#this game punches above its weight class in writing

[tinolqa]

experiencing umami, the sixth emotion, about Lone Trail

[luckyladylily]

Sea of Stars is good

Sea of Stars is a real good game so far. A real throw back to SNES style JRPGs in a good way. It very much feels like Chrono Trigger, or Secret of Mana, but with a lot of years of game design refinement to shave off a few of the rough edges of the SNES era design without losing any of the heart.

Game looks fantastic. This is excellent pixel art. It stands, in some ways, in contrast to the Octopath Traveler style, which is good pixel art using all sorts of cool effects to look great. Sea of Stars is just fantastic pixel art with no extra effects. It's a more pure style, gives very strong chrono trigger vibes (though not in actual art style, this does not look like the work of Akira Toriyama). It takes full advantage of being on a more powerful system, but it remains a pure pixel art game outside of some very brief animated cut scenes. To my eyes it looks better than Octopath Traveler did.

The combat system is fun and interesting. It's clearly taken inspiration from a wide variety of sources and managed to fit them all together into an interesting whole. We have timed hits, counters, and an interesting free mana system by which you power up your attacks. The upshot is that even in basic battles how you sequence your attacks and what attacks you choose to use has a lot of strategic depth, but that depth comes at the cost of very little complexity once you understand the system. It means you can parse the state and your options very quickly, and while your ultimate goal is to dps down the enemy there are enough competing concerns that it never feels like simply spamming your attacks and heals until the boss dies. It is among the best, if the the best, combat system I have seen in a JRPG.

So far traversing the areas feels fantastic. They clearly cut no corners in design to make it feel like free running or parkour as you explore - climbing, running, jumping all over the place as you find chests and hit switches. The devs clearly understood that style and feel matters a lot in something like this. It really helps that there are no random battles, the battles all occur as the result of enemies on the map, chrono trigger style. This makes exploration fun without a punishment for doubling back to make sure you got everything.

So far the writing is perfectly serviceable and it's got a good sense of humor too. The characters are likable and interesting. I want to see more. Which is good, because we have not hit any story beat that really hooks me. I think it is building up to it though. Setting up a FFIX like lighthearted adventure tone that allows for strong gut punches when a dark shift happens.

One area of weakness in comparison to the old greats is the music. It is good, often very catchy, but it is not on par with something like Chrono Trigger. I am aware that is an unreasonable bar, so I don't hold it against it. I want to really emphasize that the music never detracts. But the fact remains that great moments can be enhanced to defining moments with fantastic music. While sea of stars is served just fine by its sound track, it probably wont be blowing my mind. Unless they saved their effort for the big moments I have not seen, which is a good strategy with limited dev resources.

I wouldn't even mention this as a area of weakness if the game wasn't so great. This is an indie game that's hitting way above it's weight class in quality and feel. I'm not far enough in to say this is a classic yet, but I will not be surprised if Sea of Stars is counted among games like Chrono Trigger or Final Fantasy 7 in the future. It is only in comparing it to some of the best games ever made that this weakness is even apparent, and I think this game is good enough to deserve being taken that seriously.

[the-campaign-coach]

Adapting Stories: Themes versus Aesthetics

When it comes to capturing the soul of a preexisting work, its best to understand what it looks like, what it feels like, and which is more important to you.

One of the reasons adaptations work so well as TV shows and Movies, is that it's possible to pull not only events, but also imagery from the original source. Comic books are a wonderful example of this. As I write this I am watching the Second season of the Tick adaptation and it starts off with the Tick Molting. When they first started this adaptation they had put on what looked like armor plating over the spandex. This was probably because they felt like The Tick had to look cool, but it seems going into this season they realized that’s not what The Tick is all about. He doesn’t look or act cool. He is genuine, and endearing in a way a cool character never could be.

I could go into great detail about how to run a SuperHero RPG, and in fact I will in a later post called, Super Heroes: Drama or Combat, but this article will have more general information on how to adapt IPs, especially using the systems created to tell those stories.

I have three examples of IP games I have run in the past. My knowledge of the works I adapted ranges from superfan, to never having seen a single complete episode of the show.

Let’s start with the Dresden Files and its RPG. Now I have read each book in the series at least once, and listened to them another 4 times or so.When I was given the RPG I was super excited as two of my players are also fans of the books but not to my obsessive level. The remaining two players consisted of a guy who had only heard second hand about the series from me and an old girlfriend, and someone who had zero idea about the world aside from that it was a modern “magic is secret” series starring a wizard named Harry that wasn’t written by a TERF.

We actually laid into their lack of knowledge about the series. That experience is the inspiration for a later article called, Player Knowledge: How to Roleplay Someone as Lost as You Are. Running the Dresden Files RPG led me to the most important piece of advice I can give anyone when running an RPG based on a previous work. Get away from the main action of the series.

Dresden is set in Chicago, and pulls upon the myths and stories of that great city and the surrounding area. I didn’t want Harry to ever be a resource for the players or for him to cross over with the characters, so I moved the setting to Nashville. Once we made that decision we could pull from the strange and unseen stories of our hometown. Rather than taking on the Noir aesthetic, and the drapery of Chi-town, we instead realized the themes of being the underdog. Even 17 books in, Harry manages to fill this role by punching above his weight class every chance he can get. We explored locations that are unique to Nashville, and that gave us a chance to explore another theme that is prevalent in Dresden Files. We all look away from the things we don’t want to see.

Jim Butcher has also authored a wonderful book called Spiderman Spider-Man: The Darkest Hours. It wasn’t till I read it that I realized one of the reasons why I resonated with Harry was that much like Spider-man, Dresden lives by the mantra, With Great Power MUST Come Great Responsibility. It's often misquoted, but the idea is that we have to make the choice to use our abilities to make the world a better place.

Speaking of making the world, or in this case worlds a better place, my next story comes from running the Star Trek Adventures Tabletop RPG. This was my first time running a game in a universe where I was confident everyone at the Table knew more than I did. At that point I had watched about half of TNG, the first few seasons of Lower Decks, and the first two Chris Pine Movies. This was enough to understand that while the aesthetics have touchstones they rely on truly there are themes that are pervasive across the various media. The next big piece of advice I can give you is, Vibes are where Theme and Aesthetic meet.

The game has a wonderful exercise where we get to build out the ship we are going to be on. Again, we took a large departure from the exact setting, and created a new class of ships. Each of these, unbeknownst to the characters at the beginning of the narrative, contains a piece of illegal technology. IThe plan is for this to be slowly discovered by the PCs. They started on that path by noticing an inefficiency in the ship's design.I mostly gave them fun random episodes , where the only real through line was the development of our cast. Whenever I would need a character in a scene I would allow a player to tell me a little bit about them, and from there we created a character web. In just three sessions we developed a minor antagonist, saw them fall from grace, and grew to forgive and understand them. I feel this is the soul of Star Trek. Yes we are going to places we have never been, encountering new beings, and pushing the bounds of science. In the end though, it's the trials and traumas of our characters that drive the story. This is a type of sci-fi that explores the human (sentient ) condition by putting us in direct confrontation of our fears and insecurities, in a meaningful and intentionally progressive way. What I grew to love at the end of every session was asking the party, all of whom had more Trek knowledge than I, “what episode did I rip off this week?”. There wasn’t a single time where they couldn’t name an episode that I could have been referencing or paying homage to, but that came from knowing what the soul of Trek is, rather than any need to replicate scenes or locations from the body of work.

The final story I want to talk about is my ongoing Buffy the Vampire Slayer game. I only offered to run this because I found a second hand copy at a used book store, and I knew that my friend's wife was a huge fan of the series. This was a personal challenge, as before our first session I had never sat down to watch a complete episode before.

Now as a big fan of Firefly I wasn’t completely lost when it came to Whedon. I had a passing knowledge of the series, and I knew that the heart of this game is that while the action is about kicking supernatural creatures asses, the real story is the B plot.

Buffy understands that the choices the characters make outside of battle are often more important than the ones inside of it. Yes killing vamps, and saving the world are on the to do list, but it's the struggle to balance that with your awkward teenage years that is the true theme of the world. This brings me to the final piece of advice I have been building towards. The best Adapations Preserve the Themes of work, even if it sheds the aesthetics. We could have set this game in Sunnydale, in the 90’s and had the characters using flip phones and walkmen. Instead our group found itself in the innocuous town of Roanoke Virginia, as Gen Z kids. Our Slayer Charlie is struggling with a move to a smaller town, her watcher is her age and is falling in love with her, and our werewolf is coming to terms with her new powers. Instead of making the game only about defeating evil, it's also the act of balancing duty with desire. To fit in, to allow yourself to love, to get a good score on the SAT, while you happen to be protecting the town from the grip of evil. And I was able to produce a very Buffy vibe by drawing on our collective angst from an uncertain time in our lives.

I want to leave you with one last piece of advice on running IP RPGS. It doesn't matter if you are the subject matter expert or the person who has never seen an episode of the story you are taking inspiration from. If you are enthusiastic and open to suggestions you are going to make a good game for your table. If someone corrects you on a piece of lore, give them a chance to explain to the table. Assuming it doesn’t wreck your intentions, just fold it into the narrative. At some point someone might really insist that “it doesn’t work like that” or “they would never do that”. When that happens, you can also just double down, and invite that player to explore the mystery. Turn their , “this can’t happen, into a “why did this happen?”. Turn plot holes into the place where buried treasure is hidden. And remember, if any one is acting fishy, they could always be a bad guy in disguise, or someone so woefully incompetent that it looks similar to malice.

[shelisultana]

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[heli0s-writes]

gravity (s.r.)

a/n: remember when I said I was going to finish these before I turned 28 and I’m 30 now!! It’s been 3 months, here is my gentle foray back into writing. :’) ~830 words of Steve angst. TW: mentions suicide ideation.

#7: lightly kissing on top of a freshly formed bruise

28 WAYS Masterlist

You’re a mess when you kiss him. Battered and shocky after a terrible mission, your fists are balled up in the collar of his shirt, cheeks still wet from crying, and Steve’s got to get his shit together or else it’ll become a pattern. Your breath is warm and so sweet, and the center of his chest squirms like something alive.

His heart churns out sudden, quick thumps, but he only places his hands on your shoulders and murmurs, “We shouldn’t.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, lick the taste of his mouth off your lips, and gather enough sense to hiccup, “Sorry.”

He looks down at how you’ve spilled over into his lap, how your knuckles and face are bludgeoned raw, but the worst of it is firmly in your eyes and how focused they are—wired and raring to go back to the wreckage of the fight.

Steve frowns, deterring you gently. “Just rest, let’s hold off until tomorrow.” He gives the only smile he’s been able to give for the last few years, an perfunctory push of his lips upward. He tries again with, “It’s hard, but you’ll get used to it.”

Anger rips across your face. You go rigid, teeth gnashing together like an animal with the single instinct to claw for its life.

“I don’t want to get used to it! I want to save people. I want to win. I don’t care if there’s no one left but us— there’s still half a world out there that needs heroes.”

Your inexperience shows in moments like these. The bright-eyed valor of young blood, the bottomless energy to serve justice—the rash, irrationality of carrying every weight on your shoulders despite being told a million times you’ll break.

Steve would know. He crashed a plane into the sea doing the same thing and got 80 years for it. And even though he was told they’d won the war, it didn’t feel much like winning when he woke up.

It hurts—that heartbeat. How it used to be so strong and sure, now dulled to a muffled apparatus he can hardly perceive.

He scrubs his brow, working his chest back to its slack pace, letting the thunder beginning to echo inside of him die out.

“Listen, tomorrow will be better, I promise,” but even his voice sounds hollow to his own ears.

Because admittedly, beneath his surface, Steve is broken. Starting with a hairline fracture right where his heart is when his mother first passed, splintering outward each time he lost another person.

And right now his count’s about 4 billion.

So yeah, he doesn’t feel all too bad about lying if it means it keeps you alive one more day. If it means keeping one less wound at bay.

You’re young, strong, and every time you punch above your weight class one part of him is already exhausted and already expecting the blowback of when you’re sent flying and he’s got to catch you—

Yet the other part of him is howling with joy that there is some fight left in somebody, goddamn it.

But what’s he supposed to do either way? Encourage impulse or apathy? When he used to be entirely impulse, burned himself all the way down on it, and is now staring at apathy every morning. Just waiting for it to finally kill him so he can stop thinking of doing it himself.

But then, he supposes when he was 20-something and careening out of a fake hospital room with a fake ball game still throttling the back of his mind, he could have used something to hold onto in all that turmoil. And maybe it wouldn’t have been so lonely after Bucky and Peggy and the whole world leaving him behind.

“Tell me we don’t get used to it,” you beg, arms tight around his neck. Your breath is hot in his ear, the knocking against your rib cage a familiar velocity. “I’ll never—not ever—”

His shirt is soaked at the neckline, the fabric slowly stretching and relaxing inside the clench of your fists. He’s quiet, contemplating the weight of your body trembling on top of him and the lightness of hope as it pushes against the gravity of failure.

He places one hand on your back, supporting the resilient contour of your form. He supposes it’s not too late for him to find something to hold onto.

Your wet eyes follow him as he gently touches the bruised welt at your brow, streaked a deep purple like an amethyst pooled beneath unbroken skin. He wants to construct some sort of metaphor about it—about his own shattering—but only kisses you back instead, waits on the rest.

[leonemian]

Werewolf: 21st Century Edition

Okay, been working on this for a while, and I figure here's a good a place to post, and a good a time as any to start.

I love Werewolf: The Apocalypse in spite of itself.

A lot of really great writing, worldbuilding, character work, and RPG design went into the system, but while the 20th Anniversary Edition took the most steps forwards, every edition has seen at least one step backwards. Changing Breeds put the nail in the coffin for me, when it comes to official content, and I just sadly put it on my shelf as a work of art I was once entranced by.

Then my fiance says I talk about it so much, I might as well write my thoughts down. I can't be the only person who feels this way about it.

Plus I've worked out some deep-seated emotional issues through the game, and that aint nothing.

TW: violence, by the way.

Here goes nothing, I guess.

RAGE

A lot of people on this website talk about anger, and how emotions stereotyped as 'negative' are not antithetical to love. How you deal with anger, rather than just labeling it as broadly negative and shoving it down within you or 'rising above', is an important lesson to learn.

The world is filled with terrible things, terrible actions, and terrible people. Being filled with rage is a completely reasonable and understandable reaction.

Werewolf: The Apocalypse makes, as its first theme, Rage. It's right in the tagline, "When Will You Rage?", essentially the entire game is asking this question. I love that the game has a question as its tagline, which is as good a time as any to talk about Judaism.

I'm not that close with my Jewish ancestry, on account of how my entire observant family were killed during the Shoah. Even in early 20th century, the American side of my family, lead by my grandfather, were pulling away from the faith. My grandfather was a strict rationalist, a man of science for whom faith held little interest.

That said, we still celebrated the holidays and didn't exactly Christianize, so I've always felt aloof from both worlds. I distinctly remember having to ask my father about our family history with the Holocaust, and, after a quintessentially Jewish moment wherein my father repeatedly asked me if I was certain I wanted to know, I received some photocopied documents. A list of names and numbers, and my family name written down among them.

I've dealt with a lot of rage in my life, as a Jew, as a queer man, as a progressive, as a leftist, it all boils up at times. Beyond that, I also am an angry person on a fundamental level, and that anger feels complicated. I'm soft-spoken normally, but I've been told when I'm angry, I bellow with a voice that legitimately frightens people. I don't mean this as a boast, it *terrifies* me.

To get back to Werewolf, part of what resonated so strongly with me was the idea of everyone having Rage. Some have it stronger, like the Ahroun, some have it weaker, like the Ragabash, but everyone has it. When you play Werewolf, you are playing a fighter, a barbarian, a druid, a sorcerer, a rogue, and a bard all at once.

To isolate the barbarian side of things, you ever wonder what it'd be like to live with a Barbarian, like a classic D&D Barbarian? Because, sure you as a player can turn Rage on and off at-will, and the lack of spellcasting or 'concentration' is a common limiter meant to signify their lack of restraint.

But, what if it wasn't something you could fully control?

I should clarify for those who don't play Werewolf that Rage is fucking AWESOME. Spending Rage points lets you take multiple actions per round, instantly shapeshift between forms, and ignore wound penalties. It's an invaluable resource in combat that means the difference between life and death, and makes a Werewolf pack unstoppable whirlwinds of violence, capable of punching way above their metaphysical weight class in-universe.

The problem is, you don't just get to have it when you want, and ignore it when you don't.

In Werewolf, anything can provoke Rage in you. Sufficiently agitating or infuriating situations can have the Storyteller call for a Rage roll, making this precious resource debilitating at a time when you want to be calm. Roll too many successes and the game mechanics make you Frenzy, attacking anything in sight. Frenzy can be useful in combat, you instantly shift into the war-form, Crinos, and ignore wound penalties for the duration, but outside of combat? Things get *dire*.

You can spend a second in-game resource, Willpower, to resist a Frenzy, but Willpower is a resource that takes much longer to regenerate, a 'good night's rest' usually only restoring 1, for comparison.

Are you a bad person if you flip out and destroy something? I've argued with my storyteller, asking for higher difficulty to the Rage roll (higher numbers required to gain a 'success' which in this instance is NOT something you want), if my character just directed their anger at an inanimate object. It worked in-game, but it also scared my character's brother and sister, and broke the sink in their kitchen.

I have a brother who I love so deeply and dearly, but who terrorized me as a child. Physically, mentally, and emotionally. I still fear the sound of floorboards creaking outside of my room, I still shrink from people who touch me from behind, even gently, when I don't expect it. It left a sense of impotent rage at my inability to protect myself, an anger towards my family for not protecting me, and a deep-seated desire for payback at him.

Thing is, he's apologized to me so many times. He loves me, I love him, and he was a kid with severe addiction problems whose brain was on fire 24/7. My parents were making the best of a terrible situation, and simply couldn't be in two places at once.

He's talked about feeling like a monster. Feeling like he couldn't control the waves of emotions, at that and many other moments. He took responsibility, but in the decades since, I've been on that side of the fence myself a few times.

I love him. Justice is in our reconciliation, for me at least. His acknowledgement of my pain, and my sense of him as a full person rather than as a demon who hounded my childhood has given me my brother back.

I've yelled at him a bunch, I've gotten my chance to voice my pain, but I realized at a certain point that it wasn't making me feel better. The problem was, I love him, and thus, even if he was the one who hurt me, it didn't help to see him in pain, whether through my 'punishment' or his own guilt and self-torment.

That said, I did a lot of the smiling mask, burying my emotions down, for a long time, and that wasn't useful either. The rage needed to be let out, and you know what? It was well deserved.

To get back on topic, that is a complicated web of pain, but it arises really easily in Werewolf: The Apocalypse. We often think we're rational, logical beings, in full control of ourselves, but by periodically taking the choice out of our hands via the dice, Werewolf lets us deal with that complicated, painful moment where we are responsible for injury, but may not have been entirely conscious at the time.

Treating it like a disease is also bad, though, because...

The world SUCKS. Things are TERRIBLE. Violence, murder, bigotry, corruption, capitalism, ecological devastation, man's inhumanity to man just keeps rolling onwards, and it makes us ANGRY. That anger is earned, that anger is justified, and we don't always need to sublimate or deny it, because if anger is the only thing getting you up in the morning, then anger, in that instance, is a good and holy thing.

I'll end each of these sections with a bit from my personal favorite Werewolf character of mine, Maeve Ceallach, Homid Fianna Ahroun.

Oh, spoiler warning, I'm going to try and do more posts, more sections on Werewolf concepts, how the game handles them, and how I would change them. Rage was the one I started with because it's both the primary theme of Werewolf, and also the one that needs the least change in my opinion.

Maeve Ceallach

"I don't remember at what point I realized my father was missing his right arm. It must have happened when I was really young, I remember him having his arm, there's pictures of him holding me, but grade school onwards, it was just a fact of our home life. Daddy did things differently, that's just how it was.

My mother didn't speak to me about it. Well, shit, she didn't talk to me about much of anything, until my first change. Then I got a lot of attention, I was the golden child from then on. Tried to live up to her expectations, and that didn't include dredging up painful family memories, so I stayed off it.

By the time I finally got her to talk to me about it, I was in college. I had a lot of... interest, let's call it, from a lot of people. It was fun at first, then it was irritating because I had to keep up my studies and my duties to the Nation. Then it got weird, and finally, scary.

Look, I get it, redhead, big muscles, funky scars, the piercings, the tattoos, the boots, I'm aware of my presentation. Lotta people want me to step on them, and that's fun from time to time, but it gets old. Remind me to tell you the story about the ink at the base of my neck, that'll clue you in.

It's fun... until it isn't. I had this one girlfriend in Junior year, and she just kept... pushing. She wanted the 'lioness', she wanted the 'wolfmother', she wanted, you know, the beast in me. I didn't want that, I get enough of that in my job, but she just kept pushing.

It was a bad night, and I should've just walked away, taken a breath, counted to 100, all the stuff I've learned. I didn't, and she wasn't taking the hint that I needed to be alone... Honestly, maybe I should've been firmer about it? I've always had trouble with that, I like to please.

She grabs me from behind, and I just snapped. I left claw marks in the washing machine, and grabbed her. I wasn't going full Crinos, but I definitely drew blood. The look on her face... I still see it in my nightmares. Not just her, but the reflection in her eyes.

My ma came and picked me up. Guess she had to, Sept leader and all that, clean up the mess, keep everything hush-hush, but she stayed behind with me.

'Never bring the fight in here.' She said. 'We fight, we bleed, we kill, but you don't bring it in the house. You wash up at the gym, you sleep in the car or on the rocks if you've got to. You don't bring the fight in here.'

My dad pulled up, and as I watched him fiddle with his keys to get into my apartment, I asked the question I'd been waiting 24 years to ask.

'Did you ever let the fight come home?'

She looked out the window to him, and he waved at her, smiling.

'Once.' She said. 'Only once.'"

[arcticdementor]

In a democracy, every vote is supposed to be equal. If about half the country supports one side and half the country supports another, you may expect major institutions to either be equally divided, or to try to stay politically neutral.

This is not what we find. If it takes a position on the hot button social issues around which our politics revolve, almost every major institution in America that is not explicitly conservative leans left. In a country where Republicans get around half the votes or something close to that in every election, why should this be the case?

This post started as an investigation into Woke Capital, one of the most important developments in the last decade or so of American politics. Although big business pressuring politicians is not new (the NFL moved the Super Bowl from Arizona over MLK day), the scope of the issues on which corporations feel the need to weigh in is certainly expanding, now including LGBT issues, abortion laws, voting rights, kneeling during the national anthem, and gun control.

…

As I started to research the topic, however, I realized there wasn’t much to explain. Asking why corporations are woke is like asking why Hispanics tend to have two arms, or why the Houston Rockets have increased their number of 3-point shots taken over the last few decades. All humans tend to have two arms, and all NBA teams shoot more 3-pointers than in the past, so focusing on one subset of the population that has the same characteristics as all others in the group misses the point.

I think one reason Woke Capital is getting so much attention is because we expect business to be more right-leaning, and corporations throwing in with the party of more taxes and regulation strikes us as odd. We are used to schools, non-profits, mainline religions, etc. taking liberal positions and feel like business should be different. But business is just being assimilated into a larger trend.

Corporations are woke, meaning left wing on social issues relative to the general population, because institutions are woke. So the question becomes why are institutions woke?

…

Through the lens of ordinal utility, in which people simply rank what they want to happen, we are about equal. I prefer Republicans to Democrats, while you have the opposite preference. But when we think in terms of cardinal utility – in layman’s terms, how bad people want something to happen – it’s no contest. You are going to be much more influential than me. Most people are relatively indifferent to politics and see it as a small part of their lives, yet a small percentage of the population takes it very seriously and makes it part of its identity. Those people will tend to punch above their weight in influence, and institutions will be more responsive to them.

Elections are a measure of ordinal preferences. As long as you care enough to vote, it doesn’t matter how much you care about the election outcome, as everyone’s voice is the same. But for everything else – who speaks up in a board meeting about whether a corporation should take a political position, who protests against a company taking a position one side or the other finds offensive, etc. – cardinal utility maters a lot. Only a small minority of the public ever bothers to try to influence a corporation, school, or non-profit to reflect certain values, whether from the inside or out.

In an evenly divided country, if one side simply cares more, it’s going to exert a disproportionate influence on all institutions, and be more likely to see its preferences enacted in the time between elections when most people aren’t paying much attention.

…

Here are two graphs that have been getting a lot of attention

What jumps out to me in these figures is not only how left leaning large institutions are, but how the same is true for most professions. Whether you are looking by institution or by individuals, there are more donations to Biden than Trump. Yet Republicans get close to half the votes! Where are the Trump supporters? What these graphs reveal is a larger story, in which more people give to liberal causes and candidates than to conservative ones, even if Americans are about equally divided in which party they support (and no, this isn’t the result of liberals being wealthier, the connections between income and ideology or party are pretty weak). Here are some graphs from late October showing Biden having more individual donors than Trump in every battleground state.

…

In the 2012 election, Obama raised $234 million from small individual contributors, compared to $80 million for Romney, while also winning among large contributors.

…

In September 2009, at the height of the Tea Party movement, conservatives held the “Taxpayer March on Washington,” which drew something like 60,000-70,000 people, leading one newspaper to call it “the largest conservative protest ever to storm the Capitol.” Since that time, the annual anti-abortion March for Life rally in Washington has drawn massive crowds, with estimates for some years ranging widely from low six figures to mid-to-high six figures. March for Life is not to be confused with “March for Our Lives,” a pro-gun control rally that activists claim saw 800,000 people turn out in 2018. All these events were dwarfed by the Women’s March in opposition to Trump, which drew by one estimate “between 3,267,134 and 5,246,670 people in the United States (our best guess is 4,157,894). That translates into 1 percent to 1.6 percent of the U.S. population of 318,900,000 people (our best guess is 1.3 percent).” Even if the two left-wing academics who did this research are letting their bias infuse their work, there is no question that protesting is generally a left-wing activity, as conservatives themselves realize.

People who engage in protesting care more about politics than people who donate money, and people who donate money care more than people who simply vote. Imagine a pyramid with voters at the bottom and full-time activists on top, and as you move up the pyramid it gets much narrower and more left-wing. Multiple strands of evidence indicate this would basically be an accurate representation of society.

Another line of evidence showing that the left simply cares more about politics comes from Noah Carl, who has put together data showing liberals are in their personal lives more intolerant of conservatives than vice versa across numerous dimensions in the US and the UK. Those on the left are more likely to block someone on social media over their views, be upset if their child marries someone from the other side, and find it hard to be friends with or date someone they disagree with politically. Here are two graphs demonstrating the general point.

…

There’s a great irony here. Conservatives tend to be more skeptical of pure democracy, and believe in individuals coming together and forming civil society organizations away from government. Yet conservatives are extremely bad at gaining or maintaining control of institutions relative to liberals. It’s not because they are poorer or the party of the working class – again, I can’t stress enough how little economics predicts people’s political preferences – but because they are the party of those who simply care less about the future of their country.

Debates over voting rights make the opposite assumption, as conservatives tend to want more restrictions on voting, and liberals fewer, with National Review explicitly arguing against a purer form of democracy. Conservatives may be right that liberals are less likely to care enough to do basic things like bring a photo ID and correctly fill out a ballot. If this is true, Republicans are the party of people who care enough to vote when doing so is made slightly more difficult but not enough to do anything else, while Democrats are the party of both the most active and least active citizens. Yet while being the “care only enough to vote” party might be adequate for winning elections, the future belongs to those at the tail end of the distribution who really want to change the world.

The discussion here makes it hard to suggest reforms for conservatives. Do you want to give government more power over corporations? None of the regulators will be on your side. Leave corporations alone? Then you leave power to Woke Capital, though it must to a certain extent be disciplined and limited by the preferences of consumers. Start your own institutions? Good luck staffing them with competent people for normal NGO or media salaries, and if you’re not careful they’ll be captured by your enemies anyway, hence Conquest’s Second Law. And the media will be there every step of the way to declare any of your attempts at taking power to be pure fascism, and brush aside any resistance to your schemes as righteous anger, up to and including rioting and acts of violence.

…

From this perspective we might want to consider this passage from Scott Alexander, who writes the following in his review of a biography of Turkish president Recep Tayyip Erdogan.

The normal course of politics is various coalitions of elites and populace, each drawing from their own power bases. A normal political party, like a normal anything else, has elite leaders, analysts, propagandists, and managers, plus populace foot soldiers. Then there's an election, and sometimes our elites get in, and sometimes your elites get in, but getting a political party that's against the elites is really hard and usually the sort of thing that gets claimed rather than accomplished, because elites naturally rise to the top of everything.

But sometimes political parties can run on an explicitly anti-elite platform. In theory this sounds good - nobody wants to be elitist. In practice, this gets really nasty quickly. Democracy is a pure numbers game, so it's hard for the elites to control - the populace can genuinely seize the reins of a democracy if it really wants. But if that happens, the government will be arrayed against every other institution in the nation. Elites naturally rise to the top of everything - media, academia, culture - so all of those institutions will hate the new government and be hated by it in turn. Since all natural organic processes favor elites, if the government wants to win, it will have to destroy everything natural and organic - for example, shut down the regular media and replace it with a government-controlled media run by its supporters.

When elites use the government to promote elite culture, this usually looks like giving grants to the most promising up-and-coming artists recommended by the art schools themselves, and having the local art critics praise their taste and acumen. When the populace uses the government to promote popular culture against elite culture, this usually looks like some hamfisted attempt to designate some kind of "official" style based on what popular stereotypes think is "real art from back in the day when art was good", which every art school and art critic attacks as clueless Philistinism. Every artist in the country will make groundbreaking exciting new art criticizing the government's poor judgment, while the government desperately looks for a few technicians willing to take their money and make, I don't know, pretty landscape paintings or big neoclassical buildings.

The important point is that elite government can govern with a light touch, because everything naturally tends towards what they want and they just need to shepherd it along. But popular/anti-elite government has a strong tendency toward dictatorship, because it won't get what it wants without crushing every normal organic process. Thus the stereotype of the "right-wing strongman", who gets busy with the crushing.

So the idea of "right-wing populism" might invoke this general concept of somebody who, because they have made themselves the champion of the populace against the elites, will probably end up incentivized to crush all the organic processes of civil society, and yoke culture and academia to the will of government in a heavy-handed manner.

To put it in a different way, to steelman the populist position, democracy does not reflect the will of the citizenry, it reflects the will of an activist class, which is not representative of the general population. Populists, in order to bring institutions more in line with what the majority of the people want, need to rely on a more centralized and heavy-handed government. The strongman is liberation from elites, who aren’t the best citizens, but those with the most desire to control people’s lives, often to enforce their idiosyncratic belief system on the rest of the public, and also a liberation from having to become like elites in order to fight them, so conservatives don’t have to give up on things like hobbies and starting families and devote their lives to activism.

[super-secret-sick-fics]

hii you said that requests were open so i was wondering if you’d want to write an iwaoi sick fic? like it’s a middle of a practice match agaisnt some school and oikawa feels sick but doesn’t tell anyone beforehand?

Hello and thank you for the request!! I hope this is kinda what you wanted. I tried :) sorry it took me a minute!

An Off Day: an IwaOi Sick fic

Pairing: Sick Oikawa, Caretaker Iwaizumi

Words: ? (I didn’t get a count sorry—longer though)

Warnings: fever, passing out, cursing

————————

It was a dull day.

Oikawa sat in class, his head resting on his palm, and everything just felt faded. Existing as a human today seemed like entirely too much work.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but his entire day, his surroundings, his overall demeanor— none of them were as vivid and bright as usual. Things were just...off.

He felt off.

A lethargic and overall blah feeling clung to him like a thick winter coat, making him feel like he couldn’t breathe and leaving his head muddled. He didn’t know what was going on with his body and it was incredibly frustrating.

Oikawa scoffed to himself, ignoring the curious side eye from the girl next to him, and resolutely decided to ignore the dull, blah feeling. Surely if he willed himself to feel less blah, then that would put the pep back in his step. Besides, this was his last class of the day and then it was time for practice.

They were playing some no-name, no-skill team in what Oikawa deemed a “charity” practice match. For the other team, it would be a learning experience. For Seijoh, it would be another victory to add to their running total.

Class finally ended and he stood up to head to the club room. Immediately, his knees buckled and black spots danced in his vision. A small hand grasped his upper arm and held him steady. Once the spots cleared, he saw the small girl who sits next to him looking up at him, concern etched into her face.

“Oikawa-san? You look pale. You should go home and rest. I’m sure they’ll be okay without you at practice today.” He shook his head.

“I just got up too fast. Thank you for helping me out,” he smiled and she hesitantly let his arm go. She nodded, grabbed her bag, and left the classroom.

Oikawa, much to his dismay, was still dizzy though. He placed his hands on his desk and ducked his head, squeezing his eyes shut while he waited for it to pass.

In the club room, he met up with Iwaizumi and chatted with his other teammates here and there, resolutely ignoring the fatigue thay plagued him.

Warm-ups came and went and their coach went over the rotation for the practice match. All the while, the lethargy he felt never went away like he thought it would. In fact, it seemed to be increasing and there was now a dull, consistent thudding in his head. Maybe it was more than just an off day? Maybe something was wrong?

He didn’t get much time to explore the new thoughts, because the other team arrived and their practice match began. Oikawa was right; the other team wasn’t a challenge in the slightest. The fact that it was any easy game didn’t make him feel any better about his complete lack of game.

Nearly every single one of his sets was wrong. Too high or too low. Too far left or right. The ball wasn’t settling in his fingers the way he needed it too and it all irritated him to no end.

He couldn’t concentrate. Every now and then, the court tilted dangerously sideways and he had to consciously ground his feet to bring it back to equilibrium. He was starting to feel weak. His limbs weighed about 1,000 lbs, making every lift of his arms to set the ball or movement of his legs to cross the court a Herculean effort. All he wanted was to curl up on the ground and take a nap.

“Hey, you okay?” Matsu walked up to him during a break between serves and put a hand on his shoulder. He was frowning. Oikawa glowered at him.

Was he okay? No. Of course not. He was 98% sure that he had a fever. Would that stop him from playing? No. Of course not. This was an easy team to beat. If he couldn’t push through this, then he wasn’t worth anything to his team.

“Yeah. Fine.” He snapped. Matsuhana put his hands up and backed away. Play resumed.

It was just a cold. He could shake this feeling if he just pushed through it hard enough. If Oikawa was confident of anything, it was his ability to ignore negative feelings and punch through bad moods.

That confidence slowly drained out of Oikawa along with any energy and focus he may have had the longer the game continued.

The two teams switched sides of the court and Iwaizumi appeared at his side.

“Hey, what’s the deal? You okay? We should have taken this set a long time ago,” he grumbled, his usual grumpy tone setting all of Oikawa’s already frazzled nerves even more on edge. His lip curled as he glanced over at his best friend.

“Thanks, Iwa-chan, I didn’t realize,” he sneered. Iwa’s eyes widened and he blinked comically. Oikawa would have made a joke if he wasn’t feeling so shitty.

“Don’t take it out on me, Trashykawa,” Iwa’s eyes narrowed, “your sets have been off all match.”

Oikawa felt like he was slapped in the face because he knew that. Of course he was more than aware that not a single one of his sets hit their mark yet. It was eating away at him and it made his stomach churn. He could do this though. He would not let his team down.

“I know,” he muttered. Iwa’s face changed again, but Oikawa’s vision blurred and he couldn’t make out what expression the ace had. He walked away.

“Oi, come back here a seco—“ Iwa started but was cut off by their coach.

“Iwaizumi! You gonna stand around and talk all day or are you gonna let us resume the match?”

He glanced one more time at Oikawa before getting into position. Oikawa thought maybe he looked concerned or upset or something, but he honestly didn’t have the energy to figure it out. It was all he could do to stand up right.

The set continued and each passing second was an eternity to Oikawa. Black spots popped up more frequently and he had to squeeze his eyes shut quickly and exhale to keep himself from passing out. It was a losing battle.

The dull thud in his head grew into a steady pounding that took up residence behind his eyes, leaving him vaguely nauseated. It was getting harder to breathe, even though he wasn’t running around like he normally would be. The gym swirled and he blinked several times, but it wasn’t going back to normal. The sounds of shouting and squeaking shoes faded away, replaced by a strange roaring sound.

Oikawa realized very quickly that he was in serious trouble.

“Oikawa!” Wataru’s shout cut through the roaring and sent a sharp pain through his head. As quickly as it left, the roaring in his ears returned and with it, his vision completely blacked out. It took all his effort to call out for help.

“Iwa-cha—“ the sound got caught in his throat and his body crumpled to the floor.

The next thing he knew, Oikawa was staring at the ceiling. He blinked a few times and groaned. The lights beaming down on him reminded him of the migraine he definitely had and he shivered. Why was he on the ground?

“Tooru? Oh thank god,” Iwa’s face entered his field of vision (and blocked the light, thankfully). His voice was shaking and desperate, adding to Oikawa’s confusion.

“Iwa-chan?” He said feebly.

“Are you okay? What hurts? Fuck, Tooru. You scared the shit out of me,” Iwaizumi was frantic, his hands cupping Oikawa’s face, making the sick boy cringe. Touching was no good. He didn’t want that right now.

The corners of Iwaizumi’s mouth pulled down and his eyebrows scrunched. He moved one of his hand’s to Oikawa’s forehead and the other to his own. His eyes blew wide.

“Holy shit, Tooru! Why didn’t you tell anyone you were sick, dumbass?”

Oh. He’d been caught.

“Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t know?” He smiled weakly up at his best friend, who scoffed in return.

“Idiot,” he mumbled before turning his head towards somewhere above Oikawa. The lights pierced Oikawa’s vision and he moaned when his head pulsated. He tried to curl up, but Iwaizumi was already trying to get him standing.

“Coach, he’s got a fever,” Iwaizumi shouted across the gym and Oikawa’s knees buckled. Luckily, Iwa’s arms were securely around his waist.

“I’m gonna take him to the club room and call one of our moms to come pick us up. Do you need me here?”

“No, go take care of our idiot captain,” their coach responded, his arms crossed over his chest. Normally, Oikawa would’ve squaked at the insult, but it was taking all of his attention to stay awake.

“We got this man. Go handle the child,” Makki snickered.

“Mean, Makki,” Oikawa managed to whine as he and Iwa stumbled out of the gym.

By the time they got back to the club room, Oikawa was sweating profusely, panting, and leaning almost all of his weight on Iwaizumi.

Iwa led them to the back of the clubroom and guided them down to sit against the wall. Oikawa shivered and immediately curled into Iwa’s side.

“How the hell did you let it get so bad, Shittykawa,” Iwa questioned. His tone held more concern than malice and it settled Oikawa’s nerves ever so slightly.

“Mmm, so warm Iwa-chan,” was all Oikawa could respond with. Iwaizumi scoffed, but threw an arm around Oikawa’s shoulder and pulled him closer anyway. The setter smiled.

“Yo, who should I call?” Iwaizumi asked, his tone still lacking its normal gruffness.

“Everyone in my family is working right now, Iwa-chan. No one is going to pick up,” Oikawa said. His throat was getting sore now. That means he’s sick sick. He frowned. Another shiver shot up his spine.

Iwa sighed, “okay. I’ll call my mom. She won’t be able to get here for at least half an hour though. Will you be okay until then? We can take the bus if you want.”

Oikawa nuzzled into Iwa’s shoulder. The smallest hints of his cologne were still present, despite getting sweaty from practice.

“No. No bus. We’ll want for Auntie, if that’s okay with you?”

“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll call her.”

“I’m sorry, Iwa-chan,” Oikawa yawned. His eyes started drifting closed. Man, did a nap sound perfect right now.

“Don’t apologize, Tooru. Just scared me,” Iwa muttered and Oikawa felt the ace’s nose nuzzle into the top of his head. He relaxed further, in spite of the chills running through his body.

“Get some rest. I’ll wake you when my mom gets here,” Iwa whispered and Oikawa couldn’t remember the last time he sounded so soft. At least towards him anyway. Iwaizumi pulled Oikawa down gently so the setter’s head was pillowed on his lap.

Oikawa fell asleep to Iwaizumi’s gentle hands carding through his hair.

[gisachi]

50 for the writing promts?

Thank you for waiting! Tbh I had a hard time thinking what to do with this prompt kajhskaf like I started typing this aimlessly, with no intent of turning this into nsfw but my brain didn’t have control of my hands and before I knew it it turned...slightly suggestive. Omg. ^^;;;; Hope this is good enough for you, Anon! 😊

50. A kiss, followed by more that trail down the jaw and neck. (866 words, slightly nsfw)

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The last thing Ran ever wants is to be treated like an innocent little damsel.

Oh, how she’s gotten used to people underestimating her for who she really is. After all, what can her angelic face have to offer? A kick on the shin? A punch in the gut? She doesn’t look like she’s earned a black belt in karate with that babyface, does she? She’s so modest, and pure and nice, the epitome of a good girl, of a girl who doesn’t know how to curse, let alone to say anything borderline bad, or to tease…

In some days she finds it convenient, in most days it makes her want to throw herself out a window. It’s easy to get what she wants when people think she’s cute. Discounts and freebies for the pretty lady, sure. A little believable lie with matching puppy dog eyes gets her off the hook every single time. She’s never skipped class, never been to street bouts (though potentially she can), so everybody loves her...because she’s perfect like that.

But as much as she enjoys the perks, she despises the natural treatment that goes along with it. A simple ‘Oh shit!’ escapes her mouth and she’ll get daggers from old ladies in the supermarket. A simple display of physical strength and she’ll get wide-eyed looks from spectators— ‘She can do that?!’ Hormonal guy classmates feast on adult magazines and if she’s within hearing range they’ll hide away in shame because oh no, she’s too young, too innocent for this.

Is she, really?

She’s at Shinichi’s house playing this new zombie apocalypse game Nakamichi lent him. Ran’s not really into games like this, she’s more of the Tekken or Jump Force type, but nonetheless she gives this a chance.

“What’s that mean? DPS? We’re going to kill? Oh. What’s ammo?”

“Ammunition, for your gun-”, Shinichi pauses, then grins, “right, this is the first game you’ll play that involves guns and killing.” He pats her head, teasingly. “Shall you cover your eyes for the blood and gore, you innocent, innocent little angel?”

And oop, is that on purpose? Is her boyfriend making fun of her? Wrong move.

She grabs him by the collar and shoves him down the couch, the same manner she shoves her lips to his, in no way gentle and innocent.

She separates briefly, noses along his jaw, eyes closed, brows furrowed. “Stop saying that...” both hands trace the muscular planes of his chest and she feels him suck sharp breaths of air underneath her, “because I’m fucking not.”

“Whoa, babe, hold on-”

She kisses him where her lips hover, on his cheek, on his jaw, each kiss so slow yet seething with purpose, with passion, knowledgeable of where he’s most sensitive. She sneers when she reaches his ear. “And don’t you know it, Shin-i-chi.”

“Raaan, fuck.” He hisses, not in the least prepared for this kind of teasing. At least this early in the afternoon. One hand finds its way to the small of her back and the other he lodges between the couch and his body. “Like hell I don’t.”

She chuckles airily and buries her head in the crook of his neck, lips lightly grazing him there before applying pressure and moistness and tongue and shit— it’s too early for his pants to tighten this much. Damn it. She kisses him like she’s memorized his pleasure points. She knows the exact spot where he’s ticklish, the exact angle his head must tilt in order to elicit from him a rare moan. Which, oh, he just does. His girlfriend’s just that good.

“Am I an innocent little angel when I do that?”

“Fuckin’ no,” he grumbles, as she nibbles her way along his jaw. Both of his hands are now on her back, splaying up and down her spine before palming her rear to give it a hefty squeeze. She hums, returns her lips to his and kisses him tenderly, her torso bucking onto him, his hands guiding her hips’ movements. Are they going to... this time?

She ends the kiss with a loud pop and pushes herself onto a sitting position.

“Mhm. So take back what you said.”

She pouts, her cute, good girl demeanor returning. Ironically, as she sits on top of him, on the couch of his living room, the video game abandoned, her rear deliberately above the area where his betrayed hard-on is.

Guess not. Damn.

“C’mon, I was just joking,” he replies playfully, hands still pressed to her hips, thumbs drawing circular patterns on her fabric-sheathed skin. If he can just pull her back to what they’re doing earlier...

But Ran is resilient like that. Her weight disappears on him; she puts her house slippers on and stands.

“Oi, no faaair. Come back here.” Shinichi whines, propping his body up, eyes following Ran to the coffee table at the far end where she gets her compact powder from her handbag.

“A tease for a tease,” she winks. “Now get up and turn the console off, we're eating out.”

The last thing Ran ever wants is to be treated like an innocent little damsel.

Because she isn’t.

And Shinichi knows it best.

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[avoutput]

Bimmy & Jimmy Lee || Double Dragon

One million weekends ago, before I was a teenager, before the word tween existed, I had a problem to solve. There was a saying, “You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your friend’s parents.” These parents paid attention to sugar content, video game violence, prohibited “The Simpsons”, and had eagle eye focus on movie ratings. Before Netflix, the casual weekend sleepover consisted of a trip to pick up some pizza and make a stop at the Blockbuster. Over the years, I had curated a list of films that would make it past the prying eyes of helicopter parents. Now, if you have seen Double Dragon, you might be thinking that this movie is tame and lacks substance, but there was nothing like seeing Power Ranger style fight scenes, the man behind the Terminator 2’s T1000, massive explosions, Blade Runner’s Los Angeles, and finally Alysa Millano in a crazy getup that made her look absolutely thicc. But alas, this film was PG-13! Luckily, it could be found in the children's section, which was just enough lubrication to pass right through the parental units security system. And now, watching this with a critical eye as an adult, it really went above and beyond to give you a top notch fantasy that most other films in this line never imagined. It is with mad respect that I say, Double Dragon is a bomb ass kids film.

This movie is nothing like the video game. The story of the original game was very simple. You are brothers, Billy aka Bimmy and Jimmy Lee. Billy’s girlfriend Marion is kidnapped by the Black Warriors, a street gang. The brothers Lee fight through Neo New York to get her back. The movie is bonkers by comparison. What it lacks in preservation, it makes up for with sheer imagination. The premise of the film is completely rooted in this neo Los Angeles (New Angeles in the film) that mirrors a quirkier version of Blade Runner’s LA. The film lives and breathes in all these little details that are totally clunky and you might even say unnecessary, but this film is a soup, one little thing missing and it might not make a huge difference, but together they make an umami broth. The deepest aspect of this stew is the constant earthquakes that plague New Angeles and which also presumably sank Hollywood to the point that they have boat tours of old institutions like the top of Mann’s Chinese Theater, left cresting just above the water. Everywhere they go there are these building stabilizers that need to be pumped to keep the roof over their head, which may or may not be real science. All of the cars rely on fuel made up of garbage that you can grab right off the refuse filled streets. These details can be easily overlooked and undervalued, but it creates a great deal of the flavor for the film. They make up for the flimsy plot and the child-directed acting. They surround the meat of a normal film and make it into something you can really chew on.

As for the construction and delivery, we might have on our hands here a film that has the most kid movie tropes in a single film. Ever. I tried to write a list, but it seemed endless, and all of them are used on the fly while moving the story forward. For instance:

Infiltrating the bad guys office through the AC trope

Trying to steal something off the bad guys desk from above through the AC grate trope

Falling through the ceiling when caught trope

Turbine fan sucking people in trope

And that's just the progression of a single scene. People slip on gumballs in the middle of a fight for god’s sake! Tropes propagate in every corner of the film. You could even make a drinking game out of one. The brothers do this celebratory handshake where they make a fist with one hand and an open palm with the other and punch into each other. Every time the brothers Lee do their childish handshake, take a shot. You will be way more drunk in the back half, by then it gets pretty intense. I wish I could accurately describe the saturation of kids entertainment nonsense that propels this movie, but suffice it to say, it has it all.

This certainly wasn’t the most compelling children's film of the time, Disney was right in the middle of its animated renaissance and was consistently acclaimed. Live action, low budget kids films were a dime a dozen as well, and most of them were pretty awful. But when it comes down to it, Double Dragon has a consistent, cohesive vision glued together by a living, breathing, cheesy world. It's all in the little details. Like replacing payphones with oxygen stations and having two businessmen fight over it. And like all kids films, they leave the kids feeling empowered. The police are too scared to go out at night to fight the gangs, so a group of teens and tweens called “The Power Corps” decide to take back the streets. Now, what this actually looks like is a little unclear, but they do try to teach kids that corporations are generally the root of all evil, revealing that the corporations own the gangs and pay them to keep people scared. That too is a 90’s kids trope. It was always street gangs and corporate big wigs.

The action and setpieces are campy, or maybe you would just call it corny, and they could have been a little better in some places, but most of the time they are satisfying. This film famously set a Cleveland river on fire and created a giant explosion that had actual citizens calling emergency services. The costumes were the envy of young tweens yearning to hang out at a locker between classes for the first time. You would never find those threads in the store, but you had this feeling that there was some secret store in the mall that only kids 13 and up could find. If you pay attention to all the extras, you will notice absolutely zero consistency in their clothing choices. Sometimes the bad guys are dressed both like clowns and librarians in the same scene. On the other hand, the cool kids in the film have an amazing secret base that the adults don’t have access to, it's truly like bringing to life the feeling of playing at the McDonalds playplace. Double Dragon delivers a feeling more than anything. Maybe it is a feeling kids today can’t even imbibe, their world seems so different, but I think even without the context of the game, this would still make a good late night movie at any sleepover.

Finally, on the fan service front, because there is so little preservation, you aren’t going to find very much unless you are hardcore fan. Alyssa Milano’s character is named Marion, the name of Billy’s kidnapped girlfriend in the game. At one point, the gang runs into the Double Dragon arcade cabinet. Abobo makes a very strange appearance in a grotesque getup that you will wish you could forget. If there was much more than this, I really couldn’t put my finger on it. Everything else is probably too small or trivial.

When it comes to making a video game film, this leaned much more heavily on the originality side than preservation, but it had a sturdy construction and delivery that more than makes up for its lack of fan service. Looking through the list of other live action Hollywood films, it’s looking like it will be the last film to balance with this formula, even though this is only the second film in this series. I think the single minded focus on being a fun kids film outweighs its need to mimic the game, which was honestly fine for me then and now. They could have made a rated R version of this that took the whole thing seriously, and that might have fared better, but it's really hard to say. Sci-Fi adult action films of the time were very hit or miss. Back then, video games were for kids, despite their stories and presentation being mature, so this was probably the only way to get the film off the ground. I won’t claim that Double Dragon is the best kids action film of its day, but it definitely has more kids action film in it than any other kids action film. If you weigh the film against something like Titanic, it's going to sink, but put it in the ring punching at its own weight, it's going to be a contender. Two fist pumps way up.

[ofwrittenlegacy]

hi hi babe can I please get #94: “I had a bad dream again.” with Peter having a really bad nightmare because im a predictable bitch and I love you/your writing so much??

hi my love!!! Absolutely you can! Thank you so much! I’m pretty new to writing Marvel but I am ready to write millions of Irondad fics. I hope you enjoy! xx. 

You can read it here on AO3! 

Death was staring him in the face.

Peter was trapped, frozen. He was in a yellow tinted enclosure, incarcerated and chained. And Death was seducing him. He took many forms. Thanos, Vulture, the silly gunman from last Thursday. His hands were surprisingly warm as he touched Peter’s neck. Warm like the singular tear Peter felt drip on his forehead as he turned to dust in his mentor’s arms.

“You really shouldn’t trust a soul in this game,” Death said, smiling. “Not when everyone has something to gain or lose.”

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Peter begged himself to wake up. This wasn’t real. He could make it stop. He screamed. Peter screamed himself hoarse. Until his throat was raw. No one answered.

Death wrapped a hand around his throat. “It’s time for you to answer for your sins, Peter Parker.”

_____

Peter woke up fighting. He swung but his hands didn’t connect with anything. Instead, he found himself being pinned down. He couldn’t breathe. The room was still and quiet but Peter felt a hurricane of emotions whirling within him. In his muddy, half asleep brain, Peter could make out the faint glowing blue light above his head but panic was beginning to settle into his bones.

It starts out as thin as cellophane, something he could tear away with his fingers but in the next moment it’s a deluge of ice water drenching every limb, creeping higher until it enters his mouth and nose. That's when the attack becomes absolute, shutting his body down like Death had pressed his biological reset button.

He hadn’t realized he was crying until the weight pinning him down lifted.

“Whoa, Pete, hey, breathe! It’s just me. I-It’s Tony. Fuck, uh, FRI, I need lights at 50%.” Slowly the lights came up and Peter realized the faint blue light he was staring at was coming from Tony’s chest. It was comforting. Peter focused on the light and drug in a deep breath. He had to keep breathing. He forced his chest to expand, gasping greedily for breath.

“Hi, yeah, there we go buddy. Good job. Keep breathing for me, Underoos.” Peter blinked, sending the hot tears down his cheeks. He could see Tony lowering himself to his knees by his side. A callous thumb brushed across his cheek, chasing away the tear. Peter leaned into the touch. "It's over now. I'm here."

“Hey kiddo,” Tony whispered as if he were afraid he’d scare Peter. His attempts were futile but Peter was grateful nonetheless. At least he could breathe again but unshed tears clung to his eyelashes. “What’s going on?”

Peter pushed himself up on an elbow. He was in his bedroom in the tower. Tony was wearing sweats and no shirt. He was sleeping, a rare occasion, and Peter felt a pang of guilt.

“I had a bad dream again.” He replied lamely. Now that he uttered it out loud, he felt stupid for the theatrics. It was nearing sunrise and Tony was cooing to him all because the Soul Stone left him with some unpleasant memories. How was he going to be a superhero if he couldn’t handle flirting with Death?

Tony breathed out a laugh. “Yeah, I saw. Seemed pretty rough. Want to talk about it?”

Peter kicked off the covers and sat up. His chest hurt and his hands were shaking. God, he hated waking up so violently. It was a wonder Tony was able to keep him pinned down with his super strength whilst managing to dodge the punches Peter was throwing. Tony was a miracle worker.

“Not really,” Peter rubbed the back of his neck. Now that he had come to, he felt his face heat with embarrassment. He was almost 17 and here he was, sitting with Tony Stark, who had watched him blubber like a baby and now his mentor was going to play Dr. Phil. He just wished it would all stop.

“Well, at least it was just a nightmare. It’s over now.” Tony grunted and he clambered to his feet and sat next to Peter on the bed.

“Riddle me this.” Peter focused on Tony. In the faint light, Tony’s hazel eyes twinkled. He had been through twice as much and yet here he was. A few grey hairs but he was here. He was whole. He was okay. Would Peter ever be okay? “How can I call it a nightmare if it doesn’t end when I’m awake?”

That seemed to floor Tony. They were both familiar with the concept. Peter couldn’t breathe when his class started talking about cosmology or astronomy. Tony had nearly collapsed the first time he heard Another One Bites the Dust. The end of the world had nearly came. It wasn’t a nightmare anymore. That was a bullshit nickname fed to children when they thought the boogie man was going to chew off their toes. This was a day terror. Something that terrorized each person’s every living moment. The fear that something greater than Thanos would come. And this time, they wouldn’t win.

Peter stared up at Tony, hoping he had the secret answer to cure him but Tony stared back with the same haunted gaze. Everything flipped through his mind like a photo album he wanted to burn.

“That’s the price, buddy.” Tony said softly. Distantly. “Sometimes you sacrifice your own sanity for the well being of others. But you keep fighting. You always keep fighting.” Tony said. With great power comes great responsibility. Peter cast his gaze to the floor but Tony caught his chin, searching his face. He cupped his cheek. “I’m here for you. When you’re ready to talk. I’ll always be here for you.”

Deadly and sweet. Tony was two souls fused together. He was everything Peter needed and more than anything he deserved. Peter launched himself forward, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck. Tony laughed and snaked his arms around Peter’s lower back. He could feel Tony shudder with contained laughter when Peter pressed his face to his neck.

“I love you, Mr. Stark.”

Peter was halfway sure he could hear Tony’s chest still in his chest. He knew Tony wasn’t accustomed to affection. Howard had never been one for the warm fuzzy feelings, according to records. So he was doubly surprised when he felt Tony press a cold kiss to his forehead.

“I...yeah. I, uh, love you too, Peter.”

Peter visibly relaxed, tension bleeding out of him like a marionette with its strings cut.

“You look awfully tired for a web slinger. How about we try the sleep thing again?” Tony tried to sound casual but his voice sounded tight with emotion.

“Will you stay?” Peter asked. Innocence laced the question to heavily, it seemed to startle Tony into remembering he was just a child. Just a child.

Tony easily pushed Peter to the other side of the bed, and then slid beneath the covers. “Absolutely.”

Once he settled, Peter wasted no time crawling over and wriggling his way under his arm and resting his head a little to the right of his arc reactor. The faint blue glow was comforting. A constant. As long as it kept pulsing, he’d be okay.

“FRI, lights off.” Tony said softly, holding Peter close. Darkness cast shadows over the room. “You good kid?”

“Yeah.” Peter yawned. “Thanks, Mr. Stark.”

“Consider this a rare delicacy. Not many people can say they’ve shared a bed with The Tony Stark.”

“Only two-thirds of the entire population. Super rare.” Peter began smiling when his head vibrated with Tony’s thundering laughter.

“See, I know you’ll be just fine, Pete.” The arm tightened around Peter and he felt a flicker of hope. Maybe he would be just fine.

Tiredness swallowed him whole. His chestnut lashes fluttered and oblivion engulfed him. Sleep painted him, and then Tony, coloring them and dragging them under; as though the intensity of his exhaustion had created a perfect canvas for them.

[septicbadger]

The beginnings of a story I started to write a long time ago (probably sometime 2015) that I never got that far into but decided to share today as it’s Sean’s 30th birthday...

"Uh... This is fun," muttered Sean, it was a history lesson. His class had been learning all about Greece's philosophers and to be honest he was bored, he didn't care. He would rather be at home just playing Pokémon on his gameboy, his first console. Looking down at his right arm, he saw his fourteen year old hands, they were rough and his finger nails were dirty from playing outside in the woods by his house. Then he gazed at his sleeve, it was ruffled at the end and was green, the colour of Ireland, his home land.

Then the bell rang and Sean was smacked back to reality, finally the lesson had ended, it was breaktime! He rushed outside into the playground to play football with a few of his secondary school 'friends'.

Billy, Steve, Suzy and Betty were waiting and wanted to play while some of his other classmates mingled, among them, Larry, Bobby, Mike, Mary and Harry.

There were two teams but they were unfair. It was Billy Betty and Suzy vs. Sean and Steve and Sean was in goal. The game started well, Betty in her baggy school uniform had the ball first and was quite slow because of her weight but then Billy, the smaller of the group took the ball from her then turned to attack Sean and Steve. Steve whizzed past Sean, he was always been the best at this game, it was like he had a segway in defence. Suzy was minding her own business, her mind floating off into the air when she was running to attack with Billy. She, not concentrating and looking at Billy through her glasses, slammed into Sean whilst he was in the air and they banged heads and Sean got a gash above his left eye. Then Billy scored.

"Billy! I was on the floor you can't score a goal when I'm down!" complained Sean he was tearing up and his left eye stung like hell.

"Oh, ha sorry. Not! I bet you were glad to bump into Suzy anyway," Billy teased.

"Shut your mouth Billy or I'll close it for you!" shouted Sean through the pain.

"Is that a threat?" asked Billy, " how sweet, and while you're still on the floor."

"Billy just be quiet!" commanded Sean.

"No!" then Billy ran on ashamed but not regretting what he did, a smirk on his face.

"Screw...You....Billy!!"screamed Sean whilst his eye bled.

 This grabbed the attention of Steve and Betty who were watching the spectacle while Suzy had gone to tell the teacher.

"Are you okay Buddy?" asked Steve, Sean's video gaming friend.

"Of course I'm... ," said Sean but he couldn't hide the pain.

"Oh My God! Sean. Oh no, oh no!" Betty panicked.

Sean had to say something to shut her up. "Calm your tits Betty. I'll be alright but Billy won't."

Sean was between emotions.

* * *

It had been two and a half weeks and Sean's eye had become infected. He had been acting normally, trying not to hit Billy, playing video games with Steve, playing at break and climbing and swinging from his favourite tree outside his house but today things would change.

He arrived at school, his normal cheerful self but with his mum. "Goodbye Jack," she called. Sean knew why he was called Jack because of Sean being like Irish John, "and remember honey the doctor said, don't touch your eye even if you think it looks cool and 'badass'."

"Goodbye," Sean cried when he saw Billy sniggering in the corner.

"Hey, look it's jacksepticeye!" Billy loudly mocked, "How are you Jacky?"

Sean bit his lip. Hopefully ma didn't hear, he thought, and hopefully she won't hear this. Sean deeply exhaled.

"Billy. You will get a beating you little ginger tw-"

Sean's mum ran to the scene, she had heard and Billy ran to class. "Sean William McLaughlin come here now!"

"But... Ma I was being a Boss," She looked directly at him. "Yes Ma," he unwillingly obeyed.

"Straight home with you!"

When they arrived back Sean ran away to hang in the forest. He hastily made his way to his favourite place but he tripped.

"Ouch!" He had tripped on a piece of jutting metal. He looked down at the design. It looked alien. He, being an adventurous young boy, dug out the top part of this. He saw what looked to be a pod. Sean with his +1 biceps pulled it out from the ground. It was so easy, it was like it had been buried and lightly covered over.

 He gazed at the 90 centimetre tall pod. It was a dark metal oval with light gray fins and highlights, there was a deep ocean green button at its base. Sean felt the urge to push it, like he knew what to do and he had to do it. A pod door opened up to reveal the capsule inside. Sean was amazed at all the flashing lights, levers and buttons of all varying sizes and colours. He saw the leather backing of the pod, it was about the size to fit a baby.

Sean ran back to tell his mum about it.

"Ma...Ma, 's awesome!"

"Honey what's awesome?"

"I found an alien pod with all these amazing lights and controls, it could have been an escape pod or something! Come I'll show you!" Sean was so excited he could barely speak.

"No," his mother said," I have something to tell you, you might want to sit down. We're moving soon in two weeks exactly in fact to live closer to grandma in a huge forest, you'll have all the trees in the world to play in but you won't see your friends again."

"What? Ma you didn't tell me!" This had put a downer on things and Sean felt betrayed. "But..."

"I'm sorry honey but things have already been arranged. You can forget about that pod as well, you're not allowed in the forest again with that eye of yours."

  But Sean would never forget, never tell anyone about it again. He would always remember, the pod and its existence. He even came up with some theories why his mother wouldn't acknowledge it existed and occasionally in the future he would joke about them like in his childhood:

 That he was a Boss of the Bossatronios, an alien race that once ruled the Planet Bossatron.

He thought that he had come in that pod. That his parents and siblings took him in as Sean, a normal Irish lad.

 He wasn't far off.

   Chapter 1: The Message

"Well I'm going to leave this episode here! If you liked it, punch that like button in the face, LIKE A BOSS! Aaand, high fives all around!" Sean said with energy as he high fived his YouTube audience. "But thank you guys so much for watching and I'll see all of you... IN THE NEXT VIDEOOO!" He shouted as loud and almost as high as his voice could go, it had been a good episode of Reading Your Comments and was a long time in the making, episode one hundred.

Sean ended the recording at precisely 9:42, took off his headphones and stood up in his home. His green brown and slightly grey (never to be talked about) hair was ruffled as he stood. His manly short beard was the way it always was, just an extended stubble leading around his mouth. It was time for a snack.

When he got back he decided to open up a game a fan of his had said she had made when he had attended the recent PAX. It was a convention where he had his own panel and met so many of his fans. It all meant so much to Sean but he wondered whether the USB contained a virus.

He download the game called. S.E.A.N and a loading screen appeared once he ran it. There was no menu, just a pixelated green field, Sean wondered what the game could really be about. He used his mouse to look around at the game's surroundings. Then a message popped up.

Hello S.E.A.N, or maybe Sean or Jack. You probably remember meeting me don't you, a human meeting a human. Well neither of us were human. Press enter to continue...

Then the game crashed and his computer buzzed."What the hell?" asked Sean, "This shouldn't happen!"

A new window appeared. Sean sat back down trying to get his computer to respond. But it didn't. He couldn't close the window or minimize it. All that there was was a blank screen and he stared at it through beautiful blue eyes.

Then the screen of his computer went to a blue screen. Sean didn't know what to think. Should he press enter or not? Was his name just an acronym? He remembered that pod in the forest.

He hadn't seen it ever again. He had never spoken seriously of it since when he was a child.

He remembered the people from his secondary school. He had even named some of the characters after them in games that he had played.

He had become a big success since his teenage years. He had played many great games on his channel named jacksepticeye. He had become a popular YouTuber, 15 million strong and always growing.

You know what? thought Sean.

YOLO BITCHES!!!

He clicked enter and his world was turned upside down.

* * *

The first thing he saw was a blinding flash of sea foam green. His eyes squinted into his new surroundings. He felt different, inside and out. He wasn't quite himself anymore, he was just a character in a video game. But this video game felt and looked as real as life.

Sean touched his nose, it felt like plasticene. He checked for his hat, but all he touched was his green hair. He was still Sean but also not him. His mind, his looks belonged to his human body but his body felt looser. And through his pixel eyeballs was a new world.

Chapter 2: The Party

He was in a stone hall. He recognised the walls, the stairs, the floors, the arches and the pedestal where a body lay: he was in his favourite game, Shadow of the Colossus. He stepped towards the body, like Wander in the game. But from under the cloths came a skeleton.

"Hello, human! I m the great Papyrus! And you shall place me in the royal guard!"

This skeleton Jack knew from Undertale in his red, white and gold outfit and spoke in jack's voice for him. He was basically the best and deserved more recognition. Sean remembered having to kill him in the genocide run and he remembered their date. It all filled him with determination.

"I'm taking you to Undyne!" said Papyrus and suddenly an orange portal appeared which Jack knew was from the game Portal and he was whisked away. Papyrus didn't mind so much, he was thinking about spaghetti.

They arrived through the portal. Jack was stuck between two green blocks and in front of him were six people, an elf, a little girl, a baby boy, two men and a chubby woman, standing still on floating green platforms. Jack recognised these characters from Happy Wheels. He didn't recognise the level when in fact it was the first level he played that someone had made for him in the game.

"Wowie! I'm on a horse! There is a pile of swords in front of me!"

Jack turned his head and behind him surely enough was a pile of swords. This was a sword throw level. Papyrus was sure enough sitting on a horse, Agro, the black horse from Shadow of the Colossus. The question was- through his own eyes could Jack kill the people?

That question didn't need to be answered as from out of Sean's vision came a kid in an orange top, just like Billy's from school. He had remembered the kid when naming the character for Happy Wheels as they wore the same clothes and were both ginger and "Screw you Billy" became a known saying.

Billy leaped onto Papyrus, Agro spooked and fell forward. Jack pulled the swords away and they all fell on him, as they fell through another portal: this one was blue.

They were all falling through the clouds. Sean, Papyrus, Agro and Billy together. Suddenly, a god like figure appeared in the clouds. She was just a head and shoulders appearing to them as they fell. This figure had brown hair and greenish hazel eyes."Evie!" said Sean.

Immediately, CleverBot Evie that Jack had done many videos on, turned into a hologram and came up on Sean's face like Cortana from Halo. He remembered when she guessed his name.

"Oh God!" he said to both that video and the fact that she was on his HUD, ready to be talked to.

One last portal appeared, orange and they all ended up in a blank void. There was a lamppost in the centre. Sean remembered The Beginner's Guide. Suddenly, before he could react, Jack's character from Skate 3, Betty, came through the portal on Pink Lighting, a trike from Turbo Dismount.

Sean stood up. He couldn't help thinking, "OOOOOWWWWW PINK LIGHTING!" Papyrus and Billy sat on Agro.

"Now I have three humans in my custody!" exclaimed the skeleton.

"Help me! Where am I? There's a skeleton!" moaned Billy in his high pitched bitch voice. Jack didn't care, he was enjoying this.

Agro neighed, majestic and not bothered by the stupid people on him.

Betty stood up in her black t-shirt and jeans. "This isn't my skateboard!" she said as she jumped off Pink Lighting and towards Jack.

"Hi, Betty," began Sean.

"How do you know my name? Who are you? Where am I? Did you bring me here?" She was full of questions!

"Um... well." Sean didn't know what to say. He didn't want to say that she was from a game he had played and this was another game made for him.

"Hi, I'm Sean. I know your name from er... well, I've heard of your great skating. We have been sent here, I don't know where, to together take down a common enemy, the Yllib, threatening our lives. And... no I didn't bring you here."

Betty stepped closer, looking beyond Sean at a skeleton and a little kid, on top of a horse. "So, obviously I'm the leader of whatever you guys are."

"Um... ok. This is Billy, Papyrus and Agro," explained jacksepticeye, pointing at the three characters bickering. Papyrus grabbed Billy and took them both off the horse, walking towards them.

"Have you told them what we're here for?" Betty asked.

"No."

"Well maybe you could be my second in command, tell them the boring stuff and get them together."

Papyrus and Billy arrived next to videogame Sean. "You two humans come here. You are now my prisoners. This child knows nothing. Tell me how we get out of here, one with green hair,  this is not the underground." And with his skeletal fingers Papyrus pointed at Sean.

"Help me you two. Uhhhng I want my daddy!"

"Shut up Billy!"shouted Sean and Billy went quiet. "Well, we are here to take down a common enemy, the Yllib who are threatening Snowdin, Skate Parks and Hap- BMX tracks. We have been sent here to find a way to stop them."

"But tell them how we get out, second in command," said Betty.

"How do we get out?" Sean muttered to Evie. He had been feeling quite cool debriefing people.

"By understanding everything is connected," Evie droned out in Jack's mind. Papyrus was getting impatient and was tapping his foot whilst Betty looked concerned. Billy was just a little bitch.

"No, we need a portal."

"Yes, you need a point," said Evie. Oh my god, how dumb can a CleverBot get? thought Sean, I need a portal!

Sure enough a portal opened far away in the distance behind Agro who was now smelling Pink Lighting. "Through that portal over there."

"Through that human tamed beast over there? Is that a portal?" Papyrus questioned.

"No not Agro! That blue portal in the distance. But we will need transportation. Papyrus, your greatness, and you, Commander Betty, will ride with me on Agro the horse. Billy you can have Pink Lighting and do try to keep up you little bitch," finished Jack.

The team galloped off towards the portal in the black void. And behind them Billy pedalled with his small legs. He hated Sean. To him, he was a big bitch. And this trike was Billy's least favourite shade of pink.

* * *

Sean, Betty, Papyrus and Agro arrived at the portal, looking amazing atop their steed. Jack wanted to leave Billy behind but Pink Lightning was too precious and Billy was put in the game for a reason. As they waited time ticked on...

TWO GAME HOURS LATER

"Go Billy, go, go, go!" screamed Sean at Billy, trying to motivate him. He was five metres away from arriving next to them.

"Next time, that skeleton can have this," panted Billy.

"Fine," agreed Betty.

"I agree, it is fair that I, the great Papyrus, get the best vehicle!"

"Right, everyone let's go!" said Betty. "Can you take the horse?" She beckoned at Sean and he followed, just having fun, playing the game.

They stepped towards the portal, Billy following Betty, Papyrus being a 'cool dude' on Pink Lightning and Sean guiding Agro's nose at the back. "Now the real game begins," said Evie in Jack's mind. She winked.

* * *

They all arrived on a realistic looking game graphic platform. It looked like it was from the Borderlands games and was all grey metal. Jack wished for Loader Bot to come out and say "Hi." in his robotic voice and do his thumb up pose. But nobody came...

"Where are we now, human?" asked Papyrus to Betty, getting off Pink Lightning.

"Sean!" she cried as him and Agro entered the conversation, "explain where we are!"

"Um..." Jack didn't know what to say. It didn't help that Billy was calling for his dad behind Betty and Papyrus. "I don't kno-"

Sean was cut short as suddenly something appeared, a  big portal. From the huge purple rift in space came...

...that’s as far as younger me got, thanks for reading if you made it down here!

[exyjunkies]

“Well, damn, I think we’re playing this Seven Minutes in Heaven game a little wrong, are we not?”

Between the both of them, Ronan had spoken first. The silence for the past half-minute had been deafening, with the noise of those outside the closet an almost distant thrum. With the gap of two years since their last encounter, the whole situation was uncomfortable. And terribly awkward.

Adam wasn’t sure whether he wanted to kill him, or...

“Why did you go here tonight?” Adam hoped that Ronan flinched. “You knew I was going to be here.”

“Ah,” Ronan sounded mildly offended. “Because I’m the kind of ex that just knows where you’ll be every day of the week. Of course.”

“Not like that, dumbass. If you don’t already know--”

“I do know. You’re dating Chris, the best friend of the host of this party, and part of the rowing team. Yeah. I got it.”

It sounded like the drone of class recitation. A significant part of Adam really wanted to punch him.

“Then why are you here?”

“Gansey dragged me along. Said it was about time I stopped being single.”

An ache made its way into Adam’s chest, and Adam thanked his stars that the closet was relatively dark on his end. He didn’t know whether or not he should correct what Ronan just said about Chris, who had broken things off just this afternoon. The only reason he was here was because the bars near campus were all full, and he seriously needed a drink.

Very unlike him to seek alcohol, especially when his classes this semester were particularly demanding, but exams weren’t for another two weeks anyway.

Adam, you know I absolutely love that you’re so school-oriented. It’s just...

Just what?

Chris had fiddled with his phone, not wanting to look him in the eye. It’s just... I don’t think we fall on the same spectrum. Y’know. In terms of priorities.

Adam had braced himself for a fight. Hmm. Fine. And you think I should be the one to adjust. Cool.

No, you wouldn’t have to do that. I think... for both our sake, we should break up.

Adam had said nothing, merely gave a huge enough sigh that Chris had thought he was absolutely devastated.

Adam wouldn’t go so far as to say that he expected it. It was just that...by now, he had thought that Chris already understood that he wouldn’t be able to move up from his spot on the priority list, which went academics and then everything else.

But I mean, we can still be friends, yeah? Chris had pulled Adam into a hug, and Adam had barely registered how he felt about the whole thing as he nodded dumbly on Chris’ shoulder. In that moment, all he could think about was getting back to the paper he had been writing.

Chris wasn’t at the party later that night, which gave Adam the hint that he was genuinely sad about the whole thing. And Adam was too. Only a little bit, but he really was. Chris was a great guy, and they’ve been dating for almost three months. Chris was opinionated and good-humored, and was able to keep an intellectually stimulating conversation with Adam around half the time.

Also, he was gorgeous.

A few hours after the breakup, after Adam had done his paper and then a bit of processing, he found that he couldn’t tell when he had stopped.

Stopped putting as much effort as he was expected to, to make things work. Stopped looking forward to seeing Chris. Stopped caring about when Chris told him how his day was, stopped being excited to tell Chris about his.

At the end of everything, Adam had realized that he was just... tired.

And that things with Chris, as much as he had tried (and oh, did he try), could never be the same as--

“And yet you’ve landed yourself in here. With me.” Adam knocked his head back, closing his eyes. The bottle just had to point itself at Adam, not at the guy next to him. Some guy named Dan. Maybe if it were him, Ronan’s time in here would’ve been more worthwhile. Stupid beer bottle.

“Well, we can just... sit here and do nothing, if that’s what you want. We’ve got around five minutes more.”

The closet was big enough that they didn’t need to stay close to each other. It smelled of dust and fabric softener. Adam found a wall to lean back against, and slid down to the floor, bringing his knees up and hugging them.

There was a few seconds of fumbling on Ronan’s end, until Adam’s eyes burned against the light bulb above. He blinked up against the brightness and frowned.

“Found the stupid switch,” Adam heard Ronan mumble, then he heard a thump, not too far from him. Ronan had decided to sit next to him.

And for the next half minute or so, they sat in silence. Adam looked down at his shoes, swallowing the lump in his throat. Even with the space of years between them, Adam wondered if this was how he wanted things to go. If he wanted the both of them to sit there and do nothing. His body was so, so heavy with fatigue, and he wanted nothing more than to go home.

To go home and feel like it was home.

“Um--”

“Ro--”

Ronan’s surprised laugh was muffled by his hand. He tilted his head up and against the wall. “You first.”

“I...” And Adam could’ve said many things.

There were so many things he needed to get out.

Instead, he went for, “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Ronan’s head rolled sideways to look at him. And that patience, that understanding, the part of Ronan that had made the biggest hole in Adam’s heart when Ronan had left, was clear as day.

“It’s our senior year, and I still hold that sentiment, Parrish.”

“It’s not like me, you know? I’ve always... always been... been me. And nothing, not any class, not any bully, not even any bad relationship, had gotten in the way of that. And that worked out fine for me.”

“You still hold top spot in all your classes. Probably.”

Top two in his physics class, but Adam wasn’t about to admit that. “But then I’ve never felt this... this helpless. I’m just so...? Done with it all. Nothing in my life feels worth it anymore. It’s hard.”

And maybe Adam felt something tug in his chest when Ronan inched closer, sliding against the wall, until they touched shoulders. He didn’t even know if they were past seven minutes already.

“Listen, Adam,” Ronan said, voice a little rough. “I know I may not be the best person for this type of crap, but I know you have it in you to get back up and make things better for yourself. It’s what I’ve always admired you for, you know? Being able to do that. You have other people around you who believe in you. Gansey and Noah and Sargent. Maybe Cheng, if you get to see him around. Your teachers, because I’m sure as hell you’re buddy-buddy with a lot of them. Those guys on the decathlon team.” He cleared his throat a bit. “And of course, there’s that one person who keeps you together every step of the way.” Ronan shook his head, a small smile on his face. “You can’t forget that.”

He probably meant Chris. Adam sighed, closing his eyes again. His next words were so soft, and yet it seemed like they filled the closet.

“Chris and I are done, Ronan.”

A beat of silence followed, which felt a lot longer than it actually was.

Then, Ronan’s voice was low and dark. “Did he hurt you?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

A tear had left Adam’s eye before he could help it, and it felt onto his jacket sleeve. He sniffled and shook his head. Ronan shot him a concerned look.

“It was--ah, God--many things, I guess. He broke it off. Said he didn’t have the same priorities as I did. Which was... fine. I’m not sad about it.” Adam stared straight ahead. “It was probably a long time coming.”

Ronan was silent after that, and Adam understood. It was because in this moment, he didn’t know his place with Adam yet.

“I don’t think I loved him,” Adam continued, answering one of the questions Ronan was probably itching to ask. He felt Ronan tense beside him. “We never said the words to each other either. He was great, but... I don’t think there was ever that pull. We were together for quite a bit, but it never got to that point.”

“How long?”

“Almost three months.”

“Shit.”

“I know. I don’t know how I even made it past one.”

And Ronan laughed then, loud and true, and hearing it made Adam’s heart jump. Just a little. 

But enough that Adam had laughed a bit too.

“You are many things tonight, Adam Parrish, and one of them is a complete asshole.”

“I deserve a prize or some shit for my level of tolerance.”

Ronan shook his head in amusement, and looked up at the ceiling again. The tension between them had eased considerably, a huge weight falling off of Adam’s shoulders. Adam wondered if this was what it felt like to be removed from everything he had to do, everything he had to be.

“You deserve so much better, yeah?” Ronan said, knocking his head once against Adam, and Adam felt that tug again, a little stronger this time. “You’ll be okay.”

Relief flooded Adam’s system, and Ronan was near him, was so close to him that the cogs in Adam’s brain were starting to malfunction. He was just broken up with a few hours ago, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t be feeling like this.

It shouldn’t feel this right.

“Guys?” Two knocks on the door came, and Adam mentally cursed. Fucking seven minutes. “Time’s up. I know you guys must be enjoying, though, but hurry up.”

Laughter came from the rest of the people outside, amidst shouts of Get a room! and Aren’t you guys broken up already, anyway? Ronan exhaled steadily.

“I guess we’re done here,” he said, and Adam felt all the peace drain from him as Ronan moved away and stood up. Ronan offered a hand, then withdrew it when Adam shook his head.

“Suit yourself,” Ronan said, turning around, and Adam just couldn’t take it anymore.

“Wait. Ronan. Stop. I--” Adam did his best to scramble to his feet, his legs not taking kindly to being suddenly held upright. He held onto the wall for leverage.

“Something wrong?”

Adam was frustrated now, as more knocks came from outside. “Okay. It can’t just be me.”

“What--”

“Do you not feel it too? Ronan. Ronan. I get it now. Or... at least I think I do. It’s been too fucking long. And you’re finally here.”

Ronan crossed his arms. Something moved along his features, as if he was trying to make sense of the matter. “But you broke up with me. Why should there be anything--”

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know why I’m feeling something. But it feels right, Ronan, it feels like we fit. And we might’ve ended on one of the worst possible notes back then, but believe me when I say that ours was the last time I ever tried to fight for a relationship.”

Adam had taken too much out of himself with that monologue, and he slumped back against the wall, barely holding himself up. He was breathing a little heavily, but he wasn’t done.

“The others that followed, they all went as easily as they came, because I never tried to make them stay. There was nothing compelling me to do so. But you, Ronan. We fought so much, and each time, I was so, so scared I was going to lose you. It did get to a point where we had to go our separate ways. It really was too much to handle back then. But now. Now I see why the others didn’t mean as much. As much as I tried to forget about all of it, I don’t think I ever stopped feeling the way I felt about you.”

Ronan’s hands were clenched into fists as Adam finished, chest heaving a little.

Then, Ronan surged forward, cupping Adam’s face with his hands as he kissed him.

It was a mix of grief and relief and anger and happiness and pain and regret, and Adam wrapped his arms around Ronan, holding him as close as possible. Ronan’s tongue licked into Adam’s mouth, and it was everything Adam had been missing since all those years ago. Adam’s face was streaked with more tears now, because he didn’t realize he was holding onto so damn much. Now, he was more than ready to let everything go.

They pulled apart after a few minutes, Adam resting his forehead against Ronan’s and Ronan wiping Adam’s tears away. The knocks became louder, more insistent.

“Go the fuck away, asshole!” Ronan turned to shout at the door.

“Heh. Classy.”

“You’re one to fucking talk.” Ronan’s arm slipped around Adam’s body.

And as much as Adam wanted to continue the kissing (because the drought had lasted so long and he was here, he was here), they still needed to finish talking.

“Ro’, if we do this again, I... I wouldn’t know what to do if we fucked up again.”

Ronan looked Adam in the eyes, a determined look on his face. Adam’s heart was beating hard against his chest, and he took a deep breath to calm himself down.

“I can’t promise that we won’t, Adam.” And Ronan’s other hand went up to cup Adam’s jaw. “But I swear that I will be with you to fix things if we do.”

It was honesty, brutal and real, and Adam held onto it like a lifeline. He nodded, closing the space between them and kissing Ronan again, a little slower this time around. 

Because if Ronan could admit to their shared humanity, their similar capability to make mistakes, then maybe this time around, everything will be alright.

[kuriquinn]

An Inch of Gold [Interlude IV]

Author’s Note: Yeah. I did that. Another update within little over a week. I was just so excited about getting my patreon up and running that I suddenly got inspired! As usual, pretty unedited. This is for everyone who wanted a bit of Adult!Sakura awesomeness. With some Adult!Hinata awesomeness too, because I love the supermoms! Also, um, little bit of graphic violence here.

I still haven’t updated the links on here for IOG, so if you intend to read the story from the beginning WHICH I HIGHLY RECOMMEND YOU DO IF YOU HAVEN’T READ THIS STORY SINCE IT WAS UPDATED IN 2017, the story is located in full on FF.net / Ao3 and wattpad.

Blackened bodies line the floor of the stone-enclosed rotunda, gaping holes where their hearts should be, and shrivelled remains of those organs crushed nearby.

Konohamaru flips the last of his opponents over his shoulder, directly in the path of Hinata, who shoves two fingers forward and detonates the chakra surrounding its heart. The bat-like creature screams, wings shaking, and then drops to the floor.

“Think that’s all of them?” he asks, glancing at the two women.

The ground shakes again, forcing them to center their chakra against the floor to keep upright. There is a movement across from them, and then it seems as if the entire rocky wall in front of them, from ground to ceiling, suddenly breaks off.

Hateful yellow eyes glare down on them from on high, and a giant foot steps down, landing several metres away from them.

Konohamaru groans. “I had to ask, didn’t I?”

Sakura sighs. “There’s always a big one, isn’t there?”

The veins in Hinata’s eyes pulse, and her pupils flick back and forth quickly.

“There’s more than one seal on this one!”

Which makes sense, considering its size.

“How many?” Konohamaru asks through gritted teeth as another foot stomps down, forcing giant craters into the floor beneath its clawed toes. Drools drips from the creatures maw, splashing over them.

“Eight!”

“Eight—like the Eight Gates?” Sakura cries, thinking fast. Everyone knows the location of those, if only from study.

“Exactly!”

The giant, shambling creature reaches down, trying to grasp hold of them in its mottled blood red hand. The shinobi scatter in different directions, but it almost grabs hold of Hinata. The curse-seal seems to make it faster than something of its size should be.

It swings for Sakura next, and she meets the blow with a snarl, punching its grasping hand away. It does not seem bothered by the blow, and once again goes for Hinata.

It specifically seems to be targeting the women, perhaps knowing that they are the key to its destruction. The constant flailing makes the ground shake and granite fall from above them, and in the distance, Konohamaru can hear something collapse together.

It might be durable, but it’s hindered by this place. If it keeps moving around like this, it will bring the place down!

Which might not hurt it, but it could cause cave-ins elsewhere, and hurt his students and their parents. If only there was—

An idea occurs to him.

“Mrs Boss! Did Boruto ever tell you how his class passed their Academy final?”

Hinata and Sakura’s eyes flick toward each other in a look of dawning comprehension.

“We need to confuse it first, so it doesn’t know who to get to,” Hinata says.

Sakura nods. “Alright, Konohamaru—we’ll follow your lead on this one!”

“Right! Kage Bunshin!”

Four clones of him appear—the maximum he can sustain while also having them use any long-term A-rank techniques—and at the same the two women form hand signs for Henge.

Seven Konohamarus scatter as the curse-seal creature brings down its hand, raking across the stone ground. They spread out in a circle around the beast, and it tosses its head in frustration trying to decide who to go after first.

Using its momentary pause, the seven figures form their next bevvy of hand signs, and call out, “Isshi Tojin!”

A swirling seal formula radiates from all seven points, reaching to the edges of the circular room. Within the string light formation, the creature freezes, unable to move beyond it.

“Hinata!” the Konohamaru copy across the room suddenly says. “I have an idea, if you’re game! But it could get messy!”

“Everything is already messy,” the Konohamaru-copy to its right says.

“Konohamaru! Can you keep the circle together on your own for a few seconds?”

“As long as it’s only a few seconds,” Konohamaru and his clones chorus.

“Alright then!” the clone that is Sakura says. “And…now!”

The copy beside her breaks in to a run, the sealing circle around it vanishing as it darts forward. Konohamaru grunts, feeling as if a heavy weight has been added to an already difficult burden, but holds tight.

Sakura maintains her own part of the seal until the last possible second, before letting go—Konohamaru snarls in effort as the weight doubles—and grabbing hold of the clone. At her touch, the transformation is undone the women revert to their normal forms. Sakura crouches, grabbing Hinata’s around the left bicep and right thigh, and then propels her toward the giant.

In midair, twin lions flare to life as Hinata barrels to the creatures middle. As Hinata pierces through its abdomen, Sakura takes her position once more in the sealing circle.

Konohamaru shudders, still struggling under the weight of the jutsu, but then Sakura is focussing her chakra, taking much of the burden off of him.

The beast’s back arches, and they can see frenzied, jagged movements beneath its leather skin—Hinata using her Jūho Sōshiken from inside. Within seconds, blue flames burst from its abdomen and Hinata lands on the ground in a rain of black blood and viscera.

“I got three,” she says grimly, spitting out blood.

Konohamaru and Sakura allow the Isshi Tojin to break, and Sakura darts forward as the beast falls, knees folding beneath it and screaming in agony. Leaping through the air, she yells—“SHANNARO!”—and slams two fists directly into its head, sending shards of bone into its eyes and brain.

That’s two more, Konohamaru counts, leaping up onto the creature’s chest and snarling, “Doton: Doryuso!”

Giant spikes of earth punch through the earth beneath them, puncturing it just above the abdomen and through the ribs.  

“Did I get them all?” he demands, even as the creature continues to stir beneath them.

“No, there’s one left!” Hinata calls from the ground. “You just missed the heart by inches!”

But Sakura is already charging forward, sliding into a crouch and kicking outward with her right leg. One of the spikes is shattered all the way through and begins to topple. She has it in her hands then, balancing the enormous slab of condensed mud, and brings it down hard on the left side of the giant’s chest.

The beast gives one last screech and twitch, and then goes still.

The three of them wait, panting, for yet another wave of enemies to come at them, but it is utterly silent in the echoing chamber now.

Konohamaru lets out a breath and leans on his knees. “Oh, man, what a relief…I don’t think I could do anymore!”

Hinata and Sakura glance at each other, and smile.

“I must look a real mess,” Hinata says, anxiously pushing a blood-slicked lock of hair behind her ear. “I hope I don’t make Boruto and Naruto worry, thinking I’m hurt.”

“You look fine,” Sakura grins. “I’ve seen much worse. And they know you better than to think that could hurt you.”

“Hm.” Hinata nods. “Alright, let’s go.”

They start toward the rickety staircase, and something occurs to Konohamaru.

“Hey—hey, wait! I have a name for that combo you guys used: The Boss Lady Stream!”

“Not now, Konohamaru…”

つづく

Hope you enjoyed it! Also, this is the last Interlude before the end of the story. Gasp! I know! Who knew this story was ever going to end?! But as of right now, I’ve got five chapters and an epilogue outlined. Of course, when I predict how many chapter I always tend to be a little off, and I really like the idea of having the fic be 40 chapters in total (including prologue, interludes and epilogues), but we’ll see…

If you enjoy my writing, I encourage you to check out my patreon, where I am publishing my original fiction! Every little bit helps!

栗

[dailybestiary]

I don't really have a question, but found your Tumblr and am working my way through the archives. Wanted to give a shout-out to another fan of the old Mystara Known World game setting. Grew up with it, I'm assuming as you did, and love seeing someone else make reference to it. Keep it up!

I love the Known World/Mystara unreservedly.  You’re right I grew up with it and absolutely embrace it despite (or because of?) the utter weirdness/illogic at its core.  The Gazetteer series punched way above its weight class, I can’t say enough good things about the Dawn of the Emperors and Hollow World box sets, and I think my feelings about “The Voyage of the Princess Ark” series in Dragon Magazine speak for themselves.

In fact, this March I was on a cruise around the Galapagos—which I haven’t mentioned before now because I wanted to get pictures posted, but that still hasn’t happened, so I might as well spill the tea anyway—and I thought a fun thing might be to take a look back and write a little primer on “VotPA” for readers who don’t know what I’m talking about.  (I mean, writing about a magical airship while being on an actual cruise has a nice symmetry, right?). Unfortunately, I simply did not have the spare time or equipment (typing on an iPad suuuckssss) on the ship to pull off such a feat.  But maybe this summer?  Who knows?  First I need to work on regularly posting monster adventure hooks for more than two days straight first...

[officialleehadan]

Barroom Brawl

Callen Tor was a tall man, but not a big one. His frame was more wiry than bulky, although Cora would bet he punched well above his weight and would probably cheat given the slightest opportunity. Tattoos crawled down his forearms, an abstract collection of elemental fractals and tunes, with the marks of supernatural beings mixed in here and there.

It wa possibly the beat combination of magic and ink that Cora had seen since she first learned about tattoo magic from a wizened old yakuza lady in Japan. At a thought, any of those tattoos would wake, and Callen could unleash the devastating magic they channeled.

Far faster than actual spell-casting, although there was a good chance he could do that too.

“You’re a hard man to find,” Cora told him, as she slid into his favorite booth, cunningly chosen for its’ magnificent view of the whole bar. Months of tracking him, and she had finally pieced it together.

After a heist, he disappeared for six months to a year. After he came back to the city, he began putting together a crew fo his next big heist. It was clever. Made it hard to pin anything on him, since he wasn’t around for questioning.

Not that it mattered. His heists were always shiny clean. Professional. Everything they had on him was questionable at the very best, and completely unfounded except that he was the only one who could have pulled it off, so it had to be him.

Frankly, Cora was surprised he was still in town, considering his father’s murder.

Oddly, that made her wonder if he had actually done it. It broke his pattern, and generally the best of the best kept to their patterns religiously.

“You’re a brave cop, to walk into this bar,” Tor noted. He had a heavy slums accent going, but something about it sounded like an affectation. If she had to guess, it was to make people think he was stupid. “There are men from all three Families having a poker game in the back. Jackknife is three tables over, and pretty much no one here likes anyone with a badge.”

“Except firefighters. We like them.”

Cora bit off a curse.

Rao Byrn. Callen Tor’s best friend, half demon, and probable demon-pactmate. Even without the demonic aspect, he was a huge man with immense bulging muscles and a fondness for fighting that wouldn’t be out of place in the MMA ring.

Cora didn’t think she could take them both on in a fight. One or the other maybe, but together they were a serious problem, and that was assuming she was quick enough to kill Tor’s magic before he leveled the building.

Fortunately, neither of them seemed to be inclined to fight. At least not yet.

Byrn had two fresh beers and passed his partner one before he sat down, a wary eye on the rest of the bar.

“We do like the firefighters,” Tor agreed, and slid his nachos over so Byrn could get at them. “But they barely count as badges. You, on the other hand...”

“Technically I’m not a cop either,” Cora said, and saw a flicker of interest cross Tor’s eyes. “I’m here about the murder of Breton Tor.”

Callen Tor immediately, and rudely, spat on the floor, which summed up his feelings on his father rather well.

“Wasn’t me, but I wish it was,” he said with a venomous smile. “And before you get any bright ideas, Lisette has been in France all month, and it wasn’t her ether.”

That part Cora knew already. Lisette Tor was much easier to pin down than her brother. Born a natural beauty, she spent a great deal of her time modeling. Presently she was the favorite muse of a particularly renowned painter who kept her in high style.

Cora wondered what her painter friend though of Lisette’s criminal brother. Probably not much, since Tor was pretty much in a class of his own as a thief, and the only thing on his record was aggravated assault from years earlier.

“I’m looking for the person who did it,” Cora told him casually, and took an easy swing of her own beer. “You might not mind that Breton was murdered-“

“Properly pleased, really,” Byrn corrected her. He had an accent, but for the life of her, Cora couldn’t place it. Somewhere between Irish and Russian, but distinctly neither. “Wouldn’t mind buying them a drink if we found out who it was.”

“So no idea who would want him dead badly enough to beat him, torture him, and cut his throat to the bone?”

Cora kept her voice light, but they all knew the question for the trap it was.

Byrn roared with laughter as Tor chuckled into his beer.

“Genuinely no idea,” he told her when he managed to stop laughing. And had elbowed his huge friend to quiet the games of laughter to some decidedly undignified snickering. “The shorter list would be people who didn’t want him dead. It’s not like my asshole sire made himself well-liked.”

“Anyone besides you at the top of that list?”

“Lisette,” Tor grinned and took a sip of his beer, flashing more deep tattoos spiraling up under his sleeves, “Rao, here. Any of the Family Men he screwed over in the last lifetime or so. He was popular. Take your pick.”

“Name names for me, Tor,” Cora said, although she really wasn’t surprised it was going this way. No one ever took Tor for an idiot. At least, not more than once. “The faster we do this, the sooner I go away.”

“But we were just starting to like you,” Byrn said cheerfully, still chuckling. “Askin’ Cal would want Breton Tor dead. Funny, you are.”

“I don’t see the joke,” Cora said. She was fishing for information and they knew it, but it might pay off. A sorcerer and a demon were always worth watching, and like it or not, blood called to blood. “And I could use a name or three.”

“Last time I saw him, he was blackmailing me into a heist,” Tor finally coughed up some real information and Cora hurried to write it down. “We had words, and I didn’t see him again after that. About a week later he turned up dead.”

“By words...?” Cora was still hoping for just a little more, and something told her this would be important. “WhT do you mean by that?”

“He beat the shit out of me,” Tor said bitterly, and hiked up his shirt to show more tattoos and a set of deep, half-heeled bruises. “I put him through a wall, pretty polite no considering, and left.”

“Sounds like motive.”

“If you had grounds, I would already be in cuffs.”

Before Cora could reply, the door blasted open and sent shards of wood across the dirty floor.

A dozen men rushed in, clad in unmarked body armor. Each carried a heavy semiautomatic rifle, and they moved like trained professionals.

Byrn and Tor shot to their feet even as Cora kicked over the metal table and took a knee behind it, scant but vital cover.

The new arrivals raised their rifles even as the bar dissolved into chaos. Bullets went everywhere, and Cora was deeply grateful for the thick metal blocking the worst of the fire.

“Friends of yours?” Tor ducked into her cover, closely followed by Byrn. With a snap of his fingers, a shield appeared around them, blocking the rain of bullets. “Lot of firepower for a conversation!”

“They’re not with me!” Cora snapped and pulled her gun. Body armor or no, a good shot would drop a man just fine, and did when she methodically began targeting kneecaps. “You think the cops would storm a place with one of their own inside?”

“Thought you weren’t a cop,” Byrn rumbled and began flinging hands of almost-black fire at the men across the room. Screams announced his aim was good. “Are they badges?”

Cora stole a quick glance and spotted another man, with expensive-looking bodyguards beside him, behind the strike team.

“Callen Tor!” The man yelled when the gunfire slowed, and was only punctuated by groans of pain from the injured. “Come out now or we burn you out!”

“They really don’t know us,” Tor said to Byrn, a sardonic smile on his face. “Thinking fire will bother us one bit. Just sloppy, really.”

“Want me to-“

“Probably best if you don’t.”

“Right-o. Tell me if you change your mind.”

Cora really wished they would use human words, and not the language of two old friends who mostly communicated in shrugs and incomprehensible jokes. “Go live me a minute. I’ll get backup on the way, if hey aren’t already from the gunfire.”

“Don’t bother,” Tor said tightly, and jerked a thumb upwards. “This is the slums. Gunfire is as common as rain here and cops aren’t welcome. Rao, the sprinklers.”

“On it,” Byrn agreed, and blasted the piles above the strike team. Water poured down and soaked the men thoroughly. “Enough?”

“More than enough.” Tor yanked up his sleeves to display cat paw-prints shaped from lightning bolts. They blazed to life and sent electricity crackling over his hands. “Get down Badge. Don’t want to cook you in those cute boots of yours.”

With that he sent a cat made of lightning prowling out around their shelter.

“Try not to kill them,” Cora said, even as the gunfire slowed, and then ceased as men went down, twitching as the cat stalked them, electric paws deep in the growing puddle beneath them. “Irma hard to convince cops to protect a guy who killed twelve guys by himself.”

“They’re not dead,” Tor drawled, and peered over the table and through his shield. “Hey mister! You coming in to talk? I’m not dead!”

There was no answer. When Cora peeked out herself, the man was gone.

His lackeys were already being zip tied, no doubt by Family soldiers, called when the gunfire started.

“Congratulations, Callen Tor,” she said as got to her feet and tucked her gun back under her coat. “Someone has an axe to grind against you.”

“They aren’t the first, and they won’t be the last,” Tor said, but all trace of joking drawl was gone, and only icy seriousness remained in its place. “And they’re going to have to be much, much better than this to take me alive.”

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Secondhand Souls:

Partnership of Flames

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