same goes for you and Iggy.”

               “Works for me.” Gladio extended a hand.

               Prompto accepted the hand, giving it a firm shake. The pair stared at one another before grins washed over their faces. Breaking the handshake, Gladio gave Prompto a playful shove, only this time the normally smaller man didn’t budge.

               “Suddenly this isn’t as much fun.”

               Shaking his head, Prompto waved at Ignis and Noctis. He hid his grin as the two walked over. Noct, usually casual in his gait, sometimes slouching, sometimes just lazy in his steps, was now walking with Ignis’ confident stride, minus the unavoidable hitch caused by Noctis’ old injury. Ignis’ body on the other hand, under the influence of Noct, now moved with a slower, laid-back pace.

               “Alright?” Ignis asked when they joined Gladio and Prompto.

               “We’ve worked out what lines not to cross,” Gladio confirmed, dropping into one of the camp chairs. Used to his bigger size, he misjudged the length of his legs and hit the edge of the seat. He hit the ground hard, flipping the chair onto his head.

               A rush of air passed Noctis’ lips and he doubled over, laughing.

               Ignis hid his smirk behind his hand.

               Prompto quirked a brow. “Hey big guy, I’d appreciate it if you could return the goods in the state you found them. I don’t need bruises on my butt.”

               Noctis was certain exhaustion had a lot to do with it, but seeing this whole scene play out, Prompto with a Gladio-esque glare, Gladio with Prompto’s soft amusement, his own face with maturely restrained laughter, was absurd. And hilarious. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and he couldn’t catch his breath.

               “Okay, knock it off. It wasn’t that funny,” Gladio muttered, getting back to his feet.

               “It was hilarious!” panted Noctis, bent over with his hands on his knees.

               “I thought it was rather endearing,” Ignis admitted.

               “Aw, c’mon. Not you, too Ig’,” Gladio complained, dusting off his backside.

               Ignis shrugged, crossing his arms. He wasn’t entirely sure if he thought Gladio’s fall was cute because he was Ignis reacting to an uncommon thing for Gladio to do, or if this was Noct’s body reacting to a common thing for Prompto to do. Things like this would become very difficult to discern as time went on, he had no doubt.

               “Iggy? You okay in there?”

               Torn from his thoughts, Ignis raised his head to see golden brown eyes watching him with concern. “Ah. Yes, fine. Thank you, Prompto,” he replied after a moment of hesitation. “What do you say we have some breakfast before we start the laborious task of fixing our current predicament?” Turning away from the others, he hoped they didn’t see his brow twitch into a scowl.

               This wasn’t good. Gladio’s eyes didn’t give him any reaction at all. Because their relationship was still relatively fresh, any expression, no matter the intensity, directed at him with those beautiful eyes always did something to him. A breath hitch, a skipped heartbeat, a swarm of butterflies to briefly take up residence in his belly, or any sort of overly romantic problems. Not this time. Those physiological responses were not tied to this body.

               This presented an entirely new batch of problems. Ignis hoped they could reverse whatever magic had taken hold of them before it caused irreparable damage not only to their minds but their hearts as well.

[marvelleous]

i want you forever (right here by my side) - chapter three

summary: Phil Coulson and Melinda May. Their story, from the very first day. notes: i wanted to thank everyone who commented on the last two chapters! you guys are awesome :) thank you to @agentsphilinda​, @marcuskaen​ and @anarchycox​ for looking over this one for me!

songspiration: darling i’m a mess by sabrina carpenter

read on AO3

Previous Chapter

Phil loses his first team member to a rogue sniper in December of 1992.

He knows in hindsight that he should have seen it coming - they even had a class about dealing with the loss of one’s team mate or partner at the Academy. An hour long session every two weeks preparing them for the pain and loss they might have to experience in the future; teaching them the best methods of dealing with it, of coping. In their line of work - death is inevitable - but he doesn’t expect it to happen so suddenly, or hit so close to home. He’s lost people before, his father, his mother. But this time it’s different - this time that there is someone he can blame.

Himself.

He had designed this operation, had handled it from the very beginning. Every single detail had been mapped out by him; he’d been meticulous, organised. It was a level one mission, easy, simple, a milk run for the two level four specialists who had been assigned to his team.

It should have been a piece of cake; one last mission before everyone headed home for the holidays.

Phil has been in charge of half a dozen operations more difficult that this one, all with more danger, more risk. This was supposed to have been a basic retrieval op; two specialists, one to go in, and one to watch the other’s back. They had orders to drop and swap intel, and then get the hell out before they could be discovered.

It should have been smooth sailing.

But they had failed.

And now a good agent is dead.

Phil meets Agents Claire Matthews and Thomas Chan two weeks before their first and only mission together, at a field office in Seattle. He’s been a “fully fledged” field agent for nearly two and a half years, and has had a mission success rate of one hundred percent. He knows that the two level four specialists have been assigned to his team to give him a recommendation for promotion to a Level Two clearance, if all should go well.

He stresses and frets about their assessment in the days leading up to meeting the pair, but the moment he does, his worries are gone.

At his base in New York, Phil doesn’t have much of a chance to interact with higher level agents - they’re mostly level ones and twos who work together on low risk missions and occasionally deal with setup or clean up. Fury is level six, but he also first met the man after confronting him for being a stalker outside a convenience store, so he really doesn’t feel quite the same vibe from the guy. Two unknown specialists though - the prospect of meeting them gives him so much anxiety that he can barely sleep the night before.

In some ways, they are nothing like what he’s been expecting.

Physically they look like most other specialists Phil remembers from the Academy and occasionally encounters on missions. Agent Chan is very tall, muscled, and seeing him in his official uniform makes Phil question why S.H.I.E.L.D. trained guys like him when they could have men like that. Agent Matthews is a little shorter, leaner, but Phil has never underestimated the strength of a woman, and he feels a small swell of pity for anyone who might make such an idiotic mistake.

Personality wise… Phil doesn’t know how to react when Agent Chan manages to crack six jokes in the span of five minutes, and Agent Matthews just stands there beside him with an almost unsettling smirk each time a punchline is thrown into the air. His first reaction is to laugh - which is what Agent Chan appears to specialise in, but then again, he’s not sure whether the man’s jokes are meant to be funny, or if they’re some sort of inside reference meant only for Agent Matthews and that they’re purposely messing with him.

His internal conflict over the matter is quickly resolved however, when Agent Matthews makes a comment about the weather outside - there’s a blizzard - and Agent Chan drapes his arm over her shoulder, angling his fingers to tug at the end of her ponytail.

“Hey Claire, what do you get when you cross a snowman with a vampire?”

Phil watches with uncertainty as the question hangs in the silence for a moment, before Agent Matthews elbows Agent Chan sharply in the ribs with a huff.

“Frostbite. You get frostbite when you cross a snowman with a vampire. You told me that in Switzerland last month when we were buried in six feet of snow.”

Agent Chan doubles over in laughter, drawing attention from all the other agents at their desks, as Agent Matthews rolls her eyes at him and claps him none too softly across the back of his head. Phil stands opposite them, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck and maybe his confusion is really obvious, because the pair seem to take pity on him - at least Agent Matthews does - because she grabs Agent Chan by the arm and begins to escort him out of the room, waving for Phil to follow.

He can hear the snickers from behind him as he hurries to follow the specialists - he thinks that working with them for the next few weeks might not be so bad. They seem to be easy going enough and clearly work well together. And Agent Chan did have some pretty good jokes. He hopes that maybe he can even try a few himself. It would be nice to have someone around who could appreciate his humour.

Phil has always been a very observant person. He prefers to stand in the shadows and watch the interactions of others over making a point to participate. His training at the Communications Academy had only reinforced this - you could learn so much about a person just by studying their movements, facial expressions, reactions to things. All agents, from those in administration to their tactical teams had the ability to conceal their basic emotions to a certain degree, even from each other - but this was one area where his skills exceeded expectations. It was his job to learn everything he could about a person just by looking at them.

And in the three days he’s worked with Agent Chan and Agent Matthews, he’s learned much.

Agent Chan is very talkative. Likes to make friendly conversation with whoever he can, likes to “get to know” other people. He jokes around, can find something hilarious in just about any situation. Phil thinks that it might be a coping mechanism, to make light of unfortunate situations, to find hope even in the worst scenarios. But despite all the smiles, Agent Chan is also very quick to anger - there might be some underlying issues there. He’s a man with many emotions - Phil sees this first hand when attending one of their training sessions to scope out their skills. The files had a comprehensive list - but seeing it for himself made all the difference in the world.

Agent Matthews is a very attractive woman - only an idiot would deny that. She could easily pass for a model or an actress, but Phil thought her skills were much more impressive than her appearance. He had always known that female field agents and specialists were often disregarded by the more close minded. He saw it for himself from time to time. He never had to intervene; those imbeciles usually scurried away with their tail between their legs and blood pouring from their noses.

Phil is in one of the training rooms, watching the specialists hone their skills, when a pair of Level Two field agents begin to stir up trouble - snickering to one another in a way that he knows means trouble is coming.

“Look at Barbie’s legs, wonder what they’d look like wrapped around -”

The man, Agent Landon, doesn’t have the opportunity to finish his remark, because before Phil even has a chance to react, Agent Chan has the guy pinned up against the wall, arm at his throat, holding him up so his feet are dangling, unable to reach the ground.

As much as Phil might enjoy seeing a sleazebag who would make such comments pummeled into the ground, he’d hate to lose his specialist for his next mission, and decides it’s probably for the best that he try to intervene. He doesn’t have much standing as a Level One, but he might be able to talk some sense into Agent Chan. He can’t hear what the specialist is whispering, but from the look on the other guy’s face, Phil’s guessing that the words are none too pretty. He’s halfway across the room when Agent Matthews beats him to the punch, running over to her partner and placating him with a hand on his elbow. Phil is not even sure that words are exchanged between the two, but then Agent Chan slowly lowers the guy to the ground, holding him against the wall for a moment longer, before drawing his arm back and breaking Agent Landon’s nose with a sickening crack.

Agent Landon’s buddy scurries forward and grabs him by the arm, presumably dragging him off to medical, and Agent Chan is shaking his fist, opening and closing his hand with a grimace. Phil takes a step back, unsure of how to handle this situation, scratching the back of his head for a moment before making the decision to let them handle it themselves. There’s not much he can do but sit back and watch at this point.

Agent Matthews drops down onto the mats, pulling Agent Chan with her and begins to inspect his hand. Phil can’t hear what they’re saying; this would be a convenient time to have super hearing to be honest, but they both look pissed even as she runs gentle fingers over his bruised knuckles. He’s pretty adept at lip reading, but that is a skill that is not really required in this particular situation - Agent Matthews is clearly angry that Agent Chan defended her, lost his temper, and nearly smashed a colleagues face in, and Agent Chan is clearly annoyed but also ashamed of how he handled the situation.

Their frowns eventually morph into smiles as they speak - and not for the first time, Phil questions the relationship between the two specialists. S.H.I.E.L.D. has it’s protocols, but no rules that people aren’t willing to break, for a good enough reason. Plenty of agents are in relationships with coworkers - but most aren’t involved with those that they actively work with. It makes for too many distractions in the field, especially when you are too busy watching your partner’s back to focus on the mission.

The logical part of him thinks that it’s too dangerous, too risky. They already put their lives on the line out there - it’s too easy to be distracted, lose focus and put others in danger.

The still hopeful part of him thinks that a love like that may be the best kind of love there is. Committed to the cause, committed to your partner. Out there fighting together, having someone by your side who means everything to you. The closest to a normal life a field agent like him will probably ever get.

He doesn’t see it happening.

But that doesn’t stop him from wanting it.

Phil likes the S.H.I.E.L.D. van. He really does. It has heating, video surveillance from the forty best vantage points - thanks to the tech patching them through back at the nearest base, and is basically a glorified metal can to hold their gear and keep him from getting shot at. And so he sits back and watches the fuzzy feeds, a standard issued bullet-proof vest over his suit and tie, and a gun in it’s holster, ready to act if need be.

Once Agent Matthews returns with the intel, she’ll be picked up by another car, driven by a field agent that had joined their team last week. Phil would wait for the all clear, before giving Agent Chan the signal to leave his post, and they would take a second path back to their safe house and wait it out for a day before heading back to base. He has it all planned out to the very last detail - even choosing Agent Matthews’ outfit for the evening himself.

She had taken one look at the gown and shoes and snorted, enough to voice her disdain but kind enough to not comment out loud and really hurt Phil’s feelings. Even when she had changed at the safe house, modelling the dress for them, she had done so with an expression of displeasure, only smiling once Agent Chan had moved over to her, tugging on a stray curl and whispering something in her ear. Phil had felt his face redden at the display, still not entirely sure of the relationship between the two. He had closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand, and when he opened his eyes again, Agent Matthews and Chan were back to business, disassembling rifles beside him.

He can see Agent Matthews now too, in several of the videos on the tiny screens on one wall of the van. She’s moving around at the party, making small talk with all the right people before she goes in to retrieve the intel. Phil can only faintly hear the noise of the party, her voice and laughter drowning most of it out of the surrounding sound. In contrast, Agent Chan is completely unseen - he’s on the rooftop of the neighbouring building, positioned so that no one can get a glimpse - if S.H.I.E.L.D. has surveillance, there is no telling who might have it too. It’s not a risk Phil is willing to take just to keep an eye on a Level 4 specialist who can take care of himself.

Agent Matthews makes a comment about it to him, saying she respects his way of thinking, but that she’d prefer that he reconsidered.

He stands by his decision.

It soon becomes his biggest regret.

“Eagle is in the hutch. I’m on my way out.”

“Copy that.”

Phil tracks Agent Matthews’ movements through the different monitors as she makes her exit, slow enough as to not arouse suspicion, but fast enough to escape before discovery. She is in the doorway of the building when the chaos begins.

“Hey Claire. What did the grape do when he got stepped on?”

Phil can actually see Agent Matthews roll her eyes, even through the less than quality black and white image, and he can definitely hear the huff of annoyance she lets out.

“Really?”

“He let out a little -”

His words cut off there, the same moment a loud bang echoes through the night, and Phil can hear Agent Matthews’ scream, see a blur falling through the air, before the exact moment of impact.

The van shakes with it.

He can see the crumpled form of Agent Chan’s body, the front half hanging into the driver’s seat through the smashed windshield from eight different angles on his wall of surveillance.

Phil forces himself to take a deep breath, clenches his hands into fists to try and stop them from shaking as he jumps straight to “Plan F” - the last resort.

“Agent Sutton, we need evac. I’m calling in the clean up crew.”

He shoves the radio back into his pocket, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair and slams his hand against the “use only in the case of emergencies” button, before slipping out the back door, shutting it with a quiet bang.

They have five minutes before the van blows.

The ride back to base is quite possibly the most uncomfortable Phil has ever experienced. He’s sitting in the front with Agent Sutton, whose knuckles are white from how tightly she is gripping the steering wheel.

They can both hear the sounds of Agent Matthews’ cries.

Phil had offered to let her sit up front - he could keep an eye on the body. See up close the outcome of his failures. She had screamed when they tried to pull her away from Agent Chan, completely in hysterics, and they’d had no choice but to let her stay put, half lying on top of his broken body.

Her silver gown must be stained with blood now.

Just like his hands.

He doesn’t think any amount of scrubbing will wash it away.

They don’t speak again, not properly, until two days later, sitting opposite one another in the back of a jet flying them to Minnesota. He doesn’t know how to broach the subject - How does one apologise for killing someone’s partner?

He doesn’t have to.

“Thank you for saving my life, Phil.”

He looks up to meet her gaze, her eyes are red, he thinks that she probably hasn’t stopped crying since the incident, but he can see that her words are sincere. He must look confused, because she continues, voice cracking a little as she speaks.

“You reacted quickly. Got us out of there before any more damage could be done. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead too.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but the words just don’t come. He… he wants nothing more that to say sorry. Express his regret. If only he had listened to her, kept a closer eye on things. Agent Chan would still be alive. They wouldn’t be flying over to break the news to his family.

Tell them someone they loved was now dead.

Agent Matthews had insisted on going alone, but Phil was responsible, and he had to be there. To say sorry. To give her someone to lean on if they didn’t take the information well. He’s never done this before, but he expects it’ll be a common occurrence in the future.

He stays quiet because he doesn’t think she wants to talk - she didn’t say much in the two weeks he had known her - Agent Chan… he had done most of the talking. But now that he’s gone, there’s an uncomfortable silence that she clearly feels the need to fill.

He’s glad. The therapist he had sat down with for an hour yesterday had said talking about things is a way of coping. That for some, it’s cathartic. He… he really hasn’t been able to speak about his experiences yet. So all he can do is listen.

“We met first year, at the Academy. I dislocated his jaw when we sparred, and the next thing I knew, I had a best friend. He loved to joke around, talked so much that sometimes I wanted to tape his mouth shut. But what I’d give now just to hear one of his stupid jokes again.”

Phil thinks that he understands. He doesn’t have a best friend, a partner, but when Agent Matthews describes her relationship with Agent Chan, he can’t help but think about May, think about their brief but memorable moments together, think about how he might feel if she was dead.

It was not something he wanted to linger on his mind.

He’s memorised their files. They’ve been partners since their graduation in 1984. Losing your best friend of more than ten years… he thinks back to how he was when his mother passed… feels an overwhelming sadness that time can only try to heal.

The pain never really goes away.

It’s December 23rd.

The significance of the date doesn’t click in Phil’s mind until he’s in the car with Agent Matthews, and he stares out at the world from his passenger side window.

There’s only two sleeps until Christmas.

The whole city is covered in a thick blanket of snow, the air is heavy with the falling flakes. The sun has already set for the day, and the streets are sparkling with lights; every house they pass is extravagantly decorated.

Phil sees Santa, his reindeer, and various other Christmas themed structures, all decorations that bring him back to his childhood in Wisconsin and climbing up onto the roof with his father to string lights around. He almost loses himself in the feeling of it - he hasn’t celebrated properly since his mother’s death. There had been Christmas during fourth year at the Academy where Garrett had gotten so drunk he’d publicly urinated all over the side of their dorm building. That was a funny, if disturbing, memory.

The car begins to slow down at the end of the street, and Phil doesn’t even have to ask to know which house belongs to the family of Agent Chan.

Season’s Greetings is written in multi-coloured lights across the roof, and there are a giant pair of salt and pepper shakers, wrapped with white string lights sitting on the front lawn. Agent Matthews parks by the curb where the snow had likely been cleared earlier in the day, and he can see her out of the corner of his eye, just sitting there, breathing in and out. He reaches over and softly pats her arm, and she forces a smile, nodding a few times, before undoing her seatbelt and opening up the door.

They walk up the paved pathway together in complete silence. Phil can almost smell the dinner cooking inside, hear the carols playing. What a way to spend Christmas. He hangs back, standing behind Agent Matthews as she goes to ring the doorbell. A robotic Jingle Bells chimes out - someone must have changed it for the holidays, and moments later, the door swings open, and Phil is greeted with the sight of a woman in a hideous Christmas sweater and a wide smile on her face, one that fades as soon as she recognises who in fact it is on her doorstep.

She doesn’t say another word, just opens the door and gestures for them to come in. Agent Matthews follows the woman into the kitchen, and gestures for Phil to stay back, so he’s left standing awkwardly in the front foyer, checking out his surroundings. This house feels like home. There is a Christmas tree set up in the sitting room - he can only see about a quarter of it from where he is - and photos line the walls. There’s several of Agent Chan and the woman, who Phil realises now must be his significant other. And he had been so sure too… about Agent Chan and Agent Matthews…

His thoughts are interrupted by the pitter patter of tiny feet, and he sees a little girl standing at the bottom of the stairs, in an equally horrible Christmas sweater, a teddy bear in her arms and an expression of curiosity.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asks him in her high pitched voice and Phil’s heart breaks as he hears the gut wrenching sobs coming from the kitchen.

His mistakes had torn a partnership apart. Torn a family apart. There was a woman who would never get her husband back, a little girl who would wonder why Daddy hadn’t come home for Christmas.

He tries to fall asleep later that evening, lying in bed at the crappy motel room S.H.I.E.L.D. had found for them last minute, but all he can see is Agent Chan’s body lying there, bones shattered, bullet in his skull, blood everywhere.

It turns out he’s not the only one who can’t sleep when Agent Matthews shows up at his room well past midnight, a bottle of cheap tequila in one hand and they drink their worries away. Phil doesn’t remember much of what happened that night, only that his dreams had been empty.

When he wakes up the next day, Agent Matthews is sitting cross-legged on the other side of his bed, filling in a mission report. She passes him lukewarm coffee in a styrofoam cup, probably from the vending machine in the hallway, and they’re silent as he slowly sobers up. She hands him the report when she’s finished with it, and pats his bare shoulder with a small smile.

“Thanks for being there for me. I really needed that. We’re flying back out in two hours, so you’ll have plenty of time to get ready.”

His eyes follow her until she leaves the room, and then he flops back against the lumpy pillow hands covering his face, hiding his expression from nobody.

Phil returns to New York a week later, and his body is close to shutting down from lack of sleep. He can’t eat without feeling nauseous, can’t even close his eyes without the sound of screaming in his ears, the smell of blood surrounding him, the image of his fallen comrade ingrained into his memory.

He has a week and a half of mandated time off to “recover” for the ordeal, but he can’t help but drop in to work and pick a few things up from his desk - straighten things out before he confines himself to his tiny S.H.I.E.L.D. apartment for the next nine days. He sneaks in at three in the morning, shortly after his jet touches down, and expects to find the office empty - it’s technically New Year’s Day and everyone else is off celebrating.

He doesn’t have much to be positive about.

Until he finds his office chair occupied by the one person he is least prepared to see.

Melinda May.

She’s lounging in his seat, her feet up on his desk, and he’s pretty sure she’s combing through one of his mission files. She smirks when she sees him approaching, and he sits down on the edge of his desk, opposite her, swatting at her legs.

“Boots off the table.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes and begins to move, but instead of just lowering her feet to the ground like he’d expected, she pushes off and sends herself flying backwards into the desk behind her.

“All commanding now that you’re Level Two, Agent Coulson,” she quips, waving the file in the air with a smirk. He snatches it out of her grip and drops it back onto his desk, trying to mask his surprise with annoyance.

He had not expected a good recommendation. Not after what had happened.

“If I’m Level Two then you don’t have clearance to read that file, Agent May.”

“Shiny new promotion and already pulling rank. And to think I came all the way out to pay you a visit.”

She’s teasing him now, giving him a cheeky grin that has him wanting to smile for the first time in a week.

“What you doing here anyway? I’m not supposed to be back in till the 10th.”

It’s three hours past New Year’s Eve and the closest person he has to a friend is paying him a visit instead of doing whatever else it was she could be. He should be grateful to see her, but he can’t quite figure out what possessed her to turn up and wait for him in his deserted office.

“We have a mission at the end of the month to start thinking about. After your break of course.”

He nods slowly. Just thinking about another operation is enough to give him a headache. But at least with May around, he thinks it’ll be enjoyable enough. He sighs, glancing at the stack of files on his desk. The recommendation May had been reading is sitting at the top. He had been rewarded, despite his failures.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and he knows that it’s her way of comforting him. She doesn’t know why he’s upset; the official reports have yet to be submitted. She probably thinks that he’s just stressed and feeling alone in the holiday season.

Most people didn’t know it about her, but Melinda May always put others before herself.

“I like to think I know you pretty well. Heard you’d be back in town today; had a feeling you’d be here. Plus, my date was a total bust. Thought I might spend the first day of the New Year in better company, seeing as I’m stuck with my mother for the next week.”

He really smiles this time.

Maybe he can have one more night of peaceful sleep before the nightmares return again to haunt him. He has an appointment with another therapist in a few days time; he thinks he can hold it in till then. He hopes they clear him for active duty after the psyche evaluation.

He’s looking forward to working with May again.

He’s also terrified that he might fail again.

[hamiltongolfcourses]

Hot weather golf: 11 tips for staying cool

Playing golf in the summer heat can be hazardous to your health. Instead of whining, though, why not learn to stop worrying and love hot weather golf? Be safe, be happy with these summer golf tips. You don’t have to live in the sweat-soaked states of Texas, Arizona and Florida to know that playing golf in the summer heat can be hazardous to your health. Even Northeast golfers are known to complain about the relatively high humidity they experience sometime around July 14 and 15. Instead of whining about the weather, though, why not learn to stop worrying and love hot weather golf? Just follow these few simple “Summer Golf for Dummies” tips for a safe and happy hot weather golf season. 1. Avoid mad dogs and Englishwomen After all, only they would venture onto the fairways and greens at high noon, when the heat and humidity are at their fiercest. Early tee times make the most sense for so many reasons, but — especially if you must golf a little later — keep reading for ways to combat the sizzling temperatures. 2. Put down the Heineken “Water, water, gimme more water” should be every golfer’s mantra, no matter the time of year. It may seem obvious that you have to hydrate yourself to battle summer scorchers, but many golfers seem unaware of the dehydrating effects of soda, beer and other alcohol, and even coffee. Rebecca Goldman, who caddies at Champions Retreat in steamy Augusta, Ga., suggests starting early. “Hydrate as much as you can the day before you play,” she said. “I speak from experience when I say that if you don’t you’re going to pay for it.” 3. Let the grass grow Health experts suggest that you cut down on nonessential outdoor undertakings like mowing the lawn. Since golf obviously does not fit into the”nonessential” category, forget about mowing, weeding and power-washing to save your energy for the truly indispensable chores, such as smacking a little white ball with an oversized club head. (Editor’s note: And consider getting rid of that lawn, unless you’re treating it to recycled water.) 4. Step away from the table You may want to carbo-load for the Boston Marathon, but scarfing down a spaghetti dinner before taking to the links is a hot weather golf no-no that will weigh you down and may cause more than your golf cart to boil over. Instead, maintain your energy throughout your round by nibbling on lighter fare like fruits, veggies, and nuts. 5. Cover up those six-packs (and we don’t mean hide the beer) We know you worked hard all winter to get in shape but you’ll want to swap that close-fitting spandex designed to showcase your washboard abs for more breathable attire made of cotton or moisture-wicking fabrics. 6. Light-colored clothing reflects heat and light better than dark colors do Really, who hasn’t dreamed of teeing it up in the altogether when it’s so hot? OK, that may be more like everyone’s nightmare, but this is one time when you might want to thumb your nose at the dress code and go for white shorty-short-shorts. Maybe Inbee Park will loan you some matching white arm coolers. 7. Lather up Don’t skimp on the sunscreen and lip balm. Experts suggest you apply water-resistant 30 SPF sunscreen at least an hour before exposing your skin to the sun and reapply every hour or so thereafter. Golf experts mandate that you at least “don’t burn, reapply at the turn.” 8. Accessorize Hats and sunglasses are must-wears in the summer sun. Wide-brimmed hats provide the most protection, a baseball cap with a visor will offer some shade, or you could go all in with a Sunday Afternoons Sundancer hat that has a big bill to block your face and a pleated drape for your neck, all in moisture-wicking SPF-50-plus fabric. The chapeau will also keep some of the sweat (or glistening, if you’re a fair maiden) from dripping into your eyes. Glare-reducing polarized eyewear is probably the most effective at shielding your baby blues from damaging rays. 9. 3-wood, 5-iron, or tall cold one? What do you do when you’re out on the eighth fairway, facing that long approach shot over water, no beverage cart in sight, and your brain’s on fire? Reach into your golf bag’s cooler for an icy cold blast of soul-quenching liquid refreshment, of course. Many bags come with built-in cooler liners, or you may go all undercover with one that will fit into your sack’s standard zippered pocket. A note of caution, however: You might want to rent a cart or hire a (strong) caddie because you’ll be lugging a little extra weight, what with the ice pack and water bottles nestled inside. 10. Refreshing fashion statement Nothing makes a summer golfer sigh, “Ah!” more than a cold, wet towel to the back of the neck. Re-soak the schmata at each watering hole or tuck it into your golf bag’s ice chest for renewal. Better yet, make a refreshing fashion statement by using an Icy-Cools neoprene and terry cloth neck bandana. Bonus: Your collar stays dry and you can easily swing your club with the trendy neck accessory firmly affixed. 11. Turn up the A/C! You finally wilted and strapped your bag to a buggy. You’ll catch a breeze by screwing into the cup holder the PGF-V Personal Go Fan, a battery-powered 20-mph wind. Or, if the ride is your own, trick it out for relief. Mount the BREEZ-GO 24-volt blower to the top for 310 cubic feet of air flow. Or get luxurious with an S&S Manufacturing (swampy.net) air-conditioning unit, a 12-volt cooling system that pumps water (or ice for a real cool-down) through an evaporator at more than 300 gallons per hour. That’s $399 and you provide the ice chest and installation. OK, so maybe that last one is a little bit over the top, but for those to whom golf is definitely not nonessential, it might have a place on the wish list. Have any better ideas to share?