#wily is fucking dead

[onejelly]

Something I did like 4 months ago

[absolutely-normal-about-x]

I feel like it’s just me thing, I want to make this headcanon about the Maverick virus for a bit.

ALSO CW BELLOW A TALK ABOUT RABIES STROLL AWAY IF UR NOT INTO THIS.

I kinda notice that the Maverick Virus is kinda like a dangerous infectious version of Rabies, but for machines instead of mammals.

Like before the mother elf was a thing, the maverick Virus was said to be incurable and you what else is a commonly incurable transferable disease?

Rabies (I know there’s other diseases but this one kinda struck me a bit if you think about the symptoms of the Maverick virus and Rabies especially with dogs)

A virus that can make someone go rabid and killing them. But it can also include these symptoms. To humans (Now with dogs…Use google amigos cause ummm you get what I’m referring to)

Now knowing that Machines are different meaning that the virus just makes them more insane and aggressive. Also another factor about Rabies is that it greatly affects animals that are mammals. It doesn’t turn extremely violent right away. There are even cases that people didn’t showed signs of rabies in months and Weeks before the symptoms starts to show and things go to Shiet in days.

Now unlike regular rabies in organics, Reploids don’t fucking die days later after they show signs of the virus. They are trapped in an endless hell of anxiety, anger, pain and violence with no hope for a proper cure. The only thing that can save them is just the sweet release of death.

And don’t get me started with the Sigma virus that’s just a whole other beast to talk about.

So I cooked up the idea of the difference between Regular Mavericks and Viral Mavericks

Viral Mavericks are basically rabid reploids who basically went feral and extremely violent for no reason, unable to be reasoned with no matter how hard you try to pacify them. One day they get sick and boom their processors goes completely fried (Slowly mind you), they cannot do anything as they slowly deteriorate into violent animals, also being in agony, death is basically a mercy for them.

Normal Mavericks on the other hand, are just Reploids who just does crime, criminals doing crime stuff it’s pretty basic ya know. These also the whole society that is paranoid of robots so it’s a very fucked up (and common) way to identify ur criminals by calling them a literal disease.

LITERALLY THE ONLY WAY TO PREVENT ITS SPREAD FROM BE INFECTED IS WITH VACCINES-

Like I can talk about it more about it but in conclusion

The Mavericks Virus is literally just a self evolving version of Rabies.

💥💥

[kitwilsonsass]

like im just genuinely sad about it lol. like im genuinely sad.

[yoshifawful64]

hmm. starting to see why people don't talk about mega man 1 that much compared to 2

[skeletonxface]

♡ simon "ghost" riley brain rot. ♡

⤷ x gn!reader; smut drabble. MDNI. ⤷ 4.3k word count. ⤷ reader is described without specific pronouns but is written wearing a skirt, with long-ish hair, and has breasts & a vagina.

content warnings—p n v; fingering; oral; public sex/bathroom sex;

thinking about the 141 partaking in some r and r at the pub. john is musing over a pint, listening to one of johnny's stories that derails from the starting topic half-way through, and now a conversation about all the places to sight-see in glasgow has turned into a dramatic retelling of a high school brawl johnny (of course) triumphed in. 

kyle is chiming into the convo, a little tipsy, but he's always struggled with pacing himself. and he's pointing out all the inconsistencies in johnny's retelling, and tripping the scot up. it's all in fair fun, though. 

then, there's simon and his bourbon. the amber liquid runs warm down his throat when he scans the pub's perimeter and just happens to see you, a complete stranger. and without so much as a crack in his stone-like exterior, he finds himself unable to force his attention away. like two magnets striking together, it's a feeling he hasn't experienced since he was a young wily teenager. back when his emotions ruled over him without mercy, and he was a ticking time bomb of explosive anger. 

except this—whatever he's feeling right now because of you—it's the furthest sensation from rage. he can't place his finger on it. all he knows is that his chest feels wound up tight—like a spring ready to be loosened—and his hands are folding into fists atop the bar surface. 

what the fuck? his breath hitches in his throat as he watches you pick your way through the crowded pub. all he wants is to look at you, and nothing short of sheer force could pull his focus away. 

any exposed skin that peeks out from your night-out attire makes his own skin burn. an itch he hopes (and fails) to ignore edging within him to touch you. too many thoughts racing through his head about how his large hands would feel planted on your waist, his fingers slipping underneath the hem of your skirt, gently twisting around the band of your underwear. how fucking good it would feel to bury his face between your thighs. 

he has to sit straighter in his seat, his shoulders seizing too tight. his dick strains against his jean fly, and it makes him realize how long its been since he's wanted someone. since he's felt a fucking need to be inside them. 

god, he could eat you alive. 

with his hood drawn over his head, the fabric casts a shadow across his upper face, where the remnants of too stubborn black kohl still stains the skin around his eyelids. and he hopes its enough to conceal his unflinching stare. even if some part of him he's long since assumed was dead needs you to notice his rapt attention. 

yet, as you slide onto a bar stool only a few spots down from him, you're casting a glance over your shoulder. quick and harmless while you adjust yourself onto the seat. your eyes catch his and he knows he should look away, but he doesn't. everything in him resists the idea. 

he removes his fists from the bar and onto his lap, where his knuckles rub into the coarse denim stretched over his thighs. he's not nervous; he can't remember the last time he ever felt that way. instead, it's an act of restraint. a way to ground himself and to resist the urge to approach you.

johnny and kyle's voices have long faded into mindless background noise; the whole world swallowed up by your presence. and when you turn away, simon lets loose a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. 

eventually, john heaves himself from his seat and announces his retiring to his flat. johnny, whose two years into sobriety and the designated driver, gathers himself to follow their captain. 

it's only when john claps simon's shoulder does he startle from his stupor, shooting the older man a half-assed glare, which he then covers by rubbing his dry eyes. 

"you comin’ with?" john asked, nodding toward the pub's rustic doors. 

simon shakes his head, stealing a sip of his drink. he hardly pays attention when he responds with something about wanting to walk back to base, instead. and the moment the men retreat outside, reality weighs down onto his shoulders, forcing him to hunch forward. his broad frame like an ominous black shadow in the midst of a warm and bubbly crowd. 

his stare bores into the lacquered grain of the bar top. a few drops of condensation pooling beneath the crystal loosely gripped in his hand. 

your presence—the mere idea of you—feels like a hard wind, tugging him ever toward your direction. but he keeps his head down, focus forward. he doesn't look at you again. he can't risk it. he doesn't know what the fuck is wrong with him, but the mere thought of finding out sets his teeth on edge. 

even while he's off the field, away from the blood, guts, and gore, ghost never truly goes away. he's always there, it doesn't matter if his balaclava is on or off. the only time simon ever makes an appearance is on the off nights when he awakes on his lumpy mattress, sweat dripping off his skin. when the phantom sensation of flames licks at his backside. and the memory of his boot-prints trekking their spilt blood across his brother's house weighs like a mortar shell on his mind. only then does simon burst from the shadows, choking on a gasp and struggling to gather air. 

until tonight. until you. 

his heart beats faster in his chest. a lump that's hard to swallow forms in his throat. 

kyle stands from his seat and mumbles something about a pretty babe, the movement grabbing simon's attention. he watches his teammate slide into a booth-seat beside someone he doesn't recognize. she's a good looking girl, though, with doily curls and a filled out spaghetti strap top, but she's not you. and he finds himself glancing off to the side, disinterested. 

and, like a weaker man than he should be, his eyes seek you out. you're still nestled only a few feet from him, your legs crossed over each other, with your skirt skating up your waist. bare skin only stretching to where the imagination yearns to explore further.

he doesn't feel guilty. not for staring or for thinking about you in the filthiest positions his mind can conjure. the thoughts race through his head of you tangled in his bed sheets, up against the shower wall, bent over his knee... god, what the fuck is he doing?

years of brutal training—of tampering down his most basic instincts—all for what? there's too much energy pent up within him, demanding to be released. his nerves are rigid, his muscles taught with tension, and christ, if he doesn't speak to you soon, he'll lose his mind. 

but then, your eyes lock again. 

the corners of your mouth hitch tentatively higher and—fuck it. simon picks up his glass and shifts over to the seat beside you. your eyes widen, drinking in his size as you look him up and down. then, toward your drink as if you've become suddenly aware of your gawking. 

his mouth shifts in amusement and into something that isn't quite a smile, but it's the closest he's been to one in a long time. 

the conversation starts slow. a simple exchanging of names, a comment about your shared environment. honestly, simon is unsure how to broach some kind of normalcy with you. not while he feels like a raging hormonal teenager. but you're kinder than he expects people to be, and you don't grow uncomfortable when most of your comments are met with silence. instead, you bridge the gap with your own clumsy charm. 

like you're word vomiting onto the blank pages of a journal, you tell him about how nervous you are. this is the first time you've been out in a while—after all, you just recently moved to the UK and haven't had much luck in making friends—and you weren't sure where else to go. all you knew is that, tonight, a cold pint sounded amazing. and he agrees, almost a little too pleased that he decided not to spend his evening bumming around his flat. 

you talk—a lot. but he doesn't interrupt you or make an excuse to leave, so you carry on. you confess that you're drinking soda, not because you're against alcohol, but because you were worried you'd get too carried away tonight. and then you let slip to simon about your shitty ex-boyfriend who was more man-child than partner. the guy who, just a few months ago, you moved out here to be with. a one pump-chump sorta man who never paid much attention to your needs, and—

you stop short of finishing your story, a look of pure horror registering across your face once you realize all you've just said. you're cute, but he'd rather see the way you look when he's buried deep inside of you. showing you what it feels like to be taken care of by somebody else.

then, you lightly fan your face. adjusting the low-enough collar of your top, your chuckle has a nervous lilt, and you apologize needlessly. 

simon notices you looking anywhere but him, and leans forward, intent on fixing that. his bold hand lands on your upper thigh, and his touch is light enough that if you were uncomfortable, you could push him away. but you don't. your shoulders hike higher as your chin angles close to your chest, stare planted on where his fingers splay over your skin. 

that restlessness rises inside of him again, and suddenly, the bar is the last place he wants to be at with you. 

his tongue wets his lips. the gesture is hidden behind the thick knit material of his mask, except it's more of a tick, anyway. and then he's prodding at the cards that you've fanned out before him, his tone low like he's sharing a secret just between the two of you. simon asks if your ex ever did anything more than just jerk his hips for five minutes, and when's the last time you've let someone else make you feel good. 

you're quick to reveal your whole hand; your tone is bashful when you admit that you've been neglected for far too long. but if there's one thing simon's an ace at, it's problem-solving. 

you nod toward the bathroom door with your fingers curled around his, from where they've pressed into the soft meat of your thigh. and then, you're leading him from the stool and toward the back of the pub. towards a single's bathroom.

simon twists the lock shut behind him. 

you're not what he expected. you're better. but he can't help but wonder what sickness resides inside of you, that would drive you to bare yourself so vulnerably before someone like him. his frame dominates yours, his face covered by his signature skeleton print, and every inch of him is completely unknown to you. but you accept him like this, your fingers latching onto his belt buckle with an innate need. 

he grabs your hands, stopping you, and the wide-eyed panicked look you seize him with draws a raw chuckle from deep within his throat. wordlessly then, he pulls the bottom of his balaclava over his mouth, and attaches his lips to your own. your kisses are quick and messy, the space in between each filled with your quiet gasps for air as he backs you against the sink edge. 

your arms loop around his shoulders, and your touch slips under the bunched lip of his mask. he stills, years of caution engrained into the very marrow of his bones. his breathing takes on a labored edged.

when his fingernails dig too harshly into the back of your hips, you whine; your pants for air seep through the thin cotton of his t-shirt. you toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, then, massaging the skin there as you lean in for another kiss. and he gives in with a slump of his shoulders; his frame swallows yours. 

with a quick jerk of his wrist, simon has you spun around, and you have to plant your hands against the laminate sink counter to steady yourself. by then, his crotch is already pressed against your behind. his cock aching to be freed from the painful constraint of his jeans. 

you flip your skirt over your ass to reveal your cotton panties. they're a clean white; straight purity. a groan grinds out from his tight throat. his hands touching, kneading your flesh. he grabs your ass and squeezes before massaging the pained area. his knuckle hooks around your underwear to drag it down your legs. 

his palm settles into the curve of your back, where he pushes down, edging your ass higher into the air. your cunt on full display before him. the chill of the conditioned bathroom meeting the heat between your legs draws small noises from you that sends his head spinning. the muscle in his jaw ticks. 

already tonight, he's shown far too much restraint, and he can't hold himself back any longer. simon's fingers trail down your thighs as he lowers himself onto his haunches, surprising you, before he's pressing his lips to your pretty little cunt. his tongue slides between your folds, the scratch of his barely-there stubble and the wool of his mask rubbing against your sensitive skin. 

fuck. 

you arch beneath his touch, the muscles in your legs tensing. your nails dig into the countertop edge as you tilt your head backward, mouth dropped open with a stolen moan. your breaths snag inside your throat. and in a way that makes him smile against you, you push your rear back and closer to him. 

it doesn't take much for simon to know your ex never fucking dared to do even this much for you, and the thought only eggs him on. if he's only able to have you for one night, he needs to make sure that nothing will ever be able to wash the feeling of you away. 

one of his hands curls around your inner thigh, while the other grips your ankle to ground himself as simon leans in. 

his tongue circles your clit, drawing more and more noise out of you. he stays there, soaking up each gasp, pant, and expletive that drops from your lips. until his eyes dare to climb higher and his focus catches onto the way your hair spills around your shoulders, the yellow-stained ceiling light tracing the strands. but it's not enough, and he wants to see your face. 

you catch your breath when he withdraws from his perch between your legs, but then he's twisting you back around. his hands guide your waist to meet his, his hold on you stern in a way that short-circuits your brain and fills your mouth with spit. 

simon will lean close then, his emotional walls lowering just long enough for him to whisper against your cheek how completely mad you drive him. how it should be a sin for you to look the way you do. like an angel demanding to be ruined is the part that he cuts himself off from saying by trailing hot kisses down the slope of your neck. his teeth nicking your collarbone just for him to kiss the angry skin afterwards. 

just one night—that's all he can give you. it'll be a bloody fucking great one, though. that's for sure. 

cupping your jaw, his fingers span across your cheek, tracing the little skin bumps and natural indents until he stops just short of your mouth. your lips are wet with the combination of both of your saliva, and he waits patiently for you to get the hint. you do, eventually, looking up at him with that wide doe eyed stare as you sink your warm mouth onto his fingers. 

you suck, your tongue dragging along his textured skin, and you don't stop until he pulls his hand away. moving it down and to to your cunt, where he picks up where he left off with your clit. 

a tension chord winds and tightens inside your stomach, yanking and throbbing with heat. instinctively, you push up onto your tip-toes. your ass digging into the sink; the laminate burns cold against your hot flesh. 

your breath sharpens and speeds up. your head snapping backward to droop against the mirror. simon presses closer, his slickened fingers slipping inside you. his large muscular legs inserted in between yours. 

his free arm cages in around you as he leans forward, his body slanted at an angle with yours, and his head lowers between your shoulder and neck. his breath fanning across the skin there. his lips are so close to touching you again, but he keeps back. instead, he steels his attention on the feel of your insides molding to his touch. 

your hands skate down the hump of his shoulders to his midriff, and in a way that surprises him, simon shivers. when you glide your fingertips beneath the hem of his shirt to smooth over the skin on his hips, he gets the urge to kiss you again with your slick still wet on his lips. so, he does. 

his fingers curl inside of you, drawing more and more whines from your throat, when he grips the back of your neck. in complete sync, you tilt your head then to deepen the kiss, your teeth bumping against his in a way that's painful. you've never been one to complain, though, and you grin against his mouth. from where his hand roughly holds your nape, your hair tangles in his fingers and the strands tug against your scalp. a sharp tingling that steals your breath straight from your lungs. 

simon adjusts then, releasing his grip to bring the pad of his thumb to your clit. while he grinds his fingers inside of your pussy, he rubs, and that tightness inside your abdomen grows. you have to clench your jaw to prevent a sob from barreling out, but your face slackens with a silent gasp afterward. a thick wetness slipping down your inner thighs as simon works the orgasm out of you. your cum dribbles down his fingers and between his knuckles. 

your shoulders have rocketed upward, tension shivering in your every muscle, as you ride out the feeling. your hands curl into fists in the soft cotton fabric of his shirt.

you pant to catch your breath before your eyes find simon's. beneath the mask, you can read little of his expression, but there's hardly a need. you can't pin-point what it is about him that's brought you to the situation you're in—all you know is that you need him inside of you, and you'll settle for little else. 

twitchy hands latch onto his belt buckle, and you mumble something about wanting to take care of him, too, while you work to undo his jean fly. meanwhile, simon brings his touch back up to your face, and you take his fingers into your mouth again. the distinct thought that it might please him to do so drives you to taste yourself on his skin.

perspiration dots your forehead, and the thin strands of your bangs matte to your temples. simon pops himself free of your mouth to brush the fly-aways to the side, so he can better examine your face. your slightly agape lips, the soft pinch between your eyebrows, and the small scars that compliment your features. the lowering of your lashes as you focus on freeing his dick from his pants and then waistband, and the wideness of your stare when you take in the full sight of him. 

simon admires it all. 

built like a fridge, it should come as no surprise that his thighs and biceps aren't the only large things about him. and his cock holds a natural curve to it, veins running along beneath the skin. 

simon fists himself, your spit on his fingers wetting his rough touch. but you're quick to interject, spreading your legs further apart. your skirt slips down your lap and you have to wrangle it back upward with a precious smile. 

a burst of aggression pummels through him. an instinctive urge to grab you close and never let go strikes through his body like short bursts of electricity. and he has to breathe hard through his nose to collect himself, glancing to the side with a hard-set jaw and heaving chest. 

"here, let me," you whispered, your soft touches wrapping around his dick to guide him toward your entrance. 

neither of you are in possession of a condom—a thought that strikes your mind only now—but when no one interjects, he slips inside of you with a low grunt. simon kisses you again, and you breathe hard against his mouth. his cock prodding your insides, and—shit, fuck, hell—does he feel good. 

simon hooks his hands under your thighs and hoists you higher, slipping slightly out of you as you wrap your legs around his hips. but then he's guiding your body up and down his length, his biceps flexing against his tight sleeves. 

the noises you make are beyond shameless, melding with his own groans as he fucks into you. what started as a gradual pace becoming more brutal as the ferality he'd felt earlier rears its ugly head. the need to break you over his cock pushing him to thrust further, deeper, faster until you're yelping out. your moans bouncing off the bathroom walls, making the blood in his veins boil. 

when he's close, you're slotted back onto your feet with his dick still warm inside of your cunt. he pulls out to shoot his seed down your inner legs. and simon allows you to lean against him for as long as you need to. your quiet, exhausted noises bringing a breathless grin to his face. 

and despite his better judgement, when you catch his gaze and ask to see him again, he finds himself nodding. even though he should be able to predict how this will end between the two of you, his usual resolve keeps splintering, and eventually he has to force his eyes away from your own. with a hard exhale, he gathers a fistful of tissue from the bathroom wall dispenser. he dampens them with warm water before swiping along your legs, cleaning up the mess you made together. 

he takes care of himself next while you pull your panties back up and adjust your skirt over your lap. once you're both readied, you turn to him, and simon likes how your mascara sweats under your eyes. 

you hand him your phone to insert his number into your contacts. yet, when it comes time for you to do the same, he insists on writing your information down himself. and a gross sensation settles into your stomach then, like sour food you're just waiting to throw back up.

you plaster a smile on, anyhow, and tuck your phone away. already bracing yourself for this to be just a one time thing. 

when simon asks to walk you to your vehicle, you agree, but you're a little quieter than when you first met. something that doesn't go unnoticed by simon. he keeps it to himself, though, and waits for your little car to pull from the parking lot before he begins to make the trek back to his flat. 

the memory of you sits in the forefront of his mind the entire way. even when he scoffs at himself and tries to get his head on straight, his attention yanks back to you regardless. and it takes all of a few hours once he gets back to his home for that restless, edgy feeling to sink into his body full-force. 

for the next week, it stays with him. he does everything he can think of to quell the energy building up inside his chest. such as popping rounds at the shooting range, running circles around base, sparring with johnny in the training room, jerking off in the shower—but nothing cuts it. 

eventually, he starts to feel like he's losing his mind. the urge to pummel something driving him to the gym where his fist can grind into the hard sand of a punching bag. and when that doesn't work either, he finds himself at a loss. feeling far too much like his old self, before the years of anger management classes. 

he's been running himself ragged just trying to get himself to. 

it's then that simon finally breaks. fumbling his phone out of his sweats pocket, he sinks down onto a bench and retrieves your number. but his mind blanks at the sight of your name and the digits attached to it. he's never questioned himself that much before meeting you, and it's beginning to feel like you've placed a curse on him.

with a sigh, he thinks back to your small mumbling before you entered your car—hope you don't forget about me—and simon wonders how you could ever think he would. 

once, twice, once more—he types up various messages, only to delete them a second later. again and again, he struggles to put the mess inside his head into words, until he eventually settles on a simple "hey."

carding a rough hand down his face, he slots the device away before hunching in his seat. what was he thinking? he's a bloody idiot. simon has half the mind to save himself the trouble by blocking your number, but when he fishes his phone out again a second later, his thumb hovers uselessly over the screen. 

he shakes his head, trying to convince himself its for the best, when your notification pops up. and the pressure inside his chest deflates instantly. 

he leans forward over his knees, cell-phone loosely gripped in his hands as he reads your message a few times over. hey, i'm glad you reached out!

it's simple and sweet. a stone sits in his throat.

how you managed to get under his skin in one night, simon has no fucking clue. the one thing he knows for sure, though, is that you're dangerous. and fuck, if he doesn't feel more alive because of it.

notes—don't know what demon possessed me to write this at 1 am, but i need to figure out how i can summon it at whim. damn, four-thousand-words of complete horned-up vomit, i'm dead.

[ilions-end]

so euripides' hecuba (david kovacs translation) was wilder than i thought it'd be

immediate thoughtssss:

i'm pretty familiar with the sacrifice of polyxena through other sources by now, although this is the first time i've seen her, you know, speak and try to wield whatever small amount of agency she is allowed in her own death. VERY strong iphigenia in aulis parallels. really chewing on the "the trojan war begins and ends with the ritual sacrifice of a young girl" concept

this IS the first time i've gotten to polydorus' whole deal beyond very brief summaries (and similar but different fate in the aeneid). i'll admit i'm a dumbass so i got really confused about the timeframes and the geography. the entirety of the greek army is (somewhere!) in THRACE but not at TROY anymore, but achilles' TOMB is within walking distance? and i assumed polymestor was supposed to be further away but he's right there in this temporary camp and... idk, confusion.

also i rarely mix up greek names but the fact that polydorus was murdered by polymestor. i keep tripping up, sorry

it's interesting that we learn agamemnon argued NOT to kill polyxena, and odysseus got everyone convinced anyway. between this and aulis and trojan women: odysseus just LOVES lobbying for the murder of women and children

SPEAKING OF odysseus, his interactions with hecuba in this were so different than what i'd imagined! for one, there is no clear indicator that hecuba is HIS slave. i for sure thought that'd be a major thing in this.

secondly, in this version HECUBA SAVED HIM THAT TIME HE CAME TO SPY IN TROY AS A BEGGAR? he supplicated her, she got him safely out of troy... ooh you're a WILY one euripides!

ESPECIALLY WHEN odysseus, Mister Hiketeia himself, PHYSICALLY BLOCKS polyxena from supplicating him so he won't be obligated to help her. CHRIST, man!!!

augh athenian odysseus, you are such a genuinely awful man and i need to dissect you with pins and study your insides

when hecuba begs to be sacrificed in polyxena's stead (because she's right! the greeks actually have a REASON to want her dead, as hector and paris' mother), and odysseus argues like, well WHAT would it look like if they'd treated achilles with respect in life but not in death? and i could FEEL ajax reaching out ghostly fingers to odysseus in that moment because he experienced the opposite (odysseus' enemy in life, then respected in death) and WHERE did that get him? just. mm. thoughts.

hecuba knows odysseus is also a parent........ it still doesn't help

RETURN OF TALTHYBIUS! a weeping, sympathetic agent of violence and outrage. he's so interesting to me. is he largely an invention of euripides i wonder? i should look more into talthybius

i understand the need to make polyxena's death as noble as possible, but it did weird me out when talthybius assured hecuba that even as polyxena fell to the ground with a slit throat, she carefully minded her skirt so she wouldn't expose herself in her death throes

POSSIBLY the most sympathetic-acting agamemnon i've come across in these plays? even if all his sympathies and concern for hecuba is implied to be because she is a kind of pseudo-mother-in-law now that he "cares about" cassandra so much... which is, you know, it's own kind of fucked up. euripides absolutely downplays the non-consensuality of that relationship so agamemnon can serve as an agent of justice

okay, it is kind of delicious when agamemnon is like "a WOMAN kill a MAN??? PSSH as if that could ever happen". sir. sir.

how old are polymestor's children meant to be? they're young enough to be "passed between" the enslaved women but polymestor brings them to a soldier camp

if i had a nickel for every time someone had their eyes stabbed out with brooch pins in ancient greek tragedy i'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot but--

i like the visual of polymestor "crawling like a beast" though. fuck you polymestor

and then there's the FAKEST trial because agamemnon pretends to be impartial? THAT was a twist

i couldn't supress a disbelieving chuckle when polymestor's like "oh by the way i have these incredibly specific prophecies given to me by dionysus at an unspecified earlier time. yeah so hecuba you're gonna turn into a dog in just a little while. and agamemnon, just so you know, clytemnestra's gonna kill you and cassandra as soon as you get home"

and of course agamemnon doesn't believe him but i have to wonder as he's getting chopped up later he's like "huh. why does this seem so familiar"

i don't know, man. this play was no trojan women.

[specialagentartemis]

Musing about the Politeia again and realizing. Oh. I have an obvious solution for a plot hole staring me right in the face.

Okay so the premise I was kicking around is that most of this epic is being narrated by Polites to Penelope. It takes him 7 years to succeed at his cattle quest on Crete because he's just some guy with no political connections but but once he does, he gets back to Ithaca pretty easily because Poseidon doesn't hate him he's just some guy. He arrives several weeks before Odysseus does, and he immediately goes to the palace to share the news that Odysseus is alive and coming home soon, probably.

At the palace he encounters the whole [gestures at all the suitors] situation. And when he gets an audience with Penelope, he tells her the whole narrative, jumping back to the Island of Helios and telling the bulk of the narrative to the present.

And at the end, Penelope is like... okay. What's your angle.

And at some point Polites, only just having walked into the taut situation back on Ithaca and the obvious increase in pressure on Penelope to admit that Odysseus is dead and to remarry, and only now sort of realizing that he does not, technically, know that Poseidon has been pacified and even if Odysseus has been freed from Ogygia Poseidon might still continue to wreck Odysseus's shit on the way back, offers that, if, if, there is confirmed word of Odysseus's death, from human or god, then out of his love and loyalty to Odysseus, he will offer his hand to Penelope, as a way out of the suitors' demanding choice, on the solemn oath that she need never touch him if she never wishes, and that the kingdom will remain Telemachus's to inherit. His goal was to bring hope of Odysseus's safe return, but, should that hope ultimately fail, he can offer Penelope a way out of the pressure and threat that the suitors represent.

And Penelope is like. aha. There it is. Fuck off, you liar.

Polites: wh. wait what.

Penelope: Polites, man of the royal palace once, most beloved and trusted of my husband's men, his dearest friend, the only one who stayed true to the last, the convenient only survivor of his fleet. You come here, claim to be the second son of a royal craftsman, safe in the assumption that after twenty years I won't recognize your face as belonging to the palace families or not, tell me exactly what I want to hear--that my husband is alive, he has been pining for me these twenty long years, and that you remain loyal to him only, of course. You don't seek my hand, you would never, you are too loyal, but if he coincidentally dies, then of course you will weep with me for your dear friend and offer yourself to me. Out of loyalty only, of course. And then what? What good are oaths taken now once you have the throne you're after?

Polites: I'm... not...

Penelope: I will admit: I fell for it, for a while. You told me exactly what I wished to hear. And is that not the mark of the ideal lie? Many men have told me that Odysseus is dead, to give up waiting and to choose a new husband now. You are the first to tell me Odysseus is alive and you too long for his safe return, and only, should he tragically prove to be dead, would you reluctantly offer yourself for Ithaca's throne. As a ploy, it's easily the best one that's been made so far. You tell it well. I'd be impressed, if the subject of the lie wasn't so cruel.

Polites: It's?? the truth???

Penelope: Of course it is. Of course this time it is. And of course this time when your awaiting friend arrives to tell me of Odysseus's tragic death, then that will be true, too. Get out of here.

I think it's fun to play with a Penelope who's a wily liar herself and is ready to assume that because this is the lie she would tell if she was trying to be a suitor, this is the lie that would work on her, she has to be on guard against it because that's gotta be what this is. Also get in a "ngl your clever and brazen lying is kinda hot. Unfortunately I do not tolerate lies about that in this house."

Athena thinks this is super funny and endearing so she is not interfering to help.

Also when Odysseus does come back he reunites with Polites enthusiastically and Penelope goes oh. huh. you do know him. all of that was real. wild. anyway

[himejoshikomaeda]

LES FOISFOIS FAVORITE SONG FROM EACH TOUHOU SOUNDTRACK

th01 highly responsive to prayers: gotta be eternal shrine maiden. angel’s legend is good, but eternal shrine maiden just has what the PC-98’s soundboard did best. little beeps and boops that somehow sound so chock-full of emotion. fantastic stuff.

th02 story of eastern wonderland: love-colored magic is, of course, legendary, but my favorite for this game is complete darkness. absolutely masterfully work with that melody.

th03 phantasmagoria of dim.dream: obligatory respects to strawberry crisis to make sure i don’t get mauled for saying this, but reincarnation is my personal favorite off this soundtrack. there isn’t really a place to note this, but the SC-8850 version of reincarnation is fucking phenomenal, too.

th04 lotus land story: blah blah blah bad apple okay no but seriously it’s maiden’s capriccio. that’s reimu’s theme. i don’t care about this mystic oriental love consultation shit, this spring path crap. maiden’s capriccio. the imperishable night version fucks hard too.

th05 mystic square: this one is really hard. romantic children rules. plastic mind is unreal. the grimoire of alice fucks. but the best one in my opinion is alice in wonderland. extra stage themes tend to be really good, but i looooooove this one.

th06 embodiment of scarlet devil: locked girl ~ the girl’s sealed room. again being a contrarian here and not picking UN owen was her. cuz. i dunno. i like it.. be nice to me.. side note, but i love how the instruments in eosd and dolls in pseudo paradise sound.. idk, out of tune? it’s nice.

th07 perfect cherry blossom: there are a lot of really good ones here but i’d be lying if i said it wasn’t necrofantasia, contrarian though i may usually be.

th08 imperishable night: i don’t knowwww this one’s too hard they’re all so good.. illusionary night ~ ghostly eyes, nostalgic blood of the east ~ old world, flight of the bamboo cutter ~ lunatic princess, and extend ash ~ person of hourai all come to mind, but honestly i think i have to give it to love-colored master spark. i know it’s not “from” this game but it’s my favorite on the soundtrack, sooooo.. whatever. my list.

th09 phantasmagoria of flower view: wind god girl. “that’s from shoot the bullet” i knowwww shut upppp i’m not doing side games.

th10 mountain of faith: faith is for the transient people, full stop. the gensokyo the gods loved is practically the “touhou theme” to me, but sanae’s theme is like. in my top 3 favorite songs in the series. those guitars kick ass. this game’s soundtrack is phenomenal.

th11 subterranean animism: green-eyed jealousy. followed closely by satori maiden ~ 3rd eye. literally every song on this game’s soundtrack is a banger. a real no-skip album. but i am fucking addicted to parsee’s theme. it’s like bitter, ugly crying as music. i can’t sing its praises enough.

th12 undefined fantastic object: this game sucks ass but the music’s good. emotional skyscraper ~ cosmic mind is the best song.

th13 ten desires: it’s shoutoku legend ~ true administrator, but i wanna give a shout-out to night sakura of dead spirits anyway, because it’s great.

th14 double dealing character: kobito of the shining needle ~ little princess. but i mean. i am kissing reverse ideology on the mouth with tongue. i love you seija i love you shimmy you’ll get ‘em next time

th15 legacy of lunatic kingdom: honestly? unforgettable, the nostalgic greenery. i love the spacey sound of this soundtrack, and none of them capture that sound better than that. the lake reflects the cleansed moonlight is good for the same reason. i have a lot of love for the sea that reflects one’s home planet, too.

th16 hidden star in four seasons: not huge on this soundtrack, but my favorite song is swim in a cherry blossom-colored sea.

th17 wily beast and weakest creature: electric heritage. what a tasty piano in this one. the gorgeous melody is also present in entrust this world to idols ~ idolatrize world, but i like the piano in electric heritage better. idolatrize world is an easy second, though.

th18 unconnected marketeers: this soundtrack is so romantic. very lovely melodies. my favorite is the perpetual snow of komakusa blossoms. it’s memorable to me for whatever reason.

th19 unfinished dream of all living ghost: i’m gonna choose to limit myself to the songs that aren’t covers of existing touhou songs, cuz some of them are pretty similar even if i might like them “more”, like corpse voyage ~ be of good cheer. so i’ll go with the deviants’ unobstructed light ~ kingdom of nothingness. the vocal samples are cool.

i’ll list my favorite songs from the doujin albums in a separate reblog, because damn this is getting long!!

[disillusioneddanny]

Here’s a little snippet of a one shot I’m working on :3

Tim stood and watched as Red Hood glared at the garbage can. He knew what Red Hood was doing there, knew that just less than twenty four hours ago, a little girls body had been found in that very same garbage can. Tim watched as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

“So, are you going to tell me what you know?” He finally asked, leaning on his bo-staff. Ready to fight his predecessor at a moments notice. The scar on his throat stung at the memory of the first fight between them, nearly two years before when Tim had been a wily thirteen year old kid, ready to prove to the world just how capable he was. He was fifteen now and knew that there was still so much for him to learn, so much he still needed to gather so that he could fully understand the world around him. He was fifteen and had survived three murder attempts by his predecessor and had finally come to terms with the fact that his hero hated him.

Which was fine. It was fine. Tim could work with that. He wasn’t here for Jason, he wasn’t here for the Red Hood. He was here because he was a soldier, he was here because no one else has been able to put Bruce’s broken pieces back together. He was here for as long as he was needed. And when the time came and he was no longer needed, he would remove the mask; he would give up his title and finally rest.

But not yet. The Mission still required him to be at its beck and call. And that meant confronting Red Hood of the series of murders going on in Gotham City. Someone was targeting mafia and crime bosses all over, but not directly. No. They were going after the boss's kids. They were killing children in an attempt to break the heads of command.

And Tim knew exactly one person who had no problem hurting children if it meant obtaining his goals. The scar that marred his very own throat reminded him of that.

Red Hood turned and looked at Tim and the younger boy could just picture the sneer that marred the older man’s face.

“You think I did this?” He asked incredulously before he let out a harsh laugh. “Hate to break it to ya Pretender. But I don’t hurt kids.”

Tim snorted, resting his chin on his Bo, the very definition of cool, calm, collected. If only he actually felt that way. His heart was beating a mile a minute. “No need to lie, Hood, we both know that’s not true.”

A growl escaped Hoods throat as he marched toward Tim, and Tim tried his best to calm his racing heart as he leveled Hood with a cool look of his own. “I’ll do a lot of shit, replacement. I’ll kill drug lords and rapist, whole fuckin’ nine yards. But I have never and will never hurt a kid. That girl was thirteen years old, she had her entire life ahead of her and some jackass took that away from her. I don’t fucking hurt kids,” he snarled out.

Tim blinked a few times beneath his domino before he let out another snort, soft, self deprecating. “I was thirteen when you slit my throat and left me for dead Hood. For someone who doesn’t hurt kids, I have the scars to prove otherwise,” he said softly, his heart aching.

If Jason was so solid in his belief that he didn’t hurt kids, then what was Tim? Was Tim so worthless in his hero's eyes that he wasn’t even considered a person, a kid, at all? Just another stepping stone for Jason to get his weird revenge on Bruce.

Red Hood suddenly stilled in front of him. “Kid I—“

Tim just gave him a grim smile. “Save it Hood, you said it yourself. You don’t hurt kids, so don’t call me one,” he said quietly before shooting his grapple up into the air and taking him away before the tears fell in front of the one person he has always looked up to.

[cleolinda]

JANUARY 11: Panic on a snow day playing Silent Hill 2.

(ALSO) JANUARY 11: Having calmed down and rescued James from an ankle-biter, I roll up to the Happy Burger and start taunting monsters to come out. I am definitely developing a play style of my own.

(Comments directed at my player character are in parentheses.) {Comments directed at the enemy/monster are in brackets and bold.}

[Whispering:] What the fuck was that? 

Why do I say that, when I know exactly what it was. I know what it was. I say this like I don't know. [Imitating monster noise.] I know what it is. 

Come on... I'm gonna stand out here in the parking lot and I’m gonna make them come out to me. I'm not going to get... caught.

{Where are you…? Where are you…? Where are you? Come out.} (That's right, get the stick out. Square up, let's go.) 


[I’m speaking more quietly than in other recordings because it’s a snow day and I’m not alone in the house. In the game, James and I are still out on the town. We are prowling around the burger joint parking lot, since I know from watching many playthroughs that two Lying Figures are inside.] 

Oh, it’s that cloth. [Sigh.] [Cloth draped over a window ledge or opening means you have to climb in through it. I have realized that the monsters will not come outside to meet me.]

{I know you're here. I know it. Come out, come out.} What the fuck is that sound? (All right, come on, quick turn.)

[Inside the restaurant:] So there's one [monster] lying on the floor. You can stomp it all you want. It's—it's playing dead, and it will get back up. It doesn't matter how much you try to—see? I'm just gonna squish it. [I have James demonstrate how hitting the monster does not provoke any reaction. I forget that you cannot see this.] There's one in the back—this is the Happy Burger—there's one in the back. It's gonna come out. It's gonna try to trick you. I know this.

God, it's so dark. Why don’t you have a flashlight? [Sigh.] I won’t get that until so much later and I’m gonna have to fight a leg monster for it. 

[Again using my “come get me in a more advantageous space” strategy, I wait beyond a doorway:]

All right, go slowly. {I know you're in there. I know you're in there. Come on, come on. Oh, don't—don't you hit him. Don't you hit him!} And where's the other— {No, get down. Stay down.} Where’s the other one [that was playing dead]? It's getting up, yeah, that's right. {Come get me. Come in here. I'm defending the cash register. Come get me.}

It's not gonna come get me. 

{No, you come to me. You come to me. Come here, how bad do you want it? Get in here. Come get me. I hear your shoes. Come get me. You're trying to get me [to go] in the back.} It's just lurchin’ around. {You're trying to get me in a smaller space... so that you can vomit on me. But I'm not having that. Come get me. Come get me. No? Come get me. Coooome get me.} [Abruptly changing tactics:] All right, from behind, never saw it coming—!

[Apparently James and I put this one down pretty quickly:] {Don't you crawl away from me. Don't you slither! I'm not here for that. You stay down this time.} I know their wily ways. I know. I know a lot of things... that better gamers who go in cold, don't know...

Oh, oh, he's not... oh... (I can't watch you stagger around like that. When did you get hit? When did you even get hurt? I don't even remember you getting hurt.) [Sigh.] [After administering a health drink:] All right, magical healing jacket is clean again, so now... we're gonna go into a traversal. We're gonna... crawl under something... like an idiot, because that's how we roll.

[fizzingwizard]

I was genuinely looking forward to Lupin vs Holmes in part 6, but what a disappointment it was. Actually, disappointment is too weak a word. In my opinion, it was pretty much a disaster.

There were so many reasons to be hyped for that crossover. You've got Holmes, the greatest detective of his time, and Lupin, the greatest thief of his. They're both canny, eccentric, and always a step ahead of everyone else. They're also both independent and live by their own set of morals. Holmes picks which cases he'll take without concern for money, and lets people go even if they're guilty if his own convictions say they don't deserve punishment. Lupin always does what he wants, doesn't let himself get pushed around, and enjoys wreaking havoc among inhumane criminals just as much as he enjoys flouting the law.

They're even perfectly matched in the ways they're different. I was open to them either liking or disliking each other (though I feel convinced they'd definitely have respect for each other), because I can see either take making sense. Holmes is calculations with a pinch of chaos, Lupin is chaos with a measured dash of calculation. Holmes eschews relationships aside from a very few - Lupin enjoys social interaction (but prioritizes just a few). Holmes is functionally asexual. Lupin is never not horny.

Even the supporting cast was so promising! To tell the truth, from watching previous seasons I didn't really think the rest of the Lupin gang or Watson would have much to do. But I hoped they would because there was so much potential.

I mean Jigen and Watson are both war veterans in their own way. It's not the best comparison (Watson was a doctor, and got shot almost immediately... but he is also a "man of action" and does have a lot of fight and pluck, even if he's not going to be a match for Jigen in terms of marksmanship). And they're the right hand men of two pretty difficult geniuses... couldn't they spend a moment commiserating lmao.

It could have been awesome to see Fujiko interact with Holmes because her usual tricks wouldn't work on him. I admit it isn't unlikely the show would have been like "Ahh, but this time they do work on him, just like Irene Adler!" and totally ignored that book!Irene impressed Holmes with her wiliness and not her sexiness... But I'm talking about my fantasy here. And in my fantasy, Holmes would have had a similar reaction to Fujiko's manipulation and acting skills similar to how he did with Irene. It would have been pretty cool to see Fujiko interact with a man who was NOT into her, but was just as smart and brave and perhaps wiser than Lupin.

Even Goemon would have had something to do. He could have had a super cool kenjutsu vs baritsu ("what even is that?") battle with Holmes. Extra points if Goemon walks away saying "I respect the skill of that fellow warrior, even if he can't spell his own martial art correctly."

And of course Lestrade and Zenigata's shenanigans at Scotland Yard are a nobrainer. But serious bonus points if they both pine away with equal envy and admiration for their respective smart ass thorns in the side hahahahahahaha.

I mean. There was SO MUCH there. How, HOW do you mess that up???

(Answer: By knowing absolutely nothing about Sherlock Holmes to begin with and basing everything on your memories of inaccurate movies from fifty years ago x'D)

So instead we got: perpetually sad, somber Sherlock Holmes, who isn't working the job that he literally loves anymore in favor of looking miserable a lot and raising a child. And the child is Watson's kid, who Watson can't raise because he's fucking DEAD, and mom can't raise because SHE'S dead (just say Holmes is her mom. Come on. We're in the future. Just say it). Also Watson is dead because Lestrade killed him like WHAT. Of all the twists they could have gone one, they definitely surprised me with that one. Was it a fun surprise though? ... No, no it wasn't.

Add to that the extremely dull characterizations of everyone, the heavy reliance on the danger to a little girl who isn't even a canonical character but is very cute, and the slow, slow pace of the episodes... What a mess. It was memorable, sure, but for the wrong reasons.

Like the only thing I can think of that I didn't hate about the whole arc was Lily taking her first steps as Holmes's assistant at the very end. Fine, that's adorable, and makes me feel ever so slightly better about Watson being dead. And I'm desperate for something to like here so let's go with it.

("It's not really Sherlock Holmes anyway because of the generational difference, it's his great grandson who has his exact same name and job! Same with Watson and Lestrade and sexy Mrs Hudson and and and-" I'm gonna stop you right there we all know it's Holmes. Whatever excuses they make, no matter how they have to bend time and physics to make it happen, it is Holmes Prime in every way that matters lol.)

A melancholy sigh for the Coolest Crossover Ever That Wasn't. As a Lupin fan and a Sherlock Holmes fan, I'll regret it till the day I die.

[randomthefox]

I'm starting to think sonic fans don't understand the word canon at all.

I swear they spam the word canon for everything. Even when it doesn't make sense.

Not to beat a dead horse but the ring tweet is the example I can remember easiest.

What is "rings aren't canon" supposed to mean? Genuinely what is the intended message there? Are they saying rings exist within the setting but the ones we see during gameplay are just for the player? Are they saying rings as a whole don't exist and are decorations only the audience can witness?

First of all, rings objectively exist within the sonic universe. That's an indisputable and easily provable fact.

Second of all, why did they word it like that? If they were trying to say "what you collect or interact with during gameplay isn't always a diagetic part of setting" then why not just say that?

Saying rings aren't canon is like saying the emeralds aren't canon. Yes they are and what exactly does that statement even mean?

Are we gonna start claiming chao and the chao gardens aren't canon purely because the majority of their screentime is during gameplay segments? Even though there's irrefutable evidence of them existing outside of gameplay?

It's like they think using the word canon makes their point unarguable or something. That or they just don't know how to properly articulate their claims.

It's a pretty prevalent problem on the internet in general nowdays. People treat "canon" like it's a popularity contest. Like when the Dragon Ball Minus chapter came out in Jaco, that was a chapter Written And Drawn by Akira Toriyama. Then the Dragon Ball Super Broly movie incorporated parts of that chapter for their prologue, and you had people going "oh dragon ball minus is canon now!"

"now"?

NOW?

How the fuck is it canon "NOW"? after being in the Dragon Ball Super Movie, but it WASN'T canon before?

It was WRITTEN AND DRAWN BY AKIRA TORIYAMA PUBLISHED IN WEEKLY SHONEN JUMP. You can't get more fucking canon than that, dudes.

People think "canon" just means "I really like it" or some shit. Or that it has received enough mass popular acceptance or something. As if our personal feelings about something has ANYTHING the fuck to do with whether or not it's canon.

And that's not even going into the school of thought that Word Of God dictates canon, aka the Disney Star Wars Expanded Universe Purge concept. Which I don't even want to go into right now.

I am a pretty black and white binary absolutist when it comes to canon. Whatever is in the TEXT is canon. Anything NOT in the primary text is not canon TO the primary text, but the primary text is ALWAYS canon to any supplementary text. Reploid Revo had a pretty good video explaining this back in the day but he got cancelled for sexting children or something so now all his videos are blammed (figures, considering he talked shit about Sonic Forces, anybody who does that is obviously a terrible person.) But the way he summarized it was, if you went to Megaman in the Marvel Vs Capcom games and asked him about his fights against Dr. Wily, Megaman would know exactly what you're talking about. But if you went to Megaman in the mainline capcom video game Megaman titles and asked him about that time he went and had fights with Captain America and Ryu, he'd have no idea what the fuck you were talking about.

That's how it works in my mind as far as I'm concerned when it comes to anything and everything. You go into the Sonic IDW comics and you ask Sonic about the time he fought Shadow on the ARK, he'd know what you were talking about. If you go to Sonic in the video games and asked him about the Metal Virus outbreak, he'd have no idea what the fuck any of that means.

The video games are the primary Text, and whatever is in the primary Text is absolute indisputable canon. Nothing anyone does or says or writes can invalidate the dry ink that is the Text.

[thelavendercatalogue]

The Plan II: Yata's Reaction

Link to Original Part 1 Post Found Here:

When Goro Yatagarasu had first started working for Inspector Zenigata, he expected many things. 

He knew working with the Inspector would be chaotic, certainly thrill-seeking at best, utmost terrifying at worst; Zenigata had certainly garnered a reputation for that in his long standing career.  Yata also knew. . . that in many cases, the job would be stagnant; a dead end. One where the prospect of growth and such was far more likely to be null-in-void under the weight of working for such a man with  a reputation like Inspector Zenigata. But that was something he had known, something that despite everything and every warning superiors and the like gave him, that he had come to accept and at times even actually enjoy, the work was thrilling and it was exciting, far better than anything he would have thought would come from a job such as this.

But as the time went on, it was apparent that there were things he had never come to expect.

And one such being, was how he would grow to secretly care for the gang like Zenigata had done. 

He never understood the weird relationship that the Inspector had with the gang. In fact he didn’t even know he had one to the extent of what he did. What he had originally assumed was simply just a form of mutual-respect garnered over years of a wily cat-and-mouse routine was something entirely different. He just wished he didn’t have to learn that during the period of time he was most frightful over losing his career.

The period that started just after Yata got shot was one of the strangest periods in his life. He knew one day he would get hurt, it was a given, but he had never expected to get hurt to the point he would possibly have to start thinking about switching careers. Getting bunked with a infamous thief like Lupin III wasn’t also in the job description,

And as it turned out, neither was bonding with him either.

Yata hated it in the beginning; still a new and intrepid apprentice, he didn't know about the other side of Lupin's personality, the more calmer kinder side to him. He only knew the chaotic trouble maker, the devious mastermind the news made him out to be. So to say there was some animosity toward Lupin on Yata's part was a bit of a understatement

He fucking hated being stuck in a room with him

But. . .as time went on that proved not to be the case.  Late night conversations with him had proven to Yata that Lupin was not the man he had previously assumed he was. What some media outlets made him out to bed, Zenigata would have cared so much for him. . . hell not even cared for the others as much if that had been true. And maybe he knew that, but perhaps he was also just - much like the inspector- too stubborn to figure it out for himself. In the beginning Yata may have been ashamed to admit it, but in the end that was what he was doing. 

He was bonding with the thief. 

In the week’s since Lupin had stopped talking, Yata had become lonely without someone to chat with. They hadn’t moved Lupin just yet, they had allowed him to stay in the room with Yata, perhaps because Yata was quiet. And he didn’t cause issues, and maybe it was also because they had jokingly designated Yata as Lupin’s personal Emotional Support/Emergency Alert-Companion, which was funny, Yata always assumed that position went to Jigen of all people, hah.

Heh. . . .

But they had bonded in the beginning, that much was true; so much so to the point even Jigen started to thank Yata for keeping Lupin company when he was not around and given the whole fact Jigen was never one for talking even when Yata still tried to make small talk, often to focused on the other to even bother to even notice that Yata even existed and when he did talk, conversation was brief- Yata felt. . for some odd reason, a small sense of a strange profound sense of pride; getting a thanks from a man as Dark and Mysterious as Jigen.

And maybe that was when he had finally realized how much things had changed. . .and perhaps even how much he enjoyed that change.

The weeks leading up to the plan were emotionally draining to say the least. Yata never thought he would admit it to himself, but he was nervous about the state Lupin was in. He was never in the room long enough anymore, with them constantly running test after test so late into the day that sometimes by the time they came back it would be late into the night.

On the day of the plan, it was ultimately Jigen who told Yata about Lupin’s leg and the surgery he needed. He figured he owed the young man an explanation, after all he had been kind to Lupin these last few weeks, and had looked out for him in time’s where Jigen could not.

Jigen had owed him that kindness, he figured at the very least. 

It was late afternoon when they wheeled Lupin away, and when Yata wishes them Luck, he doesn’t notice how Jigens brow’s suddenly pinched together. 

Normally Infectious Debridement Procedures may take anywhere from a few minutes to an hour or more, depending on the condition of both the patient and the wound and location of the wound site. Most of the time, the primary objective of debridement is to normally remove all the devitalized (rotten) tissue from the wound bed in order to promote wound healing. In many cases it’s simple depending on the level of infection. Surgical debridement often will have a higher risk for bleeding along with general complications after anesthesia. 

In Lupin’s case, it was easy to fake him throwing a clot as being the thing that ultimately killed him. 

A very large pulmonary embolism (blood clot in the lung) can cause an instantaneous cardiac arrest should it flow into the right. . .well. . wrong vein, and while a clot can form after any type of procedure, you're often more likely to get one if you've had major surgery, particularly on your abdomen, or in Lupin’s case either the pelvis, hips, or legs or perhaps all three. Sometimes, the surgery itself can cause a blood clot. Long procedures where you're lying on the operating table for many hours allow your blood to settle and pool, which makes it easier to clot. Tissue, debris, fat, or collagen could get released into your blood system during an operation, making blood thicker around those particles. For Lupin, surgeries that involve scraping or cutting into a bone, such as a hip replacement, or in this case surgical debridement may release substances known as antigens. These antigens trigger your body's immune system and can lead to clots. 

Whatever the case, it was a perfect recipe for disaster that all started and ended with Lupin having blood stream from his nose and mouth not even an hour in the recovery-wing. And despite best efforts, there was nothing no one could do.  

And despite how much it destroyed him to admit, Jigen was happy one thing did not come true and was happy to admit one thing. That the mobsters who had caused this had been wrong, that their warning had never come true Lupin may have died choking. . .

but at least he had never died screaming

But Lupin had died no matter what, and the automatic response was the attempt of a quiet shutdown of the entire hospital to keep it away from the media as long as possible while the gang was left to mourn their loss. But then came the issue with telling Yata.

Because the plan had to move very fast following Lupin's "death",  Zenigata had to leave near automatically- it was under the guise that he had to alert his superiors about this drastic development, but in actuality he was suppose to be the one who would go with the still alive Lupin on the drive OUT to where they were dropping him off, while JIGEN stayed behind to stay and "mourn" with the rest of the gang.

However as a consequence to this, Zenigata didn't get back until much later on, practically the next morning, and because ICPO was too busy shutting down the hospital, no one thought to tell Yata anything. Zeni wasn't there to tell Yata originally what was going on and as a result of it all, like any death of a "VIP" they locked down the hospital entirely and ICPO had to be sent on "high alert" mode due to Zeni's absence, basically leaving it to wait until Zeni came back whenever Yata asked what was going on.

So basically Yata had to wait, probably didn't sleep much as a result, until Zeni came back after so many hours only to then be told by his superior that the man he had basically been bonding with these last few weeks and essentially became friends with was by all accounts dead and that the reason he hadn’t been there to tell him is because Zeni was simply dealing with the aftermath of it all, trying to get things to "calm down" long enough before he could properly tell him 

When he’s finally told, Yata doesn’t react like many would assume Yata completely emotionally shut down

He was still able to function and act like a person, but he does so as a total blank slate. Completely devoid of any emotion.

He was overwhelmed and his mind's response was to hit the off switch to protect him. 

He feels like he should cry, but he doesn't. The tears just won't come.

He feels like he should scream, but he doesn't. His voice just won't work.

He feels like he should run, but he doesn't. His feet are rooted to the floor.

The only response he can give is an almost silent

"Oh."

He spends the rest of that day in a state of tension. Frayed. Anxious. He jumps at every sudden sound and doesn't look anybody in the eye. He moves at double speed and spends all his time not moving just sitting in his chair, staring out the window. And when he’s ultimately allowed to finally go home, he doesn't eat.

He just lies on his side in bed, staring at the wall.

Maybe he sheds a tear or two, but he doesn't cry.

He just feels

Empty.

And he still doesn’t cry.

All it comes to a head though, one night some weeks later. He  was frustrated and guilty because he felt as though he should be crying but just isn't

he was lying on his bed feeling frustrated at himself

and then he heard a rhythmic tapping noise

It was probably mice in the ceiling, 

But out of instinctual habit,  he tries to sing to himself to cheer himself up, just like he had in the hospital

but his throat gets tighter and tighter, his voice more choked…

he never gets the last note out

he fucking looses it right there

mostly it's because of delayed grief mostly its because he hates that he never cried when it counted

He doesn't even know why he's crying, let alone over a criminal he had been trying to throw in jail these last few years, at least that's what he tries to tell himself to make himself feel better.

But he is crying over it, cause for some strange reason

it hurts

but he doesn't understand the why even now

why does it hurt so much

Maybe a quiet realization

He'd enjoyed the company. He'd enjoyed those quiet conversations. He'd enjoyed Lupin listening to him sing, having an audience even if it was a captive one, getting to know the man on some level, providing some kind of psychological sustenance to keep each other alive and sane.

He'd enjoyed spending time with the man.

Yata never had a lot of friends growing up, he was alone most of his life

So it was honestly safe to assume one thing Lupin was his friend.

And now he was gone

And he was never coming back

And somehow. . .it hurt so much more admitting it then he thought it would

[childotkw]

Could you share with us some Regulus & Tobirama friendship shenanigans? Izuna's reactions to those shenanigans are very welcome xD

"And you're sure the earthquake wasn't your doing?" Izuna asked, blank-faced but despairing on the inside.

Tobirama - the asshole - nodded, still unfailingly calm despite the frantic movements of the shinobi around them, trying to put out the portion of the forest that was on fire. There was an Akimichi in the background desperately using doton to repair the fissures that had split open the ground.

Regulus at least had the grace to look guilty when Izuna turned to him. His friend was fretting quietly, watching the chaos around them with a little furrow in his brow while nibbling at his bottom lip. It was a confused kind of emotion though - the associated guilt a bystander might feel at not helping.

Izuna really wanted to sigh.

"Do you...know what caused the earthquake at least?" he asked, some exasperation slipping through. Fuck, but he had been dead asleep when the call had come in. He wasn't awake enough to be the responsible one.

"An unexpected shift in the earth's tectonic plates that exacerbated the current issues of this region," Tobirama rattled off, making Izuna squint at him. He was doing it deliberately, Izuna just knew it.

"It was a natural occurrence," Regulus translated. "But we think a lot of earth-related jutsu have been used in this area and it's damaged the stability, so when a tectonic shift occurs, like just now, the impact is compounded."

Izuna looked at him, tired and frustrated. Regulus looked up at the sky for a moment, then back down.

"The ground's weak," he said, simplifying his language and speaking slowly in a way that would normally piss Izuna off. "You people throwing rocks at each other has made it worse."

"Is this going to be an immediate issue or can this wait another hour?"

Why was it always Izuna? Why couldn't Madara deal with this shit instead? His brother was the one who actually wanted this fucking village.

Tobirama finally stopped standing there looking pretty, and actually bent down to press his finger to the ground. To investigate Izuna's question or just escape the conversation, he didn't care. Whatever bullshit sensoring technique he was doing, Izuna left him to it for the moment, focussing back on Regulus.

"What were you two doing out here in the first place?"

He had said it casually, more an idle complaint of why his two-thirds of his social circle were out in the middle of the wilderness miles away from Konoha - but the way Regulus' expression abruptly smoothed out had Izuna's interest sharpening.

"Just an experiment," Regulus said waving a hand dismissively.

Too dismissively.

Izuna's suspicious mind rumbled to life.

"I wanted to see if I could increase my control over fire," Tobirama unexpectedly interjected, shamelessly taking the blame when the blaze was still being put out.

That was how Izuna knew they were lying.

His rival was, much to Izuna's chagrin, actually proficient in fire release. The wily bastard could use all the elements with minimal effort, though his water release was still his most devastating skill.

Tobirama would never have lost control over a fire, even as a child. He was too good to make such a mistake.

That he was here, admitting to such a misstep - that he was hinting at a deficiency in his abilities at all - was more revealing than if he had just stayed quiet.

[bassboosted-moon-chao]

Recurse into nothing, forsaken temponaut. Reject assimilation, return to fate.

Quint, the concept, the fate worse than death yet the death of one and only.

YEAH so I felt like drawing Quint, infuriated by the lack of art for my favourite doomed recursive sonboy. did this in 1 hour 34 minutes! originally it was just him taking a leap, and then I started drawing ribbons under/around him, and then they turned into the Time Stream, so I suppose he's jumping out of the flow of time like he's about to travel!

Poor boy is such a paradox. dead and alive, out of time and alone in another. I think the most fucked up thing about him is that room where you encounter Quint, and it's full of cloned Quint corpses. all inactive and in stasis. we don't know if these are Quints that died before and were replaced by the endless looping fate, or if Wily built multiple. but any explanation is deeply horrifying.

[nectaric]

the buzzing in his skull would not stop. no matter how hard momus fought for silence, his mind could not be satiated. he needed sustenance, a victim to prey upon, the foolish to mock. taking too long to satiate his hunger made his mind do wily, unpredictable things. it made his thoughts feast upon himself instead, that blasted buzzing his own voice mocking him inside his skull. least loved, hated by all, a burden upon those who matter and a scourge to those who do not. a cowardly, weak, pathetic piece of-

“just a few minutes,” momus pleaded, the sound of his own voice adding fuel to the fire of his hunger. he was a disgrace. he couldn’t even be scorn properly. but the voice would not stop, giving him no silence, no reprieve, no escape. his body ached for a rest it did not even need. sleep would be his only silence beyond the icy cold grip of death, and momus was not quite that desperate, yet. hypnos helped thanatos when the voices of the dead became too loud, right? he could help momus escape his own voice, surely.

momus hated to admit to a weakness - he preyed upon those, after all. he was not supposed to have them himself.

but he was tired. he was so fucking tired, and despite his better instincts, he sank onto hypnos’ sofa and whimpered at how nice a soft cushion beneath him felt. he collapsed, curling in upon himself. “do not let me sleep too long, or i’ll-”

the threat hung in the air. his head buzzed with hunger. “please, please, please pleasepleaseplease…”

@nightsongs