#Off-Screen Death

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

While it wasn’t shown on screen,

Anubis wiped out the Blorgons.

(Don’t worry, they got better.)

[obibail]

In the shadow of the Monolith.

[dcxdpdabbles]

You know how walker (is that her name? I only saw clips of the show) Got DNA of batman from around Gotham. What if someone else did the same but instead of batman, they got DNA of dick, Jason and Tim to create the ultimate soldier with their best qualities and danny is the result. He had Dicks acrobatics, Jason's deadness and ruthlessness and Tim's smarts.( ・∀・)

The one thing that tied all three DNA donors was their role as Robin. Or so the government sector (with no name, in case they were ever exposed, so they could never be tied to the United States) thought that was all that was tying them together.

He was to have the First's acrobatics and his leadership.

The Second's sharp shooting and his ruthlessness.

The Third's hacking and smarts.

Everything that made those human vigilantes a force to fear would be poured into this clone. Hours and hours of combat, strategy, and American propaganda downloaded into his brain. The clone would be the perfect soldier, the perfect weapon.

None of them were expecting this.

"You will follow commands."

"Why?"

"You will be activated by the phrase The Shadow over the Flag"

"Why?"

"You are a weapon," Waller hissed at the clone who was staring at her evenly from the chair they had strapped him to.

"Why?" The darn thing repeated, tilting his head much like the bird his donors called themselves.

"You don't need to know why." She spat, nodding her head at one of the scientists. They took that as a sign to turn on the electricity, listening to the boy scream as it ran amok through his body. She counted to twelve before raising her hand to signal the electricity to end. "You are a weapon of the United States."

The clone gasps through his pain before raising his head and grinning at her. Almost as if he wasn't just about to pass out from the mental training they were attempting to put him through. "Why?"

Scowling, she turned away, throwing a command over her shoulder. "Break him."

The clone's voice yelled back. It's eerily cheerful, much like the first Robin had been whenever he attacked goons or the second Robin when he set a building on fire or even the third Robin when he outsmarted adults. "I'll catch up to you later. I'll catch up to everyone involved with my creation, and I'll teach you what happens when you attempt to make a living weapon."

She didn't care. Waller had been threatened her entire life by beings far stronger than the experiment they had created. She doubted that it could fine her or her team. It was a mystery where the clone had developed a personality—one that took nothing seriously and seemed almost happy in the chaos that brought it pain—but she had broken many people before.

One she helped create would be just as simple to break.

A week later, Waller found out that everyone in that unnamed government sector had been hunted down and killed by the clone that had escaped with none the wiser. She found out because it was waiting for her, wearing the wedding rings of those on her team and the badges of those who were unmarried.

Waller had found it sitting comfortably on her desk in her home office, flipping through her laptop and sending files to random emails.

"I wonder how many Americans are going to die with that information out." A wide, wicked grin rested on its lips as it released files and files of government secrets. She stood there, frozen in the doorway, unsure of what to say as it raised its head and stared her down with borrowed eyes. "I wonder how quickly the country you love so much will turn on you for a few files."

Waller responded by raising her gun and firing. But the clone bent in a way that spoke of the First, dodging the bullets with a gentle laugh. As if she wasn't trying to shoot it, but instead they were having a little pillow fight at a sleepover. Then, in the next second, her right hand was gone, nothing more than an explosion of blood.

Like a water spray bottle that had squirted out a stream.

She stared at it, more confused than in pain, watching the blood leak down her arm. The gun clattered against the ground as the Clone giggled. "Oopsie, mother had a little spill~!"

"Protocol Alpha-ten!" She shouted, twisting on her heel and running down the hall as her security system automatically started destroying files and locking down the building.

"Overright: Omega-four-four-three," A voice calmly called out. Her voice. Waller realized with horror that the clone was skipping after her, mimicking her speech so well that the security system halted all movement. It believed the clone.

But they had tested it against the Martians' shapeshifting. And not even taking her form could trick her system!

"Are we playing tag?" The clone called out, and suddenly, bam- her left leg from the knee down was gone. She stumbled, grabbing onto the wall, with a cry as the clone laughed more. "Am I it?"

"Protocol: Nine-Pitch Black!" She screams, praying the message gets out —if only as a warning to the rest of the world —but even before she finishes speaking, another voice overlaps hers.

"Override: White Fall five-nine-eight-twelve." The clone walked up behind her, kicking out her good knee. Waller tumbled to the ground, breathing heavily, trying to think through the pain. It crouched down to her fallen form, tsking. "Calling for help? From the Justice League? After all the grief you've given them? A new low even for you."

"What...what are you?" She gasps, watching his blue eyes shimmer to green and his teeth sharpen. The DNA was human, not even meta-human. None of the Bats were. So, how was this clone changing? Did someone on the team mess with its DNA strand when they were making it?

"Shhhh shhhhhh." The clone cooed, pressing his finger against her trembling lips as a terrible pressure filled the air. A chill broke across her body as frost slowly crept along the walls, and the lights burst one by one. The clone's glowing grin looked more and more haunting by the second.

"My dead Amanda Waller." It purred, leaning in and letting its human features melt away to reveal a monster. "You know what I am. All living things know what I am. They can't escape me."

"Death," The word feels punched out of her, and its green eyes seem to dance with amusement.

"Your death."

No one heard her scream, and no one noticed when she was silenced for good.

____________________________________________________________

Bruce Wayne gets a knock on his door at three in the morning just as the team is coming back from patrol. He wants to tell his kids to go get it, but everyone is half dead on their feet from the latest fight, so after getting out of his suit and throwing on his best bed robe, he makes the trek to the front door.

He doesn't even have to pretend to be exhausted. Bruce is getting up there in age, and hero work was a young man's job.

He rubs at his eyes while swinging the large front door open, a sarcastic remark on the tip of his tongue, but it dies the second he sees what's standing on his doorstep.

A child, the perfect blend of all his sons, that it was almost like he was looking at one of those holographic posters of his children's child school photos, beams up at him.

In his hands, dripping blood onto the steps of Wayne Manor, is the head of Amanda Waller, frozen in a permanent petrified scream for all eternity.

"Hi," the child chirps, eyes crinkling like Dick's, lips pulled into a half-smirk like Tim's, and nose scrunched up like Jason's. Bruce was struck dumb by how adorable he seemed despite more heads of unknown victims resting at his feet. "My name is Danny Phantom. I was told this was where my DNA came from, and that makes it my home, doesn't it? Do you like games?"

What none of the unnamed government sector workers knew was that the blood they collected around Gotham had been contaminated. It was filled with the curse that made even the gentlest souls mad.

And Danny Phantom had once been the gentlest being in the universe before his soul had been accidentally used in a cloning experiment. One that involved using the strange, unknown green goo as a link between three different DNAs, and now housed the very force of death, all cramped into the body of a five-year-old monster.

[tarmac-rat]

Funny things that I think probably happen with cyberware more often than Pondsmith and CDPR would write in the text but I just think they're neat if only from a wordbuilding perspective:

Hair getting caught in your deep dive port when you try to plug the link in.

Your sleeves getting stuck in the seams of your arm cyberware when the mechanisms retract back in.

Mantis blades accidentally shredding your long sleeves when you flex them.

A ripperdoc not having your exact shade of skintone on your new limb, and telling you to wait to get it replaced while it's on backorder.

Blue Screen of Death on netrunner 'ware.

Needing to register the new fingerprints on your hand if you get it replaced with a cybernetic, and the complications of having two hands that might not match up printwise.

People 'tattooing' the chromed parts of their body via laser engraving.

Metal plating getting so hot during the summer that you accidentally burn yourself trying to scratch your nose.

Forgetting to deslot shards and accidentally carrying them around in your head for a week.

Needing to clean the gunk out of your mantis blades or projectile launcher at home, so you flex it open and scrub at it with a bunch of paper towels or a bristle brush for an hour.

Rust and tarnish cleaner being a staple in home cyberware maintenance.

Actually buying projectile launcher rounds.

Someone starting a Mythbusters/Jackass style TV show about cyberware ("Hey gang! Today we're asking 'Is it possible to punch through a 3-foot cinderblock wall using only seven-gen Gorilla Fists?'")

Just generally playing with your personal link. Strumming it. Spinning it. Thwacking people with it. Built in fidget toy.

[clementartz]

death note au where everything is the same except shadow the hedgehog is there for some reason

[smallsinger5901]

listen if ohba and obata didnt want us to ship lawlight then they shouldn’t have given us a 5 month span where L and light are handcuffed together and we’re never shown them in private even a single time

[the-broken-pen]

Hey hey

Could you perhaps write a snippet where the building hero is in, gets bombed? Its bombed as an assassination attempt to get them, however the people in that building die and hero, succumbed to their injuries couldn't save everyone of them. At last they watched the last ambulance left without them, even as they called for help

Villians villa is just few kilometres away

Thankfu hero's legs aren't broken

They begin walking

The problem? Vil is way to composed and prim and perfect to let all of hero's blood get on their expensive carpets and fabrics. They could even be mad at the hero for reddening their porch if they hero stood their asking for bandages. What now? And the fight the two had yesterday that ended with "never see me again" and "don't ever talk to me"s.....vil was stopping hero from attending the event the building....

Will vil help them? They can just ask for bandages and leave.

What hero doesn't know: vil would literally destroy the world for hero, and there's no way in hell are they leaving hero on their doorstep.

(Anon you were cooking with this ask, thank you!)

The hero realized the building was going to explode a split second before it did, which wasn’t enough time to do anything other than brace.

They tensed, and there was a horrible screeching of metal and brick, followed by a deafening silence that covered them more completely than the rubble did.

The hero coughed once, weakly, pain rocketing through their chest, and shoved a piece of concrete off themself.

From somewhere else in the building, a soft, terrified wail began, broken around desperate sobs.

The hero coughed again, hand rising to their ribs. They didn’t have the energy to be surprised when their fingers came back coated in blood and dust. They grimaced at it, struggling to their feet–

And oh, god. That hurt.

The hero had a surgery once, the kind that resulted in bandages and a care regime and a set of stitches, and when they had woken up in the recovery unit, it had felt sort of like this. A moment of loopy half-awareness, and then a pain that had knocked the breath out of them, hands clenching into the sheets as a nurse tried to figure out if they needed more medication. 

This was worse. Their vision swam, and they blinked it back with a hiss.

Because someone, somewhere in the wreckage, was crying. And if one person was crying, it meant there was someone who survived. Which meant it was likely there were other survivors–ones too hurt to make any noise, ones knocked unconscious, ones still too shocked to do anything other than lay there–and it was the hero’s job to find them.

It took them far too long to locate the source of the crying. Longer to dig them out, vision going white as the person slammed into the hero’s chest in some facsimile of a terrified hug.

“You’re okay,” they managed, voice like gravel. “It’s okay. I’m going to get you out, and you’re going to be just fine. Were you with anyone?”

And then again, and again, and again.

The hero panted, hands on their knees as their body fought them in an attempt to just collapse onto the concrete below. They just–they just needed a minute. Just one, maybe, and then they could–

This time, the hero wasn’t even aware of it before it happened.

The remains of the building shook, then disintegrated into itself in a plume of dust and rock. The hero shielded their eyes with one hand, blinking against the onslaught.

What little air they had managed to get stuttered out of their lungs in something close to a sob. They had done this enough times to know there wasn’t anyone in that building left alive. 

They sagged down against the nearest thing–more rubble, maybe? They didn’t know–and this time when they rested a hand on their side, there was a considerably larger amount of blood.

“That’s…not great,” they said, and their fingers blurred in front of them slightly. There was an ambulance right there. Just a couple feet away. They had already helped most of the survivors, so maybe it would be okay for the hero to–

A paramedic rounded the back of the ambulance, and the hero lifted a hand, reaching–

“Please, wait, I think–I think,” it hurt coming out of their mouth, “help. Please I need–” they trailed off as the paramedic took the step up into the ambulance.

And closed the door behind them.

The hero wasn’t even that surprised when the ambulance began to drive away.

“Help,” they finished weakly, then sucked a breath in through their nose.

They were supposed to be good at this kind of thing. Surviving, no, thriving in catastrophe. A pillar of light. The one with the plan. 

The kind of being that didn’t beg for help on the ground.

The hero wasn’t entirely sure how they managed to get themselves back to standing. It was as easy as that–one moment they were on the ground, gravel embedded in their knees, and the next they were up and shaking but they were up.

“If I stay here, I’ll die,” they murmured. They had hoped maybe the threat would keep their legs from buckling again. It didn’t.

They weren’t near any place that could be trusted. There wasn’t a safe clinic for heroes on this side of the city, and even if there was, the hero wouldn’t trust them. Couldn’t afford to.

But as for near…the hero swallowed the nausea as it rose in their throat. There was one place they could go. One person they could go to.

Four miles. They could do four. There was no other option.

Where the hero had had some blurry recollection, or at least, a good guess of how they got to standing, they had absolutely no clue how they made it onto the villain’s porch. They managed a blink, retching slightly as they stared at the villain’s wavering door, then had to freeze just to bite down the pain that had come from the gagging.

They tried to knock and ended up collapsing against the villain’s door, knees giving out entirely as their fingers scrabbled for purchase and left behind smeared bloody marks on the wood.

They weren’t entirely sure how that happened either, or how long it took the villain to answer the door. Just that it hurt—so, so much, it hurt so–and that they managed to shove themself back into some semblance of standing right before the villain pulled the door open.

The villain’s face did a sort of spasming thing as soon as they saw the hero, jaw dropping slightly in what the hero could only really read as shock.

There was a very considerable amount of blood on the door. They were cold.

“I–” the hero tried, but they weren’t really sure where they had been going with that sentence, and after yesterday and the screaming and the fight the villain probably didn’t want to see them at all, didn’t want to ever see their face again, so–their mind blanked. “I got blood on your door.”

They tried to gesture towards it, but that hurt, so their hand simply twitched slightly from where it hung by their side.

They glanced down at their feet, because they didn’t want to see what the villain’s face was doing, especially if what it was doing was anything resembling anger.

“Oh.” There was blood at the hero’s feet. “And on your porch, too, I guess.”

They looked up at the villain, but they were still staring at them, brow furrowed, hand clenching on the doorframe.

“I’m sorry.”

There was a very faint quiver of tears when they said it, and the hero knew better than to hope the villain didn’t catch it. 

Were they saying sorry for the porch or the door or yesterday–

“Holy shit,” the villain finally breathed, and it sounded like it had been punched out of them. The hero froze, panic rising in their chest.

“I’m sorry,” the hero blurted out, stammering. “I’m–I’m so sorry, I’ll go, just–could I maybe have some bandages? Just–just one, maybe, please? I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they said uselessly, head swimming. They couldn’t even remember what they were doing here. The villain was perfect in every sense of the word, stoic and proper and collected in a way the hero would never be; a marble statue brought to life. The idea of them letting the hero–the personification of a train wreck in motion–in to bleed all over the villain’s soft carpet and nice shoes and cause irreparable damage to their very expensive house was almost laughable. 

If they had had the breath to laugh.

More of the hero’s blood dripped onto the slats of the porch, and they stepped back. “I’m sorry–”

The villain reached for them, and the hero flinched, taking it for the dismissal it was–

The hero blinked, and it stuck for a moment too long as the world tilted, and when they pried their eyes open again the villain was staring at them with something the hero was too out of it with pain and possibly delirium to identify. Their gaze drifted back to the blood smeared on the door, and the villain’s grip tightened on the hero’s bicep–when had they grabbed the hero’s bicep?–until the hero’s gaze returned to theirs.

The villain said something, but there was a roaring that had started up in the hero’s ears. They seemed to take the uncomprehending blink the hero gave them in return for an answer anyways, and guided them down until they were both sitting on the cool wood. A tug, and the hero was resting against their own propped up knees, villain’s hand still firm on their arm.

“How much blood did you lose?”

It was like screaming underwater, the hero reasoned. Or through a mirror. But they heard it nonetheless, and that was their villain, and even in hatred and war they would always answer them.

“Was ‘supposed to be counting?” If they had any more energy–or maybe slightly more blood–in their body, the slur to their own words would have been concerning.

The villain’s lips pursed into a thin line, and the hero felt them begin to run an assessing hand over their injuries, cataloguing them, brow furrowing further with every second.

“M’sorry,” they managed, tongue thick. The villain didn’t pause.

“For what?”

“Bleeding on your door,” they managed. The villain stopped them from raising their head from their knees. “And your–porch.”

“I don’t give a shit about either of those things,” the villain said, simply, easily. Like it was nothing. Like they didn’t feel the weight of it as they threw it into the air.

The villain sat back on their heels, clearly having learned what they wanted from the hero’s injuries.

When the hero didn’t immediately look at them, the villain grabbed their chin, gently turning it until the hero faced them.

“How far did you walk,” they said slowly, and the hero had never been more grateful for anything in their life.

“Four miles,” the hero said, and they couldn’t hear their own voice above the roaring, but the villain obviously could from the way their eyes darkened.

The hero wanted no part in making the villain angry again–I never want to see you again, do you hear me? If you ever try to talk to me again I will kill the both of us, I promise you that–, but when they attempted to push themselves up to leave, the only thing they managed was a piteous whine and a stab of pain so intense they forgot to breathe.

“Idiot,” the villain hissed. But oddly, the hero didn’t sense any anger coming from the villain.

They blinked–too long, again–and found themselves in the villain’s arms as they walked through the house. Their head lolled back onto the villain’s shoulder, and the villain glanced down as if–to make sure the hero was okay. That they were conscious, and breathing.

Oh.

Oh.

The villain wasn’t angry.

They were afraid. For the hero.

Which didn’t make any sense, because–

I never want to see you again–

“You’re mad at me,” the hero reasoned, and it came out half strangled and petulant. The villain looked down at them, and the hero caught the tiniest flinch in their jaw.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday,” the hero whispered, and the villain flinched.

“I wanted to stop this from happening.” The villain settled them onto a bathroom counter, lights flickering on as the hero leaned back against the mirror. Blood began to dry, sticky, between their fingers.

The hero’s mouth went dry, and it caught in their throat when they tried to swallow it.

“You could have just left me there.” Their voice only shook a little bit, but the villain’s head still snapped up from where they had been digging through a drawer.

“What?”

“On the porch,” the hero clarified, clearing their throat. The lump didn’t go away, and they had begun shaking at some point, and they couldn’t stop. “If you didn’t want to deal with me you could have just left me there–”

The villain’s face had darkened into something the hero almost didn’t recognize. 

“I would burn the world for you, and you think I would leave you to die on my porch?”

“You said you didn’t want this to happen.”

“No, that’s not–” the villain rubbed a hand over their brow, and the hero winced at the blood it left behind. “No. No, that’s not what I meant. I was trying to keep you from going to that stupid event and getting hurt. I knew it was going to blow.”

“I would have gone anyway.”

The villain stilled. “I thought maybe if you never wanted to see me again, and you knew I was there…”

“I would,” the hero repeated. “Have gone anyway.”

The hero watched as the villain’s face rippled through a dozen emotions, settling onto something unidentifiable.

“Why?”

“Because you were there,” the hero said easily, shrugging one shoulder. Because when it came to the villain, it really was that easy. They could scream, and shout, and hold a knife to the hero’s throat, and the hero would still follow them into hell. That was their villain.

The villain looked like the hero had stabbed them, face draining of color. Their fingers went white around the edge of the counter, as if it was the only thing keeping them upright.

“What,” the villain’s voice was hoarse.

“I went because I was hoping you would be there,” the hero said honestly

“Stop,” the villain raised a hand between them, a shield, voice breaking. They sucked in a breath, then another, like they were trying to keep themself from breaking down onto the tile.

“You would have gone to the event no matter what, just to see me,” the villain said slowly, and the hero nodded

“Yes.”

“Even though I screamed at you?”

“Yes.”

“And told you I hated you.”

“Villain, please–”

“Now you know,” the villain interrupted, voice incredibly soft. “Why I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero forgot to breathe for a moment, tongue going numb in their mouth. The villain couldn’t mean–

They blinked for a moment too long, and then the villain was standing between the hero’s knees, hand on their chest.

“You love me,” the hero said a moment later.

“Ruinously,” the villain agreed.

“So you–”

“I was trying to save your life,” the villain’s hands were gentle as they began to patch up the hero’s side. “And now I’m saving your life in a new and unanticipated way. But there is nothing you could ever do to stop me from saving your life.”

The hero’s heart clenched. 

“Really?”

The villain caught their chin, eyes boring into the hero’s. They brushed a piece of hair off the side of the hero’s face.

“Really.”

The hero sighed, and the villain caught them as they slumped.

“I thought you hated me,” the hero said, and they hated how raw they sounded. The villain made a choked little noise.

“I’m so sorry.”

The hero sniffed.

“Don’t do it again.”

The villain simply hummed, and smoothed the ends of a bandage down against the hero’s abdomen. The hero could feel their hands shaking.

You scared me.

A second later, their hands settled on either side of the hero’s head, and the villain rested their face into the hero’s hair. They pressed a kiss to the hero’s temple, tension easing from their shoulders.

I’m sorry.

The hero clutched the front of the villain’s shirt between their hands, drawing them closer. The villain went willingly, loose limbed with affection and the rapid draining of terror from their system.

“I would have never left you on that porch.”

The hero had never believed anyone more.

[thesummerstorms]

You know that conversation you can have with Emmrich where he asks what your plans are for your body when you die?

I think Arsinoë accidentally horrified him. Not by clinging to non-Nevarran ideals about cremation, but by telling him she never thought anyone would care that much one way or the other.

She would be dead, so she wouldn't care. And honestly, a majority of compradi die as Fledglings without graduating; she thinks their bodies were probably burned (since you have to do something with bodies) but they certainly don't have funerals, so it certainly wasn't worth worrying about then.

Emmrich interjects, trying to wrangle his own shock long enough to point out that she's not a Fledgling now, so surely...?

Well if she dies now, Arsinoë all but shrugs, it would depend on the circumstances, wouldn't it? She isn't someone important like a Talon or the scion of an established Crow family. She certainly isn't Caterina Dellamorte, who warrants something verging on a State Funeral.

If she died, there is still a non-zero chance it would be at another Crow's hands, in which case it's anyone's guess what happens after.

If she dies honorably fulfilling a contract, then Viago might feel obligated to do something if he isn't pissed off at her failure and she's isn't still in Exile. He's her mentor, so probably he would manage at least a small pyre. Maybe even a flower or two for the flames if he's letting himself feel sentimental. Teia would probably be there because Viago was.

But just as often, when a contract goes wrong, there's no time to go back for the body. The mark get ahold of it, or whoever's left on the contract has to focus on survival rather than the dignity of a corpse that can't feel any of it.

But really, none of that would matter to Arsinoë, would it? She'd be off wherever dead souls end up going, or maybe in oblivion, who knows. She doesn't have any family to be horrified by her corpse unless you count Viago, who is Fifth Talon, has bigger things to worry about, and will get over it.

But anyway, why do you ask, Emmrich?

Emmrich is too aghast to answer clearly at that point because every single point of Arsinoë's answer goes so deeply against everything that is ingrained in him as part of the Mourn Watch, from the belief that a corpse just doesn't matter to her sincere belief that no one would care enough about her for any particular mourning rights.

And the thing is Emmrich does care. It's his professional duty to care, but he's also become fond of his young friend and he cannot handle imagining that she could die on this mission or the next and potentially receive no rites at all.

Cue Emmrich starting to plan how he's going to have Rook interred in the Grand Necropolis when the time comes. It may involve some string pulling, especially if (hopefully) she dies not on this mission but in the distant future, and even more so if he precedes her and has to leave the job in one of his colleague's hands. But Maker help him, there will be a plan and her death will be respected.

When it comes to light, Neve is uncertain and a little weirded out, but also a little offended by all this. She's fallen in love with Rook, but even before that, the respect between them would have warranted a pyre and Arsinoë's name on the Wall of Light if there was no one else to arrange things. Is this why she's never asked about what happened after Varric-

Lucanis is horrified by the idea of Arsinoë as one of the spirit-possessed skeletons in the Necropolis or one of the jewel-eyed skulls in its many niches; he snaps at Emmrich about Nevarran obsession and respecting Rook as Antivan.

Emmrich refuses to budge. She expected the Crows to do nothing for her. She deserves better, deserves to be remembered, even if she isn't Nevarran.

Lucanis seems fully stunned by the idea that Rook believed this in the first place, given Viago's attachment. Given Lucanis's own growing feelings. Emmrich does soften a little bit when he sees that Lucanis truly didn't realize, but he also doesn't fully divert his plans.

Gathering a grave-dowry is normally left to a lover or family member if the deceased was themselves unable, and Emmrich is neither. But needs must, and though his friend now seems attached to Neve and Lucanis, hearts can be fickle. A plan is better. So he puts away small things here or there, eyes which of Rook's enchanted rings and amulets she seems to favor just in case.

It almost helps him live with the knowledge that Arsinoë believed she would die unmourned. Almost.

[francy-sketches]

hating on game of thrones in current year is a bit cringe like girl move on etc. However my complaints are more specific than the average person so I can at least feel like I'm bringing something new to the table. Instead of writing the one bilionth 'they butchered dany we were robbed' post I'm instead going on coke rants about how they character assasinated jaime by making him unfunny and how they didn't give my favorite irrelevant minor characters enough emotional depth and actually now that I'm saying it out loud that sounds worse

[janimay-sprout-cloud]

Thus, you shall be the first to succumb to the blasts of my ectoplasmic army!

[ineed-to-sleep]

I forgot about how killing eve's writing just starts getting progressively worse the more season 3 goes on. Like girl what happened to my show.......... my characters......... what did they DO to villanelle...................... and where is EVE

[hingabee]

idk if ive said this before But I do think that in a weird way you could consider Damar to be the one character that truly understood Ziyal.

He killed her, oops, yes. Now, hear me out! 🥴 All of her close associations kind of... disservice her with how they perceive and treat her...

Dukat is the most obvious, and we don't need to go into much detail to see how his deluded narcissism has him treat her as an accessory and means to an end (one that is sometimes so inconvenient he'd rather see her dead), even if I do believe he genuinely loves her in his own messed up way. And in the end when he finds out that she's "betrayed him and Cardassia" he still says he loves her. Gotta give it to him, even if he's convinced he could change her mind later on, it's still pretty meaningful from someone like Dukat. But he's too focused on Ziyal being "his", Dukat's, and not herself.

Garak is dismissive of her and her feelings, and while he has a right to reject her, obviously, he does it in a way that painfully infantilises her. Yes, she's 20/21 and much too young for him. Yet, instead of doing the responsible thing and enforcing his boundaries by putting some healthy distance between them he himself is so needy and desperate for her company that he just... keeps engaging. I don't wanna say he's leading her on, because he's quite clear about not returning her feelings, but personally (and we're venturing into headcanon territory here) I find it... not nice that he simply blames her young age relative to his instead of giving a proper, truthful reason. (In true Garak fashion, of course. But i.e. "I just don't feel the same" or straight up "I'm gay." would've been nice, even if the latter clearly couldn't be done, lol.) Obviously it's a bit more complicated, but the main reason he's close to her appears to be for his own convenience. Not because he cares so much about her. (Their relationship in canon sadly lacked more exploration, but working of what we got really just is... kind of depressing.) Too focused on Ziyal's Cardassian "side".

And then there's Kira. Sighhh. She genuinely loves Ziyal, probably in the most selfless way. But she also projects heavily onto her. Literally doesn't want Ziyal to learn about combat, even when Ziyal asks to be taught. (Do you think Kira regrets this after Ziyal dies?) Understandable, of course, but it does Ziyal a little bit of a disservice to be viewed as nothing but a young Kira to be shielded from war and mayhem, and not as herself — someone who spent most of their young life in a POW camp and whose literal existence is a result of the Occupation. Kira isn't doing this intentionally, and I find it easy to forgive her, because the way she treats Ziyal is the most "beneficial" for Ziyal's mental wellbeing here. Still, it's not fair to Ziyal to be so involved in Kira's own insecurities and regrets/trauma. Too focused on Ziyal's Bajoran "side". It's just overall sad to see, although I find with time the two of them definitely could've improved individually and together. Even if that would've made their dynamic less spicy, lol.

And then there's Damar, lol. Good ol' "sneering at Bajorans" Damar. He sees Ziyal as what she is— a pathetic, defiant bastard mix. In his own horrible way he's nasty to her for being half-Bajoran, but keeps getting hung up on her also being a "superior" Cardassian like her father. He teaches her knife tricks, and Dukat want's her to escort her to events. He's jealous of her. It's crazy that he's the only one who doesn't have ulterior motives, purposefully or not. Their relationship is barely explored in canon, obviously, but what little we do get to see is so interesting. Ziyal is nasty to him towards the end, and Damar treats her as exactly the person she wants to be perceived as because he sees her motives and morals and true alignment. He condems her for it, sure, but he doesn't project any of his own delusions or insecurities onto her. To him she is a threat to Dukat's and Cardassia's fragile stability, and thus must be eliminated.

Imagine the only person who actually sees you for who you are, and understands what you want and value, is also your crazy father's racist, alcoholic lackey. He hates you for it. And then he kills you. Man.

[critter-of-habit]

alright y'all I've been musing it over with some moots, and by god didn't everything about that episode feel so off compared to the others?? Everyone turned on Agatha so fast, and nothing was solved or resolved - she wasn't tested at all, she performed no magic, demonstrated no skill. Theory: Either the trial isn't over yet, or it was never a real trial to begin with and was the Salem Seven messing with them. Agatha knows it, that's why she reacted strangely to her "own" magic at the end and had such a sudden change in attitude to Teen - she knows something is up.

OR I guess Marvel just tricked us into thinking this show had good writing and booted it all out the window for a dramatic Wiccan reveal which is a very strong possibility ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[temporal-discounting]

Having some bird robe thoughts and feelings today.

It's arguably the most feminine item of clothing we see Stede wear. It's beautiful and pink and flowery and soft - all the things that Stede has been bullied for since he was a child.

It makes its first appearance in 1x07 when Stede brings Ed a cup of morning tea. He's not afraid that Ed will mock him for wearing it - he knows that Ed appreciates the finer, softer things just as much as he does. (And they're friends now - officially and everything!)

Of course we see it next when CJ arrives, and he clocks it straight away ('who's the big gal?' - and there's a whole other post there for another day).

But what really makes my heart sing is that Stede's response to Jack's bullying is not to stash the robe away, as maybe he once would have done.

No, he marches straight up to CJ wearing that same pretty, flowery, feminine robe and he orders him off the ship (top 3 sexy Stede moment right there).

It's such a fantastic costuming choice for this moment. It speaks volumes about Stede's growing confidence and self-acceptance.

Oh bird robe - let us not forget that before you were the depression robe, you were the ass-kicking robe 💪

[croissantdemonium]

0-E first impression

[smallsinger5901]

Lawlight shouldve beat the shit out of each other more often