#white faced locus
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
Text
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
woke up wanting to write something with my pretty boy kyle and this was born.
cw: nsfw. f!reader. gaz obsessing over the pretty college girl by his side. implied future stalking ig? unedited. part one | part two
someone catches Kyle’s attention on the plane.
his legs are on the verge of cramping and his breath is ragged, running to board his connection flight at the last call. after falling off a helicopter twice in the last operations, he developed an uneasiness of flying, no matter the aircraft, preferring taking the train over being miles up in the air, even if it triples the travel. but this time, he just wanted to get home the fastest way possible for a much-needed night of sleep in his own bed, instead of the barely cushioned military-issued mattress.
he hopped on the plane and made his way through the corridor, gaze fixed on the numbers under the luggage rack, attentively looking for his spot. he stopped by row thirteen, eyes darting between the number and the woman on the window seat. i could’ve sworn i marked that one when i booked? Kyle checks the boarding ticket again – row 13, seat A. it’s the right seat, why is there someone on it?
an annoyed sigh escapes his lips, gathering the energy to speak up and reclaim his rightfully bought seat. the problem is, he gets ultimately struck when the seat-thief notices him standing and turns to face him. wide eyes meet his brown ones, immediately softening at the sight of your tempting glossy lips and delicate fingers pushing a lock of hair behind your ear. pretty little thing.
“i’m sorry, is this your seat? it was empty on the first flight,” you say, an apologetic tone in your voice as you frantically close the book on your lap and shove it in a bag, “i’ll move back for you–”
“it’s alright, keep it.” he interrupts, throwing his carry-on in the rack and taking the empty middle spot beside you. he smirks at your appreciative nod and watches you settling again on the backrest, buckling the seatbelt at the shining signal hovering your heads and paying extra attention to the flight attendant announcements, even when no one around seems to care. sweet girl, so considerate to everyone.
the plane starts speeding on the runway, and from his peripheral he views your squeezed eyes and nearly white fingers gripping the armrest, breathing quickening during the gravity push of the take off. it takes a moment for you to release your tight grasp and exhale, making his hand twitch with an urge to soothe you, tell you that you’re safe.
he shakes the sensation and leans his head back, focusing on the one thing he can do to pass the time – sleep. but he can’t keep his gaze out of you, glancing to his left whenever you make a movement, no matter how small. the rapid keyboard tapping guides his irises to your laptop screen, catching a few words in a sea of what for him sounds like an alien language. DNA strand? allele? locus mutation?
he sneaks a look through your figure and his eyes land on the familiar blue logo on your hoodie, the same one he always sees on the walk from the market to his flat. uni a couple blocks from me. do you live on campus? or nearby? that neighborhood is awful at night, full of old blokes searching the pubs for a quick fuck with a naive college girl. but you seem smart, not the type to fall for their tricks, right?
the harder he tries to avoid your presence, the more you make yourself known, almost making him feel like it’s on purpose. the way your plump lips wrap on the water bottle, slight drop scaping on the corner and trailing down your neck, your flowery perfume filling his nostrils when you shift on your seat to remove the top layer of your clothing, exposing the low-cut blouse underneath and the soft roundness of your tits. is that for me, sweet girl? need a break from studying so hard? the sudden tightness of his trousers brings him back to his senses, stirring the thought out of his brain.
keep it cool, Garrick, he repeats over and over in his mind, ignoring the tent forming on his lap and praying to whatever god is out there that you won’t see it, even while standing up and brushing your legs on his knees to get to the corridor due the cramped space. however, he doesn’t miss how the guy by his side shamelessly ogles your cleavage when you step past him, making his blood boil and his fists clench – like he wasn’t doing the same exact thing minutes before.
while you're away, he glances at your screen again, noticing the constant message notifications from the contact ‘Marcus - DO NOT ANSWER’. already looking bad for you, mate. curiosity takes hold of him and he starts reading the texts, silently chuckling at the guy’s pathetic attempts to get your attention. what did he do to earn a cold shoulder, sweetheart? did he hurt you? didn’t he pay enough attention to you? i bet he couldn’t even fuck you the way you deserve.
he keeps skimming the messages until the grin tugging on the corners of his mouth fades into a frown when he reads ‘you’re gonna regret leaving me’. now, who’s this prick? think you’ll get away with threatening my girl?
his body stiffens when you come back, eyes darting back to the small telly in front of him when your hand brushes on his thigh while sitting once again. he hears your irritated huff when you skim through the messages, shutting the laptop with near violence. i can take care of him for you, love. you won’t have to deal with that by yourself anymore.
the pilot’s muffled voice coming through the speakers and announcing the landing shortens his daydreams about getting rid of Marcus. it would be a great way to keep himself busy while on leave, making sure to do it fast and secretly, of course, just to protect his sweet little thing. poor guy wouldn’t even know what hit him.
the pressure change on his ear is the telltale sign of the aircraft lowering its altitude, landing gear out to hit the lane and brake the machine. he turns to the side, watching again your knitted eyebrows and how your nails dig into the seat. this time he doesn’t contain himself and his hand gently lingers over yours, the softness of it sending lightning strikes over his body and almost making him cum instantly.
your glinting eyes find his face with a grateful gaze, lips mouthing a sugary thank you when the plane finally stops. he helps you take your handbag out of the rack with ease, using the situation to flaunt his muscles. i can even pick you up, darling. would love to feel your pretty thighs around my waist. you wouldn’t have to walk a day in your life.
his eyes follow the sway of your hips through the airport, heart almost bursting when you wave goodbye and flash him a timid smile. you think that’s the last time you’ll see him, he thinks this is just the beginning. a name and university? he’s used to finding people with even less information. see you soon, sweet girl.
#kyle gaz garrick#kyle garrick#gaz garrick#gaz cod#gaz x reader#stalker!gaz#gaz x you#gaz smut#kyle garrick smut#cod mw#cod mw2#cod mw3#cod x reader#nyx writes ☾#midnightarcheress
694 notes
·
View notes
Text
Can we talk about Taika’s acting here?
The reaction to Izzy’s line… The slight move backwards in an instinctive act of self-preservation; the eyebrows raised in shock and confusion, then lowered into a furrow; Ed registering the full weight and implication of the words. Eyes wide; mouth going from relaxed to taut, the top lip rising ever-so slightly by the emotional jolt; shoulders rising slightly also at the small intake of breath.
Taika shows Ed processing myriad things in this moment. That he’s not safe to be the soft person he’s always hidden away. That a white man believes he has ownership over his life and death. That agency is an illusion. That he has no locus of control around his destiny. That everything’s gone full circle. Stede’s gone, and he’s back to being who he had to be in 103 and before to survive. Trapped in a phantasmagorical nightmare in which his self and identity is distorted, manipulated and controlled by another.
And Taika conveys all this with a backwards-lean and a few muscles in his face. It’s god-tier.
#taika waititi#ed teach#breaking my heart one facial muscle at a time#💔#no I have not studied this in minutiae for hours at all#1.10#ofmd
189 notes
·
View notes
Text
leave me with nothing when I come down
pairing: steve rogers x fatal touch!reader
summary: The Almighty Captain America, laid to waste by your bare hands and pussy.
Now wouldn’t that make for a nice headline.
warnings: 18+ SMUT, just pure filth, some angst, FWB, hate fucking, heavy choking, breath play, sub steve rogers, subtle fdom, reader has fatal touch meaning she can't make bare skin contact with anyone without killing them
word count: 1.8k
a/n: I... don't even have words for this one, really. just that steve rogers with a choking kink and submissive streak would heal me.
"Second time this week.”
“Shut up. Take that shit off.”
A 2 a.m. text is all it takes.
He’s at your door, helmet in hand, hair wild from the ride—straight off the tarmac, still carrying the scent of Marrakesh on his skin.
There's no small talk, no kissing, no preamble.
It’s not like he needs it anyway, the strain of him evident against the kevlar—a monument raised in devotion.
Because out there, beyond the sanctum of your studio apartment, he’s a god of war—sharp lines, discipline incarnate. Issuing orders like edicts and delivering punishing blows in the name of combat training.
But in here? He’s just a man.
Yours.
His uniform sloughs off like old skin—discarded offerings marking a trail to the altar of your living room. The shield leans haphazardly against the doorframe, forgotten.
There’s a dumb, boyish grin on his face when you corner him against your threadbare couch, climbing over him and settling roughly in his lap. And when your bare thighs slide up next to his own, caging him beneath your heat, his lashes flutter involuntarily—because the first touch is always an adjustment, no matter how many times he’s been here.
Like a live wire pressed to his skin, ripping through his veins and setting every nerve ablaze.
All the white-hot brilliance of a collapsing star; tiny supernovas erupting under his skin, leaving behind a constellation of heat marking your divine path.
You narrow your eyes at him, nostrils flaring, yet your dainty fingers still tremble when they rise up to his chest.
The locus of your power—where your touch is most potent—laid flat over the flushed skin covering his heart. The thrum of his pulse flutters against your palm, reassuring.
Still beating.
The first time you'd touched him, you’d been so cautious—fingertips barely grazing his skin, sending sparks across the top of his knuckles. Yanked your hand back just as quickly, wide-eyed and breathless as if you expected him to crumble to the ground in front of you.
Instead, he’d caught your quivering hand in his, grip warm and unyielding.
It’s alright.
Guided it under his shirt, pressing your palm flat against his chest, just left of where the five-point insignia's etched into his skin. He'd kept your hand there for a long while, letting you feel the warmth of human flesh, the steady rise and fall of a moving ribcage besides your own—maybe for the first time.
Met your gaze as if to say:
See? Still beating.
Disbelief and trepidation in your eyes when you stared back, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But when it didn’t—when he didn’t—you’d gone straight for his lips instead.
“Where’d you go, Rogers?”
Your distant warning calls him back, punctuated by a soft tsk as your hips tease slow circles over his lap. One hand braced on his shoulder for leverage, his stomach glistening with your arousal.
There’s something chiding in the furrow of your brows, the purse of your lips—like you’re disappointed that he’s managed to remain in one piece. Like setting him alight was the only absolution.
He blinks, still drowning in the feeling of your skin against his, the overwhelming burn reduced to a steady buzzing as his eyes focus back on you.
But it’s too late—you’ve found other ways to keep his mind tethered.
Your arm slides behind your back, finding the head of his cock, swollen red and throbbing in time with his heartbeat. As soon as your fingers graze the tip, his breath hitches, abs clenching like he’d taken a blow to the gut. His hands shoot up to grip your hips, palms searing at the contact.
An appeased grin touches your lips as you stroke him once, twice, then sink down in a single, fluid motion, the heat of your body enveloping him whole.
“Oh, fffu��“
His mouth falls open, a half-formed hymn forming on his tongue, the rest swallowed by the ruthless pace you set.
Both hands anchored to his chest as you lift back up, until just the head of his cock is enveloped by the tight, wet ring of your entrance. You swivel your hips in a slow, teasing circle, testing his restraint before sinking all the way back down. Then you'd start over from the top, the weight of your thrusts heavy and relentless—eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back as if you’re basking in the first downpour after a lifelong drought.
He tracks your every movement, eyes lazy and half-lidded, head lolled against the back of the couch. The thick column of his neck bares itself to you, his jugular pulsing a steady offering.
And being the merciful god you are, you take it.
Four dainty fingers curl around his throat, your thumb pressing just enough to feel his breath catch, his pulse thundering under your grip. Searing heat shoots up his neck, sharp static rippling across the flesh.
And as his vision grows hazy around the edges, you begin to glow at its center. Your silhouette illuminated by a blinding radiance as you bask in his pain—the ache, the burn, all laid bare for you.
“That’s it, show me.”
His voice breaks out gravelly and thick, nearly unrecognizable with you pressing down on his vocal cords. His hands grow restless, quick to worship the curve of your hips, your stomach, before sliding up under your shirt. Calloused fingertips find your nipples, pebbled and straining against the flimsy cotton, and pinch hard enough to elicit a choked gasp. He smiles as you glare and press harder against his neck, betrayed by the way you clench around him when he repeats the gesture.
The only man who can withstand your touch without succumbing to its power. His super-soldier healing ability absorbing your raw, unbridled energy, strong enough to send anyone else into a permanent coma with just a moment’s touch.
And there’s a thought in there somewhere, deep in the corner of his sex-fuddled, oxygen-deprived brain, about something Sam once told him. How some people grow so accustomed to pain that they seek it out—caught in a relentless cycle of self-destruction and sabotage, never having known a life without it.
Sound familiar, Steve?
And maybe the fact that this was what he was thinking about, in the midst of being fucked into oblivion, was a good example as any to prove Sam’s point. But he shoves that thought aside too, tossing it onto the ever-growing pile, stacked miles high.
Like all the others, it’ll have to wait. When you’re not grinding your hips and arching into his touch, so warm and tight and perfectly fitted around him.
So he pushes you harder, meeting your thrusts and pinching your nipples sore until you’re struggling to keep your eyes open. Draws you to the edge, just like he knows how, that line where control and reason blur into nothing but raw sensation.
His Adam’s apple bobs under your palm when he swallows thickly, smiling:
“You’re gonna cum, aren't you?”
You let out a sharp breath, eyes squeezed shut, whispering as if you’re pleading for forgiveness.
“Shut up. Shut up.” Your prayers grow louder still.
“God, just fucking—”
He meets your glare with a steady gaze, the subtext in his eyes clear as day:
Do it. Try me.
You slow the relentless rotation of your hips, brows furrowing as you lift your other hand. It hovers for a moment, uncertain, before draping over the one already pressed to his neck.
The added pressure’s enough to actually render him starved for air, back arching as his breathing grows shallow. Pressure builds up in his ears, the blood rushing to his head and muffling the world around him, leaving him with only the thrum of his own pulse and the filthy slaps coming from between his legs, wet and frenzied as you pick up your pace.
Your brows are knitted together, a bead of sweat rolling down the curve of your temple. Knees rubbed raw against the scratchy upholstery as you roll your hips over and over, hands still fixed over his throat. With no room to swallow, spit starts to pool in his mouth, the same time your rhythm falters, a familiar pattern of spasms signaling your end.
He’s right there with you, teetering on the brink—whatever breaths he can muster getting shorter, faster. It leaves him lightheaded and reeling, the serum working overtime to absorb the onslaught of your energy.
And if the thought of his healing ability stretching out so thin, enough that you could actually choke him to death, only makes his dick swell inside you, then… fuck it. He likes the noises you make anyway, eyes rolling back every time it finds that tender spot deep within you.
The Almighty Captain America, laid to waste by your bare hands and pussy.
Now wouldn’t that make for a nice headline.
He drops one hand to find your clit with deft precision, desperate to see you tip over the edge before his lungs give out. Rubs tight, small circles, just above where his dick’s plunging into your heat, until you're twitching violently against him, collapsing forward with a sharp, fractured cry.
Your hands release around his throat, flying up to grip his hair instead, and the sudden rush of oxygen precipitates his own release as he bucks up into you, a strangled groan ripped from his abused throat.
He finds solace in the crook of your neck, the cradle of something divine, as light bursts behind his eyes. He comes in thick, pulsing ropes, his body collapsing under the weight of the sensation, trembling as he’s made undone by your touch.
He blinks away black dots from his vision in the comedown, ears still ringing as you shuffle off his lap. You raise a soft tissue in his direction, smiling at his defeated form—legs spread and chest heaving—and grant him a few more breaths before he lifts himself off the couch.
“Same time next week?”
"Fuck off, Rogers.”
With a tired huff, you snatch up his uniform off your floor, shoving it against his chest. He smiles, letting his hand brush against yours, savoring that electric surge one last time.
His shield feels feather-light when he slings it across his back, giving you one last look before you slam the door in his face. He doesn’t miss the blush that bloomed across your cheeks, just seconds before you averted your eyes, mirroring the one on his own face.
Because the truth is, he needs this just as much as you do. Maybe more.
Someone to break the parts of him that never healed quite right, snapping them clean so he can piece them back together.
As he stares at the faded mahogany of your apartment door, that familiar high begins to settle in—a fleeting but vivid taste of what it felt like before the serum, when cuts stayed open and bruises remained tender for weeks.
And as the long-lost weight of exhaustion starts to seep into his bones, making his eyelids grow heavy, he rejoices.
He’s treading on nothing but air when he bounds down the stairs of your building, giddy with anticipation for a night of deep, unbroken sleep.
He’ll dream of you until the next time he’s back.
#steve rogers#steve rogers smut#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers x you#steve rogers fic#sub steve rogers#captain america#captain america smut#captain america x reader#captain america x you#choking#breathplay#angst#msub#fdom#fwb#hate fuck#smut#reader insert
128 notes
·
View notes
Text
There's a lot to be said about Zambia's relationship with South Africa, especially during the Apartheid era. A nation with legal political independence, like much of "post-colonial" Sub-Saharan Africa the deep rooted structures of Colonialism and ongoing pressure of Imperialism have kept it economically dependent on the Imperial Core. Like much of Southern Africa, South Africa specifically is a major locus of that dependence. Indeed, the primary focus of South Africa's foreign policy towards its immediate neighbours, the "Frontline States" in the struggle against Apartheid, was to keep things that way using the most suitable combination of soft and hard power that South Africa had at its disposal.
Now Zambia got off lightly in terms of the military threat it faced, suffering no major South-African proxy wars and relatively few commando raids against the personnel and offices of anti-apartheid resistance that had set up on Zambian soil. The Apartheid regime saw Kenneth Kaunda, the Zambian head of state from 1964 (the year of Zambian political independence) to 1991 (by which time Apartheid was beginning to be dismantled), as a relative moderate due his anti-communist sentiments. Despite Kaunda's outspoken opposition to the Apartheid system, he maintained strong economic ties with South Africa. Zambia's copper mines had their ownership nationalised but were still managed and operated by the same companies, to the point that the pre-independence culture of racism remained alive and well decades later and many Zambian engineers left the mining industry for the private sector as soon as they could due to the discrimination they faced from their mostly white (often South African) managers. A similar arrangement existed for Emerald mines, an industry that only began development in the 1970s and remained in its infancy until the 1990s, remained largely in private hands.
Yet at the same time Zambia was still an independent African nation. On top of verbally denouncing Apartheid to the international community, Kaunda's regime offered material assistance and free access to the anti-colonial resistance movements that toppled the Portuguese Empire and Rhodesia while destabilising South African apartheid to the point of dissolution. Despite the burden of exploitation the masses faced from both foreign imperialists and their local collaborators, conditions for the black majority of Zambia were significantly less vicious than for those living under Apartheid in South Africa and Namibia. Relations between Zambia and South Africa were messy, complex and often contradictory but they were like this because Zambia was very much its own nation. While the shadow of Apartheid is something that must always be taken into account while discussing Zambia in this period, especially in the context of South African investment, this country was much more than an extension of South Africa. You can't talk about it like it's some glorified Bantustan
And yet for most people none of that matters. All Southern Africa is the same to them; who gives a shit about the actual history of struggle? The whole "Elon Musk's dad own a South African emerald mine" is incredibly stupid because it's a severely misleading distortion of the facts that only gets passed around due to widespread attitudes of chauvinistic ignorance towards Africa. Now Errol Musk's statements about his involvement in the Southern African emerald trade are inconsistent; at times he claims to have owned a stake in an emerald mine while at others he claims to have merely traded in the gems. But either way, the gems in question are Zambian and not South African and that's a distinction that matters.
Additionally, the spread of this rumour comes from a grossly oversimplified view of Imperialist exploitation in Africa. While the mining industry is an important vector by which wealth is extracted from the continent, it is far from the only one. Errol Musk did not make his fortune from emeralds; he was an electrical engineer who went own to invest in a wide assortment of businesses from auto parts stores to tourist lodges. A beneficiary of Apartheid for sure, operating in an economic system made possible only through the brutal exploitation of millions of Africans, but in a much more sophisticated way than the cartoonish caricature of a mine overseer a lot of people seem to have in mind.
The point must also be made that most mining in Africa takes the form of modern industrial enterprises operated by voluntary workers who, while still incredibly exploited in terms of the value they produce compared to what they receive, tend to be relatively well paid by local standards. Even in apartheid South Africa and Namibia itself, mining jobs were considered among the most desirable work an African could get. The image of slaves held at gunpoint to dig with shovels, distorted half memories of Sierra Leonean diamonds and Congolese Coltan, do not represent the reality of Imperialism in most of the continent.
The whole "Musk Emerald Mine" discourse is an all around outstanding example of ignorance, made even more egregious by the ostensible "progressive" beliefs of those who engage in it. "Leftists" who care little for what's actually happening to the people of the Imperial Periphery, who see the suffering of Africans as little more than a cheap way to mock an individual they don't like. Maybe it would pay to open a book or two before you open your mouth. Or at least look at a world map and see the funny solid line that exists between "South Africa" and "Zambia"
48 notes
·
View notes
Text
Sphinxmumps Linkdump
On THURSDAY (June 20) I'm live onstage in LOS ANGELES for a recording of the GO FACT YOURSELF podcast. On FRIDAY (June 21) I'm doing an ONLINE READING for the LOCUS AWARDS at 16hPT. On SATURDAY (June 22) I'll be in OAKLAND, CA for a panel and a keynote at the LOCUS AWARDS.
Welcome to my 20th Linkdump, in which I declare link bankruptcy and discharge my link-debts by telling you about all the open tabs I didn't get a chance to cover in this week's newsletters. Here's the previous 19 installments:
https://pluralistic.net/tag/linkdump/
Starting off this week with a gorgeous book that is also one of my favorite books: Beehive's special slipcased edition of Dante's Inferno, as translated by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, with new illustrations by UK linocut artist Sophy Hollington:
https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/beehivebooks/the-inferno
I've loved Inferno since middle-school, when I read the John Ciardi translation, principally because I'd just read Niven and Pournelle's weird (and politically odious) (but cracking) sf novel of the same name:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inferno_(Niven_and_Pournelle_novel)
But also because Ciardi wrote "About Crows," one of my all-time favorite bits of doggerel, a poem that pierced my soul when I was 12 and continues to do so now that I'm 52, for completely opposite reasons (now there's a poem with staying power!):
https://spirituallythinking.blogspot.com/2011/10/about-crows-by-john-ciardi.html
Beehive has a well-deserved rep for making absolutely beautiful new editions of great public domain books, each with new illustrations and intros, all in matching livery to make a bookshelf look classy af. I have several of them and I've just ordered my copy of Inferno. How could I not? So looking forward to this, along with its intro by Ukrainian poet Ilya Kaminsky and essay by Dante scholar Kristina Olson.
The Beehive editions show us how a rich public domain can be the soil from which new and inspiring creative works sprout. Any honest assessment of a creator's work must include the fact that creativity is a collective act, both inspired by and inspiring to other creators, past, present and future.
One of the distressing aspects of the debate over the exploitative grift of AI is that it's provoked a wave of copyright maximalism among otherwise thoughtful artists, despite the fact that a new copyright that lets you control model training will do nothing to prevent your boss from forcing you to sign over that right in your contracts, training an AI on your work, and then using the model as a pretext to erode your wages or fire your ass:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/13/spooky-action-at-a-close-up/#invisible-hand
Same goes for some privacy advocates, whose imaginations were cramped by the fact that the only regulation we enforce on the internet is copyright, causing them to forget that privacy rights can exist separate from the nonsensical prospect of "owning" facts about your life:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/21/the-internets-original-sin/
We should address AI's labor questions with labor rights, and we should address AI's privacy questions with privacy rights. You can tell that these are the approaches that would actually work for the public because our bosses hate these approaches and instead insist that the answer is just giving us more virtual property that we can sell to them, because they know they'll have a buyer's market that will let them scoop up all these rights at bargain prices and use the resulting hoards to torment, immiserate and pauperize us.
Take Clearview AI, a facial recognition tool created by eugenicists and white nationalists in order to help giant corporations and militarized, unaccountable cops hunt us by our faces:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/20/steal-your-face/#hoan-ton-that
Clearview scraped billions of images of our faces and shoveled them into their model. This led to a class action suit in Illinois, which boasts America's best biometric privacy law, under which Clearview owes tens of billions of dollars in statutory damages. Now, Clearview has offered a settlement that illustrates neatly the problem with making privacy into property that you can sell instead of a right that can't be violated: they're going to offer Illinoisians a small share of the company's stock:
https://www.theregister.com/2024/06/14/clearview_ai_reaches_creative_settlement/
To call this perverse is to go a grave injustice to good, hardworking perverts. The sums involved will be infinitesimal, and the only way to make those sums really count is for everyone in Illinois to root for Clearview to commit more grotesque privacy invasions of the rest of us to make its creepy, terrible product more valuable.
Worse still: by crafting a bespoke, one-off, forgiveness-oriented regulation specifically for Clearview, we ensure that it will continue, but that it will also never be disciplined by competitors. That is, rather than banning this kind of facial recognition tech, we grant them a monopoly over it, allowing them to charge all the traffic will bear.
We're in an extraordinary moment for both labor and privacy rights. Two of Biden's most powerful agency heads, Lina Khan and Rohit Chopra have made unprecedented use of their powers to create new national privacy regulations:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/16/the-second-best-time-is-now/#the-point-of-a-system-is-what-it-does
In so doing, they're bypassing Congressional deadlock. Congress has not passed a new consumer privacy law since 1988, when they banned video-store clerks from leaking your VHS rental history to newspaper reporters:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Video_Privacy_Protection_Act
Congress hasn't given us a single law protecting American consumers from the digital era's all-out assault on our privacy. But between the agencies, state legislatures, and a growing coalition of groups demanding action on privacy, a new federal privacy law seems all but assured:
https://pluralistic.net/2023/12/06/privacy-first/#but-not-just-privacy
When that happens, we're going to have to decide what to do about products created through mass-scale privacy violations, like Clearview AI – but also all of OpenAI's products, Google's AI, Facebook's AI, Microsoft's AI, and so on. Do we offer them a deal like the one Clearview's angling for in Illinois, fining them an affordable sum and grandfathering in the products they built by violating our rights?
Doing so would give these companies a permanent advantage, and the ongoing use of their products would continue to violate billions of peoples' privacy, billions of times per day. It would ensure that there was no market for privacy-preserving competitors thus enshrining privacy invasion as a permanent aspect of our technology and lives.
There's an alternative: "model disgorgement." "Disgorgement" is the legal term for forcing someone to cough up something they've stolen (for example, forcing an embezzler to give back the money). "Model disgorgement" can be a legal requirement to destroy models created illegally:
https://iapp.org/news/a/explaining-model-disgorgement
It's grounded in the idea that there's no known way to unscramble the AI eggs: once you train a model on data that shouldn't be in it, you can't untrain the model to get the private data out of it again. Model disgorgement doesn't insist that offending models be destroyed, but it shifts the burden of figuring out how to unscramble the AI omelet to the AI companies. If they can't figure out how to get the ill-gotten data out of the model, then they have to start over.
This framework aligns everyone's incentives. Unlike the Clearview approach – move fast, break things, attain an unassailable, permanent monopoly thanks to a grandfather exception – model disgorgement makes AI companies act with extreme care, because getting it wrong means going back to square one.
This is the kind of hard-nosed, public-interest-oriented rulemaking we're seeing from Biden's best anti-corporate enforcers. After decades kid-glove treatment that allowed companies like Microsoft, Equifax, Wells Fargo and Exxon commit ghastly crimes and then crime again another day, Biden's corporate cops are no longer treating the survival of massive, structurally important corporate criminals as a necessity.
It's been so long since anyone in the US government treated the corporate death penalty as a serious proposition that it can be hard to believe it's even happening, but boy is it happening. The DOJ Antitrust Division is seeking to break up Google, the largest tech company in the history of the world, and they are tipped to win:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/24/naming-names/#prabhakar-raghavan
And that's one of the major suits against Google that Big G is losing. Another suit, jointly brought by the feds and dozens of state AGs, is just about to start, despite Google's failed attempt to get the suit dismissed:
https://www.reuters.com/technology/google-loses-bid-end-us-antitrust-case-over-digital-advertising-2024-06-14/
I'm a huge fan of the Biden antitrust enforcers, but that doesn't make me a huge fan of Biden. Even before Biden's disgraceful collaboration in genocide, I had plenty of reasons – old and new – to distrust him and deplore his politics. I'm not the only leftist who's struggling with the dilemma posed by the worst part of Biden's record in light of the coming election.
You've doubtless read the arguments (or rather, "arguments," since they all generate a lot more heat than light and I doubt whether any of them will convince anyone). But this week, Anand Giridharadas republished his 2020 interview with Noam Chomsky about Biden and electoral politics, and I haven't been able to get it out of my mind:
https://the.ink/p/free-noam-chomsky-life-voting-biden-the-left
Chomsky contrasts the left position on politics with the liberal position. For leftists, Chomsky says, "real politics" are a matter of "constant activism." It's not a "laser-like focus on the quadrennial extravaganza" of national elections, after which you "go home and let your superiors take over."
For leftists, politics means working all the time, "and every once in a while there's an event called an election." This should command "10 or 15 minutes" of your attention before you get back to the real work.
This makes the voting decision more obvious and less fraught for Chomsky. There's "never been a greater difference" between the candidates, so leftists should go take 15 minutes, "push the lever, and go back to work."
Chomsky attributed the good parts of Biden's 2020 platform to being "hammered on by activists coming out of the Sanders movement and other." That's the real work, that hammering. That's "real politics."
For Chomsky, voting for Biden isn't support for Biden. It's "support for the activists who have been at work constantly, creating the background within the party in which the shifts took place, and who have followed Sanders in actually entering the campaign and influencing it. Support for them. Support for real politics."
Chomsky tells us that the self-described "masters of the universe" understand that something has changed: "the peasants are coming with their pitchforks." They have all kinds of euphemisms for this ("reputational risks") but the core here is a winner-take-all battle for the future of the planet and the species. That's why the even the "sensible" ultra-rich threw in for Trump in 2016 and 2020, and why they're backing him even harder in 2024:
https://www.bbc.com/news/articles/ckvvlv3lewxo
Chomsky tells us not to bother trying to figure out Biden's personality. Instead, we should focus on "how things get done." Biden won't do what's necessary to end genocide and preserve our habitable planet out of conviction, but he may do so out of necessity. Indeed, it doesn't matter how he feels about anything – what matters is what we can make him do.
Chomksy himself is in his 90s and his health is reportedly in terminal decline, so this is probably the only word we'll get from him on this issue:
https://www.reddit.com/r/chomsky/comments/1aj56hj/updates_on_noams_health_from_his_longtime_mit/
The link between concentrated wealth, concentrated power, and the existential risks to our species and civilization is obvious – to me, at least. Any time a tiny minority holds unaccountable power, they will end up using it to harm everyone except themselves. I'm not the first one to take note of this – it used to be a commonplace in American politics.
Back in 1936, FDR gave a speech at the DNC, accepting their nomination for president. Unlike FDR's election night speech ("I welcome their hatred"), this speech has been largely forgotten, but it's a banger:
https://teachingamericanhistory.org/document/acceptance-speech-at-the-democratic-national-convention-1936/
In that speech, Roosevelt brought a new term into our political parlance: "economic royalists." He described the American plutocracy as the spiritual descendants of the hereditary nobility that Americans had overthrown in 1776. The English aristocracy "governed without the consent of the governed" and “put the average man’s property and the average man’s life in pawn to the mercenaries of dynastic power":
Roosevelt said that these new royalists conquered the nation's economy and then set out to seize its politics, backing candidates that would create "a new despotism wrapped in the robes of legal sanction…an industrial dictatorship."
As David Dayen writes in The American Prospect, this has strong parallels to today's world, where "Silicon Valley, Big Oil, and Wall Street come together to back a transactional presidential candidate who promises them specific favors, after reducing their corporate taxes by 40 percent the last time he was president":
https://prospect.org/politics/2024-06-14-speech-fdr-would-give/
Roosevelt, of course, went on to win by a landslide, wiping out the Republicans despite the endless financial support of the ruling class.
The thing is, FDR's policies didn't originate with him. He came from the uppermost of the American upper crust, after all, and famously refused to define the "New Deal" even as he campaigned on it. The "New Deal" became whatever activists in the Democratic Party's left could force him to do, and while it was bold and transformative, it wasn't nearly enough.
The compromise FDR brokered within the Democratic Party froze out Black Americans to a terrible degree. Writing for the Institute for Local Self Reliance, Ron Knox and Susan Holmberg reveal the long shadow cast by that unforgivable compromise:
https://storymaps.arcgis.com/stories/045dcde7333243df9b7f4ed8147979cd
They describe how redlining – the formalization of anti-Black racism in New Deal housing policy – led to the ruin of Toledo's once-thriving Dorr Street neighborhood, a "Black Wall Street" where a Black middle class lived and thrived. New Deal policies starved the neighborhood of funds, then ripped it in two with a freeway, sacrificing it and the people who lived in it.
But the story of Dorr Street isn't over. As Knox and Holmberg write, the people of Dorr Street never gave up on their community, and today, there's an awful lot of Chomsky's "constant activism" that is painstakingly bringing the community back, inch by aching inch. The community is locked in a guerrilla war against the same forces that the Biden antitrust enforcers are fighting on the open field of battle. The work that activists do to drag Democratic Party policies to the left is critical to making reparations for the sins of the New Deal – and for realizing its promise for everybody.
In my lifetime, there's never been a Democratic Party that represented my values. The first Democratic President of my life, Carter, kicked off Reaganomics by beginning the dismantling of America's antitrust enforcement, in the mistaken belief that acting like a Republican would get Democrats to vote for him again. He failed and delivered Reagan, whose Reaganomics were the official policy of every Democrat since, from Clinton ("end welfare as we know it") to Obama ("foam the runways for the banks").
In other words, I don't give a damn about Biden, but I am entirely consumed with what we can force his administration to do, and there are lots of areas where I like our chances.
For example: getting Biden's IRS to go after the super-rich, ending the impunity for elite tax evasion that Spencer Woodman pitilessly dissects in this week's superb investigation for the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists:
https://www.icij.org/inside-icij/2024/06/how-the-irs-went-soft-on-billionaires-and-corporate-tax-cheats/
Ending elite tax cheating will make them poorer, and that will make them weaker, because their power comes from money alone (they don't wield power because their want to make us all better off!).
Or getting Biden's enforcers to continue their fight against the monopolists who've spiked the prices of our groceries even as they transformed shopping into a panopticon, so that their business is increasingly about selling our data to other giant corporations, with selling food to us as an afterthought:
https://prospect.org/economy/2024-06-12-war-in-the-aisles/
For forty years, since the Carter administration, we've been told that our only power comes from our role as "consumers." That's a word that always conjures up one of my favorite William Gibson quotes, from 2003's Idoru:
Something the size of a baby hippo, the color of a week-old boiled potato, that lives by itself, in the dark, in a double-wide on the outskirts of Topeka. It's covered with eyes and it sweats constantly. The sweat runs into those eyes and makes them sting. It has no mouth, no genitals, and can only express its mute extremes of murderous rage and infantile desire by changing the channels on a universal remote. Or by voting in presidential elections.
The normie, corporate wing of the Democratic Party sees us that way. They decry any action against concentrated corporate power as "anti-consumer" and insist that using the law to fight against corporate power is a waste of our time:
https://www.thesling.org/sorry-matt-yglesias-hipster-antitrust-does-not-mean-the-abandonment-of-consumers-but-it-does-mean-new-ways-to-protect-workers-2/
But after giving it some careful thought, I'm with Chomsky on this, not Yglesias. The election is something we have to pay some attention to as activists, but only "10 or 15 minutes." Yeah, "push the lever," but then "go back to work." I don't care what Biden wants to do. I care what we can make him do.
If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:
https://pluralistic.net/2024/06/15/disarrangement/#credo-in-un-dio-crudel
Image: Jim's Photo World (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/jimsphotoworld/5360343644/
CC BY-SA 2.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/
#pluralistic#linkdump#linkdumps#chomsky#voting#elections#uspoli#oligarchy#irs#billionaires#tax cheats#irs files#hipster antitrust#matt ygelsias#dante#gift guide#books#crowdfunding#public domain#model disgorgement#ai#llms#fdr#groceries#ripoffs#toledo#redlining#race
74 notes
·
View notes
Text
At one point Sameer spoke of being stopped and searched at Israeli checkpoints. He spoke in a manner that seemed not to require my presence. I hadn't seen this level of concentration and detachment in him before. That was fine. He was grieving. "The shameful and humiliating way the soldiers run their hands up and down your body," he said. Then he added, "But the shame and humiliation runs even deeper if the Israeli soldier is an Ethiopian Jew." The earth gave way. The thought that my place in the unconscious of Palestinians fighting for their freedom was the same dishonorable place I occupied in the minds of Whites in America and Israel chilled me. I gathered enough wits about me to tell him that his feelings were odd, seeing how Palestinians were at war with Israelis, and White Israelis at that. How was it that the people who stole his land and slaughtered his relatives were somehow less of a threat in his imagination than Black Jews, often implements of Israeli madness, who sometimes do their dirty work? What, I wondered silently, was it about Black people (about me) that made us so fungible we could be tossed like a salad in the minds of oppressors and the oppressed? I was faced with the realization that in the collective unconscious, Palestinian insurgents have more in common with the Israeli state and civil society than they do with Black people. What they share is a largely unconscious consensus that Blackness is a locus of abjection to be instrumentalized on a whim. At one moment Blackness is a disfigured and disfiguring phobic phenomenon; at another moment Blackness is a sentient implement to be joyously deployed for reasons and agendas that have little to do with Black liberation. There I sat, yearning, in solidarity with my Palestinian friend's yearning, for the full restoration of Palestinian sovereignty; mourning, in solidarity with my friend's mourning, over the loss of his insurgent cousin; yearning, that is, for the historical and political redemption of what I thought was a violated commons to which we both belonged—when, all of a sudden, my friend reached down into the unconscious of his people and slapped me upside the head with a wet gym shoe: the startling realization that not only was I barred, ab initio, from the denouement of historical and political redemption, but that the borders of redemption are policed by Whites and non-Whites alike, even as they kill each other. It's worse than that. I, as a Black person (if person, subject, being are appropriate, since Human is not), am both barred from the denouement of social and historical redemption and needed if redemption is to attain any form of coherence.
Frank B. Wilderson III from "For Halloween I Washed My Face" in Afropessimism (2020)
#frank b wilderson iii#antiblackness#afropessimism#reading#i take issue with some of his wording but sharing for the core idea#which he elaborates on later#decided to read this after watching origin which was...a mess
57 notes
·
View notes
Text
Berserk Fic 2 preview
Griffith pauses briefly as he turns into the cellar proper, noting that sword Guts calls ‘the Dragonslayer’ propped up against a bare wall. Griffith glares at the hunk of raw iron, thoughts going back to how eager Guts has been to train with it, rather than spending time with Griffith.
How is he to learn how to function at court with this needlessly large thing taking up his time? It wouldn’t be easy to dispose of now that Guts has given it some form of will, enabling it to cut through spirits as well as flesh, but perhaps-
“Oi, Griffith! C’mere a sec!”
Griffith jolts and turns to scold Guts for his bullheadedness, but his words die in his throat as Guts’ hands grip his lapels, tearing his shirt open as he stumbles forward in a drunken haze, sending the finely crafted wooden buttons clattering to the stones.
“Oh.”
The breathless gasp is all Griffith can utter as Guts buries his face in Griffith’s pecs, his hot breath ghosting over them, stiffening Griffith’s nipples as he nuzzles mindlessly, open mouthed.
Griffith feels Guts’ hands grip his shoulders, pushing them inwards to push his chest out, providing Guts more firm and pillowy muscle and fat to groan against.
Griffith’s eyes grow hazy, the border between the white and blue lessening until the flaming white of his pupils nearly swallows his irises whole.
Guts mouths against a pec, mumbling, “Mmmghh~ Boobs...”
Griffith shudders, feeling liquid gold heat flow like honey down his spine. His dazed grin must match Guts’ drunken smirk in mindlessness, as he runs a hand through short, spiky hair, grazing Guts’ scalp with his nails.
Guts chuffs, fingers digging into Griffith’s biceps as his nose brushes a rosy nipple, causing Griffith to take his plump lower lip between his teeth. This is… preferable, to reprimanding his most trusted blade.
Griffith shudders, murmuring, “Guts…”
Guts pauses, glancing up almost bashfully, lips brushing a perked nipple as Griffith continues scratching his scalp, as though petting a large wolf.
Griffith offers an unconscious pout, staring down at Guts with dilated pupils. “Don’t cling to me like this.”
Guts looks momentarily embarrassed, and almost pulls away.
But Griffith snatches the back of his head before he can complete the disastrous act. “Unless…” Griffith brings Guts’ mouth back to the bud atop his pec. “...you plan to take responsibility this time.”
Guts stares up at him with a confused expression, something warring in his eyes.
Griffith sighs, tugs his hair, and leans back halfheartedly. “Well, if you plan to leave me wanting again, I suppose I can see what Locus—!”
Guts latches onto the nipple with all the ferocity of a man starved for bread, sucking and nipping like a newborn seeking sustenance.
Griffith lets out a quiet cry, clutching the hair and scalp, burying Guts deeper into his chest, closer to his longing heart.
7 notes
·
View notes
Note
What is Marry like in this AU of yours?
God I fucking hate Tanya von Degurechaff so fucking much holy shit. Holy shit, every piece of propaganda she's in, every photo, every parade, every video, she's got this painfully serious, annoying as shit, fuckass blank look on her stupid fucking face. Absolutely no part of her ugly as sin piece of shit appearance is endearing. Her stumpy fucking legs? How the hell is someone that fucking short. Her dumb little silver wings medal? Her shitty, round bastard face? The three thousand percent unnecessary dumbass shitass fucking ANTENNAE that no person in her company has EVER FUCKING TRIED TO FIX FOR HER IN tHE HISTORY OF GOD'S GREEN FUCKING EARTH? God, I hate her. I hate her so much. So FUCKING much. Every time I see a White Silver toy or a propaganda poster or a shitty goddamn commercial, it ignites my primal rage response and I'm overcome by the need to punt this shitty little war criminal into the fucking sun. "tee-hee! I'm Tanya, the White Fucking Silver, I like war crimes". Fuck you. Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you. You look like a shithead little brat. Your dumb fucking antenna hair makes your whole shitty head look like an unkempt street cat. I hate your dumb fucking little button nose and your stupid, stern blue eyes and your over-the-top no-nonsense hardass asshole personality. Any time she smiles it invokes all the wrath and fury of a spoiled child having a meltdown over a chocolate bar in a w*lmart checkout line. And I know its irrational. That's the worst part. I know she's just a single fucking child soldier in a giant fucking empire’s army, I know it doesn't matter, I know I shouldn't care. But that's part of the problem. The part where no matter the might and fury of my hatred, the locus of my homicidal intent is alltogether a tiny piece of a greater evil. I find myself laying awake in the dark in the early hours of the morning consumed by the spirit of Wrath itself, all the force and might of a flaming hurricane directed at a bottle of piss in a ditch by the highway. The absurdity of it all burns me to my core. What better things could this energy be directed towards? And yet my disdain for this stupid, useless, insubstantial failure of endearing propaganda utterly eclipses the intrigue of all other pursuits. I hate her. I hate her on a level of my mind reserved for the worst of the world's array of sinners, and I can't even begin to justify it. Tanya the Evil is, for all intents and purposes, a single facet of the army subjugating the world- a propagandized pawn distilled into the single, hateable form of a shining ideal soldier for every other imperial scumbag to emulate. The fucking. Fuck. I have no words. There is no cuss or epithet in any language that can encapsulate the height of the emotions I am experiencing. God, I hate her so much. I hate her so, so fucking much. I want to light her ugly little dumpster body on fire. I want to graphically beat her to death with the butt of the gun she stole off my father. I want to punch her to death. You know that weird feeling you get, when you see a picture of something so cute you find yourself overcome with the bizarre, inexplicable urge to squeeze it? It's EXACTLY like that, except instead of cuteness it's disgust. The wordless knowledge that her existence as a war hero is evidence of all the failures of mankind. I find myself possessed by the will of a Holy Angel gone rogue with the belief that God has made a mistake, and I alone must correct it. This is the trial by which Samael himself fell from grace. This wild, meaningless rage. A thousand blades of shining steel cast with inhuman force in the direction of a plastic grocery bag floating on a breeze. What horrors must I have committed in a past life to be plagued by this torment now? I must Unmake this sinful child
(x)
#i know its tanyas birthday but here i am posting abt mary's seething hatred#you can read this as genuine rage or angry gay pining either characterization is acceptable to me#to answer your question: still hates tanya#tbh you can answer just about any question regarding the “canon” of dailydegu by asking urself this one question#“what is the funniest possible outcome to any situation?”#dailydegu is basically a comedy at this point#mary sue#mary sioux#mary#youjo senki#the saga of tanya the evil#ask#joshtr2000#bonus doodle
101 notes
·
View notes
Text
I've been slowly re-doing/adjusting my RVB face designs, and also working on more characters! It will eventually be a LOT, but for now; here are the main Reds, Blues, Freelancers, Doc, plus a bonus of Locus, Flowers, and my OC Poppy (just for the fun of it~). I love designing characters, and playing around with features so everybody has different noses, mouths, chins/jaw-lines, etc. For everybody, I have two versions. The first being their signature armor color, and then their actual people colors. I also wanted to include things like facial hair, glasses, scars, freckles and what-not (like Donut's hearing aide and Carolina's eye shadow, because she can't NOT be edgey haha).
(below is some design descriptions and notes on my thought process for everybody. it is a LOT, don't feel obligated to read it~)
Grif and Simmons both clash and compliment each other not only in personality, but in physical features as well (Simmons is sharp, and Grif is soft). I wanted to show that Simmons actually isn't as scrawny and gawky as he used to be, but he hasn't totally registered that he's finally "grown into himself", or that some muscles have happened (once he does, this unlocks "Confident Simmons", and nobody is safe. for now, he's just too used to feeling awkward). Simmons has a fairly strong jawline, an aquiline nose, and hair the color of red clay. He's had his hair very short and properly styled for many years, but after Chorus it started to grow out, and when he pulled it back to see how much he needed to trim, he realized he liked being a ponytail guy! (also, it isn't visually shown here, but trans Simmons is real~) Grif is a big guy, fat and pretty darn strong with thick limbs, and rough around the edges. He's also handsome and beautiful (not "in spite" of those features, but BECAUSE of them). His features are like a combination of rebellious and charming, with his default expression being chill. He has warm copper brown skin, and hair that reaches his shoulders, dark brown, very thick and wavy (it also magically never gets tangled). You can see where Simmons' cyborg prosthetics match the same area where Grif got his skin grafts, but over the years Grif has sort of "absorbed" the organic material, and the skin is a shade darker than when the surgery was fresh (Simmons himself isn't too terribly pale, but still lighter than Grif). Grif occasionally shaves or lets his beard grow in more full, but usually likes to keep just a little bit of face-fuzz around his chin
Sarge is very boxy and built like a brick. I enjoy the irony of a character who has a very BIG personality being somewhat short in stature, and Sarge is certainly a little bundle of dynamite. Despite his claims of only being 29, he somewhere in his 50s (possibly getting into 60s), but still going strong. I wanted to show the age lines around his mouth and his eyes, so he doesn't just look weirdly "smooth" (this man is basically leather, and proud of it. he also has larger earlobes, and bushy eyebrows). His hair has gone white and gray, kept in a perpetual buzz-cut, and he has some scruffy facial hair. He's broken both his nose and his jaw several times in his life, resulting in some unique shapes. Most of his scars happened years ago when he was younger, but the scar on the side of his head is from getting shot during Blood Gulch. He's rather pale thanks to wearing the armor every day for a few decades. His "solution" was to try and sun burnt on purpose so he'll be RED again, but Donut, Simmons, and Doc stopped him before it got too bad. He typically looks very grumpy and stern, but we all know Sarge is EXPRESSIVE with his emotions
My thought process with Donut was to combine Barbie with GI Joe; very pretty, but also pretty darn strong! He has sort of a "soft diamond" shape to his face and jawline. He looks very sweet, but has the potential to be INTIMIDATING. In the past, his hair was light blonde, but turned a strawberry-brown as he got older. During Blood Gulch, when he got EXPLODED, Donut got some scars on the right side of his face, and the hair in that area never entirely grew back. After finally accepting that he is PINK, Donut has also embraced other aspects of himself, both loving who he already is and enjoying what he wants to be. He doesn't hid his scars, but he styles his hair with a side under-cut and dyes the longer lengths a lighter blonde. He also wears a hearing-aid for his right ear, and his eyebrow on that side is a bit thin too. Donut's mouth naturally makes the "cute kitty shape", and he usually has some shiny chapstick/lip-balm on as well. He likes to get some sun on his skin, but is careful not to tan too much, and always uses lots of lotion
Doc is very "in the middle", not too tall or too short, he's not skinny but not chubby either... however, he's got sort of a sturdy build, very athletic without being too buff. A rounded jawline that ends in a small point with his chin. He has a very high bridge to his nose, making a refined line from his forehead down in profile, with sharper edges at the sides of the nostrils. His skin is a deep brown, and his hair is very dark, kept short, with the curls swept up out of his face. Doc isn't "vain" exactly, but he likes to feel comfortable with himself, and to a certain degree, this involves being satisfied with his appearance. O'Malley also enjoys feeling sort of "cozy" with the hair and what-not, so it is a shared reassurance. Doc wears glasses, and O'Malley absolutely knows how to do the "intense anime glasses thing" when he wants to look DRAMATIC. Something I wanted to show with both of them; Doc has very welcoming and kind vibes, but he is perfectly capable of being a sarcastic little smart-mouth, with a fierce sense of resolve. O'Malley likes to be very over-the-top and appear threatening, but there's potential for him to protective, and even joyful. Again, he looks very in the middle, applying to Doc and O'Malley's attitudes
Kai resembles her brother in many ways, but I wanted to make sure she's still unique to herself. Things they have in common; warm copper skin, thick and wavy hair, and they're both chubby. There is a subtle heart-shape to her face (above around her forehead and hair, and also lower with her jaw). Kai has had fun with lots of different hairstyles through the years, but she's decided to just let it grow out. She's dyed it some crazy colors in the past, without really knowing what she was using, but now Donut helps her coordinate, so she has a gradient going on (darker golden-brown at the roots, lighter shades of brown in the middle, and finally yellow at the ends). To keep it from getting tangles, she usually has her hair tied back, or wrapped up while she sleeps. Kai is somebody who is very aware of what she's physically capable of, in terms of both strength and flexibility. Sometimes she shows off with some interesting party tricks, but also just has a graceful way of moving when she wants to dance (or kick somebody's butt). Everything about Kai is LOUD and PROUD, but that doesn't mean she can't calm down and share quiet moments with the people she cares about. She also has two double sets of earrings; two studs up on her right ear, and two small hoops lower on her left ear
The first rule when drawing Tucker; he is the prettiest. He has fairly long and noticeable eyelashes. His nose has a defined smooth and broad curve to it, giving him a profile that is a bit regal, even heroic. He's one of those people who always looks younger than he actually is (not exactly a "baby face", but naturally youthful, until one day he's just gonna suddenly become a silver fox). He has dark brown skin, and thick black hair (4c), kept a little long at the top, but styled as a fade. He has pierced ears, usually just two studs (but can be more elaborate if he wants to dress up). Tucker is an interesting character; visually, he can very easily be a pretty boy, or a prince charming... but then he starts talking, and you realize how obnoxious and annoying he is. Underneath the flirty attitude and sarcastic jokes, he has genuine concern for others, and a fear that he won't be strong enough to protect people. Underneath THAT, he's a determined and clever person that is capable of doing amazing things. All that is wrapped-up within Tucker. I wanted to see a hint of the charm and smug attitude in his face, but the noble look is in there too. Physically, he's a short-king (manlet), but after training with Wash, Tucker has impressive muscles that combine with some quick reflexes
I imagine Caboose as one of the BIGGER characters. He also has the strongest "huggable vibes" (he's literally friend-shaped, no matter how much Church used to argue this fact). Caboose has a naturally sweet smile, which makes it all the more serious when he's upset (a sad Caboose will break your heart... a mad Caboose might break your arms). As Sarge once said- "He's like an ox!". His skin is a shade of sandy brown. His hair is a deeper brown, very soft and a little bit fluffy (I'm especially happy with how his bangs turned out~). I really wanted to make it clear that while Caboose might be all kinds of adorable, he is indeed a grown man, able to take care of himself, and others as well (he understands things some of them never notice). The curve of his jaw is low and subtle, but also shows how "solid" he is built. Caboose is a hopeful person, and has the will power to MAKE things turn out OK one way or another. No matter how unusual his ideas might be, Caboose is dependable, and intuitively has the strength to be kind on purpose
Wash has kept the beard despite the teasing, which has finally transformed him from looking like a very tired lost teenager into a dad who works at a library (the beardo-fication of Wash~). His hair is mostly a light blonde, more golden brown at the roots and through his facial hair (during Project Freelancer, he had a shock of gray after the Epsilon incident, but it has faded). His skin is a light tan color, covered with MANY freckles, and a few scars on his face (the most recent neck injury isn't visible. the scar above his eye is actually from a skateboarding accident as a kid, but the one across his nose was sometime after Project Freelancer started to fall apart). Although he fusses over other people a lot, Wash is bad at taking his own advice, and tends to not eat or sleep enough. It also didn't help that he had a bad habit of ignoring his own emotional breaking points until he was in the middle of losing control... he's finally learned to recognize certain things, and accept every part of himself (a little punk kid, a dork, Mr Serious, a guy who had a Villain Moment, and somebody who really found where he belongs). Under the beard, he has an angular chin, his nose has a curved swoop shape to it, and he has a defined lower lip
Carolina is one of the few characters we see without armor in the series, so I knew what I was working with, but I also wanted to show how she has changed. Carolina is a naturally intense person with somewhat slender features, and she's worked hard to be VERY strong. Now that she's spent time with this group of goobers, and had some chill lessons from Grif, Carolina is rediscovering how to enjoy herself and be less harsh (remember, she is the BEST. this means she's gonna be the Best Red, the Best Blue, the Best at Being Annoying~). She cut her hair during Iris, a little bit choppy at the time, but later decided to keep it short and give it a cleaner trim. She's dyed it a darker, less vibrant shade of red (I imagine her natural red is a bit more carrot). She still uses heavy eye shadow though! (at this point, it is out of spite toward anybody who everybody who ever said it looked silly; not so silly when she's kicking your but, is it?). She's a bit pale, but with a warm tone to her skin. Most of Carolina's scars came from incidents when she didn't have armor, or was so determined to finish a mission, she didn't care if she got hurt. It isn't visible here, but she doesn't bother with shaving her legs (not to get all deep about it, but Carolina sort of has her own balance with embracing certain aspects of femininity, and also ignoring expectations of "beauty". she knows what she's about, and does what she wants)
These designs for Tex and Church exist within my story-line where they get to return in synthetic human bodies (originally intended for the Director to use for himself and Allison, once he could properly "resurrect" her... which didn't work). DNA samples were used as the basic building blocks, the genetic information was allowed to "randomize" itself. As a result, Tex isn't an identical clone of Allison (just like parents can have more than one child; related, but physically different). Ironically, Tex takes after Allison's maternal grandmother, and so does Carolina. Tex has light skin and blonde hair, which she keeps tied back in a ponytail, with two lengths that frame the sides of her face. Carolina and Tex have the same nose shape, a long bridge that curves up at the end. She considered cutting her hair different, or dying it another color... but she didn't want to constantly worry about "changing" herself to avoid any similarities with Allison. Instead, Tex wants to find out what it means to be HERSELF; which is BIG and BUFF. She's pretty tall with a thick body-type already, so she just had to work on the muscles (also, even with long hair, she still has a "warrior dude" vibe, and she's very proud of it). Tex naturally has a lot of confidence and a rebellious attitude, but she really isn't "mean"... at least, not all the time
Church definitely has some traits that came from the Director... but Church was always a contrary little so-and-so, and even though he had no control over how his body formed, it seemed he was destined to be the "opposite" of what somebody else intended. Church is much shorter than the Director, with a thicker more "chunky" body-type (he puts on some healthy weight later, getting a bit more chubby. he also works on being strong enough to pick Tex up. that was his whole motivation). He has a broader nose, and more squared jaw. He has light skin, but a bit more of a sandy color. The most obvious resemblance is his black hair, which sticks up like a soft hedgehog. He asked Carolina and Tex if he should avoid having facial hair (since they have to look at him, and he doesn't want them to be reminded of any unpleasant memories). They assure him that it's fine, and the hair on his chin kind of suits him (it fact, even through the similarities, they can look at him and just see CHURCH, as he is). Church can be a smug, loud-mouth jerk... but though all his rants full of curse words and insults, he cares very deeply about people. Even though he had some ego-trips, he mostly just thought of himself as "some guy". Now he knows how important he is, not because he's a special and highly advanced AI, but because a lot of people missed him. Now he can actually be with them all again, and just like Epsilon, he has the chance to find out what he's truly capable of (they can still project holographic avatars of themselves, but all of the AI Fragments are back too, and happily spend time in Church's head~). Although they make different expression, Church and Carolina have the same "neutral" shape to their mouths
Poppy was originally sent to a different group of Red and Blue Flag Zealots, meant to identify needed supplies and order more ammunition. She was designated "neutral", and had white armor with tan accents. When the teams ran out of bullets, they kept fighting in non-lethal ways, which Poppy thought was preferable to a clearly pointless war, so she just never put in the order for more. Both teams considered her a friend, playfully fighting over who's side she was on, but never getting mad at her for getting along with them all. After a dangerous incident left her knocked-out and recovering, Temple's group arrived to recruit more Sim Troopers. Poppy's group refused to join. When she woke up, they were all gone. She misses them dearly. Because she's still considered part of the Flag Zealots, the UNSC decided to throw her back into a new training program (which was actually pretty shady and insidious), and that's where she meets Sarge. Poppy has a calm yet sarcastic personality, with a raging inferno of a temper once somebody ticks her off. Perfect for Red Team! Poppy is medium-short, about the same as Doc. She has broad shoulders and strong arms, very sure-footed and versatile when it comes to fighting. A very go-with-the-flow attitude, somebody who can be comforting and encouraging, but isn't shy about showing her emotions. She has a somewhat rounded fact with a short, sturdy chin. Her skin is a light shade of brown, and her long hair is a dark earthy brown. Not pictures is her own prosthetic arm (she's meant to be a "mirror" for Simmons, clever like him, but not a know-it-all. she was the one in the accident, and woke up with cyborg parts. Sarge decides to just adopt her, and this SHOULD immediately make him hater her, but Simmons finds himself feeling pretty fond and protective of Poppy. accidental sibling! also, they're both trans in opposite directions~)
We've seen Locus without armor in a flash-back before Chorus, so I tried to translate that into my style I use here. I imagine that he actually wasn't doing to great Chorus, not eating or sleeping enough, what with the whole crisis involved; thinking of himself as a murder-machine unable to see the worth of kindness or mercy, and THEN recovering enough humanity to be horrified by his actions thus considering himself a monster without a purpose... y'know, that whole song and dance. Anyway, the Reds and Blues force him to be a person again, so he gained some weight back. While he has a very strong jaw, it's kind of low where the angle is (so he doesn't have a "long" chin, but a wide one). He also has pretty defined cheek bones, and other features as well (he wasn't smiling much for a LONG time, but he does indeed have lines on his face that deepen when it happens). He's BIG, burly, and buff... but hopefully looks less harsh than before
I like to imagine that Flowers keeps faking his own death, and has a set of plans outside of what Project Freelancer was trying to do... nothing ever worked out properly. Flowers mainly doesn’t like the idea of people being “thrown away” or treated like they’re worthless, and at his worst, that meant using people for some goal they didn’t choose for themselves. He wouldn’t like to admit it, but… “daddy doesn’t always know best”, and he’s trying to include people on the decisions of these goals now (while the Director and Councilor might have just thrown together Red and Blue teams to mimic the other group who had a nearly endless stalemate going, Flowers picked out the Reds and Blues for Blood Gulch because he LIKED them, and he genuinely thought Alpha would too… in a very twisted way, Flowers founded this family). Nobody entirely trusts him at first, what with all the lying. Plus he keeps talking like a overly cheerful serial killer. He’s an older and distinguished gentleman. Some gray streaks in his hair, which he keeps wrapped up in several small braids that make a flower-shaped bun. Some scars on his body from many missions and fights (including the ax to the shoulder). He has a warm, brown skin, and back tattoo that is just barely visible; orange blossoms. He has a tall and lanky body-type, but even past middle-age he still has thick muscles
108 notes
·
View notes
Text
ON NAR SHADDAA, UNEXPECTED HAVEN FOR FORCE BELIEVERS
Twenty-one years after Order 66, Hutt mystics still practice Jedi-like ways
By Angan Agondo, Alliance Network News
‘Spirituality’ isn’t the first word you think of when you think of Nar Shaddaa. But that’s exactly what Quiga Len-Wi (20) was seeking when he first set foot on the Huttese moon, three years ago. A native Mirialan, Baloo grew up in a culture with a deep connection to the Force, and with a deep affinity for it. If he had been born just a few years earlier, he probably would have grown up in the Jedi Order.
But these days, believers in the Force are cut off from any galactic community. The Jedi are gone, and ancient local practices face serious repressions from the Empire.
Len-Wi first heard about the Hutt mystics from a Twi’lek medic who visited his small town on Mirial. Charitable organizations from wealthy Core Worlds sometimes send out groups of medics and droids to provide care to the ‘magenta’ worlds - a list of worlds devastated by the fall of the Republic, so called for the magenta dots used to signify them on Imperial Holovision’s galactic map.
“She wanted to treat us,” Len-Wi recalls, “But most of us just wanted to hear what was going on in the galaxy. No one trusts Imperial Holovision on Mirial, so whenever we meet an offworlder, they’re sure to be bombarded with questions about Coruscant.”
The medic had never been to Coruscant, but she was happy to tell stories about her life on Nal Hutta.
“I’d spent my whole life wanting to be a Jedi,” Len-Wi says. “But there was no chance of that in the Empire. So when I heard about these Hutts who are in touch with the Force, who use it for spirituality and combat - I thought, what do I have to lose?”
Indeed, the similarities between Hutt mystics and Jedi are hard to ignore. “The Force is the Force,” Master Borgga Agashjic (724) says. “Certain species connect to it in different ways, but at their core, all Force traditions are similar.”
Aesthetically, Hutt mystics couldn’t be more opposite to the Jedi. A 12-foot-long Hutt, Borgga wears no robes, but instead a black-and-white mask with large antlers. Their amber eyes are hidden behind black lenses, and their mouth is covered by a gas mask built into the mask. Their green skin is covered in colorful body paint.
But when they practice their art, any human watcher is immediately reminded of the old stories about the Jedi. With a wave of their stubby arm, they levitate the row of mystic masks which line the walls. They lunge across the room like a dancer with a speed and delicacy which belies their size, and at times it almost seems that they defy gravity. Humans aren’t used to thinking of Hutts as beautiful, but watching them, it’s hard to deny their alien grace.
Unlike the great Jedi temple, there is no central locus for Hutt mystics. There are instead thousands of smaller temples, each with its own competing power structure and beliefs. But, like the Jedi and Sith of old, Hutt mystics are divided.
“The Force flows through all living beings,” Borgga emphasizes to me. “You, me, Emperor Palpatine - all of us equally. So how can you justify slavery?” They shake their great, masked head. “Nal Hutta is the capital of the greatest society that the galaxy has ever known - we don’t have to allow this unnatural state to stain our history.”
Borgga is not alone in their anti-slavery stance. The greater community of Hutt mystics is torn between unilateral support for the policies and practices of the ruling Hutt Clan, and a long tradition of societal criticism. Although Hutt mystics are often separate from the ruling clans and their financial dealings, they enjoy a certain degree of traditional protection, and they have always engaged in a delicate push-and-pull relationship with the ruling clans.
Borgga goes further than most, though. At Borgga’s small temple, crammed into a complex in the Nar Shaddaa industrial district, Hutt mystics practice their art alongside a handful of humanoids. Len-Wi is one of them. A tall fat man with green skin and black hair, his traditional Mirialan tattoos are hidden under body paint, and he wears a horned green mask.
“People always talk about Hutt chauvinism in the Empire, how the Hutts think they’re better than everyone else and look down on humanoids,” Len-Wi tells me. “But what about human chauvinism? I might look more like a human than a Hutt, but humans still treated me like dirt every day of my life in the Empire. There’s nothing left for me back there. Even if the Rebellion triumphed, I wouldn’t go back.” Because of the Hutt Clans’ relationship to the Empire, Hutt Space enjoys a measure of protection from the restrictions placed on Imperial citizens.
But not everyone in the mystic community has such a rosy view of life on Nar Shaddaa. Soan Starkiller, the only Twi’lek in Borgga’s temple, says that the movement still has a long way to go. “My family thinks I’m crazy for joining a Hutt temple,” she says. “Mostly, mystics are the same as other Hutts - they think a Twi’lek is a commodity, not a person. Master Borgga has done a lot for our people, but even here, all of the temple masters are Hutts. Humanoids, and especially Twi’leks, can only rise so far.”
When I point this out to Borgga, they look past me at my camera crew, and note that they’re all human. “Progress isn’t overnight,” they say. “But Hutts live a long time. If the Force is with us, I’ll live to see a Twi’lek temple master - and an Organa in the Imperial palace.”
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Chapter 3: Silent Steel Breathing
Link groaned as he pushed himself off the hard, rocky ground, rolling onto his back. His head spun, and for a moment he was afraid he had fallen from the rigging, but there would have been a lot of yelling if he had. It was mostly silent, broken only by vague shuffling noises and groans around him. The air was dry, hot, and smelled faintly of sulfur. He blinked up at the towering cliff face above him. “What in ‘ell?” he mumbled, his voice scratchy. He didn’t get seasick, but he sure felt like it now, like his stomach was trying to climb up his throat. Groaning, he sat up and examined his surroundings, which proved to be a great distraction from his nausea. His familiar ocean had disappeared, replaced by a sprawling landscape dotted with thin patches of green and split by a winding river. A town straddled the river far below, nestled into mountain foothills. Link had appeared on the mountainside above, its sides marred by streaks of ancient lava rock and speckled with hardy plant life. Oh. This must be Death Mountain, came a thought, which Link immediately disregarded. The lands below looked too different from the time periods he had visited in the war. Too...brown. The noise in his immediate area picked up, and Link turned to find three figures nearby, sprawled across the uneven ground in disarray. One of them, a blond man in a dark hood, sat up and looked around, his bright blue eyes landing on Link and his hand twitching towards the sword strapped to his back. Before Link could react, another spoke up, asking, “Are you okay?” The voice came from a young man wearing a white cape, half-lying on the ground and braced against an arm, looking between the other three with concern. “I’m alright,” Link said tentatively, climbing to his feet and dusting off his tunic. He took a big step away from the twitchy guy with the sword. “I think.” The third figure hadn’t moved at all, splayed on the ground and sounding decidedly not alright. “Fucking hells,” he groaned. “For once, could you warn me first?” Link approached cautiously to find the man scowling deeply, his eyes screwed shut, muttering a long string of curses under his breath. Link eyed the shiny rings on his fingers, but decided he wasn’t going to poke that dodongo and moved closer to the one with the cape. He seemed much more pleasant.
Summary:
Four heroes land on Death Mountain in an unknown time. Wind fails the banana test. A delivery arrives for Sky.
Chapter title comes from "Locus" (FFXIV). That definitely isn't related to the story's plot :)
In the original outline for this chapter Sky was going to be a lot more chill about the sudden delivery because, let's be honest, careless endangerment is pretty par for the course for Sun. But everyone else freaked out, so *gestures*
#linked universe#fanfic#linked universe fanfic#unbroken#chapter update#There's actually five Links in this chapter :)
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Soldiers Of The Fall Series (RvB)
General Warnings: Locington, Angst
3 Fics
WAR
CW: Nightmares, Coping,
The first note is discovered when Locus is going through his current alias’ mailbox. The paper isn’t crisp, but there’s a clear exactness to the way it’s folded over itself. The same can be said of the cryptic contents within.
[‘Do you remember standing on a broken field
White crippled wings beating the sky
The harbingers of war with their nature revealed
And our chances flowing by’]
-We need to talk.
The writing is, at a glance, flawless. When Locus looks more closely, there’s a delicate tremble running throughout the pen strokes. The only thing that’s clear cut is that the bulk of it is made up of song lyrics. Probably some locals pulling a prank. A small part of him wants to save the letter, for some reason.
Locus elects to burn it instead.
---
He’s on another Earth-controlled planet when the datapad is slipped to him. The man hardly gets anything at this place, so he’s not ‘blown away’ when the text flickers to life. Unprepared, yes. Awestruck, no.
[‘If I can let the memory heal
I will remember you with me on that field
When I thought that I fought this war alone
You were there by my side on the frontline
When I thought that I fought without a cause
You gave me a reason to try ’]
-Not as hard to track as you think you are.
Well, if they found Locus predictable, they were going to learn just how elusive he could really be if he put his mind to it. The ex-mercenary leaves everything but his armor and vanishes into the night.
---
Locus has come to the understanding that his enigmatic letter writer is equally equipped to roam the universe as he himself is. The song gradually winds its was towards its end, be it on paper, digital media, or in one instance a singing-telegram service. (The poor sap almost pissed himself when Locus came to the door.)
If he can’t put a stop to it, Locus might as well put forth some effort in deciphering the meaning of it all.
While it was simple to find the song that contained the lyrics, Locus is doubtful it will help him in the long run. He’d started to pick up on a trend running through the whole debacle. Locus pulls out a pen, noting the underlined words and which notes they belonged to.
1st) WORDS- Remember, Crippled, Nature revealed, chances. NOTE- We need to talk.
2nd) WORDS- Memory, Will remember, Thought, Frontline, Thought, Try. NOTE- Not as hard to track as you think you are.
3rd) WORDS- Something new, Torn, Stunted view, Dogs, Memory heal, Remember. No note, just an outdated map of North America.
4th) SINGER- Kid handed me the directions he was given. WORDS- Thought, Alone, My side, Impossible, War, Without, Reason why. NOTE- Having a good trip through the stars?
Then the fifth arrived on a flashdrive. It was a clip of the rest of the song set to footage of Chorus. The words were superimposed over top of the video, underlines still present as in all before it.
[‘With no-one wearing their real face
It's a whiteout of emotion
And I've only got my brittle bones to break the fall
When the love in letters fade
It's like moving in slow motion
And we're already too late if we arrive at all
And then we're caught up in the arms race
An involuntary addiction
And we're shedding every value our mothers taught-]
Suddenly the video shifts to the footage of Felix monologuing to the-...no. There’s no way they could have pulled this off...could they?
[‘-So will you please show me your real face -]
Then it shows a scan of the North American map he’d been given. As the last of the words flash by, it slowly zooms in. By the time it stops, Locus feels like a fool for not connecting the dots sooner.
[-Draw the line in the horizon
Cos I only need your name to call the reasons why I fought.’]
The ending goes unheeded by Locus because the map is centered on Washington State. The theme of emphasizing terms relating to thought and memory all makes sense now. As if he was unsure if Locus had finally come to the solution himself, an all too familiar steel and yellow gauntlet slides a datapad into the feed of the map with clear coordinates. Below is a final, rather slyly worded note.
-Memory is the Key, Locus. Don’t keep making me wait.
---
When Locus approaches the rendezvous spot, he notices that someone (Presumably Washington.) had taken great care in selecting the site. It wasn’t in the middle of a field where snipers like himself would feel on edge. Yet, it isn’t caged in by the region's well-known mountain ranges. It was a fairly young forest, with trees unsuitable for gunners to take as vantage points.
Leave it to ever paranoid Washington to be sure he had at least some form of advantage, regardless of however minor it may be. Anything to compensate for that perceived lack of skill.
Speaking of the agent, Locus hears a shrill whistle and whips around. Washington is beckoning the cloaked man over, seemingly uncaring if it looked like he was waving at thin air to anyone who didn’t know better.
Locus hesitates before dropping his invisibility and it takes a shamefully large amount of restraint to suppress a childish pout. “I am unsure why I even bother at this point, if you just continue to spot me.”
"Can't be sure myself. " Washington’s voice sounds rough, like the bad end of a faulty transmission. It couldn’t just be the helmet to blame, not when Locus had witnessed the crimson spraying from the agent’s throat first hand.
Locus was pushing A’rynasea as fast as it could manage with one hand. The other was occupied with trying to keep pressure on Washington’s wounds. The agent lets out a wet sounding whine, struggling to move. Before Locus can push him back down, he makes out the man trying to speak.
“Mn? Mhn?” There’s not much beyond that, as the hospital looms ever closer in Locus’ line of sight
-
Locus hid, unseen by the staff and listened to what the doctor was going to report to the Reds and Blues.
“So he’s getting the hang of that new vocalizer I whipped up for him, now that he’s coming around from the anesthesia. Hey, Parker, did you catch the one that dropped him here?”
The medi-vac pilot glances at her like this was a frankly silly thing to ask, and shakes his head.
“Well that sure is a shame, huh? He keeps asking for us to go find Maine and wants to know what the deal with his new armor is!”
Locus freezes.
“Buuuut, he’s also having an ‘Autotune fight with the Autobots’ in his words, so it’s probably nothing!”
“Hey, Earth to Locus? You went all quiet. Not even your broody kind, either.” Washington has moved right up to the edges of Locus’ massive personal space bubble.
The former mercenary clears his throat, still coming off a touch sheepish. “My apologies, Agent Washington-”
“You know it’s okay to use Wash, right?”
Locus huffs a bit, looking off into the forest. “Why are we here?”
“Because you saved me.” The freelancer leans on a tree trunk, visor not hiding how he intensely watched Locus’ every move. “I’d like a chance to say thanks.”
“You tailed me across the cosmos to say that?”
Washington laughs like a worn down toy’s voice box. (Likely because he now spoke with one.) It wasn’t like the old footage Locus had snatched from the PFL servers. Before he would laugh in this breathy way that sounded like sunshine felt. Locus tries to shake that comparison from his mind, frowning.
“Of course I didn’t. You forgot to yank the standard issue GPS out of that new helmet of yours. Simmons gave me a hand in tracking it. I’d send you something once you stayed put for more than a month.”
“Fuck.” Locus hissed to himself. He was getting lazy now that Fel-...hmph.
Washington shrugs. “I’ve also got an offer for you.”
Locus waves in a ‘well don’t let me stop you.’ way.
“I’ve got a place you can use. I don’t stay there, so I want you to have it.” The agent kicks over a rock at his feet.
Locus scoffs, shaking his head. “I don’t need your charity. I’m not poor by any stretch of the imagination.”
“Did I call you poor?” the older man challenges. “I’d feel better knowing you’re nearby.”
The ex-mercenary sighs, turning on his heel. “Is that all, Agent Washington?”
“For now. Here.” Washington chucks a ring of keys to Locus. “I know you have my contact info, so keep in touch, yeah?”
“We will see. Goodbye, Agent.”
“See you soon.”
---
Locus found the cabin convenient. He had no other reasons for why he stayed as often as he did. (He had many reasons.) It was well stocked with dry firewood, electricity, and a spacious kitchen to make it comfortable for extended use. The first time Locus wandered into the house, he was taken aback that the fridge was brimming with his favored foods.
Locus likes to think he’s not a fool. He’s mulling over the discovery in his mind when he hears the distinctive crunch of tires on snow. In an instant, he’s cloaked and slinks out the back.
There’s a beat up SUV out front and it doesn’t take a sniper's eye to spot Washington in civilian clothes sliding out of the cab. Locus silently stalks around so Washington is sandwiched between himself and his cabin. Locus knows better. Locus knows the agent is too aware of his surroundings, but still he reaches out for the freelancer’s throat as he checks his phone.
Just before he can make contact, “Evening, Loc’s.”
Locus goes still on the snowy drive. Silence reigns for many long moments. “Why are you doing this.”
Washington glances over his shoulder at the invisible sniper. “Because I’ve been there, Locus.”
“Not your problem.”
There’s a scoff, wispy clouds escaping Washington’s teeth. “I don’t care. You need someone on your side. I know I did.”
That gives Locus pause. His silhouette shimmers before fading into nothing. With some thought, he settles he hand hovering near Washington’s chin onto his shoulder. This soldier was watching out for him, the sheep standing guard over the sleeping wolf.
Locus finds the attention is not unwelcome.
---
Washington turns up a few weeks later, one small bag at his side. “I just need some time off from the Reds and Blues. Let me go set up the futon, can you get the fire going? A storm’s rolling in sometime tonight.”
Locus nods quietly, trying to stamp out the panic bubbling up into his throat. ‘Washington isn’t going to care about seeing your face.’ He scolds himself. ‘You get to see his face, it’s only fair.’
There’s a pathetic, rusty shriek of hinges when Washington pulls at the frame of the longer of the two couches. After a minor struggle, it gives up, flopping open The freelancer rasps out a chuckle. “Y’know, this is the only thing I have from before I enlisted. Kept it in a storage unit we all shared during PFL.” Something shifts in his tone so subtly it almost went over Locus’ head. “Everything here used to be in it. I couldn’t stand to see it rotting away in there.”
Locus glances around with a deeper understanding, and things make a bit more sense. “Are you willing to elaborate?” He asks while striking a match to set the tinder alight.
The futon creaks loudly when Washington sits on it. “Yeah, I can. The stuff in the kitchen came from pretty much everyone outside of Tex. Even the freelancers the Director didn’t give a shit about, Like West and Indi’s crew. The table was C.T.’s that’s why it’s covered up. She used to stab the shit out of it when she was learning knife skills. The butcher block is hers too, but she took good care of it for obvious reasons. The bed’s Carolina’s, didn’t even remember we had that unit when I asked to go get everything from it.” The older man smiles softly, staring up at the ceiling.
“York had the barstools, the chairs at the table were Wyoming’s. Florida had the other couch, and a few of the quilts. The deck chairs were from Illinois. North had a couple bookshelves. South had the footlockers and the old ass TV.” Washington's voice wavers, going faint. “...Maine had the rest of the blankets and the dressers.”
Locus resolutely focuses on arranging the logs, watching how the sparks swirl throughout the hearth.
“You look like him…” is whispered, as if the freelancer is scared to admit to it. “...but your skin is darker, less scars, more hair. Your eyes, they’re the biggest difference. His were like those little bits of amber they sell at museums.” Washington's voice trembles. “Sorry…”
Locus shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s quite apparent he meant a great deal to you, so I consider it a compliment.” He sneaks a glance over his shoulder.
Washington has thrown an arm over his eyes, but the corners of his mouth draw up into a wistful smile. “That’s what I was going for with it.”
The fire pops, and the conversation ends.
---
Locus is startled awake by a panicked, broken scream. When he throws open the door, pistol in hand, he sees Washington arching off the futon, fingers clawing at the back of his neck.
“Agent Washington.” The ex-mercenary tries, stalking over to the freelancer. “Agent Washington!”
The noises that tumble from Washington can’t be classified as words. In the dark of night, it’s all too clear how lasting the damage had been. Locus can’t let this continue, lest Washington lose what little recovery he had. The man strides forward, grabbing an arm as it swings out without a thought.
Washington’s eyes fly open, still foggy with sleep. He expertly breaks Locus’ grip before twisting the younger man’s arm violently.
On reflex, Locus jerks away, thankful that Washington didn’t have the leverage or brute strength to snap his wrist. “ Wash! ”
The freelancer stills, blinking up at him in confusion. “Who?” He sounds even more off than before.
“You. I was speaking to you.”
“Use my name then, dipshit. You the new rookie, or something? Name’s Church, so get it right next time.” Washington scowls at him in a way that is very unlike himself.
Locus wished he was less understanding of what was going on, but the freelancer wasn’t the only one with wicked night terrors. In that mindset, anyone could lose themselves. The key difference was that Locus didn’t have someone else's memories to sift through. Maybe he could help somehow.
“No, I’m not a new recruit, and your name is not Church. You go by Washington. You are in your cabin in the middle of a snow storm.” Locus is treading carefully, wary of how the older man would react.
Washington just searches him with a haughty air of suspicion. “I’m just expected to buy into that?”
On a hunch, Locus points to the mirror hanging behind the living room. “Look at yourself, if you don’t.”
Washington tsk’s, lazily throwing a look over his shoulder, then double takes. “I-what the fuck?” Then he looks at his hands, flexing them many times, like they’re a puzzle in need of solving. Eventually, Locus can see the haze dissipate from his eyes. Once more he searches Locus for something only Washington knows.
“I had a nightmare, didn’t I?”
Locus nods, stopping Washington, predicting his reaction. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. I’m glad I could help out.”
In the dark cabin, Washington looks so very small. His eyes are watery, catching the barest hints of light. “...Will you stay with me?”
There’s not even a fraction of hesitation before Locus says, “Of course.” He sits carefully at the edge of the futon, not expecting a trembling hand to close around his arm.
“Thank you.”
Sharing a bed with Washington is so fundamentally different from sharing a bed with Felix, it gives Locus emotional whiplash. Felix usually needled him relentlessly, only stopping when he had what he wanted from Locus. (Sex, usually.) When he eventually did sleep, Felix as always jabbing with an elbow or a knee, all points and hard edges.
Washington allowed Locus the space he always craved. All he seemed to require was to hold onto Locus’ hand until he fell back to sleep. That was some how intensely more intimate than anything Felix had ever done to Locus. Maybe it was that Washington let Locus decide for himself. It bothered Locus too much to think about it.
---
Locus learned many things from the year that followed.
Locus always felt the cabin was too big when Wash wasn’t visiting.
Wash showed up every other Sunday with fresh food.
Locus worried more than he should about Wash’s safety.
Wash had a caffeine problem.
Locus had adjusted to civilian life better than Felix said he could.
Wash liked to sit on the same couch as Locus, but didn’t touch without his permission.
Locus liked how Wash curled against his side when he did give permission.
Wash wanted to help him get better, but allowed Locus to decide if he was alright with going to a therapist.
Locus realized he might have gotten in too deep when he stopped calling Wash ‘Agent Washington’ in his head.
Wash liked Locus for the ways he wasn’t Maine, rather than liking him for the ways they were the same.
Locus liked Wash. He liked him quite a lot.
CHILDREN OF THE SUN
To say Locus was apprehensive about meeting the Reds and Blues was technically accurate. Accurate in the same way that a rocket could be called a big firecracker. There was a reason the ex-mercenary left after making certain that Wash was safe. He wasn't a foolish man by any means. After the clusterfuck of Chorus he had no intentions of ever contacting them. Life had other ideas, clearly.
Locus isn't sure why his ship started malfunctioning when it had, but it led him to Grif babbling like a lunatic to a set of sports equipment painted in a childish manner. When they'd taken off, the endless stream of questions about Locus’ intentionally secretive life began. Things the man never wanted to think about again under normal circumstances.
They meet at a coffee house that is a favorite haunt of Wash. He'd cashed in a favor and after it had officially closed for the night, the Reds and Blues were huddled inside to avoid the brutal January weather. Outside, Locus can see them from the window, able to mostly guess on their identities. Sarge was fairly obvious with his bright red polo and buzzcut. The tall one with thick, messy curls must be Caboose. Simmons arm gave him away, despite the long-sleeved sweater doing it's damndest to hide the well oiled chrome, though the long braid trailing over his shoulder was a surprise. Tucker was the one who tried to spend as little time as possible in his armor, so Locus was quite familiar with his cropped hair and dimples. Carolina was almost exactly how she had been in Freelancer. Shorter hair, but still red as fire. Grif was snoring away on a couch, with who Locus thinks must be the medic and some fellow in a pink parka.
He's startled from the old habit of memorising people's faces by a hand slipping into his. Wash glances up at Locus with one of those tired, lopsided smiles he seems prone to.
“C’mon. Let's get this done.” The older man inclines his head to the door, gently tugging Locus along.
The door chimes when Wash opens it and everyone's attention is on the pair in an instant. Locus’ lingering doubts snap at him. Mentally he chides himself, “ You agreed to this. You promised no armor, remember? Wash is right there, you’ll be fine.”
“What the fuck , why is Locus a trashy romance novel beefcake?!” Tucker balks, nearly spilling his drink over the table.
The room erupts in a mix of cackling and irritated demands for silence. Locus clutches Wash’s hand firmly, his desire to remain hidden growing into a nigh unbearable need. A sharp whistle slices neatly through the din.
“All of you shut up and pay attention.” Wash rasps irritably. “Locus isn't here for you to gawk at. You asked to meet him, so get on with it.” The Freelancer's calloused fingers tighten around Locus’ palm. At some point he had placed himself between the ex-mercenary and his comrades.
The sheep diligently watches over the wolf.
“Fine-” Tucker sniffs dismissively. “-how about what the hell were you thinking, running off like that?”
“I don’t-” Locus tries before Sarge snappily adds on.
“It ain't rocket science, kid. Y’ could’a stuck around fer a few days, at least. Hell, what if we needed yer help with Susie Spec’ Ops’ over there?” He grumbles, nodding to Wash.
The man in question looks offended, opening his mouth to interject when Caboose cuts him off.
“Oh oh! Can I also have another hug??”
Everyone throws dirty looks at the Blue trooper.
“So Tucker can call him a book but I don't get a nice hug?” Caboose pouts dramatically.
They drop the subject. Grif rolls over, unkempt hair flopping into his eyes. “Sup Locs. Sorry I went nuts on you before... actually I'm not, but whatever.” He shrugs a shoulder. “You probably do owe Simmons a 'good job’ since he helped Wash track your dumb ass.”
Locus glances over at Simmons, finding he isn't the only one who wasn't thrilled with the whole situation. The thin soldier wrings the tail end of his braid, practically jumping out of his skin at the mention of his name.
“I-It was no big deal, don't worry about it!” He stammers rapidly, shoulders hunching, giving the impression that he was sinking back into his turtleneck.
“It was a big deal, nerd!” Grif retorts, pushing away from the lumpy overstuffed sofa, arms folded across his chest. “You kept bitching about how it was gonna be a pain with our old tech!”
Before another squabble can break out, Wash lets go of Locus’ hand to intervene. There’s a clear exhaustion threaded along the bow of his spine. He’s holding his arms out, glaring at both of them. “Don’t start. I need everyone to cool it.” The Freelancer drags his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Let Locus get a word in too. This isn’t an intervention, it’s a conversation.”
The medic pipes up from the far end of the sofa. “This is pretty normal for us, remember?”
“Of course he remembers, what a stupid question.” Locus thinks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’d grown used to Wash’s personality when it was just the two of them in that cabin. He wasn’t like the overly intense facade Locus had observed in the limited recordings of his time chasing the Meta. Not the intimidating soldier that had been sent after Epsilon, or the (admittedly lovable) goofball from the Freelancer era. He was quiet but shouted at the appliances when they didn’t work well. (The oven had been the target of many rants.) He didn’t sleep well but would pass out on Locus’ lap when they occasionally watched movies. He made dry-jokes, chuckling to himself quietly. He certainly wasn’t a pushover. They had argued like anyone with their histories would. Wash could be a force to reckon with if he was so inclined.
Yet here in this little room, he seemed to wilt. It was as though the intensity of these people made him lesser somehow. He didn’t feel able to fly his true colours. A memory flickers, triggering many more.
“I just need some time off from the Reds and Blues.”
“Hey, sorry, needed a bit of quiet time.”
“I’m fine, Car’s just...y’know.”
"I can't sleep, can we go do something?"
"I needed a peaceful place."
It’s just enough to push the ex-mercenary to speak.
Locus clears his throat, squaring his shoulders. Wash’s head snaps up, eyeing the ex-mercenary cautiously. “Normal changes sometimes. It isn’t exactly...efficient to argue all the time.”
“Part of our charm, numbnuts.” Tucker snorts, a snide smirk on his face. “Did you miss the memo?”
Locus wants to punch something.
He takes a breath instead. “It’s not the most charming habit, if you want my honesty.”
“Yeah, because killing people totally charms the underpants off’a folks!” The one in the pink parka taunts.
That thread holding Wash in check snaps in an instant. “Donut!”
The blonde jumps, upending his mug onto the floor.
“All of you can say what you want but Locus is trying. He’s known war just as long as we have, if not longer.” The Freelancer starts pacing (A nervous habit.) around an empty table. “We’ve all been assholes to each other so what makes him any different than me?”
“You weren’t a mercenary.” Carolina coldly states from the booth she’s taken over.
“I-” Wash stumbles over the tip of his boot, eyes a fraction too wide.
“You didn’t perpetuate a planet wide civil war, or spring a prison ship-” She calmly adds a finger for each reason, ignoring the way Wash tries to interject. “-You didn’t plot an elaborate trap to kill our troops, didn’t murder them, and you didn’t betray your own-”
The sheep had kept the wolf safe for so long now. Time to return the favor.
Locus steps between the two, putting a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “If I recall properly, Project Freelancer had just as bloody a record as I myself did. You may not have sent a government into death throes as was done to Chorus, but you did ruin countless lives. Wash and yourself are evidence of that fact.”
Carolina levels him with a glare, cheeks darkening. She starts to speak, but Locus isn’t exactly invested in hearing out her predictably fragile argument.
“From my research of the footage, you raided many innocent cargo vessels without thinking twice. Orders are orders . Right Agent Carolina?” Locus drones, brushing hair from his eyes. “While it was by no means as elaborate as what you’re alluding to, you and Wash have both done harm to these simulation troopers. If you want to argue that I’m wrong, I have numerous instances I can bring up. Though they weren’t fully successful, I have a remarkably clear clip of Wash shooting one of the Red troopers point blank in the stomach.”
“Oh yeahhhh, you did try to kill me Washy! I almost forgot about that…” Donut chuckles, scratching at his belly through the down coat.
Locus wasn’t sure why he didn’t remember this being the same soldier but it does give his words a solid weight with which to fight. Felix used to claim the best way to win an argument was when someone on the opposing side willingly vocalized you had a point.
“A point-” He claimed. “-is how a knife so easily slides into a beating heart.”
Not everything Felix had taught him was bad, it seemed.
“Maine.”
All eyes are on Wash again. Carolina blinks owlishly, tilting her head. “Wash what-”
“I betrayed Maine. I had a chance to save him, and I didn’t. I saved myself.” Wash glances over at the Reds and Blues. “I saved them. Not before I betrayed them, though. I took the offer that I was given for a chance at freedom. I turned on them, and…” He bites his lip, gaze drifting aside. “In all honesty, I didn’t feel bad about doing it. It gave me an insight into how the world really works. Everyone can be good and bad. They’re not a mutually exclusive thing. The Reds and Blues aren’t heroes, but they changed a lot of things for the better. They can be douchebags but also save a planet. I can be the mean Freelancer but also try and support these troops because I don’t have to pick one. I just have to adjust to what they need me to be. Maine wasn’t a monster but he made a choice at the end. I made my choice.”
Wash exhales, the very sound itself laced with deeply repressed hurt. “We promised we’d stop looking back Car’. That we would better ourselves. That’s why we all left. We needed time to be ourselves again. Not just soldiers, or war heros, or guns for hire. Just...us.” He looks up at Locus, a fleeting smile crosses his face. “ All of us deserve another chance.”
Locus stills, glancing to Carolina. He’s not expecting how steady his voice is when he starts. “I’m here to make amends. If that means you choose not to speak to me after this, that’s acceptable. All I need from you is to promise me you won’t intentionally prevent my goal from being reached.”
The room is by no means silent, Grif ‘whispering’ to Simmons, Caboose humming absentmindedly, Tucker sighing, Sarge grumbling a string of curses. It’s the quiet that Locus has come to associate with these troops. They always had something going on, but the fact that they thought to lower their typical volume meant quiet to them.
Carolina huffs softly, thumb running over a small metal object tucked into her palm. She looks up, sharp green eyes catching the light from the lamps overhead. “Fine. If you really want to do better, I won’t be the one to mess it up.”
On a rare impulsive whim, Locus asks, “I’d also like it if you tried to work on your relationship with Wash. He seems to almost cower when it comes to you. He deserves better than just playing dumb to avoid your temper.”
Wash startles under his palm, stammering. “I mean I-I don’t think you’re...I don’t-...uh…” He fidgets with the edge of his jacket until Locus gently nudges him forward, yet still keeping a protective grip on his shoulder. “I mean, playing dumb is kinda harsh, but Locus has a point.”
Hopefully the point hit home for once.
“We’re equals in this Car’. I’m all too quick to just give you the right of way because of the Freelancer days. I shouldn’t roll over and let you take responsibility for all our choices because that’s not how communication works. There’s only so much I can do, though. We should all feel free to ask for things. That we can speak up when we feel we’re being neglected. Car’...it’s time to let us grow up. We’re not kids any more.”
There’s an overly dramatic gasp from Caboose. “Whaaat?! You two were brother and sister this whole time?” His voice turns smug. “I knew it allll along, I said you know they don’t look it but I’m telling you Washingtub is Carol-Timer’s baby brother!”
Wash yelps, “Wait, what?! No! It was a metaphor, we’re not related! Also I’m older than her by a long shot!”
Caboose just keeps grinning and repeating, “I called it.”
The rest of the night went better, by the end Simmons had rigged a monitor to run some terrible movie called Thankskilling which had the room erupting in horrified laughter and repeated cries of ‘WHAT?!’. Wash ended up taking Caboose aside to make hot chocolate and they emerged with a stack of paper and a fistful of crayons from the depths of the kitchen. A clever ploy to avoid traumatizing the Blue soldier.
By the time the credits rolled, Simmons wrestled the controller from Grif threatening to break his arm if he didn’t let them change channels. Considering the power in his cybernetic limb, it wasn’t the emptiest of promises. Wash drifted back over with Caboose in his wake. The young man excitedly shows Locus a crude (yet oddly charming) scribble of what he claimed to be all of them. The ex-mercenary takes it gently, taking it all in.
The biggest was Caboose who was the only one who had hair of them all. He was labeled as both the ‘best!!’ and ‘me!’. To his right the medic and Red team. The medic (Locus really needed to get his name at some point) was in his signature purple, smiling with an outdated headband that Locus is fairly sure was worn by dentists rather than doctors. He was described with ‘nice!’. Then Donut, grin breaking from the confines of his face and hands thrown over his head, the descriptor this time is ‘hapy’. Shouting next to him must be Sarge in fire engine red. His head is square for some reason, and he’s noted for being ‘angry’. At the bottom right corner are Grif and Simmons, the former of which looks like he swallowed a balloon, the latter with one green eye. Surprising attention to detail there. When he takes another look he realizes Grif seems to be kissing Simmons. If they thought they were being subtle, they failed to fool even Caboose’s notice. Grif is simply stated to be ‘fat’ and Simmons is ‘smart!’.
The rest are to Caboose’s left, starting with Carolina. She’s got a rather grumpy look on with exaggerated eyelashes and her hands on her hips. At her feet is the word ‘mean’. Then to her left is Tucker who is either doing his recently named “finger guns” or flipping someone off. Hard to tell. In faint crayon above him he’s credited with being ‘dum’. With his grey body and yellow limbs, Wash looks almost depressed compared to the rest of the bunch. He’s just named ‘tub!’ rather than any actual description like the others. Oh, Locus was part of this too. His arms and legs are a forest green along with the detail of his scar. The rest of him is grey with an irritated look on his face. Above him in grey is the word ‘scary’. Below him in green however, it says ‘hug’.
When he squints he realizes he’s holding Wash’s hand. Maybe Caboose was more observant than he gave him credit for. “You...you did a good job.” Locus says finally.
Caboose lights up light a firecracker, bouncing on his feet before delivering a crushing hug to the ex-mercenary. He can hear the room burst out into laughter, even catching the wheezy edge of Wash’s own chuckles.
“Okay, Caboose, he needs some air now.” Wash swallows another giggle fit, patting at his shoulder.
When he’s released Locus knows everyone’s staring. They keep staring and they don’t scowl like they did before. With an unusually nervous chuckle he shrugs at the rest.
“It’s not exactly the first time he’s done that to me.”
FALSE KINGS
CW: Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts
To say Locus was apprehensive about meeting the Reds and Blues was technically accurate. Accurate in the same way that a rocket could be called a big firecracker. There was a reason the ex-mercenary left after making certain that Wash was safe. He wasn't a foolish man by any means. After the clusterfuck of Chorus he had no intentions of ever contacting them. Life had other ideas, clearly.
Locus isn't sure why his ship started malfunctioning when it had, but it led him to Grif babbling like a lunatic to a set of sports equipment painted in a childish manner. When they'd taken off, the endless stream of questions about Locus’ intentionally secretive life began. Things the man never wanted to think about again under normal circumstances.
They meet at a coffee house that is a favorite haunt of Wash. He'd cashed in a favor and after it had officially closed for the night, the Reds and Blues were huddled inside to avoid the brutal January weather. Outside, Locus can see them from the window, able to mostly guess on their identities. Sarge was fairly obvious with his bright red polo and buzzcut. The tall one with thick, messy curls must be Caboose. Simmons arm gave him away, despite the long-sleeved sweater doing it's damndest to hide the well oiled chrome, though the long braid trailing over his shoulder was a surprise. Tucker was the one who tried to spend as little time as possible in his armor, so Locus was quite familiar with his cropped hair and dimples. Carolina was almost exactly how she had been in Freelancer. Shorter hair, but still red as fire. Grif was snoring away on a couch, with who Locus thinks must be the medic and some fellow in a pink parka.
He's startled from the old habit of memorising people's faces by a hand slipping into his. Wash glances up at Locus with one of those tired, lopsided smiles he seems prone to.
“C’mon. Let's get this done.” The older man inclines his head to the door, gently tugging Locus along.
The door chimes when Wash opens it and everyone's attention is on the pair in an instant. Locus’ lingering doubts snap at him. Mentally he chides himself, “ You agreed to this. You promised no armor, remember? Wash is right there, you’ll be fine.”
“What the fuck , why is Locus a trashy romance novel beefcake?!” Tucker balks, nearly spilling his drink over the table.
The room erupts in a mix of cackling and irritated demands for silence. Locus clutches Wash’s hand firmly, his desire to remain hidden growing into a nigh unbearable need. A sharp whistle slices neatly through the din.
“All of you shut up and pay attention.” Wash rasps irritably. “Locus isn't here for you to gawk at. You asked to meet him, so get on with it.” The Freelancer's calloused fingers tighten around Locus’ palm. At some point he had placed himself between the ex-mercenary and his comrades.
The sheep diligently watches over the wolf.
“Fine-” Tucker sniffs dismissively. “-how about what the hell were you thinking, running off like that?”
“I don’t-” Locus tries before Sarge snappily adds on.
“It ain't rocket science, kid. Y’ could’a stuck around fer a few days, at least. Hell, what if we needed yer help with Susie Spec’ Ops’ over there?” He grumbles, nodding to Wash.
The man in question looks offended, opening his mouth to interject when Caboose cuts him off.
“Oh oh! Can I also have another hug??”
Everyone throws dirty looks at the Blue trooper.
“So Tucker can call him a book but I don't get a nice hug?” Caboose pouts dramatically.
They drop the subject. Grif rolls over, unkempt hair flopping into his eyes. “Sup Locs. Sorry I went nuts on you before... actually I'm not, but whatever.” He shrugs a shoulder. “You probably do owe Simmons a 'good job’ since he helped Wash track your dumb ass.”
Locus glances over at Simmons, finding he isn't the only one who wasn't thrilled with the whole situation. The thin soldier wrings the tail end of his braid, practically jumping out of his skin at the mention of his name.
“I-It was no big deal, don't worry about it!” He stammers rapidly, shoulders hunching, giving the impression that he was sinking back into his turtleneck.
“It was a big deal, nerd!” Grif retorts, pushing away from the lumpy overstuffed sofa, arms folded across his chest. “You kept bitching about how it was gonna be a pain with our old tech!”
Before another squabble can break out, Wash lets go of Locus’ hand to intervene. There’s a clear exhaustion threaded along the bow of his spine. He’s holding his arms out, glaring at both of them. “Don’t start. I need everyone to cool it.” The Freelancer drags his fingers through his hair, sighing. “Let Locus get a word in too. This isn’t an intervention, it’s a conversation.”
The medic pipes up from the far end of the sofa. “This is pretty normal for us, remember?”
“Of course he remembers, what a stupid question.” Locus thinks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’d grown used to Wash’s personality when it was just the two of them in that cabin. He wasn’t like the overly intense facade Locus had observed in the limited recordings of his time chasing the Meta. Not the intimidating soldier that had been sent after Epsilon, or the (admittedly lovable) goofball from the Freelancer era. He was quiet but shouted at the appliances when they didn’t work well. (The oven had been the target of many rants.) He didn’t sleep well but would pass out on Locus’ lap when they occasionally watched movies. He made dry-jokes, chuckling to himself quietly. He certainly wasn’t a pushover. They had argued like anyone with their histories would. Wash could be a force to reckon with if he was so inclined.
Yet here in this little room, he seemed to wilt. It was as though the intensity of these people made him lesser somehow. He didn’t feel able to fly his true colours. A memory flickers, triggering many more.
“I just need some time off from the Reds and Blues.”
“Hey, sorry, needed a bit of quiet time.”
“I’m fine, Car’s just...y’know.”
"I can't sleep, can we go do something?"
"I needed a peaceful place."
It’s just enough to push the ex-mercenary to speak.
Locus clears his throat, squaring his shoulders. Wash’s head snaps up, eyeing the ex-mercenary cautiously. “Normal changes sometimes. It isn’t exactly...efficient to argue all the time.”
“Part of our charm, numbnuts.” Tucker snorts, a snide smirk on his face. “Did you miss the memo?”
Locus wants to punch something.
He takes a breath instead. “It’s not the most charming habit, if you want my honesty.”
“Yeah, because killing people totally charms the underpants off’a folks!” The one in the pink parka taunts.
That thread holding Wash in check snaps in an instant. “Donut!”
The blonde jumps, upending his mug onto the floor.
“All of you can say what you want but Locus is trying. He’s known war just as long as we have, if not longer.” The Freelancer starts pacing (A nervous habit.) around an empty table. “We’ve all been assholes to each other so what makes him any different than me?”
“You weren’t a mercenary.” Carolina coldly states from the booth she’s taken over.
“I-” Wash stumbles over the tip of his boot, eyes a fraction too wide.
“You didn’t perpetuate a planet wide civil war, or spring a prison ship-” She calmly adds a finger for each reason, ignoring the way Wash tries to interject. “-You didn’t plot an elaborate trap to kill our troops, didn’t murder them, and you didn’t betray your own-”
The sheep had kept the wolf safe for so long now. Time to return the favor.
Locus steps between the two, putting a hand on Wash’s shoulder. “If I recall properly, Project Freelancer had just as bloody a record as I myself did. You may not have sent a government into death throes as was done to Chorus, but you did ruin countless lives. Wash and yourself are evidence of that fact.”
Carolina levels him with a glare, cheeks darkening. She starts to speak, but Locus isn’t exactly invested in hearing out her predictably fragile argument.
“From my research of the footage, you raided many innocent cargo vessels without thinking twice. Orders are orders . Right Agent Carolina?” Locus drones, brushing hair from his eyes. “While it was by no means as elaborate as what you’re alluding to, you and Wash have both done harm to these simulation troopers. If you want to argue that I’m wrong, I have numerous instances I can bring up. Though they weren’t fully successful, I have a remarkably clear clip of Wash shooting one of the Red troopers point blank in the stomach.”
“Oh yeahhhh, you did try to kill me Washy! I almost forgot about that…” Donut chuckles, scratching at his belly through the down coat.
Locus wasn’t sure why he didn’t remember this being the same soldier but it does give his words a solid weight with which to fight. Felix used to claim the best way to win an argument was when someone on the opposing side willingly vocalized you had a point.
“A point-” He claimed. “-is how a knife so easily slides into a beating heart.”
Not everything Felix had taught him was bad, it seemed.
“Maine.”
All eyes are on Wash again. Carolina blinks owlishly, tilting her head. “Wash what-”
“I betrayed Maine. I had a chance to save him, and I didn’t. I saved myself.” Wash glances over at the Reds and Blues. “I saved them. Not before I betrayed them, though. I took the offer that I was given for a chance at freedom. I turned on them, and…” He bites his lip, gaze drifting aside. “In all honesty, I didn’t feel bad about doing it. It gave me an insight into how the world really works. Everyone can be good and bad. They’re not a mutually exclusive thing. The Reds and Blues aren’t heroes, but they changed a lot of things for the better. They can be douchebags but also save a planet. I can be the mean Freelancer but also try and support these troops because I don’t have to pick one. I just have to adjust to what they need me to be. Maine wasn’t a monster but he made a choice at the end. I made my choice.”
Wash exhales, the very sound itself laced with deeply repressed hurt. “We promised we’d stop looking back Car’. That we would better ourselves. That’s why we all left. We needed time to be ourselves again. Not just soldiers, or war heros, or guns for hire. Just...us.” He looks up at Locus, a fleeting smile crosses his face. “ All of us deserve another chance.”
Locus stills, glancing to Carolina. He’s not expecting how steady his voice is when he starts. “I’m here to make amends. If that means you choose not to speak to me after this, that’s acceptable. All I need from you is to promise me you won’t intentionally prevent my goal from being reached.”
The room is by no means silent, Grif ‘whispering’ to Simmons, Caboose humming absentmindedly, Tucker sighing, Sarge grumbling a string of curses. It’s the quiet that Locus has come to associate with these troops. They always had something going on, but the fact that they thought to lower their typical volume meant quiet to them.
Carolina huffs softly, thumb running over a small metal object tucked into her palm. She looks up, sharp green eyes catching the light from the lamps overhead. “Fine. If you really want to do better, I won’t be the one to mess it up.”
On a rare impulsive whim, Locus asks, “I’d also like it if you tried to work on your relationship with Wash. He seems to almost cower when it comes to you. He deserves better than just playing dumb to avoid your temper.”
Wash startles under his palm, stammering. “I mean I-I don’t think you’re...I don’t-...uh…” He fidgets with the edge of his jacket until Locus gently nudges him forward, yet still keeping a protective grip on his shoulder. “I mean, playing dumb is kinda harsh, but Locus has a point.”
Hopefully the point hit home for once.
“We’re equals in this Car’. I’m all too quick to just give you the right of way because of the Freelancer days. I shouldn’t roll over and let you take responsibility for all our choices because that’s not how communication works. There’s only so much I can do, though. We should all feel free to ask for things. That we can speak up when we feel we’re being neglected. Car’...it’s time to let us grow up. We’re not kids any more.”
There’s an overly dramatic gasp from Caboose. “Whaaat?! You two were brother and sister this whole time?” His voice turns smug. “I knew it allll along, I said you know they don’t look it but I’m telling you Washingtub is Carol-Timer’s baby brother!”
Wash yelps, “Wait, what?! No! It was a metaphor, we’re not related! Also I’m older than her by a long shot!”
Caboose just keeps grinning and repeating, “I called it.”
The rest of the night went better, by the end Simmons had rigged a monitor to run some terrible movie called Thankskilling which had the room erupting in horrified laughter and repeated cries of ‘WHAT?!’. Wash ended up taking Caboose aside to make hot chocolate and they emerged with a stack of paper and a fistful of crayons from the depths of the kitchen. A clever ploy to avoid traumatizing the Blue soldier.
By the time the credits rolled, Simmons wrestled the controller from Grif threatening to break his arm if he didn’t let them change channels. Considering the power in his cybernetic limb, it wasn’t the emptiest of promises. Wash drifted back over with Caboose in his wake. The young man excitedly shows Locus a crude (yet oddly charming) scribble of what he claimed to be all of them. The ex-mercenary takes it gently, taking it all in.
The biggest was Caboose who was the only one who had hair of them all. He was labeled as both the ‘best!!’ and ‘me!’. To his right the medic and Red team. The medic (Locus really needed to get his name at some point) was in his signature purple, smiling with an outdated headband that Locus is fairly sure was worn by dentists rather than doctors. He was described with ‘nice!’. Then Donut, grin breaking from the confines of his face and hands thrown over his head, the descriptor this time is ‘hapy’. Shouting next to him must be Sarge in fire engine red. His head is square for some reason, and he’s noted for being ‘angry’. At the bottom right corner are Grif and Simmons, the former of which looks like he swallowed a balloon, the latter with one green eye. Surprising attention to detail there. When he takes another look he realizes Grif seems to be kissing Simmons. If they thought they were being subtle, they failed to fool even Caboose’s notice. Grif is simply stated to be ‘fat’ and Simmons is ‘smart!’.
The rest are to Caboose’s left, starting with Carolina. She’s got a rather grumpy look on with exaggerated eyelashes and her hands on her hips. At her feet is the word ‘mean’. Then to her left is Tucker who is either doing his recently named “finger guns” or flipping someone off. Hard to tell. In faint crayon above him he’s credited with being ‘dum’. With his grey body and yellow limbs, Wash looks almost depressed compared to the rest of the bunch. He’s just named ‘tub!’ rather than any actual description like the others. Oh, Locus was part of this too. His arms and legs are a forest green along with the detail of his scar. The rest of him is grey with an irritated look on his face. Above him in grey is the word ‘scary’. Below him in green however, it says ‘hug’.
When he squints he realizes he’s holding Wash’s hand. Maybe Caboose was more observant than he gave him credit for. “You...you did a good job.” Locus says finally.
Caboose lights up light a firecracker, bouncing on his feet before delivering a crushing hug to the ex-mercenary. He can hear the room burst out into laughter, even catching the wheezy edge of Wash’s own chuckles.
“Okay, Caboose, he needs some air now.” Wash swallows another giggle fit, patting at his shoulder.
When he’s released Locus knows everyone’s staring. They keep staring and they don’t scowl like they did before. With an unusually nervous chuckle he shrugs at the rest.
“It’s not exactly the first time he’s done that to me.”
FALSE KINGS
CW: Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts
Locus knows something's a miss when he hears the rusty shriek of the brakes on Wash’s SUV that Monday morning. The freelancer should be at his job by now. Wash was well known to never miss a day.
The engine cuts off and the car door slams. Heavy work boots crunch over the gravel that makes up the driveway. Wash shoulders open the screen door, glancing around the cabin. (The habit of checking for threats still stuck with the stout man.)
With no words, the older man strides over to his well loved coffee machine. He gets it set up to brew espresso, drumming his fingers on the countertop.
The stormy silence reigns until the shadows on the porch grow long, hints of starlight peeking through the blue sky.
“I lost my job.”
Locus glances up from the fruit he’s slicing for a pie. “...How?”
“Had a flashback. Thought my supervisor was the Director. Broke his jaw.” Wash grumbles, opening a tin of pain relieving gel.
Locus makes his way over, taking the container before the freelancer can dip his fingers into it. The ex-mercenary drags a thumb over the surface of the balm to work into the shoulders of his boyf-
The thought skids off the rails. He had never considered Wash as a boyfriend, a partner, even with the clear relationship they had. Was Locus allowed to think like that? It makes his chest ache as he returns to the task at hand.
Rough fingers massage scarred, tense shoulders. The distinctive smell spreads throughout the cabin.
They don't speak for the rest of the night.
---
Wash has a whiteboard because his therapist insisted that it was a good idea for Wash to write his thoughts after an episode. The only times Locus saw it being used was when Wash woke from nightmares. (Often writing as if he was someone else.)
The words he finds this morning sends a stab of familiarity through his heart.
[Getting lost singing their song.
Caught up in, all I've done.
It's all I know , but not what I need.
Cut by my love, cut till I bleed. ]
Locus takes a photo of it on instinct. The next time he walks by, the board is clean. The ex-mercenary gets the feeling that this was just the start of something new.
---
A month passes, and Wash gets a new job. He’s there for two days before he’s fired again. The company refuses to pay him, and Locus knows all too well that the seething freelancer won't take the matter to court.
That night, Wash wakes up, referring to Locus as Maine for three hours.
The whiteboard gives up more when Locus gets up at noon to make pancakes for lunch.
[So I want to run to your shelter tonight.
Run to your shelter tonight.
United in silent resistance,
Of bowing to false kings.
So let me run to your shelter tonight.
Run from this meaningless pantomime.
I'll swallow my pride, give up the pretense,
Of bowing to false kings .]
Locus takes another picture and starts his motorcycle.
The tall man seeks out Tucker, because he knows the man's crude jokes are a thin veil for how deeply he cares about the freelancer.
The sim trooper gnaws at his thumb as he reads. “Loc’s this is like...this shit scares me.”
For once, Locus wholeheartedly agrees with Tucker.
“I need you to help me find a decent place for him to work. Some place that helps veterans. You know the town better.” Locus pleads softly. “I need- no, Wash needs all the assistance we can offer.”
Tucker nods, eyes glinting with steely determination. “I've got this.”
---
It's a week before the next part shows up.
[ Bought their smiles, liquid and smooth.
Took their words, for the truth .
Edge of light and shade.
My broken soul , once more enslaved -]
It trails back into the chorus, and Locus goes looking for a pen. He still has his notes from the first time Wash used music to relay a message. He already knows that the tone had taken a far darker tone this time.
Lost, All I've done, I know, what I need, I bleed.
Want to run, tonight, run, tonight, silent, false kings, run, tonight, run, I'll, give up, false kings.
Bought, took, the truth, edge of, shade, soul, enslaved, let me run, tonight, run, I see, I see, end.
Alarmingly when Locus walks into the living room, there's more scrawled across the windows. His heart sinks like a stone.
When, cold blood runs, without grace, do I, soar? Need, your, new ways, end, wars, I'm yours.
Want to run to you-, run, tonight, united, kings, let me run, from, my pride.
Locus abandons his notebook, going to search the bedroom. He can hear Wash's rattling snores from where he stands, fear lacing through him like puppet strings that compel him to check Wash's vitals. Regardless of the knowledge that the freelancer could, and would likely see him as a threat in Wash’s sleep addled mind. The ex-mercenary doesn't care if he gets busted up as long as Wash is safe.
The instant the door latch clicks, the snoring stops. Rough muttering is muffled by the bed clothes.
Locus goes to draw back the quilt and can't quite avoid a strike to his face. It's a glancing blow, but it still stings like a bitch.
Wash pauses, blinking a few times before squinting at Locus. Guilt sinks into his frame. “Shit, I'm sorry Loc’s…”
Locus shrugs lamely. “I'm well aware of the risks of startling you. Especially from sleep.”
“Oh...why did you wake me up?”
The ex-mercenary takes a breath to soothe the tremble threatening to creep into his voice. “The writing.”
Wash sighs in a way not in line with a man being confronted over dark thoughts. “Did I do more?”
Locus nods. “You moved to the windows this time.”
“Son of a bitch.” Wash grouses, dragging a hand down his face. “Sorry, I'll go clea-”
“I didn't wake you up to make you clean up. I'm worried that…” the tall man stills, biting his lip. “The words you underlined this time paint a... significantly darker picture than before.”
Wash stops mid-stride. He stares up at Locus, so intense it's overwhelming. The younger man looks away from the other. “...You think I'm gonna kill myself.”
There's no question to be found. A cold, hard statement of facts.
Locus holds out the notebook, still unable to meet Wash's eyes.
The freelancer skims the page, shoulders slumping. “...Locus, you know I'd never go through with it.”
“What I know, is that nothing is certain. I... I love you too much to just ignore something like this.”
Wash's cheeks flush darker, head ducking down. “I-I mean, when you put it like that... yeah, it makes sense.” With a tiny snippet of static from his vodacoder, the older man adds, “Thanks for looking out for me. I love you too. Sorry if I’m bad at showing it.”
“You’re not bad.” Locus insists. “You show affection how you feel is right. You’re fine.”
Wash hesitates before holding out his arms to ask for an embrace.
Locus pulls the freelancer close, holding fast to him. Wash’s hair smells like the regulation toiletries that he must have stashed from the years of military service. Maybe he even ordered it online for the sake of consistency. The older man tucks his head under Locus’ chin, evening out his breaths. His ribs expand and contract smoothly under Locus’ palms.
It’s a nice sort of calm that settles over them after that lingering fear. Then Locus’ phone shrieks out some bland, royalty-free nonsense.
Jolting, Locus extracts himself from their embrace. Glaring at the screen, it kindly informs him that Tucker is calling. Locus swipes the answer button, responding with a snappy, “What is it.”
“I found Wash’s dream job, and they’re hiring.”
---
Leave it to Tucker to find the one cafe Wash didn’t know about. It goes by the title of Research Roasts. Apparently some big-shot Smithsonian scientist bought the building where the cafe was now located, then badgered her friend into taking his coffee house idea seriously. Low overhead in a high class part of town would do that to most people. Totally free overhead would get just about anyone to bite.
The real kicker for Locus was they only hired veterans. Especially ones suffering from mental issues after their experiences with the war. It sounds better with every word out of Tucker’s mouth.
They get Wash an interview with the promise that Locus would get to accompany him as well. Whatever it took to pull Wash from his most recent spiral was perfectly acceptable.
The place is what one expects at first. Posters with microscopes and technobabble, the table of elements and beakers. Science stuff. Yet when Locus takes a closer look, he also sees diagrams of many standard issue firearms from the war.
The man behind the counter is slender, with fluffy dark hair piled into a messy bun. He’s got what Locus likes to call ‘Felix Syndrome.’ Basically, when someone looks perfectly normal, attractive, or otherwise harmless. Yet something gives away a glimpse of something altogether dangerous, if not downright lethal.
“You’re the ones that called, yeah?” Even his voice is perfectly soothing, but leaves a lingering sense of paranoia. Sibley (that’s what his name tag says.) nods towards the back. “Go on. Boss knows you’ll be dropping by soon.”
Wash mutters a nervous thanks, whereas Locus gives a simple nod to the mysterious cashier as they pass.
Everyone they pass by either has Felix Syndrome, or looks like they’d fit right in with Wash and Locus’ crowd. Tired eyes with exhausted smiles. They were, however, pretty clearly happy. Happier than Wash had been for many months.
They reach the door mentioned in the email and Wash’s hand hovers an inch or two away from the wood. He swallows around the lump in his throat. Locus takes his free hand and squeezes it.
“I’m here.” He offers gently.
Wash knocks.
Instead of being told to come in, Locus hears the squeak of a chair, leading to uneven footsteps. The door swings open, and Locus’ spine stiffens.
Siris. Mason fucking Wu himself is looking back with an equally startled expression.
“I-...Locus?” Siris whispers just loud enough for his former teammate to hear.
There’s a nod that straddles the line between polite acknowledgement and nervous tick. “Siris.”
Wash looks justifiably baffled, but Siris just brushes the hair from his eyes and beckons the two in. When they do, the door clicks shut.
“We worked together.” Locus answers Wash’s question before his partner can even ask it.
“Oh.” Is the only reaction Wash gives, taking a seat in the nearest chair.
“You…” Siris starts, trying to focus. “You must be Wash.” He extends a hand. “Mason Wu. I’ve been accused of running the show here.”
That does earn a weak chuckle from Wash, though it doesn’t get a smile. He does take Siris’ hand, shaking firmly. “Hope the rumors are true.” He offers dryly.
Siris smirks at that, sitting at the chair behind the plain desk. He’s still warily keeping Locus in sight. In all honesty, Locus is doing the exact same thing.
As they get down to brass tacks, Locus actually finds himself desperately hoping Wash gets this job. He knows Siris. Siris is the sort of man who would get through to the paranoid freelancer just by chatting. He was who taught Locus many of the essential tools that he used to keep Wash happy and healthy.
Two wolves circling the sheep. Both know their own motives. They haven’t a clue of the other’s thoughts.
They speak.
---
It seems to go well. From where Locus sits that is. He’s almost certain Wash got the job. Before they can go, Siris grabs Locus’ arm.
“I’m trusting you, Ortez.” he whispers sternly. “Don’t make me regret that.”
“Funny. I was going to say something similar.” Locus realizes that that may have come off as sarcastic. He scrambles, tacking on, “Wash means a very great deal to me, so-”
Siris snorts, patting Locus’ arm. “I know what you meant, kid.”
Locus’ cheeks darken with embarrassment. “I’m not that much younger than you.”
“Ten years isn’t something to sneeze at.” Siris grins slyly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Locus sees Wash trying to hide a matching grin of his own behind his palm.
It’s a good start.
4 notes
·
View notes
Text
Mother Teach, Ed, and Self-Determination CW: Emotive
I want to explore Ed’s mother in the red silk flashback, and its lasting impact on Ed.
Mother Teach begins with the imperative, ‘Feel it, boy’. There seems to be a certain lesson in showing Ed the thing he cannot have, before explaining the rich folk she works for own many items of this quality; so matter of fact as if it’s nature’s law.
When Ed asks in innocence the question, ‘Why can’t we have things like this?’ Mother Teach comes up against an alternate line of thinking which she seems never to have considered. She blinks in what could be surprise before giving what appears to be an obvious answer: ‘It’s up to God. He decides who gets what’. This establishes the idea that life is ‘not up to us’, but controlled by an external locus: God, providence, fate… ‘He decides’.
Mother Teach is conditioned to believe in determinism, and who can blame her. Her life is decided for her. What hope of agency for a poor, indigenous woman in a world run by a rich, white patriarchy? And it’s easier to attribute the decision to God, His unfathomable will. God is also likely and conveniently a rich, white man, so the issues blur somewhat in who is actually doing ‘the determining’; but frankly, the outcome is the same. It is safe to say God isn’t a poor, brown woman.
Ed carries this belief into his future life, struggling with agency, succumbing easily to manipulation; not having beautiful things despite acquiring riches, and giving up quickly in the face of setbacks. The second part of Mother Teach’s explanation, ‘We’re just not those kind of people’ further reinforces Ed’s class and race inferiority, which again he carries painfully into adulthood. These words are spoken with some emotion. We hear the shake in her voice as she acknowledges certain truths about the limitations of their existence.
The impact of his father on Ed’s psyche is largely plain in the cycles of abuse with older white men, but the transmission of generational trauma via Ed’s mother is also significant.
Mother Teach isn’t trying to be cruel. She clearly loves her son, and the silk is a love-token which she possibly took without permission so her child could have at least one chance to look upon and own a ‘beautiful thing’. But her own trauma means she further damages her son’s self-esteem during this interaction. She doesn’t want Ed to be a dreamer or believer in a better life. Best accept your lot, know your place, then you won’t be disappointed. There is a certain wisdom to it; and had she an average son with a dullish mind, it’s probably sound advice in this particular time and place.
But her son isn’t ordinary. He is a genius, an empath, a creative, as well as prone to overthinking and melancholy. His race foremost, and class also, are against him, and that is outside of his control; but everything else is up for grabs with someone as brilliant as Ed if he can find inner worth. He might always have to live within a subculture to find both success and happiness, but he may have done so sooner with a stronger internal locus of control, and belief in his own worth and agency, had he received a different message in childhood.
As it is, he lives a life in the shadows, emulating and enhancing further the toxic masculinity revered in the dominant culture which is so against his true nature. He uses his genius for strategy and theatre to enrich himself for protection and subsistence only, never going beyond and allowing luxury or beauty; and when finally world-weary and screaming for change, finds himself trapped by the ghosts of his childhood, some of whom are reshaped into new human forms.
One of many things which saddens me regarding Ed’s sacrifice in killing his father as an act of protecting his mother is I don’t feel it changed anything much. It was a micro action against a macro problem. If Ed possibly then ran away, his mother would’ve had to do what she always did: find another male protector, possibly a white man to enable a certain social standing, and she would likely be back within a similarly psychological and physically abusive situation. It isn’t inevitable this would happen to a woman in her situation, but it’s the most likely outcome because her choices are so limited. And that’s hugely tragic for both herself and Ed.
It’s often said for Ed, there’s a psychological affinity between Stede and Mother Teach. The rich, white man who is kind and optimistic is everything Ed’s mother could’ve been with those same sociological advantages. Stede is able to self-determine. He is a repressed gay man in a heteronormative society, but much of the world is built with his empowerment in mind, and he is able to take full advantage of that and change his path. Both Stede and Mother Teach love or loved Ed, and in an unequal world, one of them at least is able to model a different way of living; help push open the psychological door enough to allow Ed himself to begin to change his stars, and self-actualise as the person he truly is.
Writing this made me sob…I’m sorry if it does the same for you reading it
#ed teach#mother teach#determinism#agency#internal external loci#rich white men#god#stede bonnet#ofmd meta#ofmd#cw: emotional abuse#cw: physical abuse
45 notes
·
View notes
Text
Pre Trial One MV- Undercover
It first starts on a static shot of a singular tree on a hill, the only things moving are its leaves. The camera then starts moving towards the tree, as it hits its trunk, the camera immediately shoots down to the ground and enters what appears to be some kind of underground tunnel. The tree’s roots are all around the tunnel, and they continue until the tunnel ends. As the camera reaches the bottom, it ends up in a room full of roots, leaves, and a bed with a TV above it. At the very center of the room, Numen can be seen with his back towards the camera. She is holding two small boxes. One is pitch black, and the other is purely white. Numen begins to turn around to face the camera, and as they do so, the boxes begin to slowly open. The TV that was above the bed begins to flicker, and a smirk can be seen forming on it. The camera zooms in at the two boxes, as they completely open, the scene cuts.
Numen now can be seen standing right at the center of ‘The Centrum Vitae’. Right behind them, ‘The Et Locus Fati’ is almost fully visible. Numen is looking at the ground, his expression is unreadable. After some time, Numen turns their back to the camera, and starts moving towards Et Locus Fati. After they almost reach its gate, the scene changes.
UNDER; Receiving and inflicting wounds, but never opening your mouth, No bark, no bite, you’re just a weakling now
01’s door is in full display. The door is pitch black, just like the others, with various details in crimson. The door has the number ‘01’ right at its center. In crimson, the silhouette of a ram can be seen below the 01. But, behind the 01, there is the silhouette of a sheep, its color glowing much more strongly than the ram’s.
UNDER; Tell me everything you like, Come one, come all! I’ll bring your perfect person
02’s door appears now. The door is just pitch black other than the number 02 and two theater masks, which are both in seafoam. The two theater masks are a comedy mask and a tragedy mask. They are at the sides of the ‘02’.
After the lyric ‘perfect person’ is said, two images flash briefly on the screen. One is of Aoi’s door open, with him leaning against it with a very angry expression. The other is of Emari’s door open, only her upper body can be seen. She has a weak smile on her face.
The screen then changes, flashing two more images. The first is Syouga peeking his head outside his door, with a smirk on his face. The second is of Reika completely outside her door. Her arms are crossed over her chest, and she is also smirking.
UNDER; I promised that I would live on forever, If it’s going to be like this, then see you in hell
03’s door is shown, it has multiple indigo eyes scattered all across it. The ‘03’ is in the center of all of the eyes, as all of them are looking directly at it.
UNDER; I’ll show you what true evil is, I have no need to be worshiped when my crown is fake.
04’s door only has the ‘04’ and crown on top of it. They are both sapphire. The crown seems to have some kind of crack in it.
As the last lyric is said, it cuts briefly to the image of a leaf falling from a tree. After it hits the ground, the scene changes.
See everything with your own eyes, As the glowing halos wrap around their necks. Ignoring their wishes, disturbing the order, But who even are you? As life and death starts to become meaningless, You cling to what was never truly there. Extending your hand, while playing god, But can you really save them?
All of the souls can be seen with a shocked expression on their face. The camera continues to circle back and forth between them. As the last lyric is said, an image of Numen smiling is shown.
After that, four images flashed on the screen. The first one being Haru smiling happily as he is opening his door. The second is Harlow leaning against the door completely closed, she has a complete neutral expression on her face. The third is Genki sitting against the door with his head on his knees. The fourth is Saki closing her door forcefully, she has an angry expression on her face.
UNDER; Clinging to life as you avert your eyes, One day you’ll see what our love is like
05’s door is completely filled with pink hearts. Right at the center there’s a broken heart, the ‘05’ can be seen inside it.
UNDER; Bring a smile to every ‘who am I?’ Everything for the wishes of the masses
06’s door is completely null of color other than a yellow sun above the ‘06’. The rays of sunlight from the sun go from the top to the bottom.
UNDER; I’m so sorry for existing, Please, help me stop
07’s door doesn’t have anything other than the ‘07’ and an orange teardrop that’s coming out of the ‘07’.
UNDER; The daggers don’t hurt when you’re used to it, Spare me of your empty blessings, just leave me alone
08’s door only has the ‘08’ and a dark gray moon. The moon is almost covering the dark gray completely.
As the last lyric is said, another leaf falls to the ground before the scene changes.
See everything with your own eyes, As the glowing halos wrap around their necks. Ignoring their wishes, disturbing the order, But who even are you? As life and death starts to become meaningless, You cling to what was never truly there. Extending your hand, while playing god, But can you really save them?
A glowing halo can be seen wrapping around each soul’s neck. They are all trying to get it out as the camera continues to circle back and forth between them. As the last lyric is said, an image of Numen with their back to the camera flashes on the screen.
The music slows down, and a set of images start to briefly appear on the screen.
The first one is zoomed in with two hands holding each other on a bench. The sun seems like is setting
The second one is what it seems to be like a young girl doing various chores.
The third one is zoomed in at a hand that is holding a golden earring. The hand seems to be handing it to someone.
The fourth one is an empty school hall. There is someone with their head on their knees sitting at a corner. They seem to be crying, there is a bloody knife next to them.
The fifth one looks to be someone arguing with a teenager in a kitchen.
The sixth one looks like someone walking away from a group of friends. They have their hoodie on, and they don't look happy.
The seventh one is someone happily petting a puppy.
The eight one is of someone handcuffed. They are being pushed onto a police car. They seem to be smirking.
The ninth one is a young teenager looking at a heart monitor. It stopped.
The last one is of someone laying on their bed, looking at a ceiling. The clock besides their bed says ‘2:00 AM’
After the last image appears, it cuts to Eisuke and Akari appearing beside their doors. Eisuke is leaning against his door. He is looking at the floor, he appears to be thinking. Akari is in the exact same pose as him. She just has more of an empty expression on her face.
UNDER; I know i’m not supposed to feel this way, But what do I do if it consumes me?
09’s door doesn’t have anything on it besides his prisoner number in dark blue.
UNDER; I don’t care about what was happening, This is just my life now.
10’s door has multiple violet bells around her number. They are all ringing.
Ravaging brawling, losers please exit left. Even with accusations full of faults and mistakes You will, for sure, with a smile for sure Be pleased and satisfied
All of the souls appear standing right in front of their doors. Each one has their hand in their mouth. As the last lyric starts to be spoken, the camera zooms in each of them removing their hand from their mouth. As they do so, they each start to have a different expression when the camera shows a different person. It goes from a faint sad expression, to holding back tears, to fully crying. As the last one disappears, an image of Numen on their knees on the ground appears, they are crying. Her eyes are glowing in two different colors. Black and white.
See everything with your own eyes, As the glowing halos wrap around their necks. Ignoring their wishes, disturbing the order, But who even are you? As life and death starts to become meaningless, You cling to what was never truly there. Extending your hand, while playing god, But can you really save them?
Numen is seen killing each of the souls in a different way as the camera circles back and forth between them.
Aoi is being shot in the chest by Numen with a gun.
Numen is on top of Emari while holding her neck. They are holding their fist back, as if they are preparing a punch.
Syouga has his hands on his back as Numen is pointing a gun at his head. Syouga is smirking.
Reika is in a fetal position while Numen has their back against her. Numen is holding a lighter.
Numen is stepping on Haru’s chest as he’s gasping for air.
Numen is kicking Harlow on the stomach, causing her to fall.
Numen is shooting Genki on his head. Genki seems to have dropped a knife that he was holding.
Numen is kicking Saki on the ribs.
Numen is looking down at Eisuke as he’s laying down on his back
Numen is holding Akari by her hair. They are throwing his fist back as if they are about to punch her.
Is it still possible to save what’s deep UNDER?
A faint image of a singular tree on a hill can be seen. The camera starts to get closer and closer to it. Until suddenly, the video ends.
#ocgram#milgram oc#pre-trial#01🐏#02🎭#03👁️#04👑#05❤️#06☀️#07💧#08🌑#09🗒️#10🔔#numen#the overseer#THE FIRST MV DONE#LET'S GOOOO
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
Terrarium Lights, pt. 3.12
Previously on Terrarium Lights: the ghost reaches a decision about what to do about the other ghost (Next part >>here)
And so it was that, before the sun had even lifted its crown out of the sea, she found herself traipsing along on an overgrown, meandering forest path, clearing her way with a walking stick, and following a ghost. She had her second-best hat on, the one with the hand-stitched lace from her daughter—trying to strike the balance between respect for the dead and the practicality of shoving her head beneath grasping tree branches. Besides that, she had her heavy boots on, ready for any terrain they might be subject to, and a sturdy, carved oak walking stick her son David had given her long ago. She still had her work apron on, too, in the in the interest of keeping her clothes a tad more intact, and her warmest shawl was tucked around her shoulders.
There was just enough light to make her way by, and just enough dark to make the shadows tricky, but that was part of the reason for the walking stick, to clear and test her way by.
"This way," Jonathon beckoned, pressing on ahead, and twisting himself to slide under branches and around trees. He was excitedly contorting into shapes that Gail, with her advanced years and thicker build, could not hope to mimic.
He didn't seem affected by spiderwebs, either, which she felt was rather the unfairest part of the whole business. Maybe he should keep his current form, she thought jokingly to herself—careening through the woods without spidersilk sticking to your hair was a rare luxury indeed.
She didn't say as much. She was saving her breath for chasing after him.
Whether he was driven by the fear of his choices and what lay ahead, the urgency gripping him now his mind was clearer, or simply the impatience of youth, she could not tell. She could, however, tell that he was going faster than was comfortable.
But the spring, pre-dawn cold nipped at her face and nose and gave her an energy to keep warm and moving; the dawn chorus was starting its opening notes; the living gray, heralding the approaching sun, filtered into the wooded world around her. Spidersilk and all, she was enjoying herself.
It felt like when she was a young girl, trying to run with the deer—it didn't make sense, and it couldn’t last, but it made the blood quicker, the feet nimbler, the lungs tighter, and suddenly you were a part of the living world in a way you weren’t before, when you lurked along the tame edges.
Maybe it had something to do with the promise of sunlight, seeping into her bones as the world hovered between sleeping and waking. Perhaps, in the olden days, when there had been rituals and magic made under the light of the unrisen sun, they were on to something. Not something she agreed with, but a seed of something true.
"Not far now," Jonathon encouraged. He looked back and faltered, on the brink of dashing off with renewed vigor.
Enjoying herself or not, Gail had lost most of her breath. She hadn’t run like this in years.
"Tha’s good news," Gail replied, in between sucking in air through her nose with a noise to frighten all the wildlife for a several-mile radius. "Then we should be able to walk without much trouble, eh?"
Jonathon looked reluctant to concede the point, but nodded, and slowed to something brisk—better than the flat-out run he'd been threatening for the past several minutes.
"Not quite as spry as I used to be," Gail said, still sucking in air in as big of gulps as she decently could. "Lovely weather out, though."
"Yes, sunrise is a pretty time," Jonathon replied, half sincerely, half impatiently.
Then, through the trees—the sea. The sky beyond it was painted with pale shades of yellow, blue, green, pink, purple, deepening upwards and outwards and catching in the shadows of the fluffy clouds. Just above the horizon was a locus of white-gold, growing brighter, threatening to spill over onto the sea. Soon, very soon, the sun would rise above it. The ebbing crash of waves mixed with the morning melodies of the birds and bugs.
There was a margin of salt marsh between the woods and the ocean, and the smell of wind-swept salt added a fresh richness to the smell of trees and undergrowth.
Jonathon was heading for a stand of trees edging the salt marsh, one of the last outposts between land and sea. He was not paying much attention to the world around him, marching straight on. Gail was glad she had brought boots. While he was not venturing anywhere particularly dangerous or deep, it would have been much muddier and far more unpleasant. As it was, Gail hitched her skirts up as high as she could and followed the rough, sparse trail after him.
And so they went—under the Spanish moss festooning the trees, pushing through the undergrowth that was threatening the trail, stumbling across a few rocks—then, between the trees, something dark and shining all at once.
Gail wasn't quite sure what she was seeing. It was shaped like a person, but it looked wrong. The skin was aquamarine, deeply shadowed in odd places, and speckled with lighter flecks of blue. The short, chopped-off fringe around the face (she assumed it was hair) was a grayish-purple, almost dark lavender, and the person (or perhaps creature) was outlined in softly radiating black. The clothes looked normal enough, but were also in odd colors—all the opposite of what she would have expected, pale where it should be dark, dark where it should be pale.
But Gail was not prepared for the person—seemingly a young man, similar in age to Jonathon—to turn around and meet her gaze with eyes of livid orange ringed in black.
Even before she came closer, she could feel a chill growing in the air, as if her heat were being sucked out of her.
The young lad waved, smiling. He had a friendly enough countenance, once Gail managed to make sense of it; it was a solid, square face, carved for smiles and laughter. But his eyes—odd, piercing eyes as they were—stayed weighted with sadness, untouched by his grin.
Previous
Next
#I got a bit carried away with the vibes tbh#also oops I didn't put a readmore on the last one adfasd I will on this one#gail goffrey#jonathon the ghost#terrarium lights#the santa juliana files#inklings challenge#inklingschallenge#inklings challenge 2023#team: lewis#genre: portal fantasy#theme: visiting the sick#theme: burial#story: finished#first draft#salt and light#scribe writes#scribe does inklings
5 notes
·
View notes