#war on the catwalk

[leoholzer]

Oscar Isaac as Poe Dameron in The Rise of Skywalker

[magicandmundane]

Hemlock, tossing a rag at Hunter and Crosshair: It’s a white flag, and you may as well start waving it right now.

Omega: The only thing I will be waving is your decapitated head on a stick in front of your weeping mother!

[istharaix]

Talking about star wars parallels, i was thinking about kanan and ezra/qui-gon and obi-wan

Not only do both have the "i'm not good enough to be your master so i'll push away , it's what's best for you" and "i'm doing my best, why do you push me away? am i not good enough to be your padawan?" dynamic, but also S1 E15 where they fight the Inquisitor??

Cause we know that last time a master and an apprentice fought a dark force user with a double red lightsaber on the high catwalks of a power generator/reactor, where the padawan falls to the lower pathway leaving the master to fight alone and the dark force user finally falls to his death... it didn't end up so well.

[emperorsfoot]

The next time I have to write an immortal character, I'm going to remember how I feel right now, as I look for a vet who makes house calls to euthanize my cat because I don't want my baby to die at the vet.

No more of these cold emotionless immortals. "I have seen many humans come and go" bullshit.

[sw5w]

Qui-Gon on the Offensive

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:55:51

[yoursrosie]

OR

designers in the galaxy hire clones to model their designs AND they get to keep the clothes

Everytime i read an AU where the war ends and the clones get rights and everything i cant help but wonder how they would dress.

You have these guys who have literally NEVER had to dress themselves. There were always uniforms and they have primarily been around clones and jedi and then the war is over and they just have to start?? Wearing normal clothes??

I feel like this scenario would end in some of the most horrendous outfits the galaxy has ever seen. Just millions of very very badly dressed men.

[tierras]

UAL students for justice in Palestine protest at the Central Saint Martins BA Fashion Show 2024

"Protesters lined the balconies on the floors above the atrium where the show took place, dropping a huge patchwork banner directly above the catwalk. Across it, messages including ‘Stop Genocide, Free Palestine’, ‘Ceasefire Now’, and ‘Money for jobs and education NOT for war and occupation’ had been stitched, alongside the Palestinian flag and watermelons.

Throughout the show, the students shouted ‘Free Palestine’, while calling for boycotts of L’Oreal, which sponsors the CSM BA show annually and supports three winning designers with funds as they graduate from the school. L’Oreal is currently listed on the BDS boycott list. Later, they dropped messages calling for UAL to ‘Divest our money from banks and businesses funding Israel’ and highlighting that there were ‘No universities left in Gaza’" x

[keferon]

Ahhhhhhhhh! The TF mecha Deadlock and human Ratchet drawing! I just saw it before sending this. His squishy! But yeeee! Continuing from the last one I wrote. Just pulled ideas from other posts you and others have done in this TF mecha universe. This is fun! :P

****

Ratchet's living quarters is much like the hanger where his lab is. An open area with some dividers up to make separate rooms. Scaffolding and catwalks line the wall and stairs are at each corner of the hanger. The interior is smaller when compared to the lab but the ceiling is much taller, allowing Deadlock the ability to sit up right comfortably. It looks like a little maze to Deadlock who can look down from above. Out of the five rooms in this hanger turned living quarters, Deadlock can't see into three of them. Ratchet's berthroom, the kitchen, and washrack all have ceilings to them. Ratchet's office is connected to the sitting area. Being the largest area in the hanger Deadlock has taken over the sitting area to recharge and heal in. Being the Chief Engineer no one has questioned Ratchet for having Deadlock in his hanger because Ratchet always takes work home with him. Also don't question Ratchet.

A click from the main entrance door has Deadlock stir from his recharge. Old instincts and habits have made him a light recharger. He opens one optic, a red glow fills the room. Blinding bright and staticky at first but dims and clears as his visual boots up. He see Ratchet opening the tiny entryway to slip out. He rumbles knowing it is way to early for Ratchet to head back to his lab. Ratchet had maybe, at most, gotten two hours of recharge. Deadlock gives a rumble/grunt again, this time it sounds more like a wheeze as he starts to shift to grab his little squishy who has already opened the door and stepped half way out. He is using the door to make himself unsnatchable not without breaking the thin metal.

Number one rule while in Ratchet's domain: Don't break Ratchet's things, he NEEDS them. The objects Ratchet chuck do not/can not hurt him. The disappointment and tired frustration however does hit something deep in his war worn spark. "Power back down kid. Just leaving for an emergency meeting. When I get back I'll check your intakes and engine. It's rattling and straining hard again." Ratchet says in a deep rougher voice used only when he wakes from recharge. The door click behind the human not giving him time to reply in his drowsy state. He rubs his fresh welded wounds and with a unhappy grunt curls loosely back around what Ratchet calls a lazy-e-boy chair and entertainment center.

ALL DAY! All day Ratchet has been gone. Deadlock should be use to Ratchet's long work days. But Ratchet didn't fuel before he left, he hasn't recharged in a long while. Two hours is not a recharge. Not for him, not for Ratchet. He is worried, it oozes out and around him from his EM Field like a shadowy murky cloak. His audial fins are pinned down and back as far as they can go. Ratchet looks so worn down. Overworked and shoulders heavy with responsibly the Cybertonian knows the bioengineer should not have to bare. The tv is on to use as a distraction but it no more then background noise as his proccesor runs through scenarios of what could be keeping Ratchet this time.

The door lock clicks and Deadlock instantly perks up. His EM Field fizzles away from gloomy to a more warm and bright mood. "Ratch-" He stops immediately when Ratchet comes through the door. Deadlock rakes his claws into the concrete floor and his field starts boiling with the energon in his lines. Ratchet is bruised and bleeding. The humans forehelm and knuckes are covered with fresh and dried blood. His glare intensifies as Ratchet closes the door and slumps against it with a grumble. Ratchet grunts as he takes off his shoes and dirty jacket. Deadlock's helm is filled with static and his spark heavy and spinning way to fast. He can taste energon on his glossa thanks to his fangs. Rage is not what is taking over his sensors and proccesor. Something more like a deeply rooted need, something instinctually feral burns hot in his frame. "WHO'D DARE-" Ratchet holds up a hand and makes a hushing noise, Deadlock snarls engine rattling harder to keep up with his burst of energy and restrained energon lust. His limbs shaking with just as much restraint. The only thing keeping him from ripping the hanger down is Ratchet's hunched form at the entry way. When Ratchet looks up at Deadlock his jaw snaps shut, denta slamming hard against each other with a harsh clank. The fragger looks amused! Tired, frustrated, and hurting but Deadlock knows that look. Those lips are ever so slightly turned up into an amused smirk, "R a t c h e t." Deadlock hisses out passed his denta audial fins pinned back.

"Relax, before you blow a fuse. You should see the other guy. These are just scratches Drift." The fragger chuckles wiping some blood from his lip with his thumb. That does something to Deadlock that he will not acknowledge right now. His spark flutters and pulses harder, EM Field a confusing mix of emotions that Ratchet can't feel, "I had a disagreement with some of the others in command while another sister base visited. I am fine. Been in more then one scrapping in my time." Ratchet hums as he limps into his office, Deadlock claws at the floor again. "I did not party and study my whole younger life away just to get my PhD in biomedical engineering and be told how to do my job. I may have got a tad heated." He chuckles again at Deadlocks snort/huff.

Deadlock relaxes slightly as Ratchet pulls out a medical kit. His systems are running hot and HUB flashing warnings at him do as Ratchet suggested. He relaxes slightly and presses his servo against his helm. "Frag doc starting fights for a disagreement?" He rasps out watching Ratchet closely while he steadies his intakes. The human carefully works on cleaning the blood stained knuckles, Deadlock takes some pleaser in knowing all that blood is not just Ratchet's. "You're just as much of a hot menace as me."

"For you." Ratchet mumbles as he gently rubs ointment on the cuts. "They wanted me to turn you over to the field officer. Told them that you are still a work in progress that needs more time. That you came to my lab mmm.." Ratchet realizes it's the next day, a whole day wasted arguing in a concert room with metal chairs. With stuck up, pathetic excesses for- "Two days ago now.. said I activated some guardian protocal that day by accident which what brought you looking for me. They think you are imprinted on me. Something like that." Ratchet winces as he wraps his most bruised and swollen hand. A whine leaves Deadlock's stuttering engine, the tip of his pointer digit's claw has been hovers over Ratchet's helm as the doc talked, "What is it Drift?" Ratchet pauses from reaching for the alcohol soaked cotten ball. He looking up into overly bright, almost white with worry optics. Ratchet's optics dart around looking over Deadlock's form and healing welds.

Deadlock wants to huff, to roll his optics at the bioengineer's worry for him. But he can't stop his spark and fuel tanks from turning while he watches the red liquid drip down Ratchet's forehelm and optic ridge. "I... can't help you. You are hurt.. cause of me... and I can only watch you patch yourself up." He admits dimming his optics and looking down. All of this because he got impatient and hunted down his squishy to get him to recharge for once.

Ratchet's optics soften slightly. He shuts the kit with a sharp snap and huffs as he straightens from being hunched over. "Hand down please." Deadlock's audial fins perk up at the request. He carefully and gently, as gently as he can, places two digits into the office room. He lifts Ratchet up slowly once the small being had found a good spot to sit on his servo. He doesn't want to risk even the slightest breeze to brush against the bruised and cut flesh. He makes certain his servo is locked so it doesn't twitch on them. "This is high enough. Stay still." Deadlock is about to scold him when he thinks Ratchet is going to check the welds on his chassis. Instead Ratchet pops the kit back open and works on himself. Deadlock's vocal box clicks a few times as he tries to comprehend what his squishy is doing. His spark flutters with his EM Field when he realizes Ratchet is using his metal plating like a mirror. Ratchet dabs the cotton ball on the cut above his left optic ridge. "Didn't feel like going all the way to the bathroom. So thanks kid."

Deadlock purrs and almost melts from the thanks. Yes he will happily be a mirror. "Clever thing to do doc. Have those idiots thinking I am loyal and protective to only you will mean I can follow you around more. I am content being imprinted on you. Just tell them you can't undo it doc and if they touch you ever again I will pluck their little tiny servos off and feed it to them." He rumbles in a flat tone towards the end. He rolls his optics at the small ping from Ratchet flicking his chassis, "You may start a fight doc but know I will finish it."

"Didn't really start it either kid." Ratchet sighs looking at his reflection with a solemn expression before going back to dabbing the cotten ball harder against the cut, "Wasn't just about you Drift. They wanted.... they want..." Deadlock wants to curl around Ratchet the tone he is using now sounds like defeat, that's not his Ratchet. Deadlock lifts his free servo and retracts a claw so he can rub Ratchet's back as best he can to comfort him. "I can't." Ratchet rasps placing his forehelm against Deadlock chassis. Deadlock's engine settles to a purr Cybertonians use to sooth each other. It seems to work. Ratchet's shoulders relax and he seems to be getting his thoughts together. Deadlock stays silent and even if he doesn't need to keeps his EM Field in check. He only giving off support, warmth and calm, "It's inhumane, evil... Tourture... It would break down to much of the muscles and cells of the body. The hippocampus, the cerebral cortex, and the frontal lobe... that much damage to the brain would... I can't do what they want me to. Not to anyone Drift. Not what they ask. I can't. To adults, to teenagers, To Children. Young kids not knowing what they have signed up for. Never told. No choice. No way in hell could I ever-"

The strain and deep pain in Ratchet's voice is killing Deadlock. Deadlock can feel the trembling coming from Ratchet as the human catches his breath. He keeps a steady presser against Ratchet's back for support as he moves him up. He ignores the small gasp from Ratchet when he presses Ratchet to his cheek gently. Warm smooth metal touched warm soft skin, "Never. Never will you do what anyone demands of you. They can not make you harm anyone. You have never done anything you didn't want to and you won't start now. You are to much for them to try to control. My little squishy scraplet. I will kill them if they try. You have my glyphic, honor, and spark on this." Deadlock pulls back feeling something wet on his faceplate. Before Deadlock can get a good look at Ratchet's face, the bioengineer is shakily wiping his optics in a rushed motion aggravating the wound on his forehelm making it bead up with fresh blood, "Woah easy doc!" Ratchet bats his digit away when he tries to stop him.

"Stupidly cocky little shit! Lets get you feeling better before you try taking on a whole mecha filled base for me!" Ratchet laughs and smacks the digit still pressed against his back. That laugh does something to Deadlock's systems and spark, "We'll need to discuss a plan. I don't ever do anything half ass. I will not go into anything blind. But you are right, this is not the place for me to be anymore. Sad really. I was doing a lot of good here, made things safer for our pilots. Slowly sure but less were dying... so horridly all the time." Ratchet mumbles the last bit under his breath before shaking his helm. Deadlock likes the smirk that comes back to Ratchet's lips, "Now lay down so I can check that engine. You are starting to sound like a shitty abandoned junker car. Think you knock something out of place."

Deadlock matches Ratchet's smirk with a slag eating grin as he lifts the human a tad higher to press his forehelm against Ratchet's. He feels Ratchet pulls back after a moment, a stuttering raspy purr rumbles pleasantly through him when Ratchet places his servo against his forehelm and rubs. Yeah he does sound like slag and his HUB is flashing warnings, "What ever you say Doc. I am your guardian knight after all. You just tell me when to start swinging." He hums as he shifts to lay down.

Y O U. YOU JUST WROTE THIS ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE OF A FIC??? AND I DONT EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME?? WHOEVER YOU ARE, ANON, I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH NGKGKFGBFHGH YOUR WRITING DOES THINGS TO MY BRAI N

Also. Al s o. I just realized. Oh my god.

We have two Cybertronians on Earth at the moment right. Prowl and Deadlock. But Prowl is very much restricted in his actions because he has strong moral codex and also he's not a very good fighter (at least on his own).

But then we also have Deadlock. And the only thing keeping Deadlock in check is. Ratchet.

Like. Oh fuck just imagine. He isn't restricted by any moral implications except Ratchets opinion. He doesn't really give a fuck about other organic life or laws of Earth or anything. He is also a really fucking good fighter. He doesn't commit murder because that would disappoint Ratchet, but if. IF. Something happens to Ratchet?

THE HELL he would unleash would be visible from outer space.

Him being so sweet and caring and protective over Ratchet doesn't mean he behaves like this with everyone. Him being protective over Ratchet means that if anything takes Ratchet from him, he'll drown himself in blood. He'll burn, claw, gnaw, punch and tear his way back to his human.

All so he can be nice and sweet and caring again right afterward:)

Next

[shimmerandink]

Gifts of Chaos

Jinx x Vi`s Girlfriend! Reader

Angst/one-shot

Tags: Jinx x reader, Vi x reader, you are Vi´s girlfriend, manipulating jinx, flirty behavior, girlfriend stealing, sfw

Summary: You, Vi´s girlfriend meets Jinx who get´s an interest in you. Vi however is not pleased and as time progresses your relationship slowly starts falling apart...

Masterlist pt2 pt3

The smell of smoke still lingered in the air when Vi stepped into the abandoned factory, her boots echoing against the cracked concrete floor. You were right behind her, staying close, your fingers brushing the small of her back, more for your reassurance than hers. You had heard stories about Jinx. Everyone had. But for Vi, it wasn’t a cautionary tale. It was blood. It was loss.

And now she was here.

Jinx stood atop a half-dismantled catwalk above, lit by flickering neon tubes she must’ve dragged in herself. The electric hum buzzed like insects in your ears, casting her in shadows and shifting light, half angel, half threat.

She jumped down with that impossible grace, landing with a soft clink of metal. Her boots, her belt, her weapons, everything about her screamed danger. But her grin? That was something else. Sharp, but curious. Wild, but almost childlike. She looked at Vi like a ghost had walked into her life.

And then her gaze slid to you.

The grin faltered.

Her head tilted to the side, slow and smooth, one of those braids swinging with the motion. Her pupils dilated just a bit too much, her smile twitching like static before settling into something unreadable.

"...And who is this?"

You froze under her stare. It was intense, not hostile, not at first, but strange. Hungry. Curious. Like you were something she didn’t expect to see, didn’t know she wanted to see until now.

Vi stepped in front of you, voice cold. "She’s not part of this. Don’t even look at her like that."

But Jinx didn’t look away.

“Your girlfriend?” she asked, dragging the word out like it tasted foreign in her mouth. "Seriously, Vi? All those years crying over me, and now you’ve got yourself a pretty little thing to patch the hole?"

You felt Vi tense, her jaw locking, but it was hard to focus with Jinx still watching you.

Not looking. Watching.

There was something in her eyes, like she was trying to peel you open and see what was underneath. And worse?

Part of you couldn’t look away either.

You didn’t flinch when Jinx stepped forward, though your heart was doing its best impression of a war drum. She was too close now. Close enough that you could see the way her pupils danced, always shifting, never resting. Like her mind was running a thousand miles a minute and you had become its latest obsession.

“Didn’t peg you for the soft type, Vi.” Jinx tilted her head again, letting out a low whistle. “She yours? For real?”

Vi’s stance didn’t change, but you could feel the shift in her breathing. Controlled. Tight. Ready.

“Yeah. She’s mine.”

Jinx let out a slow, dry laugh. "Cute." Her fingers twitched near the trigger of her gun, but she wasn’t aiming it. Not yet. “Tell me, "Mine",” she said, mocking Vi with the nickname, “do you even know who you’re cuddling up with at night?”

You opened your mouth to say something, but Jinx’s hand lifted, one finger pressed to her lips like a secret. “No no, don’t answer yet,” she whispered. “I wanna guess.”

She circled slowly, not stalking, but prowling. A cat curious about the mouse that doesn’t run.

“You’re not like her. Not rough around the edges. You’ve got soft hands, clean shoes. That uptown scent.” Her nose wrinkled slightly, but her smirk only grew. “You’re a Pilty, huh? What a twist.”

"Jinx," Vi warned, her voice low and dangerous.

But the younger woman’s eyes didn’t leave yours. “You know what I think?” she murmured, voice almost gentle now. “You make her feel like she’s not broken. Like maybe, if someone like you can love her, she isn’t so far gone.”

She took another step forward, and this time...you didn’t back away.

She noticed.

That crooked grin returned, but there was something different in it now. Something quieter. Less performative. “Huh,” she breathed, head tilting again. “You’ve got guts, sweetheart. I’ll give you that.”

Vi moved between you both again, her chest brushing yours as she shielded you. “Back. Off.”

But Jinx only backed up with a lazy shrug, hands raised. “Relax, sis. I’m not gonna hurt your new toy. Wouldn’t dream of it.” She licked her lips, eyes still flicking toward you. “Not unless she wants me to.”

Then she was gone, fading into the shadows with that soundless, uncanny grace, like a ghost returning to the dark.

You didn’t realize how tight your grip was on Vi’s arm until she turned to you, gently prying your hand free.

“You okay?” she asked.

You nodded slowly... but your eyes lingered on the spot where Jinx had vanished.

-----------------

It had been nearly two weeks since you saw her, Jinx. But that night still played on loop in your mind like a broken reel, skipping back to her smile, her voice, her eyes. Especially her eyes.

Now, you sat across from Vi in a quiet little café tucked away in one of Piltover’s cleaner districts. The walls were a soft amber glow, lined with hand-painted tiles and hanging plants, like the kind of place that begged people to feel safe. The warmth of the lighting should’ve calmed you.

But you were anything but calm.

The soft chime of silverware against ceramic. The faint clatter of cups being washed behind the counter. Vi stirring her coffee too long, round and round with a spoon that barely touched the sides.

You couldn’t tell if she was thinking or just avoiding speaking.

Your food sat half-eaten. Warm stew, rich with spice and tenderness, but you’d been chewing like your mouth was made of cotton. You couldn’t taste anything anyway.

Finally, Vi broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice low and rough like she hadn’t spoken in hours.

You looked up slowly. “For what?”

She stared down into her cup, watching the cream spiral like it might spell something out. “For bringing you down there. For letting you near her.”

Her. Even when she didn’t say the name, it hit like a slap.

Vi’s fingers tightened around the ceramic cup. “She wasn’t supposed to see you. I didn’t think—” Her jaw locked. “She looked at you like you were a fucking puzzle. And she doesn’t let go once she’s curious.”

You sat back slightly in your seat, eyes lowering. You didn’t want to lie to her.

Because part of you had felt it, too. That pull.

You still felt it.

Vi continued. “Jinx... she gets in your head. Always has. Back when we were kids, she’d twist people around her finger without even realizing it. Then blow it all up like it didn’t matter.”

The ice in her tone made your skin crawl. Not because she was wrong. But because it made you feel guilty. She doesn’t know what it did to you.

Vi leaned forward across the small table, reaching out to take your hand in both of hers. The callouses on her palms brushed against your softer skin, comforting, familiar. Steady.

“She’s dangerous. I don’t care if she smiled at you or made you feel... whatever. That’s what she does. I’m just glad you walked away untouched.”

Untouched.

Your throat tightened.

If only Vi knew.

Because Jinx had touched something. Not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. Like she’d crept inside a locked room in your chest and refused to leave.

“She won’t come back,” Vi said, almost like a promise. “I won’t let her.”

You nodded slowly, forcing a smile.

But your heart beat a little faster. Because you hadn’t told Vi about the strange symbol you found etched into your coat pocket the day after.

Or the folded scrap of metal you found in your purse. The one that wasn’t there before.

Or the smell of gunpowder and cherry gum that somehow lingered in your closet when you knew it had been shut for days.

Vi didn’t notice.

But you did.

And when she looked away again, back to her coffee, back to her guilt, you allowed yourself a tiny breath you didn’t want to examine too closely.

Because deep down...

You were kind of hoping Jinx would come back.

----------

The apartment used to feel like home. Now, it just felt like a box closing in.

The air inside was heavy, thick with something unsaid, something rotting between you and Vi. The warmth that used to sit between you both, that steady kind of love, had turned into a brittle, breaking thing. And maybe... maybe you weren’t doing anything to stop it.

Another fight.

You weren’t even sure what triggered it this time. Maybe Vi’s exhaustion. Maybe your distance. Maybe the way your mind had been elsewhere for weeks, caught in the web of something you didn’t want to name.

Vi stood across from you, jaw tight, fingers flexing at her sides like she was forcing herself to stay still. The dim kitchen light flickered slightly, buzzing between you both.

“You barely even talk to me anymore.”

Her voice was raw, low, edged with frustration but lined with something that almost sounded like hurt.

You swallowed. “I do talk to you.”

Vi scoffed, shaking her head. “No. You exist near me. That’s not the same.”

Your arms folded tightly over your chest, like maybe if you held yourself together hard enough, the words you didn’t want to say would stay locked in.

Vi exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I feel like I’m losing you, and you won’t even fucking tell me why.”

Because I don’t know how to explain it.

How could you? How could you put into words the way something else had taken root in you? That every time you looked over your shoulder, you swore you saw a shadow just waiting for you to notice? That the little “gifts” left behind, burned playing cards, twisted scraps of metal, a single bullet with a smiley face etched into the casing felt more like a secret language than a threat?

Vi stepped closer, her presence grounding, real. Her voice softened just a fraction. “Whatever this is... just tell me.”

She was asking for honesty.

You gave her silence.

Vi’s expression hardened. She let out a bitter laugh, stepping back like she was realizing something too late. “You know what? Fine.” She turned away, gripping the edge of the counter. “Keep shutting me out. Keep pretending like I don’t see what’s happening.”

Something inside you twisted.

Vi shook her head. “I’m not gonna fucking beg you to be honest with me.”

You flinched at that.

She scoffed, her voice dropping. “You want space?” She gestured toward the door. “Take all the space you fucking want.”

Your throat felt tight.

Maybe you should have fought. Maybe you should have stayed.

Instead, you grabbed your jacket and left.

------------

The city swallowed you whole.

Piltover’s clean streets bled into the underbelly, the winding alleys where the glow of street lamps didn’t quite reach. Your breath curled in the cold night air, hands stuffed in your pockets, shoulders hunched against the weight of everything left unsaid.

Vi’s voice still rang in your head. I’m not gonna beg you to be honest with me.

She didn’t know. She didn’t understand the pull inside you.

Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s what scared her.

Your fingers brushed against something in your pocket, something you didn’t remember putting there.

You pulled it out.

A small, round coin. It was warm, like someone had just been holding it. A familiar smiley face was scratched into the surface, jagged and uneven.

Your breath caught.

A breeze curled around you, carrying the faint scent of something sweet, something that shouldn’t be here.

Gunpowder and cherry gum.

No fucking way.

Something shifted in the shadows up ahead.

And then—

“Well, well... look who finally came looking for me.”

You froze.

Jinx stood just beyond the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, one boot propped against the crumbling brick behind her. The neon streaks in her hair caught the low light, her cyan eyes glowing in the dark like something feral.

She was twirling a small knife between her fingers, lazy and smooth, like muscle memory. Her grin was wide, but her eyes, those goddamn eyes, stayed locked on you.

“I was starting to think you weren’t interested,” she teased, tilting her head.

You swallowed, hard.

She took a step forward, slow and deliberate. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? You liked my little presents, didn’t you?”

A lump formed in your throat.

Jinx smirked. “Cat got your tongue?”

The night air felt thick around you, heavy and suffocating as Jinx moved ever closer. Each step she took toward you felt like a slow burn, a spark edging ever nearer to a fire you weren’t sure you wanted to stop. The only sound was the soft scrape of her boots on the cracked pavement, each movement deliberate, calculated. She was savoring this. Savoring you.

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve turned on your heel, swallowed down the tightness in your throat, and gone straight back to Vi. That’s what a good partner would do, right?

But Jinx’s voice pulled you in, weaving through your defenses like a poisonous melody.

“Y’know,” she murmured, her eyes never leaving yours, “I thought I was imagining it the first time. The way you looked at me.”

You stood frozen, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Her eyes, those cold, calculating eyes, held you captive, drawing out every ounce of shame, every flicker of desire you tried so hard to bury.

“But then I saw you again. Same look,” Jinx continued, her grin almost predatory. “Made me wonder… who were you really thinking about when you crawled into Vi’s bed at night?”

You didn’t know how to answer, because the truth was, every time you closed your eyes, it was Jinx you saw. The way she laughed, the way her hair glowed in the moonlight, the way her eyes burned into you like she could see inside you. You’d tried to deny it, but it was undeniable now.

She knew.

Her smile widened as your silence spoke louder than anything you could’ve said. “Oh, there it is,” Jinx said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. “That guilt. That tension. You’ve been thinking about me, haven’t you? Can’t get me out of your head. But you still tell yourself you’re not the one who’s lost.”

Her fingers twitched, the knife she’d been twirling now gone from her hand, slipped into the sheath at her hip. She didn’t need it. Her words were sharp enough to wound you, and she knew it.

Jinx stepped closer, one slow, deliberate step at a time, closing the distance between you with a predator’s grace. She was playing with you, circling you like she owned every inch of this moment. You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but each movement she made only pulled you deeper into her web.

“You ever think about me, cupcake?” she asked, the nickname grating on your skin like sandpaper, but the way it rolled off her tongue made you feel things you couldn’t admit even to yourself. “Late at night, when you’re in Vi’s arms? When you’re kissing her, and it still feels... wrong?”

You hated how much it hurt to hear her say that. But you didn’t hate how much it was true.

You hated how much you wanted to believe it.

You swallowed thickly, but the words wouldn’t come. Jinx noticed your hesitation, noticed the way your breath quickened, the way you shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

She grinned, and it was sharp. “Oh, that’s it,” she purred. “You don’t wanna admit it. You think I don’t know? But you’re just mad Vi doesn’t make you feel like I do. Like this.”

She stepped closer, her breath warm against your ear, and for the first time since she’d appeared, you felt your body react to her. Her proximity. Her words. Her touch, her danger.

Jinx’s lips brushed lightly against your earlobe, and the warmth spread through you like wildfire, making your heart race even faster. “You’ve been playing pretend for so long, haven’t you? Hiding from what you really want. But it’s not gonna go away.” Her voice dropped lower, darker. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She lingered there for a moment, then pulled back just enough to look at you. Her eyes danced with mischief. “Go on. Run back to her. Tell her you went for a walk and got lost.” Her lips curled in that same sharp, twisted smile. “Or don’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

And with that, she turned away, her steps light and casual, but every single movement dripped with confidence. She was walking away, but you could feel her pulling you with her.

“You won’t be able to resist,” she called back over her shoulder, her voice carrying in the night. “I’ll leave you another present, sweetheart. Let’s see how long you can pretend you don’t wanna open it.”

And just like that, she was gone. Her figure blending into the shadows, her presence hanging over you like a curse.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, the cold wind biting at your skin as the adrenaline started to wear off. Your heartbeat thudded in your chest, each pulse sending a wave of guilt and want crashing through you. Jinx was right, you wanted her. But you didn’t know what that meant anymore.

And maybe... maybe you never had.

Your fingers shook as you reached into your pocket, feeling for the coin she’d left for you. You pulled it out slowly, your hands trembling. It was warm, like she had just touched it. The familiar smiley face stared back at you, its jagged edges looking almost too real in the dim light.

This was no coincidence.

It was a challenge.

And you couldn’t tell if you were terrified or excited.

[magicandmundane]

Friendly reminder that the first time we see Hunter’s and Crosshair’s faces they’re in the same frame and they’re the only ones in said frame

[cursedcanon]

Bad makeup.

Jujutsu Kaisen Men Reacting to Waking Up with Hideous Makeup

(You did this on purpose, and your grinning at them as they look in the mirror.)

Characters:Gojo , Choso , Geto , Sakuna , Toji , Nanami , Yuji and megumi

GOJO:

He blinks at his reflection, tilting his head as if the absurd sight might change with a different angle. His normally handsome face is now a chaotic masterpiece of smeared neon eyeshadow, exaggerated clown lips, and what might be an attempt at blush but looks more like war paint.

“…Wow.” He grins, turning to you. “I always knew I could pull off anything, but this? This is next level.”

He poses dramatically in the mirror, stroking his chin. “I call this look ‘Cursed Beauty’. Thoughts?”

When you burst into laughter, he only makes it worse by striking model poses and blowing you kisses with his overdrawn lipstick-stained lips. If you were hoping to fluster him, you failed—now you have an overconfident, overdramatic Gojo parading around the house like a catwalk model.

And worst of all? He insists on keeping it on for the rest of the day.

CHOSO:

Choso blinks sleepily at his reflection, slowly taking in the horror before him. His entire face is coated in mismatched foundation shades, his eyebrows are drawn on like squiggly caterpillars, and his lips… oh god, his lips.

A deep sigh leaves his mouth. He looks at you, still groggy.

“…Why?”

But the grin on your face answers everything. He pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something about “modern human courtship being confusing,” before returning his exhausted gaze to the mirror.

“I look like a villain in a children’s cartoon,” he deadpans.

Still, when you keep giggling, he just sighs and resigns himself to his fate. He wipes off the lipstick but leaves the rest on, because, well… if it makes you happy, then whatever.

SAKUNA:

The King of Curses scowls as he sees his reflection, his face now resembling an unholy fusion of a drag queen and a horror movie clown. His usual markings are buried under thick layers of concealer, and his eyes are drowning in an ungodly mix of hot pink and lime green eyeshadow.

His eye twitches. He turns to you slowly.

“You dare.”

You only grin wider, unfazed. “Oh, I dare.”

For a moment, it’s dead silent. Then, in a move that should terrify you but somehow only makes you laugh harder, Sukuna grins.

“Alright,” he purrs. “Your turn.”

He lunges. You scream and run, but there is no escape. Minutes later, you find yourself pinned beneath him as he drags his clawed fingers through random makeup products, ready to unleash his revenge.

GETO:

Geto blinks at himself, rubbing his eyes like he must be dreaming. But no, the nightmare is real—his elegant, usually composed face is now a canvas of neon catastrophe. His eyebrows are drawn thick and bushy, his cheeks are streaked with poorly blended contour, and his lips are overdrawn to a ridiculous degree.

“…I see.”

His voice is calm, but you can feel the betrayal in it. He turns to you, arms crossed, gazing at you like a disappointed parent.

“And what, exactly, was the artistic vision here?”

You burst into laughter, and he simply sighs. “I suppose I should be thankful you didn’t shave my eyebrows.”

Still, despite his outward exasperation, you catch him later that day staring at his reflection in the mirror, poking at his ridiculous lipstick job with an amused smirk.

TOJI:

Toji doesn’t react at first. He just stares at his reflection, taking in the mess of gaudy blue eyeshadow, bright pink lipstick, and absurdly thick fake freckles drawn all over his cheeks.

Then, slowly, he tilts his head to the side.

“…The hell is this?”

You’re practically wheezing at this point, unable to answer. He narrows his eyes, then looks back at the mirror, rubbing his chin like he’s assessing a battle strategy.

Finally, he smirks. “Y’know, I think I could rock this.”

And then—to your absolute horror—he struts out of the room, shirtless, in full makeup, walking with the confidence of a man who has never once doubted himself. Even worse, when Megumi walks in and stares at his father in stunned disbelief, Toji just grins and says:

“Your mom did this. Ain’t she talented?”

Megumi walks away immediately.

NANAMI:

Nanami stares at his reflection, his expression unreadable. His usually sharp and refined face is now smeared with what can only be described as “circus chic”—unevenly applied red lipstick, aggressively bright blush, and heavy eyeliner that makes him look like a washed-up rockstar.

He exhales sharply. “…I see.”

He turns to you, his stare piercing. You’re grinning like a kid who just got away with mischief.

“I thought we had an understanding,” he says, voice dangerously calm.

You just giggle. “Oh, we do. The understanding is that this was hilarious.”

Nanami closes his eyes for a long moment, visibly collecting himself. Then, with the dignity of a man who has given up, he wipes off the makeup with a tissue and goes to make coffee. He doesn’t speak to you for exactly twenty minutes.

Later, though, you catch him hiding a small, amused smile.

ITADORI: 

Yuji lets out a loud, exaggerated gasp the moment he sees himself in the mirror. His jaw drops.

“NOOOO! MY BEAUTIFUL FACE!”

He grabs his cheeks dramatically like he’s in a soap opera, then whirls around to you with an utterly betrayed look. “I trusted you! And this is how you repay me?!”

You’re already dying of laughter, and his over-the-top reaction just makes it worse. He collapses onto the floor in fake devastation.

But then—because it’s Yuji—he starts posing in the mirror. “Actually… wait. Maybe I can pull this off.”

And now you’ve created a monster, because Yuji spends the next half hour taking ridiculous selfies, fully embracing the disaster makeup.

MEGUMI: 

Megumi stares at his reflection. He blinks.

Then, he turns to you slowly, eyes unreadable.

“…Why.”

Your laughter only grows louder. His expression doesn’t change, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s holding back a sigh. He runs a hand down his face, smearing the disaster you’ve created.

“Great,” he mutters. “Now I look even worse.”

You half expect him to storm off and wash it off immediately, but instead, he just quietly walks out of the room. You later find him lying on the couch with a pillow over his face, silently regretting every life choice that led him here.

You also notice that, while he wiped off most of it, he left the ridiculous red lipstick on. Just to spite you.

[gravedwe11er]

My brain's been completely consumed by @keferon 's mecha pilot AU lately, especially all the texaid things, and I just had to add my own two cents to the pile! So, here is Felix/First Aid's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day (followed eventally by a much better one).

cw for gore and violence, as well as the usual things that come with Vortex being Vortex

He’s still scraping out the remains of the latest unlucky bastard, the sharp stench of cleaning agents mingling with the iron-sweet tang of blood and making his nose burn, when the enemy-incoming alarms bathe the whole hangar in red. Immediately, the usual post-battle calm turns into a frenzy of shouts and barked orders, dozens of footsteps rushing to and fro.

It hasn’t even been thirty minutes since they’d come back from the last fight.

Swearing to himself, Felix wills his hands to stop shaking as he finally succeeds in prying out the - god, is that the guy’s finger? – from inside the pilot’s harness. He throws it out of Vortex’s cockpit in the vague direction of the catwalk, not bothering to see if it landed in the glorified body bag they give him for these clean up jobs. Ten pilots ago, they still used to bring a stretcher in a show of, what- misguided optimism, maybe? Now, they can’t even be bothered to pretend.

The floor is still filthy, bodily fluids splattered liberally all over the cockpit, but Felix can hear the next pilot/sacrifice marching up the catwalk and prepares to make himself scarce, content at least in the knowledge that all the more solid bits of the last one have been disposed of. He gets up on unsteady legs, eager to get out of this stinking grave when the blood red plexiglass of the cockpit suddenly slams shut in front of his face. The hydraulics hiss as they complete lockdown procedures, entombing him inside.

His blood runs cold.

There’s frantic banging on the glass, from the outside in, from the inside out. There’s shouting, from the pilot, from control, asking what’s going on, telling him to get out, get out now. There’s a sharp, heavy gaze pressing down on him, with all the suffocating weight of a rockslide, and Felix feels oh so very small.

Beneath his clenched fists, words coalesce into being on the glass screen, white on arterial-blood red; it makes him think of bone shards in an open fracture.

TAKE A SEAT

Felix starts, jumping away from the glass. Stumbling backwards, he gapes, mind reeling, before forcing out, “Please, I don’t- I’m a medic.”

I KNOW

“I’m not- I’m not a pilot,” he whispers, pleading with the cursed thing, shivering like a leaf under the thing’s crimson lights. Something in the machinery around him hisses, a stuttering staccato of a sound, and Felix somehow tenses even further as the screen in front of him changes again.

I DON’T WANT ANOTHER PILOT. I WANT YOU ; )

His heart stutters in his chest. “Why?”

BECAUSE YOU’RE PERFECT

The letters blink out, only to be immediately replaced, bigger than before. More forceful.

TAKE A SEAT

He does. His hands shake like never before as he puts on the pilot’s helmet, still reeking of the previous pilot’s blood and sweat and fear. Dozens of others have died here, at the behest of this deadly war machine, corrupted AI or cursed or whatever the hell is wrong with it. All in the name of humanity’s survival. Felix is sure he’s going to join their ranks today.

Through the haze of oncoming panic, he idly wonders which one of his colleagues is going to be mucking his entrails out of here, when all’s said and done.

The machinery around him comes alive and his head swims, wisps of his-but-not blinding agony and fear and malevolent glee flitting through his mind as the neural connection settles. Felix feels a pressure on the inside of his skull, almost like a greeting, a jaunty knock on the gates to his brain as a voice echoes from inside-outside-everywhere.

“Let’s dance, baby!”

The mech lurches, enormous frame shaking and hydraulics hissing as it disconnects from the docking station, heading for the hangar bay doors with almost a spring in its thundering step. For a moment, Felix considers trying to stop it, grasping at the controls, dragging the cursed thing back into dock and forcing it to spit him out. Then he remembers the bloodied fingers on the floor, or stuck in sharp gaps between internal plating, and shoves his clammy, shaking hands under his thighs.

The stuttering hiss of what’s probably the ventilation system rings through the air, almost like a choked off giggle, as an intrusive presence hums amusement-approval in his head.

The next seconds or minutes or hours are something of a blur, a waking nightmare soaked in adrenaline and cortisol. Vortex walks itself out of the hangar doors, side by side with other mechs, who look like children next to its imposing size. It does so under its own power, without Felix’s input, and this shouldn’t be happening, none of this should even be possible. Felix is no technician, and definitely no pilot, but he knows the mecha aren’t autonomous, can’t be autonomous, but it’s moving anyway and there’s someone else in here, someone else in his head and he’s laughing at him and-

Then he sees them. The world snaps into sudden clarity.

Felix never thought they could really be that big. He’s read reports of the destruction they bring, seen the wrecked cities on TV (and may or may not have taken a good look at a few pieces of them in the labs without permission), but- he didn’t really get it. Not until now. He kind of wishes he could go back to that, honestly.

The monsters, the quintessons, roar as they notice their group of mechs, who suddenly look so terribly small in comparison to the quints’ lumbering, many limbed forms. Almost immediately, their somewhat nonchalant destruction turns into an organized assault as the group of about two dozen charges right at them.

“Oh god,” he wheezes out between short, terrified breaths. “No, no no, get away, get me away from here-“

Suddenly hearing a chuff of laughter from what simultaneously sounds like the inside of his head and behind him, Felix jumps in his seat as he feels the phantom of a breath on his ear. “Aww, are you scared, Felix? Don’t you worry, darling.”

For a moment, everything stills, the mech around him like a coiled spring, a calm before the storm. An overwhelming wave of foreign bloodlust crashes over him, setting his blood ablaze as the war machine leaps into a run, Felix trapped inside and powerless to stop it. With the thrumming wail of integrated weaponry charging up, they meet the quintessons head on.

“We got this.”

As the fighting begins, Felix somehow manages to stray so far into panic he’s almost feeling calm again. Vortex lunges and parries and strikes, the presence in control of the mech clearly a skilled pilot, and Felix watches with a growing fascination as the monsters fall apart into bloody pieces under its – his, Felix thinks - servos. He sees the thoracic cavity of one open up underneath Vortex’s arm-blade, and his mind, conditioned from years of dissections and med school, snaps into action. Oh, looks like a dual cardiovascular system, with the secondary brain here, and the primary would most likely be- Almost immediately, he feelsthe thought being picked up on, examined, and the ghost/mech/whatever it is sends interest-glee-let’s-see-for-ourselves through the neural connection before changing the trajectory of his strike. The sword cuts clean through where Felix thought the primary brain would be, and the thing seizes in Vortex’s grip before going limp.

There’s a near-deafening buzz of mechanisms all around him, crimson light flaring bright. “Ha! That’s what I’m talking about!” sings through his brain, praise-delight humming along his nerves, and Felix can’t help but let a tiny, nervous smile twitch at the corners of his mouth.

“I told you you’d be perfect, baby,” purrs the voice inside his head, and he could swear he feels two hands, cold and intangible, settle on his shoulders, as the battle rages on.

The alarms flare on the late end of breakfast period, turning Felix’s once slow morning into a mad scramble. He races past other pilots and various personnel, stumbling into his quarters, shoving his uniform on before running out again, already feeling out of breath. All the supplementary pilot training he’s been going through, and, if he’s honest, flunking through, doesn’t seem to have done his physical condition much good. Still, it’s not like it matters much, and both he and his superiors know it, but appearances must be kept up nonetheless.  Or so they say, at least. Can’t let the public know their most efficient mech is somehow piloting itself, apparently.

He finally gets to the hangar, his fellow pilots giving him a wide berth as he heads towards Vortex’s cockpit, doing his best not to trip over his feet in his haste. A small smile strays onto his face and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees some of the others stepping further away from him.

Felix is not a very popular man these days, though it’s not like was much of a social butterfly before either - always too awkward, a little too odd for most people to enjoy hanging around. The frequent twelve-hour shifts in the medbay, sneaking off to the research labs and Vortex cleanup duty after he was caught certainly didn’t do him any favors.

Now, though? It’s like he’s got the plague. Most of his former colleagues are dismayed at his sudden reassignment, the sudden changes in their schedules leaving them crankier than usual, though it’s not like he was all that close with them before. The various base personnel keep out of his way, seeming to consider him as cursed as the mech he pilots, his very presence a potential bringer of bad luck. Meanwhile, the actual pilots view him as an intruder into their ranks, exempt from the usual camaraderie that comes with the job.

He can’t deny that it stings a little, even though he’s pretty used to the feeling of rejection. Still, it helps that he's never really alone anymore.

It’s a thing he’s heard about from some earlier tests, from other mech models around the world, those types who tried their hand at connecting two people together to fight as one. How their minds, even when disconnected from their machines, still have a thin little thread connecting them for days, weeks after. He looked it up, after their first mission, when the distant feeling of a presence would linger in the back of his head; gleeful and pointed and anticipatory. It used to unnerve him before, but now, like everything else he sees as he steps into the open cockpit, it’s just- familiar.

Somehow, Vortex has become a balm on his eternally shredded nerves, the capricious, sarcastic bastard comfortably fitting himself into Felix’s life and making it- well. If not better, then definitely more interesting.

The gaze of Tex’s camera eyes never gets any less sharp, or less heavy, but he no longer feels like he’ll buckle under the weight of it. The inside of the mech is as clean as can be, because though he might be a pilot nowadays, he’s still a doctor by trade and he refuses to spend hours at a time sitting in a walking biohazard. The glass clicks shut behind him as he hops in, locking him securely inside as a string of ridiculous little white hearts and smiley faces scrolls across the red screen.

Felix snorts a quiet little laugh, laying a hand on the plexiglass, a building anticipation both his and not making his nerves buzz. “Hey Tex. Ready to go?”

YOU KNOW IT, BABY

“Then let’s dance.” Felix borrows the other man’s usual phrase with a small smile, buckling into the pilot’s harness and putting the helmet on his head in a newly familiar motion.

It takes a few moments to ride out the initial discomfort of the establishing connection, but then Vortex - or Victor, but that name is mostly as dead as the owner of it - is there, their minds snapping together like puzzle pieces. Delight, excitement and the ever-present bloodthirst washes over their shared thoughtscape, and Felix sends greeting-happiness-anticipation in return, feeling, as is usual for him these days, much better with Tex’s dark presence in his head.

“Let’s fucking dance, darling.”

He never would have thought they’d end up here, like this - hell, he didn’t think he’d survive their first battle together. But survive he did. Against all odds, against all previous expectations, Vortex had let him go then, with a winky face and a jaunty ‘come again soon!’, aching and terrified, but alive. And then he survived the next time, once command seized on the obvious opportunity to lessen their losses and sent him back into the jaws of the beast again. And then the next. And the next, until suddenly, he’s got dozens of successful missions under his belt and he’s still not dead.

People have questioned him about it, over and over. He never knows how to answer, to describe the understanding they’ve found with each other, so he simply keeps repeating the same thing – it just sort of works.

Once the bay door opens, orders coming in through the comms in Felix’s helmet and scrolling across his visor, they disembark, long strides taking them out into the foggy morning air. Three other mechs on their heels, they make their way to the coords where the quints were reported to make landfall, anticipation-excitement thrumming through them like an electric current. As always, there’s a thread of anxiety running through Felix’s body, but he doesn’t let that stop them, steadying himself against Tex’s ironclad confidence and working to keep his breathing steady.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to fully shake that, no matter how many times they do this – it’s a very sensible fear, after all. He’s going right into the heart of danger, protected only by a breakable veil of glass and steel, mind-in-mind with the ghost of a dangerous man.

Perhaps one day, a single missed strike might lead him to bleed out right here in this cockpit, mirroring the fate of the mech’s first and last true pilot. Maybe he’d join Victor in here too, another ghost in the machine. Maybe humanity will lose, and they’ll both be torn apart by the writhing hordes of quints, ground into so much shrapnel along with the rest of their species.

Or, maybe one day, Vortex will get bored of him, splaying Felix’s blood and sinew across the interior of his cockpit like a particularly macabre painting, yet another victim of his moods joining the already sizable collection. It’s definitely a possibility, though he doubts it more and more each passing day. They’re way too tangled up in one another now, and maybe he’s flattering himself, but - he thinks Tex might miss him, if he was gone.

Not today, though. Today, they fight like they’re dancing, perfectly in sync, Tex’s skills made all the more lethal by Felix’s ever-expanding insight into the biological makeup of their enemy. They shoot and hack and slash, aiming for weak spots, quintessons dropping in their wake as they tear through them like wet tissue paper. A well-aimed punch saves a fellow pilot from being skewered, Felix sending a wave of gratitude through their connection – though Vortex himself couldn’t care less about the lives of others, he knows Felix does, and the fact that he’s willing to do this, just for him? Well. It means a lot, to say the least.

Cold, there-but-not arms wrap around him from behind in a ghostly embrace, a chin laying down on top of his head. Felix leans into it as much as he can, a smile on his face, and he feels Vortex’s feral grin in his head as they dive back into the fray. Together.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

As always, endless thanks to my beta @jayden-writes, sorry for putting giant robots on your plate, again. I appreciate you.

[leapingbadger]

Truth. But he makes it look soooo good!

i swear this man will be doing model poses til the day he dies

[sw5w]

Backflip

STAR WARS EPISODE I: The Phantom Menace 01:52:38

You can clearly see this is Ewan McGregor's stunt double, Andreas Petrides, in this scene.

[vexwerewolf]

Showrooms of LANCER Manufacturers

IPS-N

IPS-N showrooms are what you'd get if you slammed a truck dealership, a hardware store, a camping gear shop and a sports bar together in the Bass Pro Shops Pyramid. We're talking row upon row of shelves stocked with the most precision-engineered engine parts you can print on one side of the floor, and on the other, durable, hard-wearing survival gear. Camping stoves you can run off of your mech's coldcore, sleeping bags that'll survive a HEX charge, automatic camo cloth, the works.

Right down the middle, you've got the mech floor. They've got the Tortuga. They've got the Blackbeard. They've got the Drake. They've got the Lancaster and the Kidd. They've got the Vlad (they put a chain-link fence covered in DO NOT TOUCH signs around that one after the infamous CFO's 10-year-old Incident). They've even got the Raleigh, kinda tucked away a little bit behind the water feature, but it's there!

Everything on the shop floor is ruggedized to the point that you could take a mech's fist to it without leaving a dent - and they sometimes do that to demonstrate the engineering quality. There's a giant screen hanging from the ceiling displaying constant advertising for the mechs and IPS-N in general, usually striding purposefully through idyllic Diasporan wilderness or doing hard, honest work like starship loading or construction. There's a mixtape of the most famous bro-country hits playing 24/7.

Smith-Shimano Corpro

In a word: bespoke. Everything in this place is custom. Each and every desk is individually built according to the height of the salesperson who sits behind it, and manages to be a unique art piece without disrupting the overarching aesthetic of the showroom. Whenever there's a change of staff on the sales floor, they rearrange every single desk so that they're still in ascending order.

All of the salespeople are inhumanly pretty, by the way. This atelier has its own fully-staffed makeup and wardrobe team. You're part of a work of art when you work for SSC. Everything and everyone gleams. Even the most chic visitors might feel underdressed in the midst of all this splendour.

The mechs aren't just there to be sold, they're there to be part of the experience. You might see a Monarch holding up the ceiling like the titan Atlas himself. A Mourning Cloak might be posed provocatively like a nude statue. That Swallowtail - is it in a slightly different position every time you see it, or is that just its camouflage decals? How does it always manage to be just inside your line of sight, even when you're looking somewhere else?

They have a catwalk, like you'd see at a fashion show, but it's sized for mechs. If they really think you might make a purchase, they'll queue up the entire performance for you, and you'll get to see a Viceroy strut.

The mix tape for this showroom is a seamless mixture of complex jazz, psychedelic ambient and classical piano music. It's sophisticated and mysterious.

Harrison Armory

Imagine if America could be a showroom. Harrison Armory mech outlets are part dealership, part museum. Every mech is in its own diorama, depicting some heroic event in the Armory's glorious history. A phalanx of Sherman Mk. Is holds the line against some Diasporan slaver-tyrant's army. A Saladin fends off Karrakin hordes during the Interest War. The Genghis Mk. II? Oh, that diorama isn't open right now, it had to be closed for *coughcoughcough* and *coughcoughcough* but let's move on shall we heh heh

Everyone who works here has been in the Colonial Legion at some point, and knows every specification of the mechs they sell off by heart without even looking at their slate. If possible, the Armory tries to employ people who have actual combat experience with the mechs they're selling; people who can speak to the efficacy of their technology first-hand. It's one of the many programs which the Armory has open for retired veterans; it's easy work for decent pay, good benefits and it looks great on your Social.

The music here is a constant loop of patriotic Armory anthems. If you've ever heard the music from Starship Troopers, or the Outbreak of War from Star Ocean, you'll know what I'm talking about.

HORUS

Being a decentralized omninet collective with no official branding or even consistent manufacturing standards, it should come as no surprise that HORUS has no showrooms.

ERR:CONNECTION_INTERRUPT

CartesianWhisper: P55555t CartesianWhisper: Ignore that 5hithead CartesianWhisper: They don't have any idea what they're talking about CartesianWhisper: You want a mech, kid? CartesianWhisper: And I'm not talking the tra5h the Purv5 try to 5ell you CartesianWhisper: Or that overpriced garbage 55C want5 you to mortgage your genetic5 for CartesianWhisper: Or the macho trucker bull5hit IP5-N i5 trying to hawk CartesianWhisper: I'm talking about the REAL DEAL CartesianWhisper: The PROPER 5TUFF CartesianWhisper: Log on to rgx0582.node-7.c4l.omni CartesianWhisper: I'll 5how you what true power mean5 >:]

[watarfallar]

Still got the brain worms

Grian: Are you good? Scar: In what sense? Grian: Generally. Scar: Oh, definitely not.

Scar: Wait you like me? For my personality? Grian: I know, I was surprised too.

Grian: I'm not mean. Name one mean thing I’ve ever done. Scar: When we were younger, you convinced me eggs weren't real. Grian: They're not. Scar: Haha, very funny. Grian: I'm serious. Didn't you hear? Scar: No… what happened? Grian: …Why would you fall for this again-

Grian: Why are you on fire? Scar: This is just how my day is going.

Grian: DID YOU REALLY THINK THAT JOKE WAS FUNNY? IT WASNT. NOBODY IS LAUGHING. Grian: pulls up a graph THIS IS WHEN YOU TOLD YOUR JOKE, YOU HAVE SINGLE HANDEDLY RUINED COMEDY! IVE ALSO ASKED MANY COMEDY SCHOLARS ON THEIR OPINION OF YOUR JOKE AND THIS IS WHAT THEY HAD TO SAY! Scar: I've been researching comedy for the past 20 years, and I have genuinely never seen a joke this bad. We have used quantum physics to look into alternate universes to see every joke made, and yours was still by far the worst. Grian: CONGRATULATIONS! YOUVE SINGLE HANDEDLY CREATED THE WORST JOKE IN HUMAN HISTORY! HERES A MEDAL! pulls up a horrible ms paint drawn star that says "you need help

Grian: I believe in you, Scar! Scar, to themself: God, I must suck. The nicest thing Grian can think to say to me is that they don’t doubt my existence.

Grian: Last night, I had a dream about sandwich pizza. Scar: What? Grian: It was pizza with bread on the top and the bottom. Scar: So a calzone? Grian: You can’t just name things I dream up.

Scar: Good morning! Grian: Is it? Is it really?

Scar: Grian just said "I have an appetite for destruction" and then they reached down and untied my shoe.

Grian: But that’s censorship. Scar: Well done. You are correct. You’re being censored. Now go.

Scar: So I was just having a conversation with Grian about Star Wars; particularly, about the choice of architecture. The amount of people who die from falling down bottomless pits is TOO DAMN HIGH! Like, who designs architecture like this? Catwalks with no guard rails whatsoever, just zigging and zagging through enormous voids. Giant holes to nowhere! Grian: It's by design. It's a cleaner look, for a more elegant time. Scar: Like… who the fuck put this hole here???? And why???? Grian: Exhaust? Scar: Darth Maul falls down a hole, Palpatine falls down a hole, Solo falls down a hole, everyone falls down a hole! Star Wars universe needs OSHA. Grian: Luke falls down a hole, Boba Fett falls down a hole… Scar: Yes, yes, I forgot about those! R2-D2 falls down a hole in the Millenium Falcon after he fixes the hyperdrive. Grian: We're onto something here! Scar: Obi-Wan almost falls down a hole. Grian: C-3PO falls off the barge into the sand. Pretty close to falling down a hole. Scar: His lightsaber does though. Grian thinks hard about what other Star Wars Characters fall down holes Scar: What if the hole is symbolic? The hole represents the dark side. Grian: Nah, doesn't work. Luke chooses to fall down the hole instead of joining Vader/The Dark Side. Scar: Fair point.

Grian: How long do you think it'll take? Scar: I don’t know, three or four. Grian: Three or four what? Days? Weeks? Months? Scar: Yeah, maybe five. Grian: Five what?!

Scar: Ah shit, I forgot. Grian: Forgot what? Scar: How do you expect me to answer that?

Scar: Why do you think I don’t like you? I do. I would kill for you. Scar: Ask me to kill for you. Grian: …First of all, calm down-

Grian: Being half asleep and feeling someone gently plant a kiss on your forehead is one of the purest kinds of love in the world. Scar: Unless you're home alone.

Scar: My goal is not to be the best, but to inspire someone enough to one day surpass me. Grian: YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THAT EVERY TIME YOU BEAT ME AT CONNECT FOUR!

Grian: Act natural. Scar: For this kind of situation, the most natural thing would be to panic, so technically I can panic. Grian: NO, that’s not what I meant! Act like it’s a normal day! Scar: My ‘normal’ days of late, consist of a lot of panic. Grian: Will you just cooperate? Scar: When a person is panicking, they are not apt to cooperate very well!

Scar: venting endlessly to Grian about their week Grian, every once in a while: in a monotone Wow, that is so wild.

Grian: A banker? Me? Scar: Yes, Grian. Grian: But I don’t know anything about running a bank! Scar: Good. No preconceived ideas. Grian: I’ve robbed banks! Scar: Capital! Just reverse your thinking. The money should be on the inside.

At the police station Scar: Hi, I’m here for Grian. Police officer: Who’s Grian? Scar: Ah, you must be new.