#which was considered defecting but they didn’t care. so they went home

[impossible-rat-babies]

In alternative news: eyrie now has a fraternal twin <3

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

The Calm Before

https://www.patreon.com/empyreaniris?fan_landing=true

https://starr-fall-knight-rise.tumblr.com/post/182501791735/master-post

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jzEIdDAB4omdO2JcQVMObfrhLJ5kX4ONmSsLypM1ks0/edit?usp=sharing.\

They had planned for this eventuality as remote as it might have seemed at the time, so as soon as that first crack appeared on the surface of that first eggshell, things had been set into motion.  They didn’t know a lot about the Kree, they had never officially joined the GA, and with their home planet now destroyed, there was little hope of learning more, so keeping what remained of the Kree Race alive would be a daunting task.

There were somewhere between three hundred and four hundred eggs, all which were genetically tested upon hatching. They had enough experience with genetic testing to know which Kree chicks were related biologically and which were not. From there, they were each tagged and chipped for future reference. Upon hatching, each Kree child was immediately inoculated against the void sickness, though the inoculation served more than just a protection against the void.

Injected with adapted DNA, they might potentially avoid the genetic drift or bottleneck event often seen when a population gets this low. They had enough Kree to make 50 mated pairs, if that eventuality were ever to happen, but five hundred would have been needed to avoid genetic drift. They barely had five hundred kree all together, so whatever genetic advantage they could be given was going to have to do.

Their geneticists considered reconstructing extra Kree through artificial means in order to spruce up the population and add extra diversity, but such a program was still a ways off, and would have to be discussed at a later time. Right now, there was still the matter of keeping these little ones alive.

Heading a team of scientists, Krill, directed the creation of a dietary supplement that should fulfill all of their needs, synthesized by examining the egg yolk from which the kree children had been sustained for nearly half a decade. The Kree hatchlings had all been born at the same time, which in itself was surprising, but led the the assumption that the kree had seen their demise coming, and had secreted cohorts of their eggs away in different caches, to create greater chance of survival.

Citizens of Arcadia hated to think that they had missed other caches of kree children on the Kree homeworld before it was destroyed, but those times were past.

This is what remained.

Now that they were fed, and accepting the food that was offered to them, it was up to the scientists to determine what else the chicks needed including the proper temperature, and handling. Assigned handlers used voice modulators to synthesize the kree language almost exclusively when they were working with the chicks. Some even wore hoods in the shape of adult cree heads, and feathered cloaks to simulate Kree parents.

All and all it was a very strange few weeks at the hospital as they took care of the Kree chicks.

Not all of them survived, of course, as was to be expected.

Whether it be from illness, or genetic defect, a predictable few slipped away, and though they were prepared for that outcome, that didn’t mean it wasn’t devastating. More than a few of the eggs never hatched, but that too was to be expected.

Other Laws went into effect following the birth of the Kree, including the purchase of an uninhabited rocky planet to be slowly terriformed over the life of the Kree until they were adult enough to take on the planet as their own. Teams of scientists were tasked with examining live footage taken From the kree homeworld, along with atmospheric readings and ecological information, in order to potentially synthesize a planet similar to their parental point of origin.

It would be a difficult task, but they had learned a lot from the creation of Arcadia,

One thing they had learned.

Sunlight.

Sunlight was a requirement.

Arcadia, and Noctopolis were the only two planets in GA airspace that existed without light of some sort and with every passing month that reality was becoming more and more difficult. Even with the artificial suns, it was becoming clear that maintaining a planet in darkness was not ideal.

Noctopolis was a planet that was never intended to support life for long periods of time. It was a mining colony that was originally meant to be abandoned, and was now solely dominated by a seedy sort of underbelly that kept the terraforming plants working despite the horrendous costs required to keep the planet functioning. All of this due to, in no small part, to their massive blackmarket connections, and the myriad of crime lords that pushed money into funding their sunless affairs. 

Arcadia, on the other hand did intend to survive with a natural ecosystem. The problem was, nothing they had brought here, had naturally evolved for a sunless world. Humans, Drev, Tesraki, Finnari, Dogs, Wolves, Deer, jeffery snakes, Only the space jellies seemed indifferent to the lack of sunlight.

Everyone else….

It was a conundrum, and one they didn’t intend to struggle with on their new Kree homeowrld.

Then there was the matter of raising the kree, no one was really sure how that was supposed to work. No one understood their lifespan or their mating rituals. Krill and the others were already working  with autopsies and other imaging techniques on the deceased kree to get a better idea, but at the very best they were flying on well educated guesses.

One thing was for sure.

Someone needed to raise the kree.

That thought process resulted in an Arcadia- wide plea encouraging anyone who was willing to sign up for potential foster care for a Kree child, a call that was answered with great zealousness, much to the scientists delight.

Such a program wouldn’t be put into place until they had a greater understanding of Kree genetics, but at least they had parents and families on standby were that to happen.

Krill and Riss had discussed the topic at some length and come to the conclusion that they were willing to take up such a position were it ever to arise. Young Vrul grew up so fast, and the triplets were practically adults despite being younger than a decade. It would be an interesting challenge to take on a Kree child in the future.

Adam’s brother, and director of engineering in their space program, David had spoken with his husband Jordan on the subject, and the two of them were glad to take on a Kree or even two, an idea which they brought up to their young son, who agreed readily that he wouldn’t mind having ‘bird brothers’.

Adam had brought up the idea with Sunny on at least one occasion.

She had not been opposed to the idea, but suggested they wait to see what kind of monstrosities that lay in wait from their own genetic union. Sunny had recently allowed for 3D imaging of her own womb-bound children, a choice she immediately regretted upon discovering several pronounced oddities.

Krill couldn’t be sure if those issues were just a fact of their own genetics trying to intermix, or if there was significant malformation.

They would have to see.

Both of them were noticeably nervous.

Her due date was approaching faster than either of them wanted to acknowledge.

To Adam, it seemed everything in his life was happening all at once: Kelly’s Presidency, the SE soldiers, the compromise of the GA chairwoman which they had yet to prove, The potential birth of the twins, and on and on it seemed to go.

And now on the eve of all of this, Maverick had come forward, and was insisting that she wanted the Anima procedure done as soon as possible, a fact which worried both him, and Ramirez to an incredible degree, though Ramirez beat him out on this one.

Ramirez wasn’t generally the kind of person to worry about anything, but upon llearning that maverick intended to let krill cut into her brainstem and, “fuck around with her soul.” as he had so eloquently put it, he had gone a bit overboard in worrying. He might have even tried to talk her out of it, though talking Maverick out of anything was lying trying to convince the ocean to be less salty.

It simply wasn’t possible.

Plus, as she had so eloquently stated, “its my soul to determine who fucks with it and who doesnt.”

Adam didn’t hear the full extent of the conversation, but Ramirez had lost, rather predictably.

It’s not that Ramirez thought he had any control over Maverick’s soul. Ramirez wasn’t the kind of man to try and control someone, man or woman, but He did so, Adam thought, out of a great sense of fear for his friend…. Lover?

Adam still wasn’t sure about that part.

It was clear that Ramirez had some feelings for Maverick, but Maverick was a lot harder to read. As far as Adam had seen, Maverick had never had feelings for anyone, and sort of reminded him of his brother Thomas in that way. The bond she had with Ramirez was more than friendship, but not something so easy to articulate as love. Or, perhaps, that was also the wrong way of phrasing it, What they had was certainly a kind of love, firstly the love between friends then the love between brothers in arms, and perhaps a love that was deeper than either of those things, but still not in the way that Adam Loved Sunny.

He didn’t want to speculate on the topic, it was hardly any of his business, but he hoped Ramirez would be able to recover from her, if, in the end, she decided something else. Or alternatively, he hoped that Maverick knew what she wanted since those seemed like the two options available to them.

Either maverick didn’t feel for Rmirez like he felt for her, or she did, but hadn’t yet figured out how to show it yet, or act upon it. 

Adam hoped it would work out, whichever direction things finally landed.

But that wasn’t even the half of everything that seemed to be happening. With the birth of the kree, he also felt…. A sense of something else, a sort of change. He would have said a ‘disturbance in the force’ if people wouldn’t have laughed at him.

But it felt like things were escalating.

They had been fighting a war for a long time, his life had only been getting faster and more dangerous.

But now, he sensed that there was an end coming. Whether this was to culminate in a good way, or a bad easy, he couldn’t be sure, but still he could sense something was changing, something was coming.

Somewhere in the galaxy Kazna was rallying her forces.

It was time he rallied his own 

[americancowgirl19]

Prince of Hell

Summary: You’re Esme’s brother. You two haven’t seen each other in a long time but now she needs your help to keep Renesmee safe.

Warnings: Death, violence, a little fluff and a little angst

Reader: Male Reader

Pairings: Demetri Volturi x Male Reader

Word Count: 3,108

A/n: Might make a part two

Masterlist

Esme stands in the doorway of Renesmee’s bedroom. The little girl sleeps soundly without a care in the world. Carlisle comes up behind her and embraces her tenderly.

“She’s going to be ok, we’ll protect her.” Carlisle whispers kissing the side of her head. A couple of hours earlier Alice had gotten the vision about the Volturi coming for Renesmee. They came up with the plan to find witnesses to protect her. Esme fears that it won’t be enough.

“Nothing will ever be the same,” Esme whispers. “The Volturi won’t forgive those who stand on our side. Not everyone has a coven to protect them when this is over. They could pick them off one by one when they leave.”

“We won’t force anybody to help us, they’ll know what they’re getting into.” Carlisle whispers. Esme sighs turning in his arms.

“There’s another option,” Esme whispers. Carlisle tilts his head. She slips out of his arms and leads him toward the living room where the rest of their family sits. They’re all planning on who is going to go to who. 

Edward’s the first to look up. Esme has no doubt he’s reading her mind by the curious look on his face. A second later, Alice’s eyes go distant. When she comes back, her eyes fall on Esme.

“What is it?” Bella asks noticing both of their looks. Soon, everyone’s looking at Esme.

“When I was human I was married to a dangerous man,” Esme begins. “When I became pregnant I knew I couldn’t stay with him anymore but I didn’t have the money or the resources to leave,” Esme takes a seat on the plush chair toward the middle of everyone. “So, I went to my brother and told him everything. He got me out that night,” Esme smiles softly as she thinks of you. “We had been close as children but drifted apart as adults. But that night it was like nothing had changed. He took care of me, kept me safe,” Her eyes fall down into her lap. “Then I had the baby and two days later... I lost him,”

“Greyson?” Edward question remembering her son.

When Carlisle changed Esme she had a week old son named Greyson. He grew up with them after Esme learned how to control herself.. He didn’t want to become a vampire and had died of a heart attack only a decade ago.

They had been able to hide him from the Volturi. They had only found out about him when Edward went to Volterra when he believed Bella to be dead. By then, however, Greyson was dead.

“Yes, Greyson,” Esme nods. “He had a lung defect. He was supposed to be dead which is why... Why I jumped off the cliff before Carlisle found me.” Carlisle places a comforting hand on her shoulder. She smiles up at him and places her hand over his.

“How did he survive?” Bella asks.

“My brother, Y/n... He sold his soul to save my son.” Esme told them. 

She remembers the day he had done it. Esme had been spiraling and you just knew she wouldn’t live in a world without her son. You couldn’t bare the thought of losing Esme and knew you had to do something to save her son.

By the time you sold your soul, Esme had already jumped off the cliff. You had a few years before the hounds of hell came to collect you. Esme stayed with Carlisle and learned control. A day before your time ended, you found Esme and gave her the five year old son.

“Sold his soul?” Emmett asks, raising an eyebrow. Esme didn’t blame them for being skeptical. There were fewer demons on Earth than vampires. The ones that were on Earth stayed hidden and played with the humans from the shadows.

“He’s a demon.” Alice whispers connecting the dots.

“A demon? Those exist?” Rosalie asks. Esme nods.

“Where do you think nightmares and tragedies come from? Deaths so unexplainable that not even a shapeshifter or a vampire can understand?” Esme asks them. “Most of them are locked away in hell and can only come up if they manage to escape or are summoned by someone. They’re stronger than a thousand newborns combined,”

“That’s why the Volturi were afraid of him,” Alice says thinking back to her recent vision. “None of their powers worked on him and he was more powerful than all of them,”

“So, how do we get in contact with this guy?” Emmett asks.

“It’s not that simple,” Esme tells him. “It’s very dangerous. If we mess up we could be releasing something far more dangerous than him. If we do it right, there’s no guarantee that he’ll help us. He’s been a demon for almost a hundred years, there’s no telling if my brother’s still... himself.” 

Bella turns her head toward Edward. Esme watches them waiting for someone to say something. A few moments later, Edward looks back at Esme.

“How do we contact him?”

The moment the question leaves his lips the room drops in temperature. It’s enough to send a shiver through Jake’s spine. The lights flicker as the windows begin to be covered with frost.

“Ask nicely,” Everyone’s head turns toward the corner. Sitting in the shadows is a man dressed in black slacks and button up shirt along with an equally dark vest. His hands are hidden behind gloves with a leather jacket that reaches down to his midthigh.

“Y/n,” Esme whispers standing up. You smirk and push yourself up as well. With a snap of your fingers the lights return to normal and the frost melts away.

“Sorry for the dramatics... I like to make an entrance,” You states, a lop sided smirk on your lips. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I heard someone talking about me so I decided to drop by.” You explain sauntering into the middle of the living room. Your eyes look around, observing the home around you. “I hear you’re in a bit of a bind, little sister.”

“It’s my granddaughter... She needs your help,” Esme tells you. You chuckle darkly before spinning on your heels to look at her.

“It’s always a child with you, isn’t it?” You ask smirking. She gives you a small, unsure smile. “What do you want me to do? I can’t very well sell my soul, I already did that for your first child. One soul, one child,” You sit in a chair, draping your arm over the back, your ankle resting on your knee.

“Do you know of the Volturi?” Your eyes slide away from your sister to the pixie hair cut girl, Alice. You knew everyone in the room. You had been keeping tabs on your little sister and knew who she came in contact with and who she adopted into her family.

“Ah, yes, the Volturi,” You smirk, looking back at Esme. “They’re good for business. Send plenty of souls to hell for us to feed on,” Your comment makes most of them unease. You soak up the anxiety.

“Mommy?” You’re eyes snap to the little girl by the steps. You stand up at the same time her mother flashes beside her. You had heard about this little girl but this is the first time you’ve seen her.

“So, this is the child you so desperately want to protect,” You state, your eyes remain on the girl as you move closer.

“The Volturi believe she’s an immortal child,” Esme says.

“How idiotic,” You whisper kneeling in front of the child. “Her soul is much too bright and her heart is much too active. Hello, little one,”

“Hi,” She whispers, hugging her mothers waist. You send her a small smile and a playful wink before standing up.

“You never answered my question,” You say, turning back to Esme. “What do you want me to do? Kill the coven? Possess them? Make them fall to their knees and beg for mercy?” By the end your lips are curled into a sadistic grin.

Esme looks at you for a moment and all she can feel is sorrow. When you were human the only person you ever wanted to harm was her husband. Now, you would kill and torture without a second thought. In fact, you seemed to enjoy it. 

Hell had twisted your soul into someone almost unrecognizable. She was relieved that you held a little bit of goodness in your heart to at least consider helping them.

“We just want them to leave us alone,” Esme tells you. You pout at the boring request.

“Well, I can do that,” You nod walking away from the child not failing to notice how the room relaxed as you put distance between yourself and her. “However, I don’t do anything for free anymore. I’m going to need something in return,” You whisper standing toe-to-toe with Esme. You gently brush your knuckles along her cheek like you used to when you were human and she needed to feel safe. “little sister.”

“What do you want?” Esme asks quietly. You hum stepping away from her.

“Oh, the endless possibilities,” You whisper, sitting down in the chair you had previously occupied. “How much is that little girl worth to you?” You ask the people in the room. “Are you truly willing to make a deal with the Prince of Hell?” You ask.

“Prince of Hell?” Jake asks. Your eyes flicker to him.

“Well, at least I’m not the Devil,” You joke before tilting your head side to side. “Not yet at least,” You shrug. “I’ve been in hell for 80 years... That’s human years, time moves differently down there. Once they dragged me down by my ankles I began working my way up with my hands. My ambition has payed off... Who knows, maybe in another 80 years, you’ll have had the pleasure of knowing the Devil?”

“Lucky us,” Emmett mutters.

“Yes, lucky you, indeed” You growled standing up. “I may be the Prince of Hell but I am still your older brother,” You said looking at Esme. “While my services are no longer free, I will always answer your call. You all are her family which makes you my family which means that I will aid you when you need me but like I said... I don’t work for free.”

“So, what’s your price?” Edward asks. You turn to him. You stare at him for a moment before looking around the room.

“A favor,” You tell them. “One favor,” You hold up your pointer finger and spin around for everyone to see. “A favor anybody, or everybody, in this room can fulfill,”

“And the favor?” Bella asks, tightening her hold on Renesmee. Your smirk you send her is enough to strike fear into her unbeating heart.

“I don’t know,” You shrug putting your hands behind your back. “I will come whenever I am in need of your services. You fulfill my favor and you’re free. I will make sure Renesmee is protected from the Volturi and all will be well again,”

“No,” Esme shakes her head regaining everyone’s attention. You arch an eyebrow at her. “You want someone to do you a favor, you ask me, not my family.” She says sternly. “I will not allow you to hold this over their head,” You smirk deviously.

“You’ve grown clever, little sister” You praise her. “Much smarter than you had been as a human, I’m proud.” Esme holds your gaze. “Fine,” You give in. “One favor and only Esme can fulfill it,” The rest of the family tries to argue but you ignore them and walk up to your sister. “Please don’t die before I cash that favor in,”

“You’ll know how to find me,” Esme tells you. You nod before giving her the first genuine smile you’ve given anyone in decades.

“I am truly happy to see you, little sister,” You whisper to her. You gently kiss her forehead. “Renesmee will be safe, I promise,” You vow because vanishing in thin air.

Within a few seconds, the Volturi castle began to suffer the same side effects of your arrival. All the vampires looked around as the lights flickered and frost covered the windows. When the lights went back to normal, the vampires noticed a new presence in the middle of the throne room.

A few of the Volturi guards hissed in alarm but you paid them no mind. Your eyes zeroed in on the man in the middle, Aro.

“Who are you?!” Caius shouted, standing from his throne. You ignore him which doesn’t help his temper.

“I’ve come to inform you that Renesmee Cullen is not an immortal child, she’s a hybrid. Leave the Cullens alone and I’ll allow you to live.” Aro chuckles while Caius glares harder. Marcus seemed indifferent but his eyes continued to go from you to another vampire.

“And what proof do you have to back up your statement?” Aro asks, stepping closer to you. You smirk.

“I don’t have to answer to you and I’ve already given you your warning. Shall you continue to go against the Cullens, there will be... consequences.” You warn him. “I’ll be watching,” Once the final word leaves your lips, you disappear.

“Intriguing,” Aro whispers before turning to Demetri. “Find him.” Aro orders. Demetri bows before leaving. Only problem, he can hardly feel your tenor. 

You kept your eye on the Volturi. Just as you hoped, Aro didn’t stop planning against the Cullens. You were about to prepare yourself to make another appearance when you sensed something.

“I’ve never met anyone who could sneak up on me,” You state, walking to the chair to put your jacket on. “Although, you are the first who’s been able to sneak into my home.” You turn toward the intruder. He slowly comes out of the shadows. 

You stare at him and tilt your head. He’s certainly one of the more attractive vampires you’ve seen. Then there’s the fact that he was able to hunt you down. You were impressed and highly curious.

“How did you find me?”

“It’s my ability... I can find anybody,” You hum moving closer to him. His scent begins to fill the room and it was slowly captivating your attention.

“But I’m not just anybody,” You whisper, inching closer to him. “Vampire abilities aren’t supposed to work on me... Not like they usually do, at least”

“And why is that?” He questions. You begin to smirk, sauntering even closer. He shifts on his feet but his eyes remain locked with yours.

“Why do you think?” You ask, not hesitating to invade his personal space. “Come on,” You whisper, taking a deep whiff of his scent. “You know the answer,” Demetri doesn’t answer. “You and your kind wonder the Earth thinking your the demons but you’re just child’s play.”

“Why do you care about the Cullens?” Demetri asks.

“I had a human life at one time, a human life I shared with a Cullen. They asked for a favor and I’m about to go back to the Volturi to finish it. Care to join me?” You ask, offering him your arm. He looks at it, pinching his eyebrows. “It’ll be a lot faster if we do this my way,” You whispers, sending him a wink.

Hesitantly, Demetri links arms with you. You grin at him and transport the both of you from your apartment to the Volturi Castle. When you arrive, Caius stands alarmed. Demetri moves to the side to stand with his fellow guardsmen. 

“Aro, Aro, Aro,” You tsk slowly. “You were warned,”

“And I explained that I needed proof. I have to protect us, this child may be a threat.” Aro states.

“Maybe,” You shrug. “But you won’t be around to see it,” You tell him. A few of the vampires growl at you. You pay them no mind. 

You then feel a prick in the back of your mind. A familiar feeling you get when a vampire tries to use their abilities on you. Your eyes shift to the blond girl by the steps.

“Performance issues, sweetheart?” You smirk. She snarls at you. You raise your hand to grab the vampire that tried to attack you. You grab his throat and lift him off the ground. “Sloppy,” You whisper and squeeze your hand so tight that his head just pops off. You then straight your vest and adjust your jacket. “Anyone else?” You ask, opening your arms welcomingly. 

A most of the guard tries to take you down but you don’t break a sweat dismembering them. They try to use their powers but they’re ineffective on you. You turn your head and notice Demetri standing by you. He rips a nearby guard member to pieces. He turns back to you, his eyes pitch back.

You slowly grin finding his black eyes just ask attractive as his ruby red ones. Tearing your gaze from Demetri, you look back at Aro. The king hisses but before he can move you’re in front of him. You place your hand on either side of his face forcing him to look into your eyes.

“You believe vampires don’t have a soul,” You whisper. “How wrong you are,” You chuckle, feeling your eyes blazing brightly. “You have a soul... It’s just pitch black. No worries, I’ll rid you of it.” Aro begins screaming as you suck his soul out of his body.

As Aro dies in your hands, what’s left of the guard disperses. When Aro’s soul is gone, you toss his body to the side feeling refreshed. It was the first time you consumed a vampire soul. Demon usually leave vampires along but after having a taste of the power his soul gives you. You want more.

“Well, Demetri,” You hum turning toward him. “I have a mission,” You walk down the steps. “At the moment, I am known as the Prince of Hell,” Demetri raises his eyebrows at you. “I don’t plan on staying a mere prince. I want the whole kingdom, I want to be king.” You state stopping in front of him. “Consuming the souls of vampires might just give the power I need to overthrow the current monarch.”

“And?” Demetri asks. You smirk, brushing the tips of your fingers along his jaw.

“Help me, Demetri,” You whisper, loving how his name rolls off the tongue. “Help me find vampires, help me become king, and I will give you everything you desire” You promise, trailing your fingers down his throat and over his chest. “I’ll give you the world and I will give you Hell.” You smirk playfully.

“I know just where to start,”

[divine-motion]

transformers continuity rambling bc i felt like it sorry

it’s set post-war and Cybertron and its huge moons Velocitron and Caminus are facing an energon crisis bc they’ve all been damaged by the war (Caminus to a much lesser extent but still got problems) so Flamewar decides to wake up a Titan to head to a populated world w energon (which is Earth obvs) and negotiate w that world to get energon from them

oh yeah and the Autobots won, they were the Violent Rebels and the Decepticons were mostly part of the ruling class, the factions split into two when the Decepticons decided the Autobots wanted Too Much Change (it didn’t benefit those who were previously in positions of some power enough). Prowl, Streetwise, Stake-Out are Decepticons. Streetwise defected, and when the war was over Prowl changed his badge to an Autobot one bc “they’re the law now” but he still tries to enforce old laws

Orion Pax gave back the Matrix after the end of the war and went off in semi-exile semi-vacation, Megatron decided to do the same except leaving the fusion cannon instead. Elita-1, Starscream, the Mistress of Flame, Windblade, and Glyph are left in charge (not that the Mistress was ever not in charge of Caminus but well)

Starscream’s a woman btw, ofc, we all know this. a lot of formers will be trans here

main characters are Flamewar, Lightbright (cityspeaker was needed for the Titan which is Lodestar), Clobber (shipwright and emergency shuttle as Clobber’s a shuttle in this), Nickel (doctor was needed and Nickel could get a teleport drive Flamewar needed), Road Rage (Lightbright asked for a bodyguard), and Javelin (useful stowaway). their human companion is Miko and later on Nightbird gets added to the crew

Flamewar recruits everyone by ruining their day in some way (convincing Lightbright and Clobber to help her remove Metrotitan’s fuel tank, effectively murdering him to give the tank’s contents to Lodestar, Lightbright was still Speaking with Metrotitan as he died. Nickel just considers her day ruined if she has to interact w Flamewar, but considered the mission too important to miss out on), excluding Road Rage who was recruited by Lightbright and Javelin turns the tables by ruining Flamewar’s day

Flamewar is a Cybertronian who defected from the Autobots to the Decepticons, Clobber is a Cybertronian MTO that defected from the Decepticons to the Autobots, Nickel is a Veloctrionian who worked with the DJD, Road Rage is a Camien neutral but was the bodyguard of an Autobot cityspeaker during the war, Javelin is a Camien that followed Windblade to the Autobot side of the war as an infiltrator and sniper, Lightbright is a Velocitronian neutral and works as a diplomat. Miko’s a sixteen year old punk and runaway from home, Nightbird’s a murderbot made with cybertronian tech and is a “walking war crime”

yes i perfectly divided the six original crew so there’s two velocitronians, two cybertronians, two camiens, two neutrals, two autobots and two decepticons i like being like this i swear. and then two earth folks

they’re all terrible in their own ways but Clobber’s the least terrible and also Miko bc she’s a child

due to complications w a borrowed teleport drive and a crash landing on Earth, the Lodestar crew decides to lay low on Earth at first bc they’re on Earth illegally now and they’d rather be careful and proper when they establish first contact. then Road Rage and Flamewar accidentally get discovered by Miko and now they have a human daughter sort of (most of them are more like. weird aunts.) who helps them be Robots In Disguise

complications arise when the Combaticons arrive on Earth too

the Combaticons are part of the mercenary faction rather than the Decepticons but when they were hired on by the Decepticons, the name kinda stuck. it’s built into Swindle’s marketing for them now

also everyone except Swindle is a lesbian in the Combaticons he’s just their little guy who does their finances

More complications arise when the earth transformers’ existence is no longer In Disguise and human villains become the bigger threat, also Nightbird gets built, becomes a brief antagonist, then joins the Lodestar crew

tho with their existence revealed they could start negotiating trade for energon so win some lose some all that

i have like a Lot more (i have 35 pages of this in my doc and most of that is written scenes) but i can’t put it in coherently here atm so i’ll end here

[willsimpforanyone]

Steve Rogers x Reader (she/her pronouns) for @lilacprincessofrecovery! thank you so much for so many requests!

__________________________

I made a quick scan of the apartment I shared with my boyfriend before sighing in relief and spreading the contents of my bag onto the coffee table. Steve wasn’t home, and probably wouldn’t be for a few hours, so I was safe to look look over the brochures at my leisure.

Glossy leaflets were now spread over the table, making promises of beauty, of youth, of confidence- in truth, I doubted any of them would make me feel much better. I rested my head in my hands, and let out a shaky breath. I was just looking over the leaflets, not making any final decisions, right? It was just something I was... interested in, right? 

Picking up a light blue coloured piece of paper, I skim-read the contents. It was something about how plastic surgery could change your face, make your features more angular and sharp, correct anything you deemed ‘defective’ about yourself. You didn’t want it? They could change it. I wondered if Steve would think I was prettier with a different nose, maybe fuller lips, higher cheekbones. There was the rational part of my brain screaming at me that Steve always, always told me how pretty I was. He would dust kisses across my cheeks and nose, making me giggle when it tickled. I smiled to myself for a brief moment, but I quickly frowned as I pushed the image away. He was only doing that because we were dating, he must feel obliged to tell me I’m beautiful, right?

It took a few hours to go through all the pamphlets, googling various websites and looking at prices. By the end of it I was exhausted- it took a lot of mental energy to consider changing your appearance, especially when you were trying to work out what your boyfriend would want you to change. I dragged a hand through my hair and heaved a sigh. Maybe just a small nap, just here on the sofa, that couldn’t be so bad, right? Steve wouldn’t be home for a while longer, I’d have time to hide everything before he came back, right? 

The cushions looked inviting, and I lay down, careful not to accidentally fall off, and almost as soon as I’d closed my eyes, I drifted off into a comfortable sleep.

The sound of the door closing snapped me awake. How long had it been? Surely I’d only slept a little, it was only a small nap. But the sound of Steve making his way through the hallway to the living room where I was.

“Where’s my best girl? You home, sweetheart?”

My heart leapt at his affectionate nicknames, but I felt an unwelcome surge of adrenaline when my eyes fell on the still-scattered brochures about plastic surgery laying accusingly on the table. I almost fell off the sofa, hastily getting up and scrabbling to gather the papers and stuff them in my bag. Clearly I wasn’t fast enough, as Steve entered the room. I was halfway off the sofa, papers held incriminatingly in my hands. 

“Hey sweetie, what’cha got there?” He smiled at me. His eyes fell to read the bold print on one of the pamphlets, and the smile faltered. “...plastic surgery? What’s this?”

I cringed. “Uh, I was, um, holding these for, uh, a... friend?” I said, hating the crappy excuse I came up with.

Steve quirked an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Which friend?”

“Umm, my friend...” I grasped at a name, but none would come. “...you don’t know her!”

He nodded, and for a split second I though maybe I could get away with it. My hopes were dashed when he sighed and sat on the sofa, gently tugging my arm to get me to sit with him.

“Sweetheart, tell me honestly- why do you want plastic surgery?”

A million lies went through my mind, but meeting his eyes meant I knew I couldn’t lie to him about this. His piercing blue gaze sought out the truth, and it was all I could do to give it to him. 

“...If I was different, if I changed, maybe- I don’t know- maybe you’d love me more...” I whispered, unsure of my own voice. Steve’s eyes widened in surprise, and I could see a little disappointment within them. I cursed myself internally; what was I thinking, now he’s upset, now I’ve ruined everything-

My thoughts were cut off by his lips pressing against mine, and I allowed myself to melt against him. His strong hands were gently placed on my jaw, and as we pulled away he rested his forehead on mine.

“Every day, I think it’s impossible to love you more than I already do, and every day I’m proven wrong. You’re kind, you’re sweet, you’re funny, you’re adorable when you steal snacks when you think I’m not looking, and yes, you’re unbelievably stunning but I’m in love with all of you, not just what you look like.” He took a deep breath. “If you really want plastic surgery, of course I’m going to support you the whole way, but you need to want it for you, not for me. You need to make this decision for yourself, not because you think it will make me love you more. You gotta promise me that, can you do that?”

I stared at him, in complete shock that he would be so supportive. I slowly nodded my head, grip loosening on the brochures still clutched in my hands. “I can promise that I’ll try, is that okay?” I murmured, and Steve smiled, kissing my forehead.

“That’s all I can ask, sweet girl.”

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

i was kinda nervous about this one, but i gave it a shot? i hope this was something like what you had in mind, thank you for the request!!

[passable-talent]

could you do one where the reader has always been zuko’s right hand and has feelings for him but when the whole ba sing se incident happens and they return to the fire nation the reader sees how close he is with mai and just gives up all hope because they just want him to be happy, it can end however you want

I felt like there would be 10x more angst if I combined these so HERE I GO

You were what was considered a wild card.

From a young age, you had been enrolled in the same academy that the young prince was. You weren’t quite a prodigy, no, but you were gifted, and very determined. This was what got you attention from the teachers, and your noble blood was what got you the ability to visit the palace and your friend, the prince.

Twofold were the reasons that you left the Fire Nation to travel to the earth kingdom. First was your boredom- you were a firebending master, at the age of fifteen, and you felt that academy training had no more to teach you. Second was your crush on the prince.

You missed him. The two of you hadn’t been that close, as you grew into being teenagers, but you hadn’t spoken a bit since his banishment. It upset you, and you almost wanted to go find him, somehow.

So you travelled to the earth kingdom. You figured that, since the avatar was back, he would show up at the active front of the war. However, when you were there, you began to see the truth of your nation. The devastation, the pain, the grief it caused. You were horrified, and for a year relinquished your ties to the Fire Nation, hoping that you could live your life here.

But, one winter, you found the avatar.

Okay, you didn’t exactly find him. He stumbled across your booth with his friends while looking for something to eat. When Fire Nation soldiers wandered by, you gave them refuge.

“Can I be honest?” You asked, nervous, as you gave a cup of tea to each of the water tribe siblings, then the avatar. Aang nodded, hospitable.

“I’m from the Fire Nation,” you admitted, and cringed at the sudden expression of distrust from Sokka. “I’m not a spy, though. I defected a year ago. I’ve been in hiding here, ever since.”

“Defected?” Sokka repeated, narrowing his eyes to you. “Why’d you do that?”

“Well, I came here to explore the world and help with the war, maybe find an old friend, but when I got here...” you trailed off, setting down your tea. “I wasn’t happy with what I saw. I knew I couldn’t support the fire nation.” Katara nodded, solemnly, and you lifted your chin again. “But the avatar- you could use someone who knows a lot about the fire nation, right? I could help you. Maybe even join your group.”

Sokka was hesitant to trust you, but eventually he was persuaded. You came to regret your decision to join them not long after, when it came up in conversation that they weren’t just being chased by the fire nation, but by Zuko himself. Your old friend. They were surprised you’d once known him, but understood when you insisted that he couldn’t know it was you. You’d be mortified, not only to see your old crush but also to be on the opposite side of a fight.

And for a while, a brief while, you managed to succeed. He didn’t know it was you. Aang and Katara helped, never letting your name slip, in fact, calling you by an entirely different name whenever Zuko was around. Huan- Katara said she’d run into at least three Huan’s so far, and so figured that it was a common enough earth kingdom name. It felt safe.

And yeah, Katara and Sokka were real pissed at Aang for not delivering the letter so that they could find their father. And yeah, that was a stupid and petty thing to do, and Aang was completely at fault. But you couldn’t imagine abandoning the avatar for it- he still needed help. So you went with him, when Katara and Sokka left, because he still needed at least one friend.

Aang noticed the shirshu quicker than you did, and stood on Appa’s back, staff in hand.

“Stay with Appa, and then you can hide,” he said, knowing that you wouldn’t want to face Zuko and risk blowing your cover. You nodded, and watched him dive, hunkering low in Appa’s saddle until the bison landed. But when he did, you noticed Katara and Sokka, being dragged away, paralyzed. It dawned on you that Aang didn’t have any help. You watched, terrified for him, hesitant but waiting for the moment in which you would jump to your friend’s aid.

It came when the shirshu and Zuko both had him backed to the wall.

“Aang!” You shouted, leaping from your hiding spot and running across the courtyard to him.

“Huan, no!” He yelled back, trying to preserve your cover, but you’d decided that his safety mattered more.

You targeted the shirshu first, two hands coming to your hip as you lifted then planted your front foot, as your fists, one atop the other, struck toward the shirshu’s tail with an impressive and hot plume of fire. The animal yelped and turned to you, it’s tongue striking, but this much you’d anticipated. You split your hands, palms open, spreading a wall of flame that singed its tongue as it passed through. The shirshu called out in pain and stepped back just enough to let you dive to Aang’s side, standing in front of him and ready to deflect any fire that the prince could offer.

“Y/N?” He said, surprise lowering his guard. Luckily, you didn’t need to fight him, as a wall of perfume dropped between the two of you, sending the shirshu into a fit that paralyzed both its rider and the prince. You handed Aang’s staff to him and walked back toward Sokka and Katara, or you would’ve, if Zuko hadn’t called out your name. 

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” He said, his voice sounding almost betrayed enough to pity. You shut your eyes tightly and left the scene with Aang, not prepared to face his questioning.

You didn’t see Zuko again for a long time. Not, in fact, until he had invaded the Northern Water Tribe. You stayed with Katara to guard Aang, though you hadn’t realized you would be doing so against Zuko.

If you had been asked, you wouldn’t have said that you avoided the fight. You weren’t going to admit that you didn’t want to fight Zuko. You were protecting the princess, that’s all, when Yue ran, you followed, making sure she was safe. That’s all.

You kicked yourself for it when he managed to take Aang. If you hadn’t been so much of a coward, maybe Aang would’ve been saved.

Well, when the moon was at its highest, and the four of you went out to save the avatar, still you avoided the fight. This time, your excuse changed- it was that Katara was going to win so easily. Why help?

But then, you dismounted Appa to help return Aang to the saddle, and you saw Zuko half buried in snow, covered in bruises and cuts and burns, and you wondered what had happened to him. His lips were ajar, and his breath fogged against the snow, and it seemed like he was already shivering.

“We can’t leave him here!” You shouted, running toward him in the snow, your firebending blood only barely keeping you warm under your layers.

“Sure we can,” Sokka said, climbing up onto Appa. “Y/N, let’s go.” You could hear the warning in his voice- he didn’t want you to give him reason to distrust you.

“If we leave him, he’ll die,” Aang said, coming to your rescue, and he helped you lift Zuko from the snow, and took the both of you into Appa’s saddle.

While your friends were worried for the safety of the moon spirit, and you were too, you couldn’t help but let your focus drift to the prince. You heard him move, and turned to see him about to leap from Appa’s back.

Briefly, your eyes connected with his, and the tension was unbelievable. Would he attack you? Would you expose him? Would he say anything? Would you?

He dropped from your view, and you didn’t even manage to see where he slipped away to.

After that day, you didn’t see much of Zuko. It was like he’d given up his search for the Avatar. You, on the other hand, constantly found your thoughts with him, wondering for his wellbeing, wondering what his thoughts were on the moments that you’d caught with him. You didn’t see him again for months, but your mind was with him all the time.

So when you found him again in Ba Sing Se, you couldn’t believe your luck.

You’d slipped away from the house that you’d been given in the upper ring with the rest of the gaang to wander, slipping between the rings to find the people who wouldn’t judge you quite as harshly. When it got cold, one night, you decided to slip into a small tea shop to warm up before you made your journey back home.

You stepped in the door, and saw Zuko.

You froze at the threshold, staring, like you couldn’t will your feet to move. You stared, in fact, until he’d noticed you. For an instant he had a similar reaction, holding your gaze in shock, and it was that sight that knocked you from your stupor. You turned, ready to walk back out the door.

“Wait!” He shouted, and you heard steps behind you, then felt a hand on your shoulder. “Y/N, please, stay.” You closed your eyes and tried to deny him, but that was something you’d never been able to do.

Looking back on it, you must’ve only met with him three or four times before the fall of Ba Sing Se. But if you asked your heart, it would’ve felt like years that you spent sneaking away to sit with him in his uncle’s tea shop. It was like old times, only better, as not only did you get along swimmingly but now you had so much more to talk about, so many stories to share. He didn’t feel like your enemy anymore, as his hunt for the avatar was abandoned, just like you’d suspected. It was like old times, only better, because before he was banished, you’d never kissed him. Now, you did.

Iroh found you first, when he rushed from the palace to the house of the avatar. He knew of you, and your relationship to his nephew, and to the avatar. (Iroh, really, knew much more than one would expect.) He enlisted your help, and Aang’s, in rescuing Zuko and Katara, and as you cared for both of them, of course you agreed. It was Zuko, though, that you hugged when you found the both of them, which brought confused looks from your friends.

You were what was considered a wild card.

Because when Azula and Zuko took up arms against the Avatar- so did you.

You could believe in the faults of the fire nation. You could believe in the effort of the earth kingdom to win the war- you could believe in the message of the avatar.

But you could also take up fire against him. You couldn’t- you couldn’t take up fire against Zuko.

You, Azula, and Zuko returned to the Fire Nation. You hadn’t been home in a little over a year, and it all seemed so different. There was so much red! Where was the green? The plants? Why was it so hot all the time? And why were you looked at like a hero when you walked down the street?

A hero? You betrayed the avatar. You were being called the greatest spy in Fire Nation history, you were being called instrumental in the avatar’s defeat, a gifted strategist who managed to earn the avatar’s trust, can you believe it?

It didn’t feel as nice as it sounded.

You had chosen Zuko, and you didn’t regret it. You loved him- and had for a lot longer than you’d ever realized. Sure, he was clearly with Mai, and you had no idea how long that had been a thing, but you loved him anyway. He didn’t pay much attention to you anymore, because he had Mai, but you loved him anyway.

Seeing him happy made it all worth it. All of it- leaving home, being friends with the avatar, letting Zuko win too many times when you know you could’ve stopped him, letting him get away, letting Azula kill the avatar. Betraying Aang, betraying Sokka, the look on Katara’s face when she realized that you were just like every other evil firebender. The look on Iroh’s. It was all worth it, because Zuko was happy, and home, and safe, and you got to be by his side, even if it wasn’t the way you wished it to be. It was all worth it.

Wasn’t it?

-🦌 Roe

edit: part 2

tag list: @lammello @kittyddandnyla @caitff

[andavs]

So I watched Bumblebee...

...

The jeep was bright blue and the most obnoxious vehicle Derek had ever seen, but it was perfect. It was a 1980 CJ5 and once the list of defects was read aloud, he was the only bidder so he got it for next to nothing. Not that the price could’ve kept him from buying it, because Laura had a thing for jeeps. 

Specifically older jeeps, none of that Cherokee or Sahara or SUV kind of models—she liked Jeeps. And she also liked to rant about shoddy craftsmanship of modern models and how they weren’t really jeeps… Derek usually tuned her out by the time she got to the wave hierarchy.

For someone who didn’t actually own a jeep and never actually had, she really liked jeeps.

And she would really like this one.

There was the expected wear of a vehicle over thirty years old and some body damage from an accident; the leather seat was ripped, and it looked like there was a scorch mark near the driver’s side door, a sizable dent in the passenger side. Aside from that, it seemed as though the jeep was relatively well taken care of, until it ended up in a county abandoned vehicle auction.

It would definitely take some work, and he'd probably have to replace everything under the hood, but it was worth it to see Laura happy and excited.

It had been a long time since she was happy and excited.

Now he just had to get it home to get it fixed up, without it breaking down on the side of the road. And despite the fact that he was going to have to fix every part of it in some way, that seemed like the much greater challenge at the moment.

The jeep lurched violently as he shifted, and he struggled briefly to get it into gear. That was where he could really feel the age of the car; he never had any difficulty shifting in his Camaro.

"Clutch, dude."

He slammed on the brakes and the jeep swerved violently to the side of the empty highway. Derek twisted around in his seat to threaten whoever the hell stowed away in the back seat, eyes glowing and furious— 

But the back seat was empty.

There were no other heartbeats, no muffled breathing, and the trunk was far too small for anyone to fit into, even if they did somehow manage to conceal the sounds of a living, breathing person.

"First clutch, then gas—seriously have you never driven stick?"

That time the voice came from the other direction, and he turned back towards the front.

The radio was off, his phone was in his pocket...

“Oh, and there’s a weird kind of delay? So wait a second before the gas or it stalls, and you gotta put some muscle into it.”

Derek did as the disembodied voice instructed and the car jerkily started forward again.

So the jeep was haunted. Cool.

*

The ghost’s name was Stiles, and he was the most obnoxious person, living or dead, that Derek had ever met. He never thought he could have such disdain for a disembodied voice, but the very sound of it was starting to fill him with such a deep-seated rage and irritation that there were new claw holes in the side of the leather seat.

Okay, not entirely true. He’d grown to hate a lot of radio personalities over the years, but at least there were music breaks and they were limited to the hours of their show. They babbled for an hour and then they stopped.

Stiles had no such limitations. If the car was on, he was talking.

And talking.

And talking.

“I was stuck in an impound lot for who knows how long! Of course I want to talk!”

Derek rolled his eyes, thankful that Stiles didn’t seem to be able to see anything, because he would probably have something to say about that too. 

“Well I don’t,” Derek said flatly, hoping his tone conveyed just how much he didn’t want to talk, “so shut up.”

His tone did nothing.

“Was that supposed to be threatening?” He wasn’t laughing, but Stiles sounded entirely too amused, which just pissed Derek off even more. “What are you going to do, hit me?” He taunted. “Punch the dashboard? Run into a tree? I’m dead, dude, you can’t hurt a ghost!”

“Are you sure about that? Because I’m sure I could find a way.”

“Please do, I’d love to watch you fail.”

Derek turned onto his street. He was almost home. In just a few short seconds, he could turn the car off. 

“You can’t even see.”

“But I have a very vivid imagination.”

He turned into his driveway.

“That sounds like a brooding silence,” Stiles continued. “Deep frown, furrowed brow, are you clenching your jaw? I think I can hear teeth grinding.”

As if he could hear anything over the deafening, rattling roar of the shitty jeep.

Derek said nothing as he unclenched his jaw.

“Do you have prominent cheekbones? I’m picturing cheekbones, maybe some artfully tousled—”

“Oh look, we’re home,” Derek interrupted, deadpan, and parked the jeep in his garage.

“Oh no, don’t you dare turn me off! Derek! Der—”

He turned the key and breathed a sigh of relief at the blissful sound of silence.

*

It was a full week and a half before he turned the jeep on again. 

A week and a half of standing in the door of the garage, staring at it for three minutes, and then closing the door and walking away. 

A week and a half of opening the driver’s side door, hesitating, and slamming it shut again (because the lock didn’t catch properly unless he slammed it). 

A week and a half of steadily mounting guilt eating away at his stomach until he couldn’t take it any longer and stormed out to the garage at four in the morning to turn the damn car on, only to be greeted by an irate Stiles calling him a dick and a number of other colorful names. Followed by the deafening squeal of audio feedback in retaliation.

They finally reached a tentative truce; Derek would start the jeep every day, and Stiles would learn to shut the hell up when Derek needed a break.

Starting the jeep daily turned into taking it out for a drive daily, usually to the auto parts store so he could get some advice from the employees about what he needed to buy for it.

“Everything,” was the answer he got, so he sighed and handed over his credit card, silently wondering if this stupid jeep was even worth it. 

He wasn’t giving it to Laura with a ghost, so why even bother fixing it up? He asked himself that a lot, late at night while he stared up at the ceiling in bed. He didn’t need a jeep, especially one with so little room for anything more than two people. His Camaro had a larger backseat, a larger trunk, more power—it was better than the old blue jeep in pretty much every way except getting up a steep driveway without scraping the front bumper.

Except his Camaro didn’t contain the last remaining consciousness of a person. 

His Camaro wasn’t the one thing keeping that person from fading from existence. 

It wasn’t the one thing he enjoyed talking to.

Well, not talking to—bickering with, more like. Arguing. Insulting. Their conversations were usually just shy of mutual verbal abuse, and for some reason, Derek kind of enjoyed it. He was spending thousands of dollars and hours of labor to continue interacting with a single person, in a manner that could barely be considered more eloquent than a YouTube comments section.

Maybe it was because no matter how nasty he got, Stiles gave it right back. Stiles didn’t walk away and cut off contact. He didn’t let Derek’s shitty moods linger in his mind and poison their next conversation. He didn’t drag it up to use it against him. He called him a dick, a tool, a monumental douchebag, and moved on to his next thought.

Except it wasn’t just bickering and insults. Not anymore.

Because Stiles got it. He understood. He understood when Derek went quiet for days at a time and drove through the neighborhood for hours without saying a word. He understood when Derek started the car and just sat there in the driver’s seat in his garage, staring at the unfinished drywall he’d put up and never painted. He never even taped the seams.

“I get it, dude,” Stiles said during one of those days. “So I’m just going to keep talking and you can jump in whenever you’re ready.”

And oddly enough, it helped. When Stiles rambled on from one topic to the next, spewing facts and anecdotes he’d read at some point, it dragged Derek out of his spiraling thoughts and guilt and grief and gave him something to focus on that wasn’t his own self-loathing. His pity parties, as Stiles had dismissively named them, but even that helped in some twisted way.

“I’m not going to be the goody bag at your pity party,” he’d said like he was quoting something, and then given Derek entirely too much information about the bathroom situation in Versailles. 

“You’re going to have to replace the transmission as soon as possible if you’re going to keep driving this,” Dave said, shaking his head at the mess under the hood of the jeep. 

Derek nodded, resigned, and handed over his credit card.

*

For all that Stiles talked, he never talked about himself. Derek wasn’t really sure how the whole ghost thing worked, but if Stiles could remember the entire history of the imperial system of measurement, it seemed like he should remember his own life. And yet, he never mentioned it. The entire history of the Genovese crime family, yes, Derek had heard it twice, but nothing personal about Stiles.

The few times Derek had asked, he got vague answers. The kind of answers that made it sound like he was hiding something big. Talking around specifics, not referencing any names, occupations, locations—anything that could be used to identify him.

Normally, this would be a giant red flag and send Derek running into the night, but Stiles was a ghost. He was dead. He couldn’t even change the radio station, let alone hurt someone, so Derek let it slide. Plus, he was fun. And Derek couldn’t remember the last time he’d used that word to describe anything in his life.

*

“You’re going to have to pound this out,” Dave said, gesturing to the pretty significant dent on the passenger side of the jeep. “What happened? Did you hit a tree or something?”

Derek shrugged, told him it was there when he bought it, and accepted his recommendations for a few body shops in the area. But the thought lingered.

It had crossed his mind before, plenty of times, but never more than a passing thought. It felt strangely invasive, asking a ghost how they died. Was there etiquette for that? How did one approach that subject this far into a relationship?

“Did you die in this car?” Derek asked bluntly one afternoon, ripping off the bandaid with all of the tact and finesse he usually showed in social situations.

Luckily Stiles was used to that by now and didn’t bat a proverbial eye.

“Probably? Don’t remember.”

Derek frowned at the freeway in front of him, letting the roar of the jeep’s new engine fill the silence. “You don’t remember your death?” That seemed like the kind of thing that would leave an impression.

“Weird, right? Kind of seems like a major milestone in someone’s life.”

To say the least.

“Dude, you have to look me up!” Stiles said excitedly, like the idea just came to him. “Stiles Stilinski, with an I.”

Derek didn’t exactly jump for his phone, and not just because he was driving.

“Where’s the I?”

“Everywhere, it’s like the only vowel in my name. Just do it. I need to know if my death was as embarrassingly pathetic as the rest of my life.”

Well that was depressing. And a very effective guilt trip.

When he got home and parked the jeep in his garage, he pulled his phone out of his back pocket and guessed how to spell Stiles’ name. He guessed wrong, and even when he corrected it, he didn’t find anything. Just an old voter record website and some totally locked down social media profiles that didn’t even have a picture of his face.

“Wow, so I made zero impact even in death.”

Derek shifted uncomfortably and kept himself from pointing out darkly that even if Stiles hadn’t, his jeep had made a big one. Into something very hard.

“Okay hang on,” he bounced back quickly, “if my jeep was in an accident, there would be an accident report! That should say what happened!”

This was turning into a much bigger project than Derek expected.

“How am I supposed to find that? You don’t know where it happened, and even if you did, I don’t think the cops give out accident reports to anyone who asks.”

Stiles sighed dramatically. “Just get a laptop.”

*

Derek wasn’t sure which law he’d broken by using a sheriff’s login to access a national law enforcement database, but he was pretty sure he could go to jail for it.

“It’s fine, I do it all the time,” Stiles had assured him, but he had a feeling a sheriff was much more likely to overlook his own son committing fraud with his account than a complete stranger. Even if his son was directing all of it. As a disembodied voice through his car.

Derek glared at the radio and adjusted the computer on his lap. It was a bit of a tight fit with the steering wheel in the way. And also because it was a jeep from the eighties and was roughly the size of an oven.

Stiles stepped him through the search process. When the license plate and VIN number came up with nothing (and who knew their VIN off the top of their head, even in death?), he got more creative until finally, there was one, single result.

“It says here there was a car accident, a hit and run,” Derek summarized as he scanned through the report. “The jeep was found on the side of the road, no plates, no VIN, no witnesses. The unidentified driver was unconscious and taken to the hospital.”

“Unconscious,” Stiles repeated, immediately latching onto the same point Derek did. “So I’m not dead!”

“Would it say if you died later at the hospital?”

“Probably depends on how much later it was. When did the accident happen?”

Derek scrolled up to the date. “About a year ago. You don’t remember any of this?”

“Conveniently, it’s a total blank. Where did it happen?” Derek read off the county name, just two over from where he lived, and not the one he’d bought the jeep in. “Great! Just a few hours from Beacon Hills!”

Derek froze, heart starting to pound. It couldn't be...

“California?” It was a stupid question; the state was huge, everything a few hours away from them was still in California.

“Yeah, you know it?”

“No,” he lied, and if Stiles heard the lie, he didn’t push it.

There was no way this was a coincidence, Derek thought frantically. Beacon Hills wasn’t that big and since he left, he’d never met anyone who knew where it was, let alone someone who came from there.

"You have to find me, Derek, I need to know!" Stiles was practically yelling to get his attention, and when Derek still didn’t respond, he sighed dramatically. "I know it's a pain in the ass, and I'd do it myself, but I’m literally a disembodied voice in a jeep.”

Making him feel bad about the fact that he had a body. Annoyingly effective strategy.

“And how exactly am I supposed to find you?” Derek asked, giving in but telling himself he was just playing along. Warning alarms were going off at the back of his mind, every part of him screaming not to go back to the place where he’d lost everything. But he couldn’t bring himself to outright refuse this one thing for Stiles. The only thing he’d outright asked him to do since buying the jeep.

“You know where the crash happened, right? Look for the closest hospital and start there.”

Derek glared at the radio, not appreciating his condescending tone in the least. Stiles was such a dick sometimes.

Most of the time.

The moments he wasn’t a dick were the real anomalies.

“And say I find you,” Derek returned in his own snotty tone, “how exactly am I supposed to identify you? I don’t know what you look like!”

Stiles scoffed like that was somehow Derek’s fault. “Caucasian male, twenty-five, brown hair, brown eyes, five ten, roughly a hundred and fifty-seven pounds, tattoo sleeves on both arms.”

Derek blinked at how quickly he’d rattled that off, but most importantly, 

“Tattoos?”

“What, I don’t sound like I have tattoos?”

“You’re trapped in my car, you don’t sound like you have a body at all.”

“Watch it, buddy. We don’t know that I’m dead, so this isn’t your car yet.”

Derek had a receipt from the auction and a very large credit card balance that said otherwise.

*

As it turned out, the county of the car accident wasn’t exactly a metropolitan area, so there weren’t very many hospitals to search. In fact, there was exactly one within an hour of the crash site.

“You have to go! Even if I died, they’ll at least have the record,” Stiles said like that was an upside. Like Derek wasn’t about to stroll into a hospital and start asking questions about unidentified dead people like some kind of creep.

“And then I get to be the one to call your family and tell them,” Derek muttered quietly under his breath, and if Stiles heard him, he didn’t respond.

He pulled into a parking spot at the back of the lot, even though there were plenty of open spots closer to the hospital, and sat there for a while, psyching himself up for what was about to happen. He was about to walk into a hospital and ask about the probably protected private information of the man whose ghost was haunting the jeep he bought in a county auction.

Totally normal.

“So are you going in, or…?” Stiles asked after a long few minutes of silence.

"Not if you keep bothering me,"  Derek snapped, but took off his seatbelt anyway. There was no way he wasn’t going in.

“Be fast!” Stiles yelled at the last second before he turned off the car.

*

He dragged his feet a bit to the front desk in the lobby, rehearsing how exactly he was going to phrase this, but the woman behind the computer saw him coming and smiled welcomingly and he couldn't turn back after that.

“Can I help you?” she asked with a cheerful smile.

Derek plastered on his best charming smile in return. His approximation of a functioning human being with basic social skills.

“Yeah, I’m looking for a friend of mine. He was in a car accident last June, in a blue jeep.” He rambled on about a disappearance, devastated family, and how they’d been scouring nearby hospitals for any unidentified patients. 

“Oh, of course,” she said sympathetically. “Can you describe him?”

He rattled off the description Stiles gave him as she typed them into the computer, and waited (somewhat) patiently while the system searched. His claws were leaving impatient pinpricks in the wooden desk, but they would probably wouldn’t be too noticeable.

“And you said this was last June?” she asked, clicking around a few times. “We had one John Doe admitted after a car accident that month, a white male in his twenties, with tattoos.”

Derek’s heart started pounding. That had to be Stiles.

“What happened to him?”

He was having a hard time interpreting her professionally neutral yet still pitying expression. “Oh, sweetie. He’s still here.”

*

John Doe 24, was what the name tag outside the door said, and through the blinds in the window, Derek could see the room was filled with machines, blocking his view of the man lying inside. There was a steady beeping, the mechanical whirs and hisses of a ventilator, something dripping from an IV bag.

The social worker who led him there opened the door and stepped aside for him to enter.

The first impression Derek had was that underneath the smell of hospital and sterile medical equipment, he could smell the jeep. Or the person who had driven the jeep for so many years that the scent of him was permanently embedded in the interior.

His second impression was, once the face under all of the wires and tubes and tape registered…

He didn’t know what he expected Stiles to look like. His voice sounded young, a little high and scratchy, he knew a lot about a lot of things—a nerd, was what Derek would say if pressed. Someone who spent way too much time reading Wikipedia and had a “fun fact of the day” calendar for every year since he learned how to read.

Stiles did not look like a nerd.

He was skinny, his cheekbones prominent, but he’d been in a coma for a year. A little weight loss was probably normal, as was the messy, amateur haircut. Brown hair, moles, an upturned nose, but the real identifying trait was the tattoo sleeves. Runes and symbols, starting at his wrists and continuing up under the sleeves of his hospital gown. Most of the symbols Derek had never seen before, but the ones he did recognize…

The triskele.

On its own, it could be nothing. A complete coincidence. But paired with everything else around it...

Stiles knew about werewolves.

“Is this your friend?” the social worker asked, looking hopeful.

Derek swallowed. “That’s Stiles.”

*

Derek slammed the jeep’s door behind him and started the engine.

“Well?” Stiles immediately asked. “What happened?” 

“You know about werewolves,” Derek found himself saying, even though he intended to work that in a little later. After the whole I found your comatose body in the ICU reveal.

There was a beat of silence before a slightly high-pitched and unconvincing, “What?”

“Your tattoos. You know about werewolves?”

“Well that explains why you took this whole haunted car thing so well.” He didn’t elaborate. “But you saw my tattoos? You found me?”

“Yes, I found you,” Derek snapped. “You’re in a coma and you have symbols from werewolf lore tattooed on your body, including the symbol of my dead pack. Why.” Stiles wasn’t a wolf, he could feel that much from seeing him in person. But the only other group that studied werewolf lore so closely were hunters, and if Stiles turned out to be a hunter…

“I’m in a pack, okay?” He paused, and if he had lungs, he would probably be taking a steadying breath. “I’m an emissary, and now you need to call them and tell them where I am, so they can get me out of this coma!”

“What makes you think they can?” Derek snapped, still on edge and maybe a little scared of losing the most intimate connection he’d made with anyone in years. Which was really just sad.

“My consciousness is trapped inside my jeep, Derek, this clearly isn’t your average coma!”

Valid point, Derek admitted with a bitter eyeroll. He could also admit to himself, bitterly, that he couldn’t keep Stiles in a coma forever so he could keep talking to his car. It was selfish and cruel and probably sadistic on some level. The fact that he was completely inept at connecting to real, live humans wasn’t Stiles’ cross to bear and it shouldn’t keep him from potentially waking up and living his life.

“Fine,” Derek said after a long, loaded pause. “Who should I call?”

“My dad, sheriff of Beacon Hills. He’ll handle the rest.”

*

The McCall pack rolled into town like an army and hadn't stopped working since. 

Now that they'd found him, there was always someone at Stiles' bedside at the hospital, while everyone else had set up camp in Derek's garage to work through the problem. They'd brought a mountain of books, computers, all types of occult paraphernalia—anything they could possibly need to fix this.

Meanwhile, Derek was going through an absurd amount of money buying gas for the damn jeep, because now that they had Stiles back, in any kind of form, the pack didn't want to turn off the car and lose him again.

Derek tried to explain that he’d turned the car off and on countless times and Stiles was still there, nagging him constantly, but they didn’t want to risk it. He wanted his garage to stop stinking of exhaust, but there was no way he could deny a father the chance to talk to the son he believed to be dead for over a year.

(Though he definitely wished there was a way he could deny Stiles’ desire to sing ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, screaming it into the garage in the middle of the night over the roar of the jeep’s engine.)

Beyond setting up their base of operations in his living room and taking over most of his home, the McCall pack was also able to fill in a lot of gaps and answer a lot of questions. Namely, what the hell happened to Stiles.

A rogue faction of the Argent family had been closing in on the McCall pack at the time he went missing, and given the way both he and his car had been scrubbed of his identity, it wasn't much of a leap to suspect the hunters were responsible.

"But why not just kill you?" Lydia mused aloud. She was settled in the passenger seat of the jeep with four open books stacked in her lap. "Why go to so much trouble to hide your identity when they could've just killed you and dumped the body? We're right by the mountains, there's plenty of places to do it."

"Why does it sound like you've considered doing this before?" Stiles asked, sounding insulted and a little wary.

"Because you really piss me off sometimes," she said dismissively, and moved right along. "There's no way what they did is neater, especially with the risk of you waking up at the hospital."

"It’s because even hunters wouldn't kill an emissary," Derek cut in from the doorway, stepping forward and putting himself out of his misery. It was actually painful listening to young and inexperienced packs try to navigate the intricacies of the culture. "Emissaries are considered neutral and vital to maintaining the balance, and killing one is like declaring all out war, even as a hunter."

"Ha! See? I'm vital!"

Derek ignored Stiles’ interruption. "Leaving him in a hospital to die from his wounds, completely anonymous, is probably the cleanest way they could’ve handled it. If they killed him outright and his body was identified, it would only be a matter of time before his pack traced it back to them.”

Lydia looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment, processing. Then her eyes hardened.

“Then that’s what we’ll do.” She closed the book at the top of her stack with a threatening finality Derek had never mastered. “We’re going to war.”

*

Considering that up until recently, Stiles had become something of an emotional crutch and coping mechanism for Derek, it was ironic that he suddenly found himself filling that roll for all of Stiles’ pack.

Scott, the impossibly young alpha sought him out on the back porch almost every evening, and spent an hour picking his brain on everything from werewolf culture to the guilt he felt for not finding Stiles himself sooner.

“I never felt him die, but after so many months…” Lydia confessed quietly one morning in the kitchen, her hands clasped tightly around a mug of coffee that had turned lukewarm an hour ago. Her eyes were haunted with a grief Derek knew all too well. “It was easier. To accept that I was wrong. It was easier to give up.”

He ran into Stiles’ father just outside the garage door at four in the morning, leaning against the wall with red-rimmed eyes.

“I had alerts for his name, the plates…” he started, and Derek could remember that regret. The constant, unrelenting scream at the back of his mind that he should’ve known. That he should’ve done more. That he should’ve been able to stop her.

“The plates were removed,” Derek explained, hoping to save the man from some tiny bit of what he’d gone through. “The VIN, all of the insurance information, his wallet—anything that could identify him or the car.”

"But he was a—” He swallowed, cutting himself off before his voice got loud enough for Stiles to hear through the garage door. “If he didn't have any ID, it's standard procedure to do a search for missing persons, I should've gotten an alert, I should've found him!"

"Hunters have people everywhere. It's possible the police kept it under the radar for them."

The Sheriff rubbed a hand over his mouth, practically vibrating with emotion.

"My son has been sitting here for a year, as a John Doe. Just three hours away."

Derek had nothing to say to that.

*

"Is he hot? He sounds hot."

Derek froze outside the garage door at Stiles’ question. He would deny to anyone who asked and himself that he in any way cared about the answer.

"He's very hot," Lydia said with an uncomfortably approving tone. "Muscles, stubble, a great ass."

Derek wanted to die.

*

In the end, it was a simple fix. 

In his last moments of consciousness, when the hunters were approaching the crashed jeep to drag Stiles off, he’d run. Not physically, his body had been too broken for that, but mentally. His consciousness fled, and aided by his emissary magic, it jumped to the closest thing capable of housing it.

“At least there wasn’t like, a skunk walking by,” Stiles joked, and Derek was the only one who grinned at the thought. 

“Both his body and consciousness need to be in the same place,” Lydia explained, and she made it sound like that alone would allow Stiles to return to his body. A simple fix.

So Derek disconnected the radio from the dashboard, and the pack took it to the hospital, and Derek was left sitting there in a silent car, staring at the loose wires dangling from the dash and suddenly feeling more alone than he had in years.

The pack hadn’t asked if he wanted to go and he wasn’t about to impose on such a monumental and emotional moment, but he wanted to. He wanted to be there when Stiles opened his eyes. He wanted to see how he looked when he was happy or annoyed, how he looked when he called Derek a dick, if his eyes went distant in those rare moments he went quiet. He wanted to see the recognition on his face. 

But would he recognize him? 

Would he remember him at all? 

Did a ghostly consciousness retain memories of what happened outside of its body, stuck in a car radio?

He started the car once more, a new habit when he wanted to just stop thinking and live in the now, but aside from the rumble of the brand new, powerful engine, it was quiet.

Stiles was gone.

*

“He wants to see you,” Lydia said with some judgment two days later. This time her coffee was still warm and the bags under her eyes and lightened. A book on werewolf traditions was open in front of her, to the chapter on formal declarations of war, so she was clearly intending to make good on her promise of justice for Stiles.

Derek couldn’t say how Scott and the Sheriff were handling things because he was pretty sure they’d been sleeping at the hospital since Stiles opened his eyes. He hadn’t seen them once.

Derek concentrated on pouring himself the perfect amount of coffee and retreated to the garage. The new radio arrived that morning.

*

He was being an idiot, Derek told himself, sitting there in the jeep in the hospital parking lot. The new radio was still in its box in the passenger seat, because though he’d gone out to the garage to install it, he ended up at the hospital.

Stiles wanted to see him, so he clearly remembered him. He wasn’t going to walk into the room and meet the eyes of a stranger.

But he didn’t think he could handle seeing the recognition and then being looked over for something better. Stiles had his friends and family, the people he loved and who loved him, the most important people in his life right there at his side. Derek had a strained and distant relationship with his sister across the country and an unhealthy attachment to the disembodied voice of a ghost that used to live in his jeep.

Stiles’ jeep.

He would probably be wanting his car back now that he wasn’t dead, and Derek wouldn’t deny him that. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, not after everything Stiles had done for him. Put up with for him. He had a stupid, deeply ingrained impulse to repay debts out of self-defense, and restoring the jeep Stiles loved so much could only account for a fraction of what Derek owed him.

“That might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Stiles said, and Derek’s eyes flicked over to the loose wires hanging from the dashboard. 

Great, now he was hearing his voice in his mind. Would he ever escape Stiles’ commentary on every thought he had?

“No,” Stiles answered, matter of factly. “So are you going in, or…?” 

Derek glared out through the windshield at the Subaru parked in across from him, telling himself he wasn’t going to let the phantom of Stiles’ judgment dictate his life. He lasted all of twenty seconds before he turned off the car and got out.

*

The John Doe name tag had been replaced with one that said Stiles Stilinski, was the first thing Derek noticed approaching Stiles’ new room. There was also a slightly creepy illustration of a rabbit with a basket of Easter eggs taped up next to it, even though they were nowhere near Easter.

Derek really took his time staring at it, shamefully stalling but refusing to give in to the soulless, judgmental eyes of the smiling rabbit. He wasn’t being a coward, he just wasn’t going to lose to that damn rabbit.

“Creepy, right?” Scott said as he came up beside him, and Derek nodded. “His dad and I are about to go grab some lunch, but you can go in.”

Derek nodded again, and as the Sheriff passed him, he squeezed his arm reassuringly. Or sympathetically. Derek didn’t know him well enough to know how to interpret that.

A full two minutes after they left, Derek pushed open the door and walked into Stiles’ room.

Stiles didn’t notice him at first; he was frowning down at the remote to the TV, and stabbing at the buttons, trying to change the channel from a sappy Lifetime movie. It looked like he hadn’t quite found his coordination yet, but given that he’d been in a coma for a year, Derek was amazed he was moving at all. Magic probably had something to do with that.

He still looked small in his hospital bed, but his shoulders were broad and suggested he wouldn’t look very small at all once he regained his strength and muscles. There were dark circles under his eyes and a scar in his hairline that was hard to ignore, but he was sitting up and the breathing tube was gone and when he finally changed the channel and sneered down at the remote in victory, his brow crinkled.

Derek’s life would’ve been a lot easier if he’d been ugly.

Stiles looked up to the TV to see what channel he’d landed on, his tongue poking out through his lips in concentration, and froze when he noticed Derek standing in the doorway. Silently, without announcing his presence, like some kind of stalker.

They stared at each other for probably a solid minute, Stiles totally confused and Derek suddenly at a complete loss for anything to say after a month of saying whatever the hell he wanted to Stiles through the radio. Then it visibly clicked on Stiles’ face and he smiled crookedly and reached out, and Derek had no choice but to step forward and take his slightly shaky hand.

A month of talking and driving, arguing, bickering, fighting, and sitting in stubborn, angry silence, and now finally, they were touching.

“Hey, Derek.”

His voice was quiet and scratchy, still regaining its strength after a year of silence, but that was definitely Stiles’ voice.

Stiles was back.

[eyelinerda3euro]

The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction

In the temperate and tropical regions where it appears that hominids evolved into human beings, the principal food of the species was vegetable. Sixty-five to eighty percent of what human beings ate in those regions in Paleolithic, Neolithic, and prehistoric times was gathered; only in the extreme Arctic was meat the staple food. The mammoth hunters spectacularly occupy the cave wall and the mind, but what we actually did to stay alive and fat was gather seeds, roots, sprouts, shoots, leaves, nuts, berries, fruits, and grains, adding bugs and mollusks and netting or snaring birds, fish, rats, rabbits, and other tuskless small fry to up the protein. And we didn’t even work hard at it — much less hard than peasants slaving in somebody else’s field after agriculture was invented, much less hard than paid workers since civilization was invented. The average prehistoric person could make a nice living in about a fifteen-hour work week.

Fifteen hours a week for subsistence leaves a lot of time for other things. So much time that maybe the restless ones who didn’t have a baby around to enliven their life, or skill in making or cooking or singing, or very interesting thoughts to think, decided to slope off and hunt mammoths. The skillful hunters would come staggering back with a load of meat, a lot of ivory, and a story. It wasn’t the meat that made the difference. It was the story.

It is hard to tell a really gripping tale of how I wrestled a wild-oat seed from its husk, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then I scratched my gnat bites, and Ool said something funny, and we went to the creek and got a drink and watched newts for a while, and then I found another patch of oats.... No, it does not compare, it cannot compete with how I thrust my spear deep into the titanic hairy flank while Oob, impaled on one huge sweeping tusk, writhed screaming, and blood sprouted everywhere in crimson torrents, and Boob was crushed to jelly when the mammoth fell on him as I shot my unerring arrow straight through eye to brain.

That story not only has Action, it has a Hero. Heroes are powerful. Before you know it, the men and women in the wild-oat patch and their kids and the skills of makers and the thoughts of the thoughtful and the songs of the singers are all part of it, have all been pressed into service in the tale of the Hero. But it isn’t their story. It’s his.

When she was planning the book that ended up as Three Guineas, Virginia Woolf wrote a heading in her notebook, “Glossary”; she had thought of reinventing English according to her new plan, in order to tell a different story. One of the entries in this glossary is heroism, defined as “botulism.” And hero, in Woolf’s dictionary, is “bottle.” The hero as bottle, a stringent reevaluation. I now propose the bottle as hero.

Not just the bottle of gin or wine, but bottle in its older sense of container in general, a thing that holds something else.

If you haven’t got something to put it in, food will escape you — even something as uncombative and unresourceful as an oat. You put as many as you can into your stomach while they are handy, that being the primary container; but what about tomorrow morning when you wake up and it’s cold and raining and wouldn’t it be good to have just a few handfuls of oats to chew on and give little Oom to make her shut up, but how do you get more than one stomachful and one handful home? So you get up and go to the damned soggy oat patch in the rain, and wouldn’t it be a good thing if you had something to put Baby Oo Oo in so that you could pick the oats with both hands? A leaf a gourd shell a net a bag a sling a sack a bottle a pot a box a container. A holder. A recipient.

The first cultural device was probably a recipient.... Many theorizers feel that the earliest cultural inventions must have been a container to hold gathered products and some kind of sling or net carrier.

So says Elizabeth Fisher in Women’s Creation (McGraw-Hill, 1975). But no, this cannot be. Where is that wonderful, big, long, hard thing, a bone, I believe, that the Ape Man first bashed somebody in the movie and then, grunting with ecstasy at having achieved the first proper murder, flung up into the sky, and whirling there it became a space ship thrusting its way into the cosmos to fertilize it and produce at the end of the movie a lovely fetus, a boy of course, drifting around the Milky Way without (oddly enough) any womb, any matrix at all? I don’t know. I don’t even care. I’m not telling that story. We’ve heard it, we’ve all heard about all the sticks and spears and swords, the things to bash and poke and hit with, the long, hard things, but we have not heard about the thing to put things in, the container for the thing contained. That is a new story. That is news.

And yet old. Before — once you think about it, surely long before — the weapon, a late, luxurious, superfluous tool; long before the useful knife and ax; right along with the indispensable whacker, grinder, and digger — for what’s the use of digging up a lot of potatoes if you have nothing to lug the ones you can’t eat home in — with or before the tool that forces energy outward, we made the tool that brings energy home. It makes sense to me. I am an adherent of what Fisher calls the Carrier Bag Theory of human evolution.

This theory not only explains large areas of theoretical obscurity and avoids large areas of theoretical nonsense (inhabited largely by tigers, foxes, and other highly territorial mammals); it also grounds me, personally, in human culture in a way I never felt grounded before. So long as culture was explained as originating from and elaborating upon the use of long, hard objects for sticking, bashing, and killing, I never thought that I had, or wanted, any particular share in it. (“What Freud mistook for her lack of civilization is woman’s lack of loyalty to civilization,” Lillian Smith observed.) The society, the civilization they were talking about, these theoreticians, was evidently theirs; they owned it, they liked it; they were human, fully human, bashing, sticking, thrusting, killing. Wanting to be human too, I sought for evidence that I was; but if that’s what it took, to make a weapon and kill with it, then evidently I was either extremely defective as a human being, or not human at all.

That’s right, they said. What you are is a woman. Possibly not human at all, certainly defective. Now be quiet while we go on telling the Story of the Ascent of Man the Hero.

Go on, say I, wandering off towards the wild oats, with Oo Oo in the sling and little Oom carrying the basket. You just go on telling how the mammoth fell on Boob and how Cain fell on Abel and how the bomb fell on Nagasaki and how the burning jelly fell on the villagers and how the missiles will fall on the Evil Empire, and all the other steps in the Ascent of Man.

If it is a human thing to do to put something you want, because it’s useful, edible, or beautiful, into a bag, or a basket, or a bit of rolled bark or leaf, or a net woven of your own hair, or what have you, and then take it home with you, home being another, larger kind of pouch or bag, a container for people, and then later on you take it out and eat it or share it or store it up for winter in a solider container or put it in the medicine bundle or the shrine or the museum, the holy place, the area that contains what is sacred, and then next day you probably do much the same again — if to do that is human, if that’s what it takes, then I am a human being after all. Fully, freely, gladly, for the first time.

Not, let it be said at once, an unaggressive or uncombative human being. I am an aging, angry woman laying mightily about me with my handbag, fighting hoodlums off. However I don’t, nor does anybody else, consider myself heroic for doing so. It’s just one of those damned things you have to do in order to be able to go on gathering wild oats and telling stories.

It is the story that makes the difference. It is the story that hid my humanity from me, the story the mammoth hunters told about bashing, thrusting, raping, killing, about the Hero. The wonderful, poisonous story of Botulism. The killer story.

It sometimes seems that the story is approaching its end. Lest there be no more telling of stories at all, some of us out here in the wild oats, amid the alien corn, think we’d better start telling another one, which maybe people can go on with when the old one’s finished. Maybe. The trouble is, we’ve all let ourselves become part of the killer story, and so we may get finished along with it. Hence it is with a certain feeling of urgency that I seek the nature, subject, words of the other story, the untold one, the life story.

It’s unfamiliar, it doesn’t come easily, thoughtlessly, to the lips as the killer story does; but still, “untold” was an exaggeration. People have been telling the life story for ages, in all sorts of words and ways. Myths of creation and transformation, trickster stories, folktales, jokes, novels....

The novel is a fundamentally unheroic kind of story. Of course the Hero has frequently taken it over, that being his imperial nature and uncontrollable impulse, to take everything over and run it while making stern decrees and laws to control his uncontrollable impulse to kill it. So the Hero has decreed through his mouthpieces the Lawgivers, first, that the proper shape of the narrative is that of the arrow or spear, starting here and going straight there and THOK! hitting its mark (which drops dead); second, that the central concern of narrative, including the novel, is conflict; and third, that the story isn’t any good if he isn’t in it.

I differ with all of this. I would go so far as to say that the natural, proper, fitting shape of the novel might be that of a sack, a bag. A book holds words. Words hold things. They bear meanings. A novel is a medicine bundle, holding things in a particular, powerful relation to one another and to us.

One relationship among elements in the novel may well be that of conflict, but the reduction of narrative to conflict is absurd. (I have read a how-to-write manual that said, “A story should be seen as a battle,” and went on about strategies, attacks, victory, etc.) Conflict, competition, stress, struggle, etc., within the narrative conceived as carrier bag/belly/box/house/medicine bundle, may be seen as necessary elements of a whole which itself cannot be characterized either as conflict or as harmony, since its purpose is neither resolution nor stasis but continuing process.

Finally, it’s clear that the Hero does not look well in this bag. He needs a stage or a pedestal or a pinnacle. You put him in a bag and he looks like a rabbit, like a potato.

That is why I like novels: instead of heroes they have people in them.

So, when I came to write science-fiction novels, I came lugging this great heavy sack of stuff, my carrier bag full of wimps and klutzes, and tiny grains of things smaller than a mustard seed, and intricately woven nets which when laboriously unknotted are seen to contain one blue pebble, an imperturbably functioning chronometer telling the time on another world, and a mouse’s skull; full of beginnings without ends, of initiations, of losses, of transformations and translations, and far more tricks than conflicts, far fewer triumphs than snares and delusions; full of space ships that get stuck, missions that fail, and people who don’t understand. I said it was hard to make a gripping tale of how we wrested the wild oats from their husks, I didn’t say it was impossible. Who ever said writing a novel was easy?

If science fiction is the mythology of modern technology, then its myth is tragic. “Technology,” or “modern science” (using the words as they are usually used, in an unexamined shorthand standing for the “hard” sciences and high technology founded upon continuous economic growth), is a heroic undertaking, Herculean, Promethean, conceived as triumph, hence ultimately as tragedy. The fiction embodying this myth will be, and has been, triumphant (Man conquers earth, space, aliens, death, the future, etc.) and tragic (apocalypse, holocaust, then or now).

If, however, one avoids the linear, progressive, Time’s-(killing)-arrow mode of the Techno-Heroic, and redefines technology and science as primarily cultural carrier bag rather than weapon of domination, one pleasant side effect is that science fiction can be seen as a far less rigid, narrow field, not necessarily Promethean or apocalyptic at all, and in fact less a mythological genre than a realistic one.

It is a strange realism, but it is a strange reality.

Science fiction properly conceived, like all serious fiction, however funny, is a way of trying to describe what is in fact going on, what people actually do and feel, how people relate to everything else in this vast stack, this belly of the universe, this womb of things to be and tomb of things that were, this unending story. In it, as in all fiction, there is room enough to keep even Man where he belongs, in his place in the scheme of things; there is time enough to gather plenty of wild oats and sow them too, and sing to little Oom, and listen to Ool’s joke, and watch newts, and still the story isn’t over. Still there are seeds to be gathered, and room in the bag of stars. by Ursula K. Le Guin

[lambourngb]

If you are still doing this, to make it through (with hearts and wrists intact)

combining the wip ask with WIP Wednesday ! Alright, so there’s two remix challenges going on right now, but I didn’t sign up for either of them because I have enormous anxiety about deadlines and I’m also kind of a control freak about my work. I do love the concept, so I decided to remix my own work.

to make it through (with hearts and wrists intact) is a remix of Last Years Wishes. It is completely the fault of @haloud who mused aloud about what if Jesse got to use the shed on Michael. You guys remember what I did to the shed in LYW right? Yeah. Poor Michael. So while Alex is waiting at the Airstream, talking to agents Ross and Rollins, this is how Michael’s day is going....

[warnings: canon divergent within 1x13, mention of Michael’s feelings for Maria, but nothing happens past the discovery of Rosa’s body in the cave ]

“Old man, you are calling me on my day off,” Michael yelled into the receiver of his cell phone speaker over the rushing sound of air after picking up the call. 

The windows were down because his AC in his truck went on the frizz again sometime during when Max had stolen-borrowed it to drive Liz home from Texas, leaving him behind to share a long awkward ride with Maria in her classic Chevy. Awkward because he had been buzzing from the encounter in the desert. He hadn’t slept with anyone in weeks, not since Alex, and that had been a ridiculous attempt for him to pine in celibacy considering just how little the other man had missed him. Some things end in a whimper.

Texas had been about hope, about maybe finding someone who was connected to him on a species level. He hadn’t realized how deeply Max’s enthusiasm had sunk into him until the fraud had been revealed and disappointment had set in. Between Alex’s brusque brush off and realizing they really were alone on this planet, Michael hadn’t thought he could feel even lower with the weight of Isobel’s salvation fully on his shoulders (and Liz’s). Then shining like a bright star in the night sky, he had found Maria. 

She had effectively chased away the touch starved ghouls that had haunted his skin that night, he could still barely believe they had dropped right to the rocky ground and scratchy blanket to fuck. It was the type of raw passion he had with- no, in that particular moment he hadn’t thought about Alex but afterwards? He couldn’t avoid the connection the next morning, particularly when she had sworn him to secrecy, and then had reinforced it when she had fully kicked him out in the cold after he had returned her repaired necklace. 

It was unfortunate for her that he was already wired to enjoy a push-pull hot-cold dynamic.

Ten years of Alex Manes meant Michael had learned to read past a blustering denial to see the real truth. She really liked him, she just didn’t want to admit it, and good god, if that wasn’t a déjà vu moment for Michael, he didn’t know what was. Maybe it was stupid to believe it would work out any better with her than it had with Alex, but with Noah dead, his m- his reason for building his ship gone, what did it hurt to try again?

His healed hand curled around the grip on the steering wheel with a shiver of disorientation at the new flexibility, but he pushed it down to concentrate on that meager bubble of hope of what was ahead for him. Maria. Normalcy. When he had offered to leave her alone at the gala, she had refused to take him up on it. That's the problem, I never do. 

It had felt good to hear that, that he was wanted, even as he heard the conflict in her voice over what she desired versus what she thought she deserved to have. That was also painfully familiar to Michael as well.

Caulfield had seeped into his skin, three layers deep in the worst type of burn. That brief moment of his mother, wrapping around his mind with her love and sorrow and hope, and then she was gone. The screaming, that he had heard from outside the chain link fence, suddenly disappeared as the explosion moved outward in a shockwave. For a few minutes he had stood on solid ground in that prison, for the first time since a sweet boy had returned his kiss at seventeen under a galaxy of plastic foam planets, and then it was over. His mother was gone, and in her stead, he had Alex telling him that -

Michael forcefully pushed that thought away and returned his attention back to the cranky drawl of Walt Sanders, “I know kid, but I’m already out with the wrecker in the other ass-end direction, so I need you to go help this cry baby who can’t change a flat. Help me make some money, so I can afford to keep your ass employed.” 

“Fine, tell me the location, but this is holiday pay, not overtime.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sanders muttered, before rattling off the mile marker and the highway. “It’s a Lincoln sedan, black. Probably some old geezer out on a drive to church who ran into trouble.”

“You calling someone else a geezer is funny to me, I hope you know that,” Michael replied, hitting his turn signal to make a left to pick up the state road. It wasn’t as if he had a planned time to see Maria, the lunch hour and official opening of the bar was still an hour away. A little delay that made him some extra cash was doable. 

“Shut the hell up kid, and get going,” Sanders griped good-naturedly, before hanging up on Michael. 

The sun was bright overhead, the storm from the night before having washed the land and sky clean of clouds. Across the pavement ahead, the heat and the brightness, cast a mirage of dark shimmering water that creeped just out of reach as he drove toward his new destination. His mind ticked over the set of priorities ahead, to make a little money with a tire change, then to drop in on Maria to make his case, and finally, he knew he needed to swing by Isobel’s to check on her in the aftermath of Noah’s betrayal. Somewhere in all of that, he knew he would need to make it home to see Alex for that promised talk, but there was plenty of time for that because Alex rarely came by during the day to see him.

“I’m still fighting his battles, not mine.”

Michael flexed his hands on the steering wheel again and pushed down the heaviness in his heart that accompanied thinking about Alex. Ten long years of waiting and wanting him. If Michael cared to count up all of the trips to Roswell that Alex had made on leave, the two weeks together after the class reunion that frankly felt like a hallucination to Michael, all of those hours spent together would add up to a month. A month that stretched out over ten years, 520 weeks, or 3,650 days.

Counting the distance to the nearest star was in light years, but when it came to counting the distance between the stash of wedding rings he had purchased for Alex over the years and what he had been actually allowed to have with Alex, well, that was a calculation beyond the redshift spectrum. It would take energy to transverse that distance one more time, and Michael had nothing left inside to fuel that journey. He couldn’t afford to be lost in the black again, not with Isobel in free-fall from Noah’s years of manipulations, not with the prospect of telling Liz they had found Rosa’s body on the horizon. It was just too hard to believe that this time, with Alex calling him family, with Alex throwing back the closest declaration to love that he had ever made, actually meant he was ready to move toward Michael and work to cut the distance between them on his own.

It was better to head forward in a new direction, than to look back like Max had said. Besides, every other time he had failed to be enough of a reason to help Alex bridge his own chasm between what he wanted and what he had allowed himself to have. What could have changed? Caulfield had just cemented the complications for them both. 

A dark shadow in the distance, parked just off the road caught Michael’s attention. He glanced down at the odometer to mark the mileage and started to ease up on the gas. That must be the motorist Sanders had fielded a call from earlier, he realized. The ‘old geezer’ in the black Lincoln with a flat tire. He glanced in the rearview mirror to check for traffic but the road behind him was devoid of other vehicles. 

Michael hit the turn signal and hazard lights on his truck, turning briefly to the side to check that he had some spare water bottles for the customer and his toolbox within reach and then turned onto the shoulder of the highway. Mentally he was already five steps ahead of himself as he stepped out of the truck to approach the car, thinking about the size of socket to fit over the lug nuts for the Lincoln’s wheels, whether his torque wrench was even in his box, or if he would have to camouflage his telekinetic efforts to change out the tire, that it took a moment to realize the tires on the Lincoln were whole and unharmed on the driver’s side.

Puzzled, Michael slowed his approach, and started toward the passenger side of the car. The windows were rolled up and dark, the tint was straddling the threshold of legal for New Mexico. There was still no sign of defect in the tires, he noticed as he was halfway around the passenger fender. Faulty tire gauge, he mused before he noticed the engine was rumbling almost inaudibly. Fucking hybrid, which meant whatever issue it had been definitely beyond the parts available at Sanders.

It was a little odd that the driver hadn’t stepped out to greet Michael, but not terribly unusual when it came to elderly customers who seemed to have a healthy paranoia about everyone they encountered. Still, Michael pasted a smile on his face and tapped on the window. 

The automatic window slipped downward in an expensive whisper, but it wasn’t a helpless old man on his way to church at the wheel. 

Jesse Manes smiled at Michael flashing his teeth, “Surprise.” Before Michael could do more than step backward, Jesse lifted a large gun-shaped object and fired. Yellow particulate matter exploded into the air, enveloping Michael completely. Pulling his arm to his mouth to attempt to block the pollen, did little good as he felt the sedating effects almost immediately.

He coughed into the open air, scrambling back toward his truck on weak legs as he tried to clear his lungs of the fast-acting poison. Behind him, he heard the car door open, and the crunch of boots on the loose gravel from the road’s shoulder as Jesse approached him. Though his powers were gone and his strength was waning fast, Michael had never backed down from a fight in life.

Certainly, not a fight for his life.

Swinging with all of his might, he hurled his heavy toolbox at Jesse blindly. There was a thump and a curse, but the footsteps kept coming. Animal-like terror set in as Michael crawled now on his knees toward the cab of his truck. He had to move, he had to live, he wasn’t going to die here on the side of the damn road- Suddenly a black boot came down on his hand, pinning him place and lighting up a fierce agony of pain in its wake.

“I like the fight, Guerin, I do,” Jesse remarked with a quiet menace. “Shall I make this hand match your other-” 

It was on the tip of Michael’s tongue to point out the obvious, but then Jesse saw it for himself. His left hand, healed and pristine, clutching at the hot blacktop surface. 

“I see.” He barked out a laugh that chilled Michael. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t the only one in Roswell. I thought about killing you right here you know, but now, you might finally serve a purpose in your useless life. You thought you could use my son in your perverted schemes? Well now it’s your turn to be bait.” 

Michael’s vision was already fading into blindness with the pollen taking hold, but he managed to spit out between numb lips, “Go fuck yourself.”

“Not today. You’re the one who is fucked.” A hand grabbed a tight hold of Michael’s hair, wrenching him backward, and then it was merciful darkness. 

*** 

[kaioken16]

Sacrificing your Freedom

Mallek Week 2021 - Day 2

Day 2: Sacrifice  Word count: 3020 Rating: Teens and Up Character(s): Mallek Adalov, original background characters

AO3 link

A/N: Set in a canon divergent AU as the previous entry but follows are darker route to rebel fighter Mallek. This will be a angst filled piece, mentions of brief torture, pain, and being enslaved.

Summary: Rebel Hacker codenamed ‘Scorist’ is captured and is then brought before a high ranking Imperial general who reveals his secret and he is forced to sacrifice the most important thing to him for his loved ones.

Mallek is led down the hallway of this vessel, a pair of heavily armored guards on each side of him, each carrying a long spear, the blades were teeming with energy which allowed them to discharge very painful bolts of energy. His head hung down, his face was bruised, with dry blood staining his lip and forehead. His uniform was torn all over, cuts and dirt, stained with his own blood. His arms are tightly restrained behind his back, and his ankles were shackled together. He made no attempt to try and fight the chains as any attempt would result in a swift, merciless reprimand from the guards, as evident by the old scorch marks on his clothing and his skin.

He had been careless, an error on his part. During a mission his role was to disable the alarm system as not to alert the imperial guards at a weapon’s warehouse that they were planning to steal supplies from for the rebels, however, he missed a secondary alert system that had recently been installed after the initial intel that had on the facility. From there, it all went downhill, and they didn't have enough time, and he had to think quickly so he provided cover, transferring a copy of the new weapon data and sending it to his friend, but in the end, only half of his team managed to get away, while the other half was caught.

They had been to a detention station located in some random quadrant of this galaxy that was Empire controlled. There he endured the usual torture and interrogation, he held out but his captured friends…

They weren’t so fortunate.

And now, after weeks of this shit, he had brought onto this ship by order of some high-ranking imperial. What did they want? Was it more questioning? If so, why take him off the detention facility? Many questions raced through Mallek’s head, he wasn’t sure what to expect. And his imagination didn’t help, he knew from first hand experience and from the stories of others just how cruel some of these highbloods officers could be. But what could they possibly do to him that was worse than the treatment he had been enduring…

A grimace look spreads on his beaten face, he didn’t wanna entertain those thoughts.

Finally, they arrive before a giant pair of metallic doors. It was decorated and given gold trimming, very expensive. In fact, everything about this ship was expensive, it was an imperial-class Devastator, part of the X-series which were the latest models and these were the next best ships after the Empress’s personal battleship. Owning a vessel like this could only be someone very high up on the imperial chain of command.

One of the guards approaches the set of doors, he then removes his glove, he had his back to Mallek, so he was unable to the symbol that had been tattooed into his palm, he presses it against the security panel, it scans the logo and then a green light pops on the panel. The doors open, slowly pulling away from each other. The guard places his glove back on and takes a seat back, Mallek’s eyes narrow as a means to get a better look at what was awaiting him on the other side.

The other guard shoves Mallek forward as he’s forced to resume walking, they enter the room. Inside was a long table that could seat 10 people, on the left side of the room was a shelf filled with books, data cards, files, and a set of strange look trinkets. On the right was a set of statues each depicting some kind of troll each carrying an actual weapon, it seemed like the statues were made for the sole purpose of advertising the object they were holding rather than the figures who inspired them.

Mallek’s eyes shifted around the room, scanning everything he could see, no escape routes of any kind except for the doors they entered through. But his eyes did stop at the far end of the room, was a massive view of the vast region of space, and admiring the view was a very tall figure, even taller than the guards who were at least 6ft each. The guards stand to attention, taps their spears on the metal floor, and salutes the figure, clearly, this was the big shot in charge of this vessel. “General Ioktex. We’ve brought the prisoner as you instructed.” One of the guards addresses him by his surname. Mallek’s right twitched, that name was familiar to him.

“Very good… You may leave us, wait outside.” Her voice is disguised but Mallek can tell that it’s a woman. The guards do as they are told and exit the room leaving Mallek alone with her.

“Welcome aboard the Devastator.” She raises her arms out gesturing towards the room, clearly referring to this ship as a whole. She turns to face him, still too far away for Mallek to get a better view but a single red glow catches his attention where one of her eyes should be.

“I must say, it is rather thrilling to meet a male blue caste. Such a rarity.”

She approaches him, her figure coming into his line of vision. He can see another troll, much older than him possibly in her mid-to-late 30s, waist-length black hair that is noticeably curled at the ends despite being otherwise relatively straight with parts of her hair covering her right eye, her left eye was completely red, as if blood and seeped through her pupil and iris, but it wasn’t blind, she could see through it.

Her mouth was covered by a mask that was the source of her altered voice. Her outfit was a long blue dress, but the shoulders were fitted with armor and a chest plate which had a pattern in the shape of crisscross with four points at each end. She wore boots that made a heavy sound each time she took a step on the floor. A high-powered blaster was strapped to her hip. From the colors that donned her attire and her previous statement, it was clear by the colors her outfit adorned, that she purple caste.

“Allow me to introduce myself properly, my name is-”

“Adrani Ioktex. General of the 20th division. Conqueror of the Andrax and Nova systems. Also known as ‘The Empress’s Spear’. I know who and what you are…” Mallek spat out in disgust knowing who she was, remembering the name and her unique features.

“Ah, I see my reputation precedes me.” Her voice is filled with glee that Mallek was aware of who she was. Though Mallek doesn’t react, his face remaining blank and neutral not wanting to show any emotion.

“The same can be said for you, the mysterious hacker and rebel operative responsible for the destruction, theft, and reprogramming of many of our imperial drones for your own cause, the genius who is known simply as the ‘SCORIST’.”

She refers to Mallek by his codename, the alias he went by after joining the rebellion, the handle he used when hacking into the systems and stealing from various targets. He had made a name for himself and used it to hide his name for safety and personal reasons as he had secrets and people to protect associated with his real name. Only his close friends and those he trusted knew his real name, he had made sure to erase any and all records of his name he could find.

“Congratulations, you’ve done your homework…” He responds to her conclusion with a sarcastic tone.

She grins at him. “But of course.  I’ve done my research and know full well about your past… Adalov.”

Mallek’s face showed a look of shock, and he immediately returned to a neutral look. How did she know his last name? That wasn’t possible. But unfortunately, the general had noticed the brief change of his expression. “Oh yes, I know your real name… Mallek Adalov.”

“Truly you were quite careful in erasing yourself from the records when you betrayed the Empire and defected. A young information spy killed in a crossfire on a mission, just another body to add to the pile of the dead… Another random troll who no one would miss or consider.”

“But you survived the skirmish, and then used your hacking abilities to erase your records… And then found yourself among the rebels. It was a brilliant move. However, you left footprints and breadcrumbs that most would overlook… So I began my investigation into you, studying your trail, your mark left on the servers and drones.” She starts to walk around Mallek.

“You kept your face hidden, rarely coming out in the open and providing support to your team. So I created a scenario that would bring you out in the open.”

Mallek looks at her, realizing that the factory mission had been a trap for him, she had orchestrated it to lure him out. Which meant his captured teammates deaths were, even more, his fault. Mallek couldn’t hide his anger, gritting his teeth, hands balled into fists.

“The final part was identifying you. You were able to remove yourself from most of the off-world servers and you were still fairly new, and you even stopped wearing your sign which would be an obvious tell.”

“But you can’t access any of the homeworld data after being shipped off… Records of you back home still exist after all.”

His eyes widened, he knew that any trace of him that still existed would still remain on Alternia but no adults could return there, it was heavily guarded and the Empress or her heiress would be alerted if an adult troll was spotted on the planet.

“Once you were captured, got a photo of you and then crossed references across the homeworld data, found your sign and then your real name.”

“What do you want?” He says in a slow, angry tone. He hated this, he hated when he wasn’t in control of a situation but she had all the cards.

“To make you a deal.” Her statement caught him off guard, confused by that.

“It must be hard having to follow the noble traditions of your people. A blue caste such as yourself serving as a mere soldier or spy within Her Imperious Condescension’s army. You would’ve preferred to be an information specialist, but your talents and skill as a genius hacker would never be utilized by her the Empress… It’s no wonder you feel so at home with traitors and rebels, allowing you to express your talents freely.”

“But even I must admit that your talents were wasted as a spy. I admire your work, it’s taken 3 years but you developed into a true specialist. So far from the timid anxious boy who feared being shipped off-world 5 years ago…”

“Shut up.” He demands, not wanting to listen to her words. He didn’t need a reminder, and she didn’t know him. She knew nothing about his struggles or his life.

“So I’m offering you an alternative.”

“You can spend the rest of your days rotting away in my detention facility. Dying in some dark, small cell or being beaten to death by some random prisoner… Or you can work for me, become my personal specialist and gather information on my enemies.” She states her offer to him which makes Mallek look at her with a confused look.

“What? Why would I work for someone like you?” Mallek snaps back, he would rather rot in that prison than work for her. Of course, she was expecting that response from him, which makes her chuckle.

“Your rebel friends. The rest of your group that escaped, and the ones you're protecting. And the reason you chose to use an alias and remove your name from the records…” She leans in close and whispers something into Mallek’s ear.

All the color fades from his face, a genuine look of fear and surprise as she pulls away smirking at him. “Your fate is in my hands Mallek Adalov, and if you want their safety to be ensured along with the safety of your own rebel cell, you will take my offer. I have no interest in small fry like your team, the rebel cells are divided, unorganized and there are more major threats, larger groups, and more important matters to deal with.”

“I will overlook your friends, and keep what’s most precious to you safe.” She informs him as a ringing noise begins to fill his ears, this wasn’t happening? This couldn’t be real? How? How could she have known about them, and how could he have been so careless…

What choice does he have now?

Mallek, with a defeated look in his eyes. Looks down, biting his lower lip.

“Good. Your silence is a reassurance that you’ve chosen wisely.” She smirks before taking the nearest seat at the table. “From this moment on, you belong to me. You are a tool and item, and a piece on my board to help me reach higher and eliminate my enemies and rivals. You will never see your comrades again, you have sacrificed your freedom in exchange for the ones you love, and for them…”

“Yes…” Mallek responds, his voice broken with acceptance.

“Very good. Welcome abroad SCORIST.” She grins, before standing up, she presses a button built into the table, and the doors open once again revealing the guards who had been waiting patiently. “Please take him to his quarters, and get him some new clothes.”

Years later…

The location was a planet in a far-off galaxy, it was the next site for the Empire’s eyes. It was full of valuable resources, from rare minerals, being the center of this galaxy, to serve as another controlled planet, and its people as slaves to help build the new facilities. The first steps of the invasion plan, first a team would be sent to infiltrate and survey the world, and general Ioktex had been dispatched to oversee this mission, and she had sent her team to go in first. A small vessel arrives over the planet and begins to break through the atmosphere. Inside the small vessel. Were four trolls, each dressed in imperial uniforms with their caste colors and general Ioktex’s sign engraved on random spots of their uniform, symbolizing that allegiance to her.

Piloting the ship, was a tall tealblood, his eyes focusing dead ahead to their destination, checking all the system and making their cloaking device was functioning. A slim blueblood and hulking purpleblood armed to the teeth with weapons and armor, both were wearing helmets to cover most of their faces. And sitting in another seat, typing away and looking at the monitor was Mallek. His expression was cold and dead, his eyes barely moving as he shifted through data, and attached to his neck was a collar device that was blinking. He has several holographic screens around his face. He waits for the virus to download into the flash drive he has plugged in, and once the bar fills and 100% appears, he removes it from the port.

“Here.” He tosses the drive to the other blueblood, who catches it.

“Once you get to a server, insert the flash drive in and we’ll access the mainframe. The virus will be uploaded and we’ll have all the information we need.”

She examines the device in her hand “Huh? It’s that simple huh? What about firewalls and security systems or-”

Mallek cuts her off “Don’t worry about it. It’s a multiagent virus, it’ll be infecting too many systems at once to mask what we’re really doing. Just get in, stay hidden, and don’t let anything happen to the drive.”

“Alright, fair enough. You’re the expert. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.” She smiles trying to make small talk but Mallek doesn’t even look at her, not interested in her or any of them.

“We’ll be landing shortly.” The pilot says as he presses some buttons. “Boosting cloaking shield.”

Suddenly a pained groan is heard at the back of the ship. In the generator room, strapped and bound into the ship, by tendrils was a gold caste troll, colorful energy surges through his eyes and then around his body as it is absorbed through the tendrils, powering the ship up. This was the norm for goldblood, but in this one’s case, it was a punishment. He was a rebel agent who had been captured and as punishment, he had been bound to his vessel as a living battery.

The rebels had adapted to using ships powered by alternative means as opposed to the living batteries on gold castes. After all exhaustion and overuse would result in the gruesome, permanent damage or painful deaths of the psionic trolls. But the empire would just replace them with another. Of course like the rebels, the empire did have ships and vessels that were also powered by other non-living energy sources. Only the older models and generation still used living batteries, as a reward by the Empress as goldbloods could last longer than fuel.

Every groan or scream he made was ignored by the crew, the purpleblood, in particular, found it to be soothing and enjoyed the cries of pain. Mallek was forced to endure this, and do nothing. The device around his neck was a precaution that the general had used to further keep him in line. Containing a powerful explosion that would activate at the push of a button or he made any attempt to remove or hack the wiring.

He had sacrificed his freedom, in order to protect what was dearest to him…

And now he was once again a servant to the Empire, an unwilling servant and this would be his life for now until the end of his life. A slave who was no different than that poor soul in the generator, no different from the inhabitants on the planet below who would soon be enslaved and lose their freedom.

He sighs before returning his view to his screen. “Let’s begin…”

[undercoverwizardfanfiction]

Fathers and Sons Part 1: A ROTTMNT Fantasy Fanfiction

Summary: When a old friend shows up, Leonard is forced to face a difficult past all while keeping Donnie safe. But will it be enough to escape unharmed?

Takes Place a bit after “The Thief and the Orphan”

Word Count:2478

Pairing: Ok if you ship ANYTHING in this I’m going to seriously have to reccomend you seek therapy. Or do a soul searching montage. Which ever your insurance will cover

Rating: PG for Mild Violence

“Ok hear me out-“

Len ,without looking away from the cabbage he was inspecting, says, “Danny I swear if I turn around and your’e holding a bag of onions bigger then Donnie I’m going to use your suits for my new quilt.”

Danny let out a small scoff (followed by the undeniable sound of someone setting down a giant bag of surplus). A small shoulder bumped his hip, drawing his attention down to the twelve year old soft shell at his side, giving him a sour look with puffed up cheeks, “Uh oh, I know that look. What did I do?” Len asks

“I am not a official unit of measurement Dad.”Donnie says in a way that supposed to indicate he was offended. But judging by the way he was pressing his mouth into a fine line he was trying hard not to smile. Len doesn’t share his attempt to hide a smile as he rubs Donnie’s scalp as though to ruffle his imaginary hair, “He tries to catch any sign that Donnie was upset ,he had a bad habit fo not always sharing his feelings, but the child seemed alright. Len, picks up a frost apple and turns it over to check for rotten spots. Danny snatches the apple out of his hand, Len looks to him and sees Danny giving him a questioning look before glancing at the child holding his fathers hand, leaning against him with a half bored expression on his face but also probably to give his braced leg a break, “Think we can afford a quick lesson?” Danny asks

A wave of uneasiness came over Len as he quickly glanced around the market. Thankfully the guards were too busy off getting bribes or drunk and the vendor is too busy having a staring contest with a spider on their stand. After a moment to think it over he nods to Danny though he unconsciously grips Don’s hand tighter in his. Danny’s crouches down to Don’s level, “What do you think kid? Ready for a lightning round?”

Don’s eyes widen for a moment before looking to Len. Despite the overprotective knot in his stomach he gives a nod. Don looks back to Danny with a look of determination. Danny gives a grin, pulling out the apple out from behind him and tosses it up into the air before snatching it and hiding it behind his back, barely keeping it in sight for more then a few seconds. “Alright, notice anything wrong with the apple?”

Don’s brow furrows in a way Len knew he was thinking about the brief time he had been allowed to see the apple. To a passerby it may have looked like a simply game a uncle was playing with his nephew but it was a good observation test to see how many defections Donnie could notice with as brief as window as possible. Which would prove useful if Donnie was ever staking out a score in the future. “It wasn’t fully blue yet, “ he says after a moment, “Which means it has plenty of time to ripe. And it didn’t have any bruising.”

“Almost right.” Danny drew the apple out again, angling the fruit so Donnie could see the top of it “The stem is twisted and withered a little which means the farmer who grew it took care to make sure it was stored properly.”

Don immediately frowns, “shoot.” He says tapping his foot against the ground angrily. Physically reprimanding himself for his mistake

“Hey now,” Danny rubs his scalp “you’re getting better. you’re catching on a lot faster then you Dad did.” Len made sure to cast the rat a sour look (mostly for the added insult in his direction)

Len can still feel Don’s disappointment as he leans against his Dad’s leg. Len didn’t always approve of doing tests like these in public. But he didn’t want Donnie to feel dishearten. HE hands the bag of groceries to Danny (who takes it with a soft grumble) and kneels down, a arm wrapped Dons shoulders, “Alright kiddo.” He says drawing Dons sad gaze to him, “Let’s say you wanted to ‘befriend someone here. Do you see someone who ‘d make a good ‘friend?’”

Eager at a chance to redeem himself, Donnie’s eyes dart around at a speed that Len knows means he’s focusing too hard, “Take a deep breath,”he reminds squeezing his shoulders gently, “there’s no time limit. ‘Friends’ will come around again.” Without looking at him, Don nods before closing his eyes and doing as he was told. This time when he looks around its at a slower more manageable pace, ‘I’d befriend the man in a brown cloak.”

Len looks at where Don’s looking at sees who he’s talking about, whose standing net in the shadow of another giant bull yokai, “Are you sure?” he asks, “Why not the two over there?” he says nodding towards the two squirrel yokai in bright clothes, “They look like they’d be good friends too.”

Donnie nods, “He’s a merchant pretending to be poorer then he is ,you can tell by his dragon scale gloves and glasses. And the guy with him is a body guard but the body guard looks tired like the merchant has been harassing him all night so even if I did.” Don pauses, “‘befriend him, the body guard probably wouldn’t try as hard to befriend me back.” Don’s eyes look to him for a moment as though to check his work, but Len just nods towards the squirrels, telling him to continue ,”They’re not actually rich, they look lost. The clothes are probably family heirlooms that they couldn’t bring themselves to sell, but they’re hands are really dirty which means they’re probably laborers. What ever they do have on them is probably a prized family possession. But it wouldn’t be right to befriend from them.” This time when Donnie looks at him Len gives him a smile and a nod, “good job baby boy, you got everything right.” He says gently pressing the corner of his mouth to Don’s forehead as he hugged him tightly around the shoulders. Even though Lens’ never been too sure about conducting these sort of tests in public, it’s worth it to see Don’s face blossom into a smile. Len rises back to a standing position. Mickey is already giving him a smile of approval as his flippers flutter happily, “Great job cookie!” he tells Donnie, squishing his cheek on Donnie’s scalp. Len takes the back of produce from Danny and returns to looking at the produce.

He had thought it was too soon to try and teach Don the skills he would need as a thief, and far too risky to do out in public, but luckily Danny always knew how to code the self titled “Thief Games” to make a observer think that , rather then teaching a child who to pick pocket and how to deduce a item worth stealing at a moments notice, that they were just teaching him how to make friends and playing games.

IT was inevitable, but that didn’t’ mean it didn’t make him anxious.

He was inspecting a group of half grown carrots when Donnie pulls on his arm to get his attention and immediately saw what had gotten Don so excited, a used book stand that had Don beaming up at him, “can I?” He asked , “Please? I have money.”

Uh oh. Len could feel his ‘overprotective dad’ instincts overwhelm his ‘dear moon Len the booth is literally a few feet away’ reasoning. He took a breath before he smiles, rubbing Dons’ scalp,” Ok take Mickey with you and do as he says. And here,” he reaches into his coin bag (thank the Mystic Moon for that extra good score they had hit before the snow had set in), he mentally counts up how much he’ll need for groceries before pulling out a few spare coins, “consider it a reward for doing so well,” Normally he didn’t like Donnie leaving his side in public, but it was worth it to see Don smile at him and take the coins, “Thanks Dad!” He says before hurrying over to the book vendor with Mickey trailing after him.

“Looks like you two are getting along again.” Danny says stepping by him. Picking through the produce,“I know things were hard there for a moment.”

“Yeah, we were training yesterday and he said,” Len pauses trying not to think about how the conversation had went, “some things that I know he felt bad about saying.” Len turns his attention to a giant bag of potato’s, when was the last time he had made fries? “Hes a great kid he just gets frustrated.”

“Hes at that age” Danny turns and leans at the stall, Len can tell he’s watching Donnie at the book stand. For someone who always claimed Len too overprotective, Danny was certainly a contender, “I can’t believe it was seven years ago you said you were going out to buy hair gel and you came back with a freaking kid.”

Len laughed, “Yeah,” it was weird how seven years could both feel like a lifetime and a blink of a eye. He could still remember when Donnie was too scared to leave his little corner of the house. He was so entrapped in those early memories that he almost jumped when Danny suddenly dumped his groceries into his arms causing Len to stumble for a moment, trying to keep from falling over, “Danny-“

“Mickeys started to look bored, I’m going to make sure he doesn’t start licking books-Mickey no! They’re covered in germs!” Danny said already hurrying over to where Donnie was desperately trying to pull a book away from Mickeys open mouth . It took him a moment to realize he wasn’t only left alone, but with bags of produce that even he was having a hard time balancing. He had thought is as overkill to bring the entire family along to of grocery shopping but the winter had been especially long. He didn’t blame any of them for running after him when he had went to get his cloak. He had actually been relieved to have help carrying the supplies back home but he should of known that was too good think their attention spans would hold out. With half humored grumbling he turns to the vendor,” Hey, can I leave this stuff behind with you until we leave?” Grateful when he nodded (before returning to his staring contest with the spider), Len somehow managed to shuffle behind the stand and drop off the bags food and the payment. He counted out his change again, they had ended up under budget (for once). Maybe he could go visit the sacred east booth, if they had rice flour he could make-“

“Hey babe”

Len drops the apple he had been looking at and grabbed at his knife when a another hand caught his and a arm wrapped around his chest, pinning his back against a chest. He wastes no time twisting to free himself before he feels the hand gripping his redirecting his knife holding hand so the sharp point was digging through the back of his shirt and over his kidneys under his coat so no one could see it. From a outside perspective someone might of thought that someone had jumped over to surprise a old friend. The person rests their cheek on his shoulder looking to him with a smirk “I can’t believe you actually let me do that Babe, how many times did you lecture Lief and Mickey for letting their guard down? oh how the mighty have fallen.”

Len grinds his teeth together, berating himself for a a few moments before forcing himself to calm down. The vendor hadn’t noticed what had happened, “What do you want Vito? I told you if i ever saw you again i’d skin you alive-“

“Ah you did didn’t you?” the silver yokai with a white mohawk and green markings around his eyes said as though just realizing he forgot his watch, or something trivial, “ But i just missed you so much i had to visit, babe. I must say, i’m digging the ponytail look you have going.” Vito used his hand to twirl his hair around for a moment ,”it really suits you.”

He’s too busy thinking of all the ways he wants to break Vitos army that he has to remind himself to stay calm. Despite how “attached” he claimed to be to Len, the Thief knew he had no problem shoving that knife between his ribs and leaving g him to bleed out “ I told you i hate it when you call me that Toe-“

“Ah but i think it’s cute, doesn’t it make you feel it make you feel special?” Vito presses his forehead uncomfortably close to Lens temple. Even after all the time Vito still smells like expensive cologne and candy, a sickly combination that makes his stomach twist,”How’s your boy doing? It’s been so long since i saw him-“

Len jerks around again “if you touch him-“

“I won’t i won’t. I happen to know he’s over book shopping with Danny and Mickey,” Vito let’s out a sigh “as much as i’d love to catch up with the boys, there’s someone who’s been dying to see you,” The hand on Lens chest rises up and plays with Lens bangs that slowly grow claws” and if you come quietly, you might live long enough to see your baby boy again,”

Len imagines catching his ankle around the back of Vitos ankle and getting them upper hand. But he looks to where the Mud Dogs are looking at books across the market. He watches Donnie look in his direction and his smile fade to terror. Of course he would understand what was going on, and in a way it makes Len hate Vito even more to make Donnie look so concerned for him. Donnie has already grabbed Danny’s hand but Danny is already looking like he’s about to charge across the market and kill Vito where he stands while Mickey grabs Donnies shoulders to keep him from running to him. But Len shakes his head at them as settle as he can. The pain swelling when Don’s eyes fill with tears. His natural instinct wants nothing more then to go to his child and comfort him. But HE knows he can’t do that if he makes the wrong move and ends up with a knife in his kidneys.

“Let’s just get this over with.” he growls at Vito as quietly as he can

“Aw that’s why i love you babe. You’re just so smart,” Vito twists the arm he has a grip on like someone would direct a horse and forces Len to walk ahead of them. The two of them disappearing into the crowd

Len didn’t care what happened to him

he just needs his son to be safe

[soranis-sunshadow]

Why Hordak didn’t become a good law abiding citizen once he got stranded on Etheria

A lot of people argue that once on Etheria, Hordak was free and as such, he could have chosen to not be a warmongering tyrant. To that I would argue that he was never free of the brainwashing and indoctrination that had been literally programmed into him and that dictated that his only purpose in life is to serve Prime, like a good little clone.

Hordak’s conquest of Etheria was what Hordak thought Prime would want from him. He thought that by doing this for Prime, he would be seen as worthy of being kept alive despite being defective. It wasn’t as much of an actual choice as it was following his pervious programming to the only logical conclusion: Bring things into Prime’s Light. It was a mechanism to reinforce the conditioning, not cope with it or to free himself from it. Hordak never coped with any of the abuse that was heaped on him.

 If Hordak had ever wanted to conquer the planet and be the leader of a military dictatorship for the power and glory of it, then why was he so ardent to give it all up and return to Prime where he was essentially powerless? Why return to  the side of a being that sees you as livestock? Hordak seems more interested in building his portal and going home than he is in running the Horde or its military operations. Even when physically away from Prime, Hordak is still devout. His physical separation didn’t instantly make him an atheist. The reason for which he was thrown out to begin with further accentuated his zealotry. He needed to prove himself to his god, Etheria was merely a trial, a chance at repentance. All of the suffering he submitted himself to was a trial so that he may become pure, according to Prime’s doctrine.

He had been looking for a way off Etheria and out of Despondos for decades. That’s how much he cared about ruling the planet. So much so that whenever Light Hope opened any portal, for any reason, he went to investigate. That’s how he stumbled upon baby Adora.

 He had thought Prime had come for him and opened a portal form the other side. Hordak had been investigating the opening portals on the planet’s surface. Eventually he figured that Prime couldn’t come for him (he never considered that Prime wouldn’t) so he would build a portal and opened it from his side. He desperately wanted to go back home, back to Prime’s Light. (to the horrific life he had before as a brainwashed acolyte of Prime)

As far as making the choice not to hurt others, @cruelfeline wrote about it better than i ever could she also expanded on his lack of choice here.

If I were to put it in my own words, I’d say that Hordak lacks the moral framework to see his actions as wrong. Conquest and hurting the natives of planets are things Prime has always condoned and demanded, to him, these things are good. I know it sounds like I’m condoning his actions, which I am definitely not and why on insist on reparations for redemption, but Hordak didn’t really have the moral framework to understand that his actions are evil.

 He was never taught any moral framework other than Horde Prime=good, everything else=“must suffer to become pure”, (including little brothers).

Within the moral framework in which he was created to serve and  his understanding of how the world worked, Hordak was a “morally good” person.

As bizarre as this notion is for us to consider from our human point of view because he’s a warmongering religious zealot leading a military dictatorship, but according to the rules of the world he had lived in and the Galactic Horde society, Hordak was being good. He was worshipping and serving Prime, taking territory in his name and doing everything that, in terms of the society that Prime had created and Hordak was created in, made him a good clone. He was even overzealous in proving  that his defect does not take away his ability to serve Prime, that though he had sinned by being made broken, he can still repent and be good. As far as the only morality he has ever know stands, Hordak is “morally good” and an upstanding servant of Prime.

In a world without Prime, Hordak has no motivation to hurt anyone.

He doesn’t need to chose to be good, he needs to be taught what good is to begin with (with lots of therapy and support and companionship). This is a long process that in actuality might take years. Unlearning Prime’s moral framework and learning a new and ethical from a human standpoint one is not something that could’ve believably happened onscreen in the small amount of screentime he had in season 5 (2 minutes tops’). In all likelihood, Hordak will have to undergo rehabilitation after a lifetime of trauma, abuse and slavery-from-birth. What has been done to him and what he has done in the name of his god will always be things that mark him.

I think that after the series he is finally in a place to start this rehabilitation, and as far as willingness is concerned, he had always been willing to let people in. So long as those people were the ones to approach him first - he doesn’t actually know how to initiate any sort of relationship (friendship or otherwise), again, this is not something Prime taught any of his clones.

 He is willing to make the step and to change, and he is willing to learn from Entrapta. He has been presented to be willing to follow whomever showed him even a modicum of kindness and companionship, even after kicking his ass, ripping away his prosthetic armor’s power source,  humiliating him then threatening him with Prime displeasure upon arrival, he still let Catra in. 

That is how willing he is to let people in. That is how desperate his actually is for any form of companionship.

[saintheartwing]

I've decided to put this up for reference and to help not only myself remember who's who, but clear a few things up for you, dear reader. All part of my “Breaking Dawn” Invader Zim story! From left to right, starting at the top...

DIB Occupation: Student Power: Willpower Further Notes: Dilbert Membrane, little "Dibbun". He's both antagonist and protagonist like Zim in the television series "Invader Zim", and grew up with both a strong interest in the paranormal and the strange, and with a deep desire to protect the people of Earth. Even as a toddler he seemed to have a calling within him to protect the planet and those within it. He is capable of overcoming great fear, and with his strong resolution and imagination, he makes for an excellent green lantern. This brave-hearted youth grew up on "IZ-Prime", the "Base" planet of the Invader Zim youth, the Earth where all other Invader Zim universes are born from. His primary job is usually keeping Zim from experimenting on other people or unleashing some highly strange, oddly stupid and yet fiendishly clever doomsday weapon on the populace. Eventually Dib hit on an idea: Zim had managed to make himself a "friend" in Keef, who had done everything with him...and where was Batman without a Robin? He took in a charge, and recruited that slightly slow, but friendly and impressionable kid Nick whom Zim had stuck a probe in some time back. The two became an excellent team for a time until "The Incident" in which Zim crossed the line...and did something to Nick Dib would never forget...and possibly never forgive. Eventually the years went on and Zim slightly mellowed out, meaning that Dib could relax somewhat...until, that is, all of reality began to fall apart... GAZ Occupation: Student Power: Rage Further Notes: Gazeline Membrane blamed almost everybody when her mother Peggy died in a tragic lab accident. All of it was unfair blame, but she didn't care. She shut herself up in selfish desires and caprice, her rage slowly boiling underneath her like a volcano set to blow at the slightest notice. Interestingly, she began to warm up to Zim. The two had a surprising amount of things in common...the two even went to the dance together. She admits in private he "cleaned up alright". She was blushing heavily as she said this. She didn't, however, approve of what Zim did to Nick, because whilst she doesn't mind the exploitation of the stupid, the outright abuse he leveled was horrifying even to her. She tried to be nice to Nick in the hospital, giving him something of a crush on her. Being a being of revenge, private loss and fury, it's not surprising she bonded with the power of Rage, which had, at one point, been the might of Passion. Heck, she's ALL passion! ZIM Occupation: "Invader", Service Drone/Student Power: Avarice Further Notes: Zerinim, Zimmy-Wimmy, Zimri, etc, etc. You all know him. He's that short, tiny little thing who's determined to take over and/or destroy the Earth. You have to give him points for persistence, he keeps a-tryin', but his level of commitment and competence is "Team Rocket" level. Since he was little, he's been pretty much destroying everything he touches, but this isn't totally his fault. His PAK is defective, his mental processes aren't right. He's slow in some areas of development, but very bright in others, similar to that of an autistic child...obsessive and slightly anti-social behavior included. He's also never admit his deep concern for his beloved companions, mostly because he desperately clings to the inane idea that an Invader needs no one, even though he often relies on others for the "final touch" in his plan. The "incident" that happened with Nick actually struck him with so much guilt...it almost struck as hard as Dib did with that lead pipe after he snuck inside Zim's house and put Zim in a body cast for half a year. Zim's plans became less lethal and more annoying, and he began to appreciate his "friends" a bit more. He views Dib as something of an equal, and in a way, perhaps...more than that. And then...there's Gaz... GIR Occupation: Robot Power: Fear Further Notes: GIR. He's a GARBAGE-INFESTED-ROBOT! Useless as far as most robotic companions go because he's not usually taking things seriously, his head always in the clouds. And the few times he DOES focus don't last long at all. However, with the power of "Fear" flowing through him, the potential to inspire terror and impose HIS kind of order on the world brings out the dark, foul and pitiless cruelty he holds within. GIR has the potential to be even worse than Zim, and the ring focuses his inner psychopathic tendencies. GIR is very childlike...he doesn't always 'get' what he's supposed to do, or understand why things are the way they are. Yet he is also more intelligent and wise than people give him credit for, having access to fundamental truths about the universe he lives in. He understands what kind of world he's in, and has accepted that, and his role as the on-again off-again goofy sociopath. If your really are worried about him, give him something shiny. Or a lollipop. SKOODGE Occupation: Invader Power: Hope Further Notes: Invader Skoodge. No matter what terrible things happened in his life, he's always faced the future. He's remained cheery, helpful, friendly and optimistic, and therefore, it befits him to wear the robes of the Blue, wielder of the light that Hope brings. Skoodge and Zim go way back, and Skoodge considers Zim a dear friend, one of the few people who didn't treat him like a fat, useless lump. As such, he's willing to do almost anything for him, or anybody who treats him with respect and decency. He treats the revelation about the world he lives in with stoic acceptance, and doesn't raise a stink about it. Skoodge is too cool for school, baby. NOTHIN' rattles him. Plus I like this outfit the most. It's so stylish! GRETCHEN Occupation: Student Power: Love Further Notes: Gretchen has always had a huuuuge crush on Dib, admiring him and his work from afar. She eventually figured out the truth about Zim, which helped make Dib open up to her, but nobody really listened to HER either. Mostly because her braces weren't fixed yet...kids can be so cruel. But when wielding the light of Love, she's able to bring out her strongest potential, and become the brave defender that she always was inside, the sort of take-charge, admirable alien-busting girl that Dib would find his ideal. Plus, more importantly, the outfit she's wearing does NOT make her look half-naked. You're welcome. TAK Occupation: Former Invader/Current Patron of Emotion Power: Willpower Further Notes: Tessirak, or Tak, was at one point, a promising Irken training to be an Invader. She rose quickly through the ranks, impressing all of her superior officers (Red especially, he "loves that girl!")...and tragically getting trapped on her training planet when Zim caused a huge power outage in his desire to get a snack. Typical Zim. Tak got a LITTLE bit insane from that and from being forced to be a janitor for several years. She went to Earth to get her revenge and actually befriended Dib somewhat, but ultimately she lost against Zim and his "friends", and was sent out into space. Her old comrade who still had a great gentlemanly (and slightly romantic) concern for her, Darth, had a fellow comrade go pick her up upon hearing of her plight, and she was almost dead...if not for the fact that her Will was keeping her alive, beyond even her PAK, beyond anything else. This strong Will was what transformed her into the Patron of Willpower, and she bonded to Jayd when he arrived to aid her. Tak is very resolute and intelligent, and always follows through on her plans. She's clever as can be, and over time, developed a dear fondness for Dib and her host, Jayd, who views himself as a Knight, with her as his queen to protect. I like the way her design came out quite a lot, truth be told. She's so streamlined and stylish! I was tempted to give her a cape, truth be told. But like the movie "The Incredibles" said...no capes! JAYD Occupation: Medic Power: Willpower Patron: Tak Further Notes: Jayd was and always has been a lucky, lucky guy. He, like the others in Senior's care, found something fascinating about Earth Culture. Unlike the others though, this fascination came from comics. Ideals like justice and morality hit home with him, and he became fascinated by the tales in comics like "Superman", "X-Men" and, his personal favorite...Green Lantern. It could be the result of his programming: after all, he WAS encoded as a medic, helping the sick and injured and helpless is in his "blood". So was it the entity of Willpower, heroism and courage embodied, that he picked..or did it pick HIM? Either explanation makes sense, and that's what I'm leaving it at. Jayd is the heroic Irken that strives to be courageous and noble, the honorable warrior, a flame of chivalry that can't be blown out. The power of Will requires a living being to manifest, and it's representative is always changing based around who has the mightiest will in its presence. It was Tak that gained it, having the ability to overcome great fear, and she, in turn, bonded to Jayd after he was sent to rescue her courtesy of her dear old comrade, Darithil. With her indomitable will and his deep moral code, the two are a good fit. And I really like the wreathe he wears atop his head. It's a nice touch. MAHT Occupation: Service Drone Power: Compassion Patron: Fiyvr Further Notes: Maht's always been used all his life. Be he a tool of a general, being forced to sweep floors at a diner or being stuck bussing drinks, he's never had his own will. But he doesn't totally care. What he DOES care about is being able to be of some help or use to others. He accepts his lot in life because, for the most part, he feels he can do the most good in whatever position he happens to be in. Gaining the sympathetic light of Compassion and becoming wielder of the Indigo Light enabled him to be of even greater assistance to others. Maht, like the others, found a deep liking of Earthling ways. He finds the different races and cultures fascinating, and has a deep personal enjoyment of food from the small blue planet, especially if it's deep fried or contains cheese. Fiyvr, his patron, is from the world of Wahshyd Dawhn, and was a renowned prophet and seer. He's always happy to lend a hand in solving somebody's problems, and to be a shoulder to cry on...even if he's physically short on both accounts. Curse his lack of opposable thumbs! Still, Maht might be pretty much a rug for others to walk all over on, but he's a very HELPFUL rug, and a reliable type...and he'll still try and give the best hug he can when somebody's feelin' down. DITE Occupation: Elite Invader Power: Passion/Rage Patron: Chulainn Further Notes: Dite likes to be seen as strong. She handles fights like a man, handles anger like a man, and fights dirty like a man. All of her inner anger though, stems from personal loss. She loved someone once, many, many years ago, and gave her all for him. But the Empire let him rot. For that...she would never forgive them. And she adopted a gung-ho attitude similar to her beloved's personality. It is grief that fuels the greatest rage, and so Chulainn, who endured great pain in HIS life, naturally bonded to her and others who felt great suffering. He originated on Earth like Psyche and Jourmungdr, and his appearance changed to better fit his new nature. Dite has a deep love of the kind of "gritty and dark" action stories that Earth has. I'm talkin' "Bloodgun" or "Punisher" type stories. She really, REALLY likes making sure people get what they deserve. And get. And get some more. So yeah...she's a bloodthirsty vigilante with a tragic past. Never seen THOSE before! :roll" MIYUKI Occupation: Former Tallest, Current Resisty Leader and Television Personality Power: Hope Patron: Psyche Further Notes: Psyche comes from Earth like Chulainn and Joumungdr, and when Chulainn stood for passion, the two were very close. If one has hope and faith in the future, one should live passionately, living life to its fullest, unafraid. Furthermore, she likes poetry. His poetry. Yeah, weird relationship. Miyuki has had several weird relationships in HER life too. Darithil considers her a mother figure, to Senior, she was the "big sister" type boss, as dear as family, and to Spork she was an annoying wife that he felt he always had to drag around, like she was a nagging ball and chain and he was a prisoner on a chain gang. Of course, his biggest concern was usually whether the camera was getting his good side, whilst she cared more about, y'know, food shortages, the fate of physical defectives and whether or not the Meekrob would nuke her people. She lost almost all hope when Zim's creation, the Infinite Energy Absorbing Blob ate her, and was forced to maintain her consciousness and what little was left of her body by consuming living beings along with Spork. However, she held onto the idea that one day she could return, and bring her people out of darkness. She represents living hope...the hope that one day, the Irken people could be good and noble, if only they had the right person to show them the way...and she sure knows how to dress, woo! Her outfit is my favorite out of all the girls. It's so regal and dignified! FEYR Occupation: Consular (Interrogator) Power: Love Patron: Jourmungdr Further Notes: Most would be surprised that the power of Love is exemplified by a patron that's a giant snake which used to be a Norse monster, and represented by cannibalistic Irkens dressed in vaguely transsexual armor. Well the thing is, their love almost borders on obsession. Love is deep and complicated, and though usually innocent in intent, it has a bad tendency of not realizing that it's lost sight of the rest of the world...and lost its grip on logic. Consulars are all psychics, and their power has been manipulating Irk for generations. They seek to save Irk from "itself", feeling that the idea that "invaders need no one" is inane. If they didn't need anybody or anything, the Tallest wouldn't give them SIRs. Wouldn't give them PAKs. They love their planet and love other alien races, and not merely for dinner, either. They just have a tendency to get...carried away. Feyr is no exception. He wines and dines all he interrogates, and views shrinking and swallowing them as a high honor, keeping them safe forever, embedded in the crystals he generates with his power, safe until the day Irk is ready to accept love, and by extension, the right of other races to live freely. He's charming and sweet, but also very manipulative and cold-hearted when he wants to be. But what else could you expect from a slightly sociopathic cannibal? XEIL Occupation: Communications Officer Power: Intelligence/Fear Patron: Nollij (aka Panyck), co-bonded with Spork Further Notes: Xeil's problem isn't that she's an egotistical, proud, narcissistic bitch. The problem is that it's a front. The problem is that she could be better, and WAS better. She had a personality her own, which befits her station. Most communication officers are good at listening, can "hear beyond". She was no exception... But Xeil lost herself in her job too easily, and forgot how to feel. She was hearing what others said...but she stopped listening. She lost the zest she had for her job. Panyck is much the same. At one point, he was Knowledge made manifest, the pride and joy of his home planet, but he lost himself in HIS job, and became a fascist, a dictator who worshipped fear. He views it as the best way to establish real order, and that not knowing fear is utter insanity. Admittedly, he might have a point. SOME fear is necessary, some caution is always needed in life...but inflicting fear on others needlessly is something he began to enjoy, when once before he sought to instruct others on what was to be feared rather than being the thing feared. However a piece of his true self remains, brought out by Spork, who has had a long time to think about his own rule, and Xeil, who will, with time, remember HER true self...and why she chose to be a communications officer in the first place. PEECH Occupation: Guard Power: Diligence/Avarice Patron: Pyrsist Further Notes: Pyrsist didn't take a new name, but she focused more on getting stuff than getting stuff DONE. Peech's love of Earth culture is centered around things that can best be summed up in a single word...shiny. Shiny shiny shiny! A brand new shiny thing, that's her favorite object in all the world! She keeps most hidden in her backpack/jetpack, but usually you can hear it all jingling. She likes stealing things out of people's pockets and purses and the like, being something of a kleptomaniac. Peech believes in looking regal and elegant and beautiful, and that more jewels equal more happiness. In short, she's a petty, selfish little brat...she and Pyrsist deserve each other. At one point, Pyrsist was a hard-working citizen of Avianos, but that went out the window when she became Mistress of the Orange Light. Peech is also a huge fan of Earth fashion and likes imitating what's "in" on the planet. Were she a guy, she'd have no problem wearing things like dark biker jackets or cowboy hats. She believes full-heartedly in the right to choice, she sees nothing wrong with letting Irkens be free to dress how they want, and is witty enough to debate her point of view well. To Peech, Wiyn was more than a friend growing up. But when Peech tried to give her the love she felt...Wiyn couldn't give it back. Wouldn't give it back. So she sought to fill the void with junk. She went from being a deep, poem-writing romantic to a shallow valley girl. She didn't have to be that way... NICK. E. ODEON Occupation: Student Power: Death Patron: Himself Further Notes: He's a tragedy. He was eager-to-please. He wanted to satisfy the people who showed him attention and support. He wanted to make others happy and bonded instantly to somebody who he felt was "in need of a friend". But then Zim did the unspeakable, and he went from being childlike in heart to being childlike in mind and interests as well. He has problem getting dressed...tying his shoes. That's not his real hair. It's actually a wig. His old hair kinda...rotted off after... ...erm...well, at one point, he was Dib's comrade and friend. His solider. But Dib couldn't help him...and Dib didn't avenge him. He put Zim in a body cast for six months...but "Nick" never was the same. Ultimately, it's sort of unsurpriisng that he ended up being the Black Entity. He doesn't just blame Invader Zim for his pain. He blames the universe he's in for creating Invader Zim the way he is. He blames the people that made Zim ZIM. And he's gonna make them pay for making so flawed a universe. He views Zim and the universe of Invader Zim irredeemably flawed and better off dead because of all the immorality, cruelty and terrible tragedies that it and its alternate universes spawn. The problem is that he fails to see the good that can be found within, because he refuses to see any other part of IZ. In choosing to focus on one part, albeit a large one, of the realm, he ignores all the rest of it and doesn't get a clear enough view. He doesn't fully"get" Zim, even though he says he does. And yes. He is every bit as representative of you-know-what as you think he is. But it's not his fault. He just doesn't know any better. He's just trying to do what he thinks is best. WIYN Occupation: Elite Grunt Power: None, unless you count being a bitch. Patron: None, unless maybe Satan is her secret benefactor... Further Notes: Wiyn is every horrible, cruel, sadistic, by-the-book bitchy jackass that we've met. She will always stick to the rules but only if she thinks they fit her standards. She forces everyone to fit her standards and will blast anybody that doesn't, and instead of reasonable discussion, she prefers cruel words and violence. Wiyn was, at one point, a dearly beloved comrade of Xeil, and then some. But Wiyn refused to open her heart. Instead, it shriveled up. Don't set her up with a boyfriend. She's married to her work! She's proud, narcissistic, vain, ignorant of others feelings and apathetic to the suffering of innocents. In a word, she's evil. She's a constant whiner about what is or isn't "right" for an Irken to do because she looked into the Untempered Schism, seeing all the truths of her universe. As such, she considers herself a "true Irken" and anybody remotely different from her mold, even if they just have an unusual eye color or like wearing, say, a striped outfit, MUST DIE! She's a good representative of the part of the fandom that I hate...the ones that obsess over what's truly "canon" and what's not, and who have no tolerance or compassion for anybody or anything that stretches outside their boundaries. They've got little tolerance for the fandom and refuse to recognize what it brings to Invader Zim. I have no respect for Wiyn or what she represents. I yearn for the day when she will be turned into an AVOCADO. For those of you who get this inside joke...you know who you are. You rock. SENIOR, aka Nick Grey

Occupation: Senior Communications Officer Power: Life Patron: Sude Further Notes: Nick's Irken Form, now given a true name, "Senior". He's the oldest and most experienced communications officer on the Massive, and considers himself the "Safety Net" to those on the ship. He's there for its crew, to lend a helping hand, a pair of arms to lift them up, a shoulder to cry on. He's always been kind-hearted and harmonious, with a deep love of Earth music. It's no surprise the Entity of Life, Sude of the Planet Allforce, bonded to him. Sude's story is much like Senior's. He was happy with his life. He was upstandingly moral, kindhearted and believed in doing good...and he loved, LOVED music, always having a song in his heart. But in refusing to listen to the Force of Fate, he learned that whilst such forces might not dictate what it is we are destined to do, it's not a good idea to not just disregard the words of a force of nature. Sude's devoted to protecting and supporting life, and will spend the rest of his existence forever making up for his failure. Just like Senior, Sude will always be fighting. But Senior is less of an "immortal". He's been saving the many universes in the I-Z realm for years now, and he feels he was never truly given a choice, given an unfair deal. Ultimately though, his desire to do the right thing made him chose to keep up the fight, realizing that one should never put selfish desires above doing good, no matter how seemingly innocent those desires might be. Senior's come a long way, but at last, his true form is revealed. He is a superhero, meant to embody an ideal, an ideal of humanity brought to Irk, a blessed gift that other Irkens can learn from. I guess he was always going to become a superhero one way or another...he was just such a perfect fit. Plus, I really, REALLY like the new outfit he's got now. It looks damn good on him. Now he'll be fighting injustice and cruelty through the IZ-Realm and in style! White goes well with EVERYTHING.

[toooldforfandom-liveblogs]

RWBY V08E01 - Divide

V8 is here!

Sadly, the hype I had for V7 is nowhere to be found this volume. V7 left me cautious. The way it used social injustice as little more than window dressing while doing nothing to address it was enough to leave a bad taste in my mouth, and has ended up being the only season I didn’t immediately rewatch or seek reactions to it. Hell, I still haven’t listened to the soundtrack.

But, weird issues aside, it’s still RWBY and I’m still excited to watch it so here we are! Let’s do this!

Note: I’ve managed to remain mostly unspoiled with the sole exception of hearing this volume is supposed to take place over two days, so yay?

Of all the things I expected this season to start with, Cinder's backstory wasn't one of them. That girl is Cinder, right? Cinderella and all that.

Yyup, Cinder. Wow, seven seasons before giving her a slightly more tangible backstory, maybe to humanize her a bit? Bold strategy, considering everything she's done, let's see how it plays out.

Neo has to be questioning her choices really hard. I know she's on the revenge path but it's one thing to work with Cinder and another to fly directly into a flying Grimm whale.

It's interesting that they chose to have a similar intro as in Volume 4, with someone who doesn't quite know what they got into. Back then it was Emerald and Mercury watching the pools of Grimm, now it's Neo walking into a giant whale.

Neo knows what Cinder is capable of. She's seen her maiden powers first hand. Hell, she knows how charming her personality is. And now she's seeing her kneel before someone. Can't be confidence inspiring.

Tsk, tsk, Neo, I expected she'd know by now her place in Cinder's ranking.

oh god no, please not another failed hug

What's the opposite of a glow up? Because Hazel went through that.

I'm intrigued. The glimpse of Cinder's past where she was completely powerless and now this dressing down. Is she lying through her teeth right now or does she genuinely believe that since Salem presumably rescued her from her previous life?

Interesting choice to not only hide her eyes behind her hair but to also present her Grimm side to the camera while she's saying this, hiding her expression even further.

Salem seems more evil than usual, but maybe she's just on the top of the world after having acquired a relic and having her army on Atlas' doorstep.

I can't quite tell what I'm looking at here. Maybe another angle of Atlas? It looks really weird from the side.

First faunus with animal hands? I guess Ghira had retractable claws.

They are looking quite calm considering there's a giant whale in their sky. Unless they can't see it. They are in a hole surrounded by stone after all. But still, it'd be interesting characterization to have them so used to being screwed over by life that they saw the giant whale and went "Huh. I guess it's Tuesday."

Weiss would definitely know about that.

I'm curious about the coordination that's been happening behind the scenes. How does she know that's a friendly ship?

I guess at least some time has passed, since Yang, Blake and Penny aren't with them.

Very inconspicuous to destroy a droid.

Not a lot of time though, since Ren is still brooding alone. Very intrigued by the picture in the background.

Nothing says that the time for silly shenanigans is gone better than this.

I guess enough people saw Pietro and Maria running around to make them fugitives. On the bright side, it still says "detain," not "kill"

Ironwood literally shot a child, that's pretty important information to keep secret. Even if he is the child who got shot. How long before this bites someone in the ass?

I wonder if the couple in the background are the founders of the happy huntresses. The one with the eyepatch looks a lot like Robyn, enough to maybe be her mom?

Also makes it a lot easier to threaten with overwhelming force to get something from Ironwood but I guess he already gave them up.

Uuh, I like this.

I thought that after V5 the team wouldn't separate again. And if the season is really going to cover just a couple of days, it almost doesn't count. So, it keeps the all the character development from V4 and V5 (that the team is their home) but gives them enough time to breath on their own.

It's also interesting that they seeded this during the last season. RWBY has shown some long term planning but this makes all the in-fighting and arguments from the last season make sense.

If they do split up, I think Blake would go with Ruby. She's always been on the pragmatic side of things. And it adds more drama to split her from Yang, last season was all about how well they work together (and flirting). Hopefully this'd mean that she'd talk with Ruby more than once this season.

It looks like Ren is joining team Yang, which would leave Nora with Ruby if only because they seem to need to do their own thing right now. I'm not sure how it'd fit with Nora's interest in Mantle though.

Everyone else I'm not sure about.

Weiss could go either way. Maybe she feels guilty about Mantle or maybe she feels like she could help infiltrate the military compound. Although that could lead her to meet Winter which I doubt she wants right now. Maybe she's too recognizable to help Ruby.

I think Penny is going to go team Yang. Protector of Mantle after all. And it'd make Ruby's arc more interesting to have less of her usual friends next to her.

I feel Oscar would make more sense in the infiltration side of things and warning the world seems like something Ozpin would try to do.

Jaune I have no idea. Maybe whatever team doesn't get Weiss?

yup

Okay, easy guesses out of the way.

Oh, honey.

Yesss, personal feelings.

Damn, she looks incredibly badass.

Huh.

I guess Weiss is going with Ruby then.

This is tense! I actually had a moment of dread the second everyone noticed it was Penny's scroll.

And Penny just had her remaining faith in Ironwood completely destroyed.

I can already see this season is going to break my heart again.

Harriet is literally pouting. Probably pretty humiliating to have been beaten by some academy dropouts.

Welp, only a human leg left.

Feels pretty on the nose to have him literally lose part of his human body to show how he's been losing his humanity.

Well, that took a turn.

I'm glad they are taking a possible redemption (other than death) completely off the table for Ironwood. I know shooting Oscar was bad but no one knows about that. There's no way to hide this.

Those are not the expressions of people thinking "huh, maybe I'm doing the wrong thing here"

Hm. I guess Oscar is getting kidnapped. By a Grimm?

Is this the first time a RWBY season premiere doesn't have a fight? I think it is, even V5 had Yang punching someone. Not that I'm complaining, I do like talky episodes.

My first thought after the first scene with Salem and company was that there were at least a couple of players not entirely happy with their situation. Cinder is somewhat of a mystery but Neo is way over her head and obviously not happy about being an "asset." Emerald got rebuffed again even after spending two seasons crying for Cinder.

There's a parallel between Salem and Cinder, and Cinder and Emerald I assume is intentional. If Salem rescued Cinder from her Cinderella situation, the similarities would be even more visible, with Cinder giving Emerald a life outside of simple survival. However, while Salem is firm about Cinder's position as a pawn, she does value her. She knows how to play that particular game of emotional give and take. Cinder doesn't. She has never shown Emerald any appreciation. How much further can she push Emerald before she accepts Cinder doesn't care about her?

I'd say Emerald is prime material for turning sides but I wonder... we haven't had a death on the enemies side yet. Even Watts survived. Emerald could be the first. Maybe to show how far gone Cinder is, or as revenge from Neo. And the death of someone who's at least doubting they are in the right place would hit harder that someone who is drinking Salem's kool-aid.

Anyway. I feel this first episode set-up a comparison between all three sides. Salem's forces hate each other, the "good guys" split but they still like and respect each other.

Somehow Salem's downfall (or slowing down?) this volume is going to be tied to the RWBY and JNPR teams working together and trusting each other despite their differences. Which, well, duh, but still.

Ironwood's are a bit more vague, they seem to be solidifying behind him but I'm not sure where it's going yet. Maybe Marrow could defect? Although that still seems like the too-obvious choice. In any case, freeing Qrow and Robyn would be good first step by whoever ends up switching sides.

I'm curious about a lot of things (What's going to be Penny's arc this volume?) but I think that's all for now. Until next time!

[365days365movies]

May 1: The Prestige (2006) (Recap: Part Two)

Now, where were we? Oh, right!

Wolverine’s trying to take down Batman for killing his wife and ruining his life, but can’t do it, even with the help of Black Widow and Alfred Pennyworth. So, he goes to the United States to meet Gollum, who’s working for Nicola Tesla. 

That sound about right, Nick Jonas of the Jonas Brothers: Living the Dream?

Awesome! Thanks, man; thought you were underrated as Marius in Les Mis. Anyway, let’s get back to it! 

Part One is right here!

Recap (2/2)

We flash forward AGAIN to Borden in prison, who’s agreed to sell almost all of his tricks to the representative from before. However, he will only sell the last trick (the Transported Man), if Caldolw comes there himself, with his daughter (whom he agreed to keep out of the workhouses). Meanwhile, he plays a magic trick on a guard, in a fashion that’s genuinely funny and well-done.

The builder of the machine, who is once again friggin’ Nicola Tesla, appears to speak with Angier. Oh, and by the way, Nicola Tesla is FUCKING DAVID BOWIE OH MY GOD!! After showing him a lightbulb powered by bioelectricity, the two sit down for a meal. Tesla speaks on how his visionary status is less-than-appreciated at this point. Still, he offers to make the machine for Angier, but also asks if he’s considered the cost. And not just the monetary one.

While Tesla recommends against Angier’s passions, recognizing it as an obsession, he does agree to build it, recognizing that he will not stop these obsessions. From there, we flashback AGAIN and see Angier backstage, shortly after his failure (and Borden’s sabotage). Still angered at Borden’s new life and success, he goes to his show to observe a new trick he’s debuting, called “The Transported Man.” 

Consorting with Olivia, he gets a better disguise to look in on Borden’s act. And when he does...he sees the greatest trick he’s ever seen. Borden goes in through one door, then comes out of another. When he tells Cutter about the trick, Cutter insists that it’s a double. But both Olivia and Angier agree that it wasn’t a double, given that both had the missing fingers from Angier’s shooting attempt. Still, they don’t know HOW Borden does it. So, with Cutter’s advice, they find a double to sit in for Angier for their own version of the trick. This double is drunk and unemployed actor Gerald Root (Hugh Jackman), who is...kind of a dick. Still, the two do look alike (obviously).

With more pizzazz and showmanship than Borden displayed, Angier’s version of the Transported Man is a big success, and Angier is a success as a result. However, there’s a drawback; because he’s switching places with Root, he’s underneath the stage, rather than on top of it. Because of this, he can’t actually appreciate the applause of the audience first hand. Which means quite a lot to him for some reason. And so, he STILL needs to figure out how Borden’s act work. To do so, he asks Olivia (with whom he’s in a new relationship) to spy on Borden by pretending to defect to his side. Which angers Olivia, but she agrees.

Flash forward to Colorado, and to the first experiment of the machine that Tesla’s built. He believes that the machine should be able to transport a person or object from one place to another. They use Angier’s top hat for the demonstration, watching electricity arc around it, and...nothing happens. The hat’s still there. The experiment is a failure, but Tesla will keep at it (for Angier’s money, of course).

Back to the past, where it’s revealed that Olivia is...really fucking pissed at Angier, it turns out. See, she actually did LOVE him, and he cast her away like little more than hired help in order to succeed in his rivalry with Borden, basically telling her that she means little to him, as compared to the feud. So, she betrays Angier by telling Borden about Root. Borden tells Root that he holds power over Angier, convincing him to blackmail him. A drunken Root agrees, but this is also part of Borden’s plan.

See, Borden shows up at the show, and takes away a pad under the trap door through which Angier falls for the trick, causing him to hit the floor badly, and permanently hobbling him. Now under the stage, the asshole Borden takes Root’s place, and Angier’s spotlight, humiliating his rival to LITERALLY add insult to injury. Fuck Borden, he’s a dick.

An understandably enraged Angier goes to Olivia to find out, y’know...what the FUCK? But, after she angrily confronts her, she gives him Borden’s journal, which she’s pinched. However, the journal is written with a cipher in order to prevent any looky-loos from figuring out his secrets. To get the cipher’s key, Angier crosses YET ANOTHER line, and kidnaps Fallon, Borden’s stage engineer. Reluctantly, Borden gives Angier the key to the cipher: TESLA. That leads him to Tesla, and back to America, where Angier is from. But Cutter’s done; he’s not coming along this time. Angier’s obsession with Borden is just that: Angier’s obsession, not his. So, Angier’s on his own.

That night, with Olivia, Fallon, and his wife Sarah, Borden celebrates at dinner! However, Sarah’s not happy, AT ALL, it turns out. I haven’t mentioned this yet, but Borden’s relationship with Sarah is tumultuous as hell. As she describes it, some days he’s all into their marriage and their relationship, and he truly seems to love her. But some days...he isn’t. Some days, he’s into magic whole-heartedly, and into his secrets, which she HATES. This comes up at dinner, where it’s also fairly apparent that Borden is cheating on her with Olivia. YIKES.

As the marriage is falling apart, we go back to Colorado Springs, where Angier is once more reading Borden’s diary. He’s had it the whole time he’s been in Colorado, by the way, but we only now found out where he got it. As he reads it, he’s shocked to see that the diary is now...directly addressing him. Oh...fuck.

Turns out Olivia was REALLY FUCKING PISSED at Angier, and has COMPLETELY betrayed him for Borden, with whom she’s fallen in love. Yeah, fuck. Borden told her to give Angier the diary, knowing that it would send him back to his home country of America on a wild goose chase, as he actually NEVER went to Tesla for the key to his trick. Which means that Angier is there for absolutely no reason.

So, uh...Angier’s gonna punch a genius right now, because he’s now ALSO FUCKING PISSED (which pleases Borden greatly as he reads this in the diary). Convinced that Tesla was stealing his money for a fraudulent cause, he storms there immediately. The lab’s been burned out by Edison’s men, but Tesla and Alley are still there, and they actually don’t know why the experiment didn’t work. They give it one more shot, with Alley’s cat this time. And...

Nothin’. Just an electrified cat. Alive, but probably all static-y now. Anyway, Tesla apologizes, and a frustrated Angier leaves the facility, followed by the understandably freaked out cat. And the other cat is also freaked out. And...oh. OH.

Turns out - TURNS FUCKING OUT - that the machine isn’t a teleporter; it’s a cloning machine! YEAH! And as soon as the cloning is revealed...I figure the whole movie out. I mean it. I figured out the twist! Here, lemme try it on for size. First of all, Angier isn’t dead. His double from the experiment died, in order to frame Borden for his murder and ruin him. Secondly, the person who’s aiming to buy Borden’s trick? It’s him. He’s the “mysterious collector.” 100%, I goddamn guarantee it. Oh, and while we’re at it, I know who Fallon is! Fallon is Borden’s double, because Borden’s only performed the experiment successfully ONCE! When he did, he made a double of himself, and that double is the silent and mysterious Fallon, who seems to care for Borden’s daughter greatly. That’s it! I figured out the goddamn movie! BET. FUCKING BET

Well, I’ll find out soon, I’m sure. Tesla’s forced out of town the next day, but he’s left Angier the box, containing the cloning machine that would be his end. He tests it...but we don’t see whether or not it works. Hmm. Borden’s as interested as I am in this...and then reads on as the diary starts addressing HIM. FUCK. Angier did in fact frame Borden for his death. And with that knowledge...Borden’s done. Both because he’s been fooled, and because...well, that’s not all that’s happened to him recently.

Back in time again, and Sarah and Borden’s marriage is FALLING APART ENTIRELY. Sarah is done with Borden’s flip-flopping mentalities, realizing even now that he’s not currently in love with her. She’s not OK. And unfortunately...she hangs herself shortly afterwards. Yeah. It’s terrible, and Borden drove her FUCKING CRAZY. I DO NOT LIKE THIS ASSHOLE. Poor, poor Sarah. Sucks.

That’s led, of course, to their child being without a mother, which is why Borden agrees to allow the mysterious Lord Caldlow to look after her. And once he arrives at the prison to collect Borden’s final trick as agreed...yup.

Alive, well, and now ABSOLUTELY AN ASSHOLE TOO, Angier has taken on his ACTUAL identity: Robert Caldlow, British nobleman! Holy shit. HOLY SHIT I WAS RIGHT. Now realizing how...FUCKING CRAZY this whole thing is, Borden’s fucked. At the same time, Cutter is to deliver the Box to the estate. Although Caldlow tries to avoid the interaction, the interaction happens, and Cutter is also ABSOLUTELY FUCKING ENRAGED!!! A lot of anger in this movie.

Anyway, yeah! Angier was fucking dead! And now, Borden’s life is absolutely ruined for something that, to be fair, he didn’t actually do! But there’s a question...how the fuck is this possible? I mean, we know a lot of the details. but not everything. It is at this point, though, that we flashback to the night in question.

First things first, Olivia is tried of this bullshit. She’s leaving before it’s too late, because their obsessions with each other is too fucking much. With Angier about to debut a new trick, a new version of the “Transported Man”, Borden goes to the show night-after-night, despite the fact that his wife is dead, kinda because of him. But whatever, amirite? MAGIC RULES ALL

Borden attends the show multiple times, and night after night, Angier enters the machine, and his double appears above the audience seconds later, which astounds and amazes. Finally, Borden’s fed up, and he makes his way backstage to figure out what the FUCK is happening. And that’s when we get back to the beginning. The clone of Angier dies in the water tank, and Borden’s framed for the crime. And it worked.

Realizing now that he’s fucked, Borden in the modern day says his tearful goodbyes to the always silent Fallon, admitting his faults, and apologizing to him for what happened with Sarah? Huh. But a part of me wonders whether or not Borden can escape. I mean, he’s an escape artist and a magician, right?

No. Borden is brought to the gallows to be done. And when they ask if he has anything more to say...he does.

...Holy shit.

After this, we go back to Caldlow/Angier. He brings the machine to the theatre with the help of Cutter. There, he prepares to burn the theatre and the box, and a water tank also in the cellar. And then, he’s shot. Wait, wait, he’s fucking SHOT? By...oh. OHHHHHH.

Fallon. FALLON shoots Caldlow/Angier. But it’s not Fallon really. No, no. This is THE OTHER Alfred Borden, who’s been disguised as Fallon the whole time. But wait! There’s FUCKING MORE! As Angier/Caldlow dies (YES DIES), we learn the truth from both sides. Let’s start with Borden.

See, this entire time, through all the BULLSHIT that Angier went through to make this goddamn stupid fucking trick work...Cutter was right. THE ENTIRE TIME. But how did Borden to the Transported Man? Easy: he has a twin brother. HE HAS A FUCKING TWIN BROTHER!!! I was wrong! The real trick is that the brothers sacrificed their individuality in order to play the same person! This whole goddamn time! HOLY SHIT! That’s also why Sarah noted that Borden seemed like two people at once sometimes! In fact, one brother loved Sarah, and the other loved Olivia! Holy fucking SHIT! But what about the hands, you ask? Easy! To commit to the bit, the other brother CUT HIS FUCKING FINGERS OFF!!! WHAT IN THE EVERLOVING FUCK?!?

Now THAT is a fucking twist! And Angier’s equally as impressed. But OK...how did Angier do his trick? Simple; by killing his clones EVERY SINGLE FUCKING NIGHT WITH THE WATER TANK! Which is just SUPER FUCKED when you think about it! He’s killing himself every night, because when he steps in to the machine, he never knows if he’s the man in the water or on the stage! He’s literally drowning himself every night, in the same way that his wife died! And you know the REALLY FUCKED UP THING? 

HE ALREADY TRIED TO DO THE EXACT SAME THING EARLIER

Yeah! That’s from before, shortly after his wife died! And he did that every night, WAITING for the right moment to get his revenge on Borden to frame him for murder! ISN’T THAT ABSOLUTELY FUCKED?!? I LOVE IT!

So, yeah, that’s all well and good, but for the love of God, WHY? Angier got his revenge already with the better showmanship from his first revision of Borden’s trick, so why do it like this now? Well, Angier’s reply is that he did it to see the magic on people’s faces when they realized the trick in front of them. I mean...you’re fuckin’ CRAZY dude, but I respect your devotion to the craft?

Angier dies, and the lantern falls on the ground, causing everything to start burning. And as Borden walks away from this mess, we hear Caine’s narration come in again, and go back to that first scene with him and the little girl, whom we now know is Borden’s daughter. And luckily for her, her ACTUAL FATHER, the right Borden, is the one who’s still alive. He comes for her, with Cutter’s blessings, and his narration continues. And as it does, Borden in the fast, in the theatre, looks back at the scene around him. And he realizes what he’s looking at.

Every magic trick consists of 3 parts, or "acts." The first part is called "the Pledge." The magician shows you something ordinary. The second act is called "the Turn." The magician takes the ordinary something, and makes it into something extraordinary. But, you wouldn't clap yet, because making something disappear isn't enough... you have to bring it BACK. Now, you're looking for the secret. But you won't find it, because, of course, you're not really looking. You don't really want to work it out. You want to be... FOOLED.

That’s The Prestige, and uh...holy fucking SHIT. See you in the Review.

[prurientpuddlejumper]

A Punchable Face That I Want to Kiss, Ch. 3

<- Previous Chapter | Chapter 4 ->

Summary: Chilton thinks about you when he knows he’s going to die. 

1,849 words

“Do not come over tonight,” he said. Even through the bad cell phone connection, you could tell he was nervous, and it made you nervous.

“What’s the matter?”

“Or tomorrow night,” he continued. “Or ever. Stay away.”

“What?” Your heart sank. “What are you saying? I thought things were going well…”

“Only for the time being. You... may have been right,” his voice cracked ever-so-slightly. You knew it pained him to admit that, and the fact that he did made your blood go cold. “I think Hannibal Lecter is going to kill me. There is no reason for you to be there when it happens.”

Shit.

You worried when he started to believe Will Graham—ironically, the very thing you had wanted to begin with, but Will had changed, and you couldn't help suspect he was trying to get revenge on Chilton by roping him into investigating Hannibal Lecter. You were certain he at least didn’t care if Chilton was killed when Will started dangling fame and glory in front of his nose.

Chilton was too ambitious to resist the promise of fame and glory, and was the kind of fool to go poking his nose where it didn’t belong.

“Fuck that, I’m coming over. If we’re together, I can protect you.”

“Don’t. I am going to try to... Wait,” he paused, marveling, “you would do that for me?” His resolve firmed again, “Do not come. Please. Look, there is nothing connecting us except sex—good sex, mind you, but—you may not be on the Ripper’s radar. If you are close to me when he comes, he will only kill you, too. It’s not worth it. I do not want you caught up in this. Take the advice I should have: do not get involved.”

There was a click, and the call went dead.

You felt gutted.

 *****

 Frederick was the kind of man who spent all his nights and weekends alone, until you. It was pathetic to think you were his most stable relationship—not just currently, but of his entire life—when he had only known you for a few months.

That was not to say he was inexperienced.

He had fumbled with plenty of bras as a young legacy in a Harvard fraternity, and with fraternity brothers in dark closets, mostly under the influence of cheap alcohol (bought ironically, of course).

He dated in medical school, but there wasn’t much time for relationships when he was constantly studying twice as hard as everyone else just to stay in the middle of the class rankings instead of sinking to the bottom. Besides, in academia there was a full menu of up-and-coming doctors to choose from, and he was never found to be the most appetizing selection. Too bitter.

Family money opened all the right doors for him after graduating and starting his own practice. There, he could sit on top of his own throne without all the competition. Wealth and power finally made him a prime cut to the type who wanted to marry an important doctor, and the nurses and secretaries fell at his feet.

Unfortunately the type of person who, first and foremost, wanted an important doctor, was not interested in an emotional relationship—at least, the money came first.

Some sought the full package of money and romance, but those he always chased away after one or two dates. He found that anyone willing to tolerate his personality defects was the type to borrow his credit cards, ply him for gifts, demand a promotion, ignore him or cheat the moment he wasn’t buying something, and ultimately blackmail him for one final payout when even the money and status weren’t enough to tolerate being with him any longer.

It was fine, he told himself. He used them and they used him—it was how the game was played.

Then there was you.

Frederick Chilton always found you arrogant and unpleasant. He was an expert in his field, a respected psychiatrist who had discovered the Chesapeake Ripper in his facility, and you spoke to him as if he were a child!

(Well, assuming you swore so much at children. He wouldn’t know. children are filthy.)

Whenever he saw you entering his hospital, he knew he would need an extra glass of scotch to recover. You were fierce, never making a single effort to mask your intentions, whether it was tearing into him for (allegedly) unethical practices, or failing completely to mask your sexual attraction to him.

It had been a long time since anybody made a pass at him. Running an institution for the criminally insane was not widely considered sexy, and made his doctor-husband stock plummet—a fact for which he was grateful. Romance was hardly worth the effort, and he would rather be alone than pretend.

He should have shot you down. It would have delightfully changed the power dynamic—any time you insulted his methods, he could remind you of your embarrassing plea for his attention.

But in truth, he enjoyed sparring with you. The days you didn’t come rattle your sword at him were dull. Nobody else spoke to him so brazenly, even though many certainly shared your opinion. It was refreshing.

He’d been imagining ripping your clothes off for weeks.

This would be a one-time thing, he thought: another case of using and being used. He assumed you would call a taxi when it was over, but when he woke up in the morning your arms were wrapped around him with the sweetest smile on your lips. It was odd. It sort of made his chest ache even though he was sure he liked it.

This must have been what pity sex was like. Ah, the advantages of a cane!

Stranger still, you kept coming back to see him. A one-night stand turned into two, turned into three, until it became a habit—and you spent additional time with him for no particular reason he could discern. The sex was great, but fucking did not require staying the entire night to cuddle. When he was too busy working late to stop for dinner, much less for a sexual escapade, you showed up anyway, surprising him with a bag of fast food. It was greasy and barely edible, but thoughtful. You read a book in one of his leather chairs and ate all his fries while he typed reports into the night.

Surely you had other partners to choose from who would have been more entertaining. Your behavior was quite abnormal.

He knew you had an angle, but couldn’t figure out what it was. Breakfast, maybe?

The fact that he made you eggs and gourmet coffee didn’t seem enough to account for your always choosing to spend time with him. You said his house was nice, but even that wasn't enough. The equation was unbalanced. He never paid you, and you never demanded gifts—even when he offered them, you flatly refused. You would not let him so much as replace your cracked cellphone screen. You had always been so vehemently insistent about Will Graham’s innocence, but since you started sleeping with him you’d never asked for any favors, like moving Graham to a nicer cell or falsifying a psych evaluation.

He’d even had a full-blown panic attack in front of you. Something you could have used as leverage to threaten his very career. But you didn’t.

If you were ingratiating yourself with him for an ulterior motive, you were terrible at it.

Honestly, terrible. He wanted to give you pointers, but it would spoil the game. Unless—he considered the terribly disconcerting possibility—there was no game. You weren’t using him, you just had feelings for him. Real ones. It made him feel strange and off balance—if there was nothing transactional about the relationship, it was not something he could control. The thought disturbed him so much he nearly called the whole thing off, but something stopped him from picking up the phone. There was a squirming in his gut, and he didn’t like it.  

What did you possibly want from him? What reason did you have to care?

Was it pity?

Pity was the only answer that made sense. Pity made you want to protect him; you had said as much on that first morning. It explained your change from hostility to affection (usually it went the other way around), and why he hadn’t driven you away by now.

It was nice, he thought. He rather liked your pity.

He would have been happy basking in it for a long time, but… he made an error in judgment.

Chilton knew he had fucked up. He was so drawn in by Hannibal Lecter, trying to be his friend—trying to be like him—and all the while whispering sensitive information right into the Chesapeake Ripper’s ear. Then he had to go and listen to Will Graham, to show Jack Crawford that tape with evidence that seemed so solid at the time. But he was played. Hannibal knew he knew, and Chilton was the Judas who tried to sell him out.

He was dead meat. Literally.

He was dead, but you—you had believed Graham from the start, and stayed far away from Dr. Lecter. He was dead, but you didn’t have to go down with him. He could keep you safe. Out of the line of fire. The time you had spent together recently had been nice, and while he had no desire to die alone, the twisting in his gut insisted that he owed you that much for giving him so much of your time. This was the right reason to call things off.

One good deed could not make up for a life of misfortune and selfishness, but if he could save you from sharing his fate, then dying would not be the worst thing that could happen.

  *****

“Him? How can you honestly believe Frederick Chilton is capable of being a serial killer?!” you screamed in Jack Crawford’s face after he arrested the shaken psychiatrist. Since learning what had happened, you were… upset. “Are you stupid? He’s being framed, just like Will! That man does not have the constitution to make dioramas out of murdered bodies—he’s an anxious nerd who can’t even drink coffee unless it has been first digested by a civet!”

“Watch it, or I'm sending you home,” Crawford warned as the federal agent who would tolerate no disrespect, especially in the middle of an FBI field office. As Crawford the sensitive father figure, the edges of his hard stare softened with sympathy, and he pat you consolingly on the arm.

“At least let me see him!”

Crawford did his best to calm you down, reassuring you that Chilton would be investigated fairly using all the resources of his task force. So you tried to relax as the doctor was handcuffed and dragged into the bowels of the field office to be interrogated. Crawford guided his old protégé, Miriam Lass, into the observation room to confirm whether Dr. Chilton was in fact the Chesapeake Ripper who had held her hostage for three years, while you paced impatiently outside.

There came a loud bang.