#caveat emptor I guess

[anomalouscorvid]

vulnerable to the WORST KIND of vampire

[rei-ismyname]

Exceptional X-Men #4 REVIEW

I've been singing the praises of Eve L Ewing and Carmen Carnero's Exceptional X-Men, so let's see what they manage to do now that the premise is established and they've got 5 main characters we're invested in. A benefit of establishing your characters early is that you get to focus on introducing plot elements, special guests, and complications - like serialised storytelling does. Uncanny is a good example of how a lack of focus early on weakens everything you try to do. It's hard to care about The Outliers or Nightcrawler when they feel like wallpaper, and now they're running around an event without knowing who they are. The stakes lay primarily with Rogue. Trista/Bronze is a fantastic example of this done right, and as you'll see we can explore plot developments that wouldn't make sense elsewhere. Spoilers ahoy, caveat emptor.

Trista gets a lot of focus which works because we know who she is and what she wants.

Due to Kate pushing back against taking these kids somewhere isolated for training, we get to see them try to live normal lives. Trista has friends outside the tiny mutant peer group, a crush, and an interest in theatre. She declared last issue that her goal is to not hurt anyone, and she's struggling with what people tell her to be and what she wants. She's a sweet kid, and I'd say there's a racial component to this dichotomy - how black kids are perceived and how they need to act to get by in a white supremacist world. That's outside my experience but I'm invested in how Trista deals navigates the issue. After all, being strong, kind, gentle and lovely aren't mutually exclusive

I hesitate to compare to Uncanny again, but they both have high school scenes and the difference is stark. Westinghouse College Prep is a real life school in Chicago (that Biggie, Jay Z, Busta Rhymes and DMX all went to) and it is ranked pretty highly nationally. According to its website it has 98% minority enrollment. Importantly, it feels like a real school in 2024 with real people attending it, and not just because it actually is one IRL. There's no need to reach for played out generic high school tropes when the characters feel like real people with real problems already - verisimilitude.

After a smash cut to Trista with a sentinel looming over her, we learn that Emma does a pretty damn good Danger Room analogue. Trista seems determined and in control at first, using her different powers in concert effectively. She does manage to Empire Strikes Back trip the Sentinel up, but wigs out when it falls on top of her, understandably. Emma calls it, and we see more proof of why she's considered good at training young mutants.

Bobby's entrance at the end of last issue felt like a cliffhanger by virtue of being on the final page, but I'm glad his presence doesn't derail the plot entirely. It's implied that some time has passed, maybe a week - enough time for Bobby and Trista to get to know each other and enough time for Bobby to feel Kitty is avoiding him. Trista picks up on his odd behaviour and asks Emma about psychic ethics, heh. Her answer is funny and sardonic while still getting the point across. Emma and Trista having one on one time tells us a lot about Emma's sincerity and the trust she's earned through good works.

The subtext of Trista's distraction is made text - she's preoccupied with the audition, her crush, and the fear of exposure/social rejection. While we know this already, or could guess, it's effective to have newer characters tell their story. What they say is as important as what they don't say or how they say it. She responds well to being listened to and positive reinforcement, accepting the reframing of the audition as an opportunity.

Bobby is definitely up to something and acting weird. His persona feels performative. He's explicitly faking bathroom usage to text privately, and while his texting is worded vaguely enough to not give much away, it does seem sinister. At minimum he is lying about why he's there. Kitty picks up on the same weirdness Trista did and she's really not having it. He doesn't have the vibes of a friend seeking or offering support, though Kitty isn't interested in either and tells him to leave. Idk if Bobby even has a home right now - he was living in Antarctica because ORCHIS poisoned him and he couldn't hold a solid form for long. He was back with Romeo last time we saw him but also didn't have a physical body. I can't blame the creators for not explaining that, I have to assume they're under the same editorial direction everyone else is.

Trista's warmup scene has excellent layout, with the other kids' faces in circles next to their supportive texts. It's a clever way of showing their faces in an issue they're mostly absent from, and it's a solid method of variety in an issue with more texting than most. Showtime!

Trista meekly introduces herself to the casting guy/director and he suggests that the lead might not be right for her. He's polite, though she's about to disagree when her mutant life and school life clash in an unexpected way. One of those yellow beasts from X-Force appears from a portal and grabs her crush. You don't need to have been reading X-Force, it's a big monster (that were confirmed to be appearing globally in that book) and it's here. Trista rallies and uses her training to bronze up and get her head in the game.

It's a dangerous situation but has a simple solution suited to Trista's skillset. She grabs it with her tentacle things, ties it up and yeets it through the portal. Her overcoming it with pure force or martial skill would be a bit silly, but by linking her training and the progress she's made with Emma to a simple solution, it feels like an appropriate and believable triumph. Strong yet gentle. Neutralizing the beast and protecting herself and others without using overwhelming violence. It's a very effective character beat and the support/adulation from the theatre people is earned. She nailed the audition, and gets offered her choice of parts, though interestingly she turns it down in favour of her training. The theatre folks show solidarity and swear to keep her mutanthood a secret.

Trista shows up to training and seems more confident, her posture showing strength and positivity. It looks like Bronze, Axo and Melee are all benefiting and even Kate manages a smile. Then she overhears Bobby on the phone while grabbing some equipment. It's not a good look.

What Bobby is saying is so weird that she's not even sure it's him. Kate phases her hand next to his heart and straight up threatens him. He explains that everyone is worried about her and she says she's choosing this life. He tries to bring up ORCHIS and she shuts it down, saying out loud that she killed people. A little too loud, it turns out.

The kids overhear and are horrified, understandably. They're really young and don't have the kind of life experiences that come with being an X-Man - of course they are! Tom Brevoort has made a lot of noise about the X-Men killing people in Fall of X, an argument that has ignored the nuance of being at war with genocidal fascists. The issue hasn't made it to the page in a meaningful way until now, and I couldn't be more impressed. Rooting the issue in Kate's trauma and shame - as something that terrifies the students she's trying to help and likely damaging the trust she's built - approaches it on a believable character level.

This is a big part of what caused Kate to hang up her Spandex and it's something she's going to have to reckon with. Add the kids' emotional and ethical reaction and you've got a fantastic cliffhanger with the promise of explosive drama.

Kate grabs Bobby's phone and it's Rogue on the other end. She doesn't look like she's at Haven or in uniform, so who knows what's going on there? They're clearly ahead of Raid on Graymalkin as Iceman is in league with them, as if that book needs more characters. Kate doesn't care and hangs up on her. I wasn't going to compare to Uncanny a third time, but if the two are crossing over it invites comparison. Kurt's glib comment about thinking he was a murderer felt trite and silly, next to the dramatic execution of Shadowkat's actions being confronted it looks downright amateur. Kate is clearly having a PTSD flashback or intrusive thought during this conversation - whereas it wouldn't work for Bobby or Emma to announce that she has PTSD, for example.

I do enough shitting on Uncanny's writing in my reviews of that book, my point is how well similar beats are executed in this book. Eve L Ewing and Carmen Carnero's Exceptional X-Men is aptly named and frankly, if you're not reading it you're missing out. We know all these characters well enough that we care about their reaction to this revelation. Kate looks like she's about to break down, and Bronze and Axo's body language is heartbreaking. Emma knows shit is about to hit the fan and she's surely aware she killed people in Fall of X too. That's how you do a cliffhanger. Issue #4 managed to do a Trista focus issue, some slice of life, excellent character work, and lit a fuse to explode next issue all in 20 pages.

Exceptional X-Men is fantastic and you should be reading it.

[weyrwolfen]

Caveat Emptor: Chapter 2 - Corpus Delicti

Rating: T

Characters: Gen, Commanders Fox, Thorn, Thire, and Stone

Warnings: canon-typical violence; references to self-harm, injuries, loss of autonomy

Previous chapters can be found here on Tumblr or here on Ao3

“You’re going to let it in to see the Chancellor, but not me?” Senator Corval shouted at the Senate guard, red-faced and spitting. “Don’t you know who I am?”

The natborn guard, a lieutenant from the markings on his blue uniform, replied, “Of course, Sir, but there has been an incident, and the Chancellor’s schedule had to be cleared. Now, if you would just–” The rest of the perfectly polite, placating line of strill osik cut out as the door slid shut behind Fox.

He hadn’t been arrested on sight and dragged off for interrogation yet. So far, so good.

The CSF investigators had set up just inside the Chancellor’s front lobby, away from any awkwardly prying eyes. They took down Fox’s designation number, assessed his baseline biometrics (clone standard, but protocols were protocols), had him remove his gloves and gauntlets for full handprint scans, and then asked him to step onto a sheet of tacky flimsy to record his boot tread (also clone standard, who would have guessed). Then they handed him a pair of disposable covers for his boots, forewent the sterile gloves given his existing armor, and sent him on with terse, borderline rude instructions to not touch anything and to leave the investigation to the trained professionals.

Because of course the CSF would be all over this situation. Right up until it looked like something might go wrong or make them look bad, and then the responsibility and the blame would get dumped in Fox’s lap.

Except Fox needed Guard eyes on this investigation right from the beginning. He needed a way to guide the narrative, to protect himself and his men from the blowback he could see coming from a lightyear away.

He needed to know what he, what CC-1010, had done.

Breathe, in and out, and calm.

Without evidence, he didn’t know anything. Maybe they’d find the Chancellor sleeping off a tainted spice bender in a broom closet somewhere. That was a common enough issue around the Senate that Thorn had worked up a standard protocol for overdose clean up and cover up procedures.

Little gods, could they please find him drooling off a laced spice rip somewhere? At that moment, Fox couldn’t imagine a more ideal outcome. There was going to be a scandal no matter how this shook out, but at least that scenario would be effectively impossible to pin on the Guard.

Senate guards and the CSF were doing a pretty good job of keeping a lid on things so far. It wouldn’t last of course, especially with the way Corval was carrying on where anyone might overhear. Aides would gossip and rumors would spread until someone leaked the whispers to the press. Then someone would have to go make an official statement, and everyone would notice that the Chancellor still wasn’t in appearance.

And that was assuming the rules of Senate procedure wouldn’t force everyone’s hands even earlier. With the Chancellor missing, a timer was counting down. When it ran out, Mas Amedda would need to be sworn in, if only as a temporary guarantee of the continuation of powers. That would require justices and witnesses and a formal statement before the Senate itself.

Karking Sith-hells, today was going to be a nightmare. Maybe the CSF shabuire would welcome the extra manpower for once, instead of fighting over jurisdictional minutiae and acting like the Coruscant Guard all wanted to be here dealing with stuck up natborns instead of on the front lines, defending their brothers.

The covers barely fit over Fox’s boots; they hadn’t been designed with armor in mind. He had to lean awkwardly against the door frame to get them on correctly. Force karking forbid his armored shebs touch one of the museum pieces masquerading as ‘chairs’ in the lobby. He’d be decommed for his temerity on the spot.

Breathe. He just needed to sell the alibi Thire had prepped. Everyone was going to be on edge, given the circumstances. It was only expected that he would be too. He just needed to keep a reasonable handle on his composure, which was not too difficult a mission in the greater scheme of things.

Fox squared his shoulders, signaled one of the gloved CSF investigators to activate the door panel, and stepped into the Chancellor’s inner office.

For a moment, the only movement in the office came from the small camdroids that were scanning the opulent room to generate a three-dimensional model of the space. Fox found himself the subject of intense inspection.

Under the safety of his concealing visor, he returned the favor, scanning the space for potential threats as he made his way towards the front of the room and the expansive desk situated there.

Most of the people in the room were higher ranking CSF agents, performing tasks usually reserved for entry-level investigators and trainees. Every aspect of this case was going to be locked down for anyone without the absolute highest clearance levels. Fox noted their tension, their hostility towards him, but none of it struck him as particularly unexpected or noteworthy. This high-profile a case was going to make them even more territorial than usual.

Of more concern were the handful of Senate guards, who were watching everyone in the room with hair-triggered aggression. They also viewed the Coruscant Guard as unwanted competition and interacted with the clones only when forced. But now, something had happened to the Chancellor on their watch, and Fox would bet every credit he’d ever seen that the blame and finger-pointing was already being directed their way.

The ranking Senate guard on site looked to be Captain Axion, who appeared red-faced and furious at being pried from his cushy office by the unfolding catastrophe. Fox would need to handle this confrontation with extreme care. Axion would be looking for some third party upon whom he could saddle the blame, and as the last person on record having seen the Chancellor, Fox himself would be a very tempting target.

Even so, he was not the subject of Fox’s primary concern. The man standing in front of Captain Axion was.

From a distance, General Mace Windu looked like the very picture of Jedi composure and serenity. In closer proximity, there were lines around the man’s eyes and mouth that were hard to miss, if anyone cared to look beyond the stony expression, meticulously draped robes, and lightsaber.

Fox was usually very good at getting a read on other sentients, but he had only the most passing familiarity with the Jedi. He interacted with the Knights and Masters who liaised with the Senate regularly, but always at arm’s length. Despite his training, despite all expectations ingrained in him by the Kaminoans, he and his men had never been assigned a Jedi general. They belonged, first and foremost, to the Senate.

So Fox knew General Windu, but not well enough to get more than a cursory idea of his mental state. The Jedi’s faintly pinched expression could mean any number of things: annoyance, frustration, physical pain.

Fox just needed to remember his training, though he doubted the Kaminoans had meant for him to apply it to convincingly lie to a superior. Jedi could sense the emotional state of other sentients, and sometimes specific thoughts or intentions with focused effort, but they trained all their lives to block out that constant stream of psychic input. Fox just needed to avoid drawing enough suspicion to earn a deeper look. His primary hope was that his mental state would blend into the tense backdrop of fear and anxiety that everyone present was no-doubt leaking into the room.

Deep breath, stop two paces from the general, and salute. “CC-1010, reporting as requested, Sir.” Fox’s words, like his posture, were exactingly precise.

So much was riding on his ability to perform to perfection. All of his brothers were counting on him.

The General gave Fox a brief, assessing look, then nodded incrementally and said, “At ease, Commander… Fox, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir,” Fox said, not letting any of the surprise he was feeling leak into his voice. He was accustomed to dealing with Senators who insisted he use his designation number and others who preferred knowing his chosen name, but he had not expected the head of the Order to actually recognize him. That would require some adjustments. He settled into a crisp parade rest and waited for his orders.

The general’s mouth twitched, almost hinting at the very beginnings of a small smile, and he said, “Commander Ponds speaks very highly of you.”

This conversation was not going how Fox had been expecting. The last time he had seen Ponds, his brother had been signing four troopers out of the Corries’ drunk tank. Fox wouldn’t have described the interaction as particularly cordial, but he wouldn’t characterize their relationship as bad, per se. Just distant, these days, and not the kind of dynamic that would come up in casual conversation with a Jedi general. “We were batchmates, Sir,” Fox replied, because he had to say something and that piece of information seemed neutral enough.

“Hmm,” the general said, giving Fox a piercing, stomach-lurching look, but then he turned to one of the nearby CSF agents and gestured for the woman to join them.

The investigator, some near-human species with translucently pale skin, magenta hair, and widely-spaced, exceedingly large eyes, rose from where she had been scanning something on the floor and handed the device off to a colleague.

“Inspector Svaryoskya has been compiling a record of the Chancellor’s known whereabouts yesterday,” General Windu said, nodding to the woman when she stepped forward to join the group. “If you could please make your report to her?”

“Of course, Sir,” Fox replied cooly, forcibly crushing down the spike in anxiety he felt at the prospect. He pivoted to face the CSF inspector. “Ma’am?”

Inspector Svaryoskya looked thoroughly put off by having to speak to him at all, but she at least made the effort to school her features into something vaguely professional and said, “If you would come with me?”

Fox followed her to a pair of temporary folding tables which had been set up to hold and organize samples and equipment. No doubt it had been done to avoid contaminating useful evidence from the pre-existing surfaces in the office. It took her a moment to set up what looked like a compact, holorecording device and synch it with a datapad while Fox waited, again assuming a meticulously correct position of parade rest.

The device beeped once and then lit up, scanning the immediate area with a wave of blue light before recognizing the two sentients standing in closest proximity to it and focusing in on their positions. Looking over the investigator’s shoulder, Fox could see a time stamp and a blinking record icon appear at the top of the datapad.

She pressed the icon and straightened, facing Fox head on and said, “Inspector Yana Svaryoskya, interviewing.” Her eyes settled somewhere on the level with Fox’s respirators, and she continued, “Please state your designation and rank for the record.”

“CC-1010, Marshal Commander of the Coruscant Guard,” Fox replied evenly. She did not request his name, and he did not volunteer it.

“Please explain the nature of your meeting with Chancellor Palpatine yesterday afternoon.”

Fox nodded and launched into the narrative Thire had provided for him, stitching together a few carefully crafted fabrications with as many verifiable facts as possible. “I was one of the commanders on site in the Senate yesterday, overseeing security for a scheduled press conference, when I received a report of surveillance outages affecting the security cameras in sector Thesh 16. Protocol dictates that such anomalies should be treated as intentional acts of sabotage until proven otherwise, so I transferred responsibility for the press event to a subordinate, forwarded a preliminary security alert to the Senate Guard, and went to assess the situation personally.”

So far, so good, but then everything Fox had relayed thus far had been entirely truthful. He reached into a pouch on his belt and pulled out the datastick Thire had pressed into his hands on the turbolift ride to the ground floor of the Guard’s compound. He held it out to the inspector, who took it gingerly and eyed it with some suspicion.

Fox clasped his hands behind his back again and continued with his report, leaning into the cooly professional tone and cadence he generally used around hostile natborns, “It rapidly became apparent that the outage was not the result of enemy action and was instead caused by an infestation of Scyvian barrow-rats in the conduits. That datastick contains a copy of the Guard’s report, detailing the steps taken to identify and mitigate the interruption, until repairs can be completed.”

And then, it was time to start in with the lies. Fortunately, Fox was a very talented liar. “I received a request for an update on the security alert.” Bless Thire, who was downstairs right now, coaching Odal on what to say if any CSF agent showed up looking for independent verification of Fox’s account, and bless Sear’s team of slicers, for seeding the Guard’s records with fabricated evidence to back up this story. Security alert confirmation requests were generally automated, so they were easy enough to falsify. His men had done the hard work, Fox just needed to trust them and do his part to drive the blade home. “The situation on site was stable, with repairs in progress and extra Guardsmen assigned to patrol the affected areas, so I was able to respond to the Chancellor’s summons immediately.”

“Are you often asked to make such trivial reports in person?” Inspector Svaryoskya asked, looking up from the datapad where she had been taking notes. Her tone hinted at disbelief and thinly veiled accusation.

“No, Ma’am, but the Chancellor does not consider security threats to the Senate to be trivial in nature,” Fox answered smoothly, which made the inspector’s fair skin flush with obvious displeasure. “May I continue?”

The inspector’s mouth thinned ominously, but she simply said, “Please do.”

Lie. Lie believingly, because more lives than his own depended on it. “The Chancellor was relieved that the outages did not represent an intentional security breach, but he was highly displeased about the infestation of vermin in a historic section of the Senate dome.” Fox could almost see it, the way the Chancellor’s mouth would turn down at the corners, the way his eyebrows would drop low over his too-cold eyes. How his voice would sound gently concerned, but also faintly disgusted. Even scornful. Mocking.

How the skin down the back of Fox’s neck would start to prickle with unease. How his heartrate would pick up and his vision would tunnel a little, instinctive reactions to a perceived threat.

Breathe. He was overreacting, as usual. This office always set him on edge on the best of days. He just needed to complete this report.

“He had specific questions about the nature and duration of the repairs. In total, the meeting lasted perhaps twenty minutes.” It had lasted twenty-three, Thire had made sure he was aware of the exact times he entered and exited the suite, but a rounded number sounded more casual, more off the cuff. More believable.

Inspector Svaryoskya tapped her stylus on the datapad, narrowed her eyes at whatever notes she had taken, and then continued her line of questioning.

Where had he gone after the meeting?

Back to Guard headquarters, to put together the report on the incident and to reorganize the day’s patrol assignments, to maintain the extra security in Thesh 16.

Had the Chancellor left the main office space, during the meeting?

No.

Had he recorded any aspect of his meeting with the Chancellor?

No, that would be a violation of Senate and Guard security procedures.

Had he seen anyone unusual or suspicious upon leaving the Chancellor’s office?

No.

Had the Chancellor seemed uncharacteristically nervous or distracted during the meeting?

No.

Can you take off your helmet?

No, that is against Guard protocols when a trooper is participating in an active, ongoing security crisis.

She peppered in questions about things Fox had already described, playing dumb in an attempt to trick him into revealing an inconsistency in his story. The strategy was a common one, and often effective, even to someone who was aware of the parameters of the game.

But Fox was very good at this. He always had been, even as a cadet.

When had his men realized the damage to the electrical conduits was not external sabotage?

What route did Fox take to get to the Chancellor’s office from Thesh 16?

How many Senate guards were stationed at the Chancellor’s door, when Fox arrived?

Fox answered them all, varying his words to make them sound less rehearsed. Not that he’d had time to rehearse anything, not with the Jedi insisting on his presence as soon as physically possible. But Thire’s foreshortened briefing had still been exceedingly thorough, and Fox had an excellent memory.

After a while, Inspector Svaryoskya started to look and sound vaguely impatient to have this interview over. Fox got the distinct impression that whatever she’d been hoping for, he hadn’t given it to her.

He did not sigh or let his shoulders droop with relief. He did not smile, even inside the privacy of his sealed bucket. He simply stood at a perfect parade rest and waited. The words which marked the end of a formal interview came fairly quickly after that.

Could he think of any other observations which might be pertinent to the investigation?

No.

Would he be available, if the CSF required any further statements from him?

Of course.

Finally he was given a comm code, to contact her if anything occurred to him at a later time, and with that, the inspector curtly tried to dismiss him.

It would be a sunny day on karking Kamino before Fox took orders from any CSF agent. He reminded her that he had been called here by General Windu, and so he would remain until he was dismissed by the ranking GAR officer on site.

The inspector had not been well pleased by that, but she also didn’t have the legal authority to kick him out of the suite. She also couldn’t demand that General Windu order him to leave, because the Jedi was currently having a very one-sided fight with Captain Axion. One-sided in that the captain was almost frothing at the mouth over something the Jedi was saying, while the general himself seemed just as sedate as ever. Perhaps a little darkly amused, if the way one corner of his mouth was twitching upwards was any indication.

Fox cooly agreed to take up a post in a very out-of-the-way corner of the room to await further orders.

He was happy to do so. The position gave him a rather good view of the space. He was very accustomed to fading into the background while standing a watch. Maybe these CSF agents believed the gossip that clones were basically droids wrapped in flesh, or maybe they just weren’t aware of his helmet’s capabilities, but it took them all of five minutes to start treating him like a piece of inconvenient furniture.

Fox just dialed up the input on his external mics, split his HUD so the left side was magnified ten times, and settled in to observe.

General Windu wanted to open the Chancellor’s desk and private quarters. Apparently he could feel something concerning coming from both places, even though his senses were being obstructed or confused for some reason. Captain Axion was of the opinion that the contents of the Chancellor’s desk, much less his personal rooms, were to be treated as state secrets. The Jedi informed the captain that he had already dispatched a representative to obtain a security release from acting Chancellor Amedda. Apparently the captain felt that this was an attempt to circumvent the Senate guard’s authority.

The two were clearly locked in a stalemate, waiting for those documents, so Fox shifted his attention elsewhere.

Two CSF agents were running samples through a very familiar field chem-analyzer. Maybe it still had all four of its supports and wasn’t propped up on one end with a broken piece of scrap floor tile, but it was functionally the same model Thorn had smuggled into Guard headquarters. Even the vials and evidence bags were the same, although these had bar-coded labels already affixed to each of them.

Apparently they weren’t finding much of anything interesting. The room was nearly spotless. They’d found a small patch of spilled liquid next to one of the chairs, but it appeared to be some kind of high-proof alcoholic beverage. There were occasional smears of mixed organics and aromatics on the desk and chairs around the room, all consistent with high-end lotions and perfumes. Interestingly, they had found a very small smear of blood on the front lip of the Chancellor’s desk, but it appeared to be weeks old and very degraded by cleaning agents, suggesting that it wasn’t relevant to anything that might have happened within the last planetary rotation. That wasn’t stopping the two investigators from speculating wildly about its source.

Two Senate guards were stationed in front of the side door, which led to the Chancellor’s private rooms. They weren’t talking and seemed just as tense and angry as the rest of their colleagues. Fox could only assume that the on-site security team had already swept the space for life signs, but to exclude it from the current investigation seemed idiotic.

Then again, he certainly didn’t want to be the officer responsible for giving the order to toss the Chancellor’s underwear drawer if he showed back up alive and well and furious about the invasion of his domain.

Another investigator was positioned just to the right of the room’s main door, doing something to the decorative sconce on the wall and muttering profanities to himself in mingled Basic and Pantoran. Fox was aware that there was a concealed exit behind that wall panel providing access to an emergency escape turbolift. It had been part of Fox’s initial security briefing back when he first arrived on Coruscant, but he’d never actually had need to enter the space.

He knew that the access button was concealed under a sliding panel, worked into the side of the decorative wall sconce. That had been part of the security briefing.

The fact that the panel tended to stick unless jiggled just the right way had not been part of that briefing. Apparently the CSF investigator did not know that. Fox had no reason to know that either.

Why did he know that?

The prickling down the nape of Fox’s neck increased, crawling down his back. A headache, the kind that never seemed to fully go away these days, sparked and flared behind his eyes, no doubt triggered by his increase in heartrate and his corresponding spike in his blood pressure. He needed to get a grip on himself.

Fox breathed slowly and deeply through his nose, as he’d been trained, but he nearly choked and coughed instead when that sent an unexpected trickle of hot, copper-tasting liquid down the back of his throat.

Blood.

Great, and now his kriffing nose was bleeding again, and there wasn’t a karking thing he could do about it with his bucket on. Hopefully it’d just stop on its own before he made too much of a mess of the inside of his helmet.

The main entrance from the lobby swished open, and a second Jedi strode into the room with a swagger like he owned the place.

Fox didn’t recognize this general, but his appearance was certainly distinctive enough that Fox shouldn’t have trouble figuring out the Jedi’s identity later. He was perhaps a shade darker complected than the average clone, with locs half-tied up to keep them out of his face, and a gold tattoo across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

The general held up a datapad as he neared General Windu and the still-incensed looking Captain Axion. “I’ve got the security release right here,” he said and then extended the ‘pad to General Windu.

General Windu turned the datapad around and briefly read its contents. “Everything seems to be in order,” he said, handing it to Axion to look over as well. He then walked around the desk as the captain looked at the document.

“I’ll get Verus to bring up the spare access keys,” Axion said, sounding very disgruntled about it.

“No need,” General Windu replied, and sure enough, there was a faint ‘snick’ sound and one of the side-drawers slid open, seemingly of its own accord.

Fox wondered if his brothers on the front lines ever got used to this kind of casual Force osik. He certainly found it uncanny as all kriff.

General Windu reached down to shift something aside with his actual hands this time and then paused, eyebrows rising slightly. “Vos, I need you to look at this,” he said, low enough that Fox’s bucket almost didn’t pick it up.

“Look at it, or touch it?” the other Jedi, Vos, asked, walking around the desk to stand next to his superior. Whatever was in the drawer earned a sharp intake of breath and a softly whispered, “Well kriff me.”

General Vos tugged off one of his gloves and reached for whatever it was that had the two Jedi so concerned.

“Now, see here…” Captain Axion started to object, but was almost immediately interrupted.

“I know the procedures,” General Vos said, hand hovering above the open drawer. “You can exclude my prints later, but this requires bare skin.” And then he reached down and grabbed… something. Fox couldn’t really see well from this angle, but whatever it was, the item was cylindrical and made of polished metals that simply screamed of extreme expense.

Fox was about to zoom in the view of his HUD further to get a better look, but General Vos gasped and, despite having just said that he was familiar with evidence collection procedures, proceeded to drop, almost throw, whatever the thing was back into the drawer.

The interaction had drawn the attention of several of the CSF investigators, a few of whom gasped out protests at the handling of… whatever it was, but neither Jedi seemed to be paying any of them the smallest bit of attention. General Vos’s head whipped up, expression shocked, and caught General Windu’s eyes. Something passed between them in silence, some understanding or communication, because General Windu just nodded and looked back at Captain Axion.

“We need to clear this space,” General Windu said in a tone like beskar.

For once, even Captain Axion seemed to recognize that arguing was probably not the best course of action. “You mean, all of us?” he asked faintly.

“Yes.”

“Into the lobby, or…”

“Out of the suite entirely.”

That did not sound promising. So much for not making an obvious scene in the public hallway outside of the Chancellor’s office. What the kriff was the problem?

For the CSF agents and Senate guards for whom General Windu’s stern gravitas didn’t quite do the trick, General Vos’s charming cajoling and occasionally unsubtle shooing got them moving. Fox hung to the back as General Vos herded the others out, until he could approach General Windu with some expectation of not being overheard.

“Sir, the Guard has specialized bomb disposal units, biological contaminant gear, sniffer massifs. Should I comm for backup?” he asked, trying to cover the most likely circumstances which might require evacuation of the entirety of the Chancellor’s suite.

He also actively tried not to think about how whatever that thing was had gotten into the Chancellor’s desk. And whether he, or rather CC-1010, had had something to do with it.

General Windu gave Fox an odd look, but he answered readily enough. “Thank you, Commander, but this will be a matter for the Council to handle. If you could set up a perimeter to isolate the rooms, that would help us greatly.”

“Of course, Sir,” Fox replied, wishing the reply had been a little less cryptic.

Seeing as how the general did not seem to be interested in leaving his current position, Fox turned to go execute his orders. However, he did spare a quick glance behind him on his way out of the room. General Windu had turned to face the wide windows behind the Chancellor’s desk, looking out over the sprawling cityscape of Coruscant. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back.

Fox palmed several pre-labeled, empty evidence bags from the supply table and slipped them into one of his belt pouches on the way out of the door.

“For kriff’s sake,” Thorn said when Fox pulled off his helmet. “You’ve just been bleeding in there, all day?”

Fox didn’t dignify that with a response. He could see exactly how bad he looked in the ‘fresher mirror without the helpful commentary. The lower half of his face, most everything below his sluggishly dripping nose, was covered in tacky, half-dried blood.

He just glowered at Thorn and held out a hand, silently demanding the cannister of pressurized armor cleaner his brother was holding.

“Fix your karking face,” Thorn said, handing him a small first aid kit instead. “I’ll clean out your bucket.”

Fox glowered at Thorn, but he wasn’t about to turn down an offer like that. He handed over his bucket and snatched the kit. His face felt sticky and itched ferociously. He dumped the kit, his gauntlets, and his gloves into a neighboring sink, and turned on the fancy faucet in front of him.

Thorn flipped Fox’s helmet over and took a look inside. Whatever he saw earned a low whistle, audible even through the vocoder. “You know, I could have grabbed you new filters if you’d told me it was this bad.”

Fox cupped his hands under the stream of water and splashed it on his face. It swirled down the drain, red-streaked and flecked with dried flakes of blood. He wet his hands again and started scrubbing at the worst patches. “Why, when I’m just going to keep bleeding into a fresh set?” Fox snapped, at the end of his rope with just about everything. He’d managed to stanch the flow a few hours back, when he took a quick fifteen count for a ration bar. It hadn’t lasted.

“Have you told Scav?” Thorn asked, shaking up the cannister and then spraying it into the interior of Fox’s helmet over one of the sinks. The internal electronics were sealed against breath condensation and other types of moisture, but there were limits, and this was going to be pushing them. Fox didn’t have the down time for a full work-over of his helmet, maybe Mags could loan him a spare. He hated the idea of wearing a shiny bucket, but it was better than a glitching HUD.

Fox opened up the medical kit and found the sterile astringent wipes inside. “And when, exactly, do you think I would have had time for that?” he growled, using one of the wipes to scrub at a patch of mostly dried blood in the bare beginnings of stubble on his chin.

“Find the time, or he’ll kill both of us and use our bodies for spare parts,” Thorn said, almost conversationally. Fox knew him too well to miss the legitimate concern riding under the dark humor.

And he also wasn’t wrong. There were all sorts of rumors around the Guard about how Scavenger had earned his name. Fox hadn’t ever bothered to confirm any of them.

Fox just grimaced. “I will, as soon as I can head back to base.”

When that might be was anyone’s guess.

It had been hours, and the Chancellor still hadn’t turned up passed out in some corner of the Senate dome.

Nor had any Separatist group claimed credit for either kidnapping the Chancellor or assassinating him, and they certainly would have if they had. It would be a massive morale boost for the CIS.

No ransom letter had arrived in the Senate’s mailroom.

No questionable stench had started wafting out of the air vents.

There had been a few developments though, not that Fox was able to put the pieces together into a coherent picture.

Several additional members of the Jedi Council presented themselves at the Chancellor’s office soon after Fox had left the suite and set up a defensive perimeter. He could not be certain, but he thought the group represented every councilmember currently on planet.

Perhaps half an hour later, three more Jedi arrived with crates on a hovercart, all emblazoned with warnings so aggressive they might as well have been overt threats.

An hour after that, acting Chancellor Mas Amedda had come to the office, with two extremely harried-looking aides, fresh off announcing his unexpected ascension to the office in front of the sitting Senate body. It was a zoo out there, but Stone was handling the security instead of Fox, because somehow that fragmentation grenade of a situation was still only the second most incendiary event currently erupting in the Senate dome.

He'd looked sour upon arriving and even more so when he left, aides straggling along behind him with two boxes overloaded with flimsi files and datapads. Fox assumed they were the confidential contents of Chancellor Palpatine’s desk.

Well, most of them. He was pretty certain the Jedi wouldn’t be turning over the mystery cylinder.

The containment crates left a few hours after that, each with two Jedi as escorts. Thorn had shown up in the middle of their departure, along with the next shift of fresh Guards. It had been as good a time as any to slip away for a quick conversation in the service ‘freshers.

At least his face was now semi-clean, even though a new streak of blood was starting to trickle out of his left nostril. He fished a few gauze pads, a tube of bacta gel, and two pain tabs out of the first aid kit. He could dab a little ointment on two scraps of gauze and stick them up each nostril. The vocoder would probably cover for the worst of the stuffiness that would cause, but at least he wouldn’t be bleeding into his filters anymore.

“Did you bring the other items I requested?” he asked, dry swallowing the pain tabs and then tearing off the first bit of gauze and rolling it into a sort of conical, plug shape.

“Yeah,” Thorn replied, eyeing Fox out of the corner of his eye. “But are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“If you’ve got a better idea, now would be the time to share it.”

There weren’t security cameras in the Senate bathrooms. Thank the little gods for natborn modesty.

Except Thorn apparently couldn’t think of a better plan.

And Fox had run out of ideas hours ago. The Jedi weren’t telling him anything, and it was only minimally comforting that he wasn’t being singled out. They weren’t briefing the CSF or the Senate guards either.

Fox made the exchange in one of the ‘fresher stalls. The sterile gloves and empty bags were hidden safely away inside one of his belt pouches.

When the CSF agents were finally allowed back into the office suite to retrieve their equipment and samples, they unknowingly left with three extra bags with intentionally incorrect labels slipped amongst their other evidence. One contained a swab with the unidentified blood from Fox’s pauldron, one held the two silver hairs they’d found on his blacks, and the last had the sample of the odd, organic residue from the bruises on his face.

[literaticat]

Link to discussion about reading fee (note - this is not the only small press who does this, it's not common but there's a few others). It won't let me paste the link so I'll paste the title and google should bring you to it. (Relevant discussion takes place at bottom of Page 2, new posts, and Page 3.) The Linen Press, Absolute Write, Bewares, Recommendations & Background Check

(For those who don't know what this is about, see the previous question, re a small press whose guidelines state that you have to buy one of their books in order for them to consider your submission, which I didn't know about, so this poster has kindly given more info. Links below.)

I looked up the discussion and also took a peek at the publisher's submission guidelines.

I dunno, I mean, personally, I think it's a red flag. Kinda sketch, and yes, akin to a "reading fee" -- if the only way they will even look at your work is if you buy something, and one of the somethings is the owner's own book, it's like... welp. Money is, in all traditional publishing scenarios, meant to flow TOWARD the writer, so I do understand why someone's hackles might go up at being asked to pay for a product in order to even be considered. And how do you know you will be considered, actually? What if they just take the money, then put your submission in the bin? At least with a regular publisher, if they decline, or even just put your submission in the bin, you haven't LOST MONEY for the privilege.

From the publisher's perspective, I can understand it, though -- -[note I didn't say LIKE it, just understand it!] -- presumably they are very much a "shoestring" operation, primarily funded from the owner's pocket; it takes a lot of time and resources to consider submissions, people need to be paid for their labor, etc. And this would, as somebody says in the discussion, cut down on submissions, "weed out" people who aren't serious, and presumably insure that people who are submitting have at least an inkling of the kinds of books they publish.

They DO have a work-around where you can plead poverty and not have to buy the book, which is something at least. It would be better if they also allowed buying an e-book, given that they seem to be located in the UK and shipping costs may be prohibitive to other countries. Obviously it would be better still if they didn't have this policy at all, but, it's a free country, it's not illegal or even immoral, it's just... odd. If THEY don't mind being seen as odd, then I guess I don't mind either.

Caveat emptor: If it bothers you, there's an elegant solution, which is not to submit to them. If, on the other hand, you have done your research, read some of their books (from the library or whatever) and loved them, think they are doing a swell job and the company ethos matches your own and you think your book would be potentially just right for them, and you don't mind spending money on a book (when the book might be all you get out of it) -- well, go for it, just have your eyes wide open in case there are OTHER red flags, too.

[stalemateserial]

49

Down a ten digit, now. Seeing the four stand where a five had was making it all the more real. Harder to deny. It'd be rather convenient to experience the five stages of grief over ten days each, that'd leave her with twenty days of acceptance, give or take.

But I don't accept this just yet.

She was feisty like that, so it goes.

"Are you finding it harder to ignore?"

Ruth's measuring the potted plant attached to one of the examination tables, either lost in thought or else doing a bang-up job pretending she was. "Finding what harder to ignore? How silly these experiments are?"

"No, I meant, you know… the deadline."

"It's a bit unrealistic to think you can ignore it, don't you think?"

"Well, that'd be the better way to conduct myself, wouldn't it? I'm not feeling much like I'm seizing the days I have left."

"Your memento mori is mixing with your carpe diem, hmmm?"

"I suppose so."

"I guess I'm ahead of schedule, then, I'm feeling a lot more caveat emptor than I am memento mori."

"Remind me what that is, exactly?"

"Let the buyer beware."

"Well, you can hardly say we paid for this."

"Not yet, but we might be paying the ultimate price soon."

Judith felt her breathing begin to get away from her. Her heartbeat was in her ears loud enough to nearly drown out the air processing. Her eyes were stinging with water. "Jesus, we really are, aren't we? I mean we really, truly are. I really am going to die."

"For now, it'd be the realistic thing to expect, but I ain't dead yet, Judy. It might not seem like it, but there's people down there scratching every fold of their brain trying to think up a way out of this. It's either silly to let it occupy your every thought because we'll have a solution, or it's useless, because you're just wasting your last days."

Judith sniffled, stray tears drifting into weightless space around her face. "But how can I not? I don't want to die."

"I know, honey. I don't either. There's not much waiting for me back down there, but it's enough to make me want to stick around to see it again. But until the second I feel myself starting to choke, my fight isn't over. And we still have something we need to do."

"I haven't thought about that too much today."

"Well, thinking yourself into a pit will do that. Find a rope, honey; we made a promise."

So Judith thought about it. The board was opening up now, there were many more options to consider. Every so often, while she pondered, tendrils of doubt would rear up from the pit Ruth had willed into existence, misery seeking company. Judith would dismiss them, each one more forceful and impatient than the last. But Ruth was right about the promise. So she strategized, simulated possible outcomes, let herself be tactical. They're having dinner when she says "Queen's side knight to D2."

Ruth wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin. "You haven't forgotten the agreement, have you?"

"It's not an agreement, it's a wager. Jumping the gun gets you trouble in a game like this. I know better than to let you bait me."

Ruth caught Judith's drifting gaze, smiling a Cheshire smile. "Maybe I'll take a piece tonight, then."

"You'd sacrifice a potential lead just to get rid of the tension?"

"There's tension?"

Judith looks away, but she can tell Ruth's eyes are still on her. "Come on, now, don't tease me. I've too much dignity to be anything but coy."

"Methinks the lady hath read too much Jane Austen."

"You don't like thinking to yourself whether they will or they won't?"

"I don't think it's uncommon knowledge whether or not Mr. Darcy ends up with Elizabeth."

"Sure, but it's not about what happens eventually. It's about every time it's been so close, re-examining what was really happening once you know for sure. It's about the buildup."

"If you like the buildup," Ruth purred, "allow me my opportunity to construct. Fancy me an architect."

Judith knows she's playing along, now. Humoring a joke to avoid what follows the punchline. "Is that what this is?"

"No, no, I'm having too much fun teasing you. All you'll get from me now is this: Castle, rook at F8, king at F9"

[thosearentcrimes]

In the 1970s and 80s there was a chain of electronics stores in the New York media market that became quite famous for its over-the-top commercials. They hadn't invented that style of ad (which, as far as I can tell, rose and fell with the independent or small chain retail market), consisting of a very excited "insane" guy with a catchphrase about prices (His Prices Are INSAAAAANE!), but they flooded the Tri-State area airwaves with it.

I'm not really talking about this company because of their advertising, except in the sense that I am familiar with this company because my father told me the story of the ads once, while mentioning that he got some suspiciously cheap but good electronics there. You see, Crazy Eddie, named after primary ringleader Eddie Antar, was also a criminal enterprise and a fraud. According to one of the participants, Sam E. "Sammy" Antar, whose detailed and presumably highly misleading account of the case is available on his amazingly-named website White Collar Fraud, it had always been engaging in fraudulent accounting.

From its humble beginnings as a private company, profits were skimmed and employees were paid under the table, allowing the Antar family to, ah, manage their tax obligations. My understanding is that neither of these practices is or was particularly uncommon in the world of brick-and-mortar retail.

Now, as Crazy Eddie expanded, it became less and less reasonable to engage in petty fraud at that scale. What they had to do next was stop committing tax fraud. Not only would that allow them to avoid getting caught doing tax fraud, by progressively skimming less of the profit they would be able to appear to achieve an impressive rate of growth. This was all in preparation for the smart bit of the scheme, going public.

This is how it works. Stocks trade speculatively at a significant multiple of earnings. This means that if you control and own most of a company, if you can dump your own money into your company and then sell a significant amount of your stock, you can still easily come out well ahead. Soon, the Antars were painstakingly laundering money they had sucked out of Crazy Eddie while it was privately held back into the company past the not particularly vigilant auditors in order to look good to the financial markets.

Eventually the scheme started falling apart socially and financially, and the company suffered a hostile takeover from a competitor who subsequently found that there was $40 million less inventory than advertised. Caveat Emptor, I guess. Eddie Antar tried to flee to Israel but was extradited, upon later getting out of prison he tried to start another electronics retailer called Crazy Eddie, which surprisingly didn't work. Sammy Antar turned state's evidence and is now a fed-lite.

Why am I saying all this, why am I pointing out this particular case? Well, obviously it's because I think there are a lot of modern-day Antars running around making a lot of money, and presumably a lot of their CFOs are also going to flip and reinvent themselves as forensic auditors once they get caught. I assume most startups are somewhat more legal than anything Crazy Eddie did, but many of the market principles remain the same. In fact, corporate lawyers have developed more and more ways to do the same things the Antars did legitimately.

It is ironic that stealing from their own company was worthwhile for the Antars so long as the company was a serious business for them, albeit one that they were operating in a criminal manner, while pumping money into their company was only the correct thing to do once they were divesting themselves of ownership. Obviously this is just how tax evasion and pump and dumps work, but I find it contrasts interestingly with the capitalist dogma that ownership makes for better stewards of the property, still used as the primary political argument for privatization even though capitalist firms are also run managerially.

Ultimately, my takeaway is that the Antars were basically your regular shady retail guys, until they spotted an opportunity to get in on the ground floor of Shareholder Value Maximization. My other takeaway is if you get something cheap because someone is fucking the shareholders, mind your own business probably.

[hierarchyproblem]

1, 3 , 6, 22

1. Faves of the year

Wuthering Heights, and I don't think it's even particularly close. I read and enjoy a fair few "classics" but it's not often one worms its way into my brain like this book did. Often what's shocking to a readership of a couple hundred years ago comes over kind of tame in the 21st century, and maybe in the 1840s this was like a Saw movie, idk, but I found the abuse and cruelty in WH all the more affecting for how grounded and small it felt. These characters, almost isolated from the world, connected to each other by a nearly entirely overlapping family tree, hurt each other and make themselves miserable in such extremely believably human ways. Rarely is anything from so far before my time so compelling and immediate.

3. DNF With Prejudice: Book(s) you didn't finish on purpose

I almost never do this! Partly because I (like to think I) curate my tbr list pretty well, and partly out of stubbornness, I can only think of a few books lifetime I've given up on. Every book I started last year, I either finished or expect to finish imminently (Capital Vol. III might take a few more months but we persevere lol).

6. Dead Dove Do Not Eat: Book you would recommend to a select audience with a mountain of caveats

Almost all the non-fiction I read falls under this category: the aforementioned ingot of a tome by a certain Mr Marx; Franz J. Hinkelammert's The Ideological Weapons of Death, which I've posted about plenty already; Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea, a "people's history" of the early-mid 18th-century maritime world by the GOAT Marcus Rediker; R. B. Jamieson's and Tyler Wittman's Biblical Reasoning, a moderately academic but very, very helpful exposition of Trinitarian doctrine, where it comes from, why it is the way it is, and why it matters; etc etc etc. One's mileage may vary enormously.

For fiction, then, you may have already guessed: it's Serious Weakness by Porpentine Charity Heartscape. Thank you very much for making me read this, it was really good. To anyone who hasn't, caveat emptor, but if you've got the stomach for (among other things) one of the most true-to-life depcitions of sexual violence I've ever read, this is well worth it. I guess I just like art that deals with the indignity of human cruelty; that dwells on the absurd little details of it. This had that in heaps.

22. Best book you found in the wild

Almost everything I read this year is either reasonably famous, or I can remember whose review I read, or who recommended it to me, etc. (you're at least partially to blame for several, actually). The one I genuinely did find in the wild (ie. for 50p on the library's stock clearance shelf) was Larry Niven's Ringworld.

I can't remember if I posted about it in the summer, but what I'll say here is that it reminded me again just how much more adventurous a lot of 70s sci-fi - even a lot of the genre slop! - compared with the 2020s baseline, by which I mean, how many more ideas-per-book you could expect. Ringworld is about "what if there was a big circle," obviously, but it's got so many other ideas bubbling away as well - almost too many to fit into a pretty short book. In the final analysis, the details of the eponymous Big Circle isn't even that important to what the story's about.

Also, I found it quite amusing that it only occurred to me that the titular ringworld might not be deserted by its creators on the protagonists' final approach, that is, the first time a character ponders if in fact it might be deserted. I thought, are you guys stupid? have you never experienced, like, any science fiction before? But of course they hadn't; they're characters in the book that gave us the trope of the "abandoned megastructure" that I, fifty years on, had been taking for granted.

[thelibraryofthacey]

Review: Draw Steel Backer Packet 1

I recently ran a playtest game of Draw Steel, a TTRPG being developed by MCDM. I’ve been a diehard Matt Colville fan since before he started MCDM, so suffice to say I’ve been very eager to get my hands on Draw Steel. Now that I have, I feel obligated to write out my thoughts on the game that I ran.

A few disclaimers before I get into it, though. First, the game I ran was accurately billed as a first draft. It was essentially the bare minimum needed to run a game - half the classes, only level one, a few cohorts of low-level monsters, bare-bones character sheets, etc. What I saw was not necessarily representative of the final product.

Second, the adventure I ran was also one provided in the packet and written by MCDM. That module colored my experience of the game at least as much as the rules themselves, but I’ll get into that later. 

Third, as mentioned, longtime diehard Colville fan. I am biased.

Let’s also clear up which version of the game I’m talking about. The game I ran was from the first “backer packet,” sent out to folks who had backed the game at the end of August. The game has certainly undergone revisions and expansions since then, but I don’t have access to those since I’m not on MCDM’s Patreon.

Alright, let’s dive in!

Presentation

Given that this was, as advertised, the bare minimum needed to play a game, the rules suffered from an almost total lack of formatting. It was a tiny step above raw text, just a pdf with chapters and headings. The pdf did have bookmarks, but the toolbar is fully exploded when you open it. Given the sheer number of headings, this made it no more useful for navigation than scrolling the pages themselves. Finding the rule we needed in a given moment was difficult.

The ordering of the document was good for character creation, but bad for rules referencing. You have the absolute core mechanics, then step-by-step character creation, then detailed rules. Having the rules split by all the character options was less than ideal. If I needed to hunt for a rule, I didn’t know whether that rule was going to be towards the front of the document or towards the back, and guessing wrong meant a lot more scrolling.

I wasn’t playing a character, as I was the GM, but several of my players complained about the character sheets being messy, making it hard to find their own abilities and get a sense of what their options were. On my end, I thought the monster statblocks were very well done, with everything I needed to know presented in a nice, compact entry.

On the one hand, I was forewarned of the lack of formatting, and the backers were told that we may prefer to wait for a better formatted document, so there is a bit of caveat emptor here. Still, I don’t think you should ever let a customer’s first impression of your product be that much of a mess, even if they opt into it. It’s only going to do you a disservice, potentially killing their hype with frustration. If I absolutely had to see every rule and revision as early as possible, I’d be on the Patreon.

One part about the formatting I did like, though, was the conversational writing style and the use of prose to sell the game’s fiction. For example, each of the playable ancestries is preceded by a short scene that shows their place in the game’s pre-packaged setting. I found it very effective, though not all my players would agree with me. One said that the Devil ancestry’s entry made them seem very silly, and described the writing style as “too quippy for [their] taste.” That is to say, your mileage may vary.

Mechanics

I’m going to assess the game mechanics in terms of Draw Steel’s tagline: Tactical Cinematic Heroic Fantasy. After discussing the core dice mechanic, that is

The core mechanic is a bit unusual for a game of this type in that you roll against static targets that are not affected by the enemy and/or difficulty of the task at hand. In fact, they don’t ever change, it’s always 12-16 for a moderate result and 17+ for a good result. I don’t hate it, but I’m not sure how that’s going to play out as you level up. It sounds like your bonuses will increase, but not the targets?

In theory, a low roll still does something small, but that didn’t exactly pan out in practice. Humans in Draw Steel are magic resistant, expressed as a small subtraction from magic damage taken. This is nevertheless enough to blank some weaker magic attacks. Also, skill checks still just fail on a bad roll. 

Tactical

I’d say the game’s pretty tactical. Positioning is very important, not so much for flanking bonuses and such but because forced movement is very common. It’s also got popcorn initiative, which forces the players to coordinate their tactics so they can decide who goes next. It does make the GM create maps with interesting terrain on them. More work, but worthwhile.

Cinematic

When I first heard the tagline, I was very curious to find out how game mechanics could be “cinematic,” and after playing the game, I still am! In my assessment, “cinematic” is more a question of presentation, narration, and adventure design than mechanics. I have serious doubts that game mechanics can be cinematic. I think the closest I’ve seen is… maybe Feng Shui? No, not even then, it’s really just the mechanics referencing action movie tropes. Presentation. 

Heroic

I’m… not sold on the mechanics being “heroic,” and the main reason is how the game handles failure. As @sunbeargames noted, there isn’t really a failure state for combat other than “everyone dies.” Combined with a low time to kill, this makes the game a lot more lethal than I was expecting, which isn’t particularly heroic if you ask me.

Skill checks being able to just fail also contributes to a lack of heroic flavor. My players rolled very badly on a skill cha - sorry, Montage Test, and they got slapped with some pretty gnarly consequences without actually making any decisions that led to them. That felt very arbitrary and disempowering.

On the plus side, the process of character creation necessarily introduces narrative elements into your character - you have to choose an inciting incident from your background, for example, and you get benefits based on the one you choose. It makes it easy to make a fleshed-out heroic character, rather than a guy with a penchant for violence.

Fantasy

There’s elves and wizards and demons and stuff. Check. The setting is pretty rad, honestly, which makes sense given that Colville has been developing it for decades.

The Module

I don’t have a lot to say in favor of the module. It is a very cool scenario and a great inciting incident - the city the heroes are in is suddenly attacked by a demonic army, and they must escape while saving as many civilians as they can - but it does not fit the game. It’s not heroic fantasy action - it’s dark and violent. The heroes didn’t feel like saviors, it felt like they were just surviving themselves, and only just. This would have been a great scenario for a gritty, dark fantasy kind of system, but that’s not what Draw Steel is supposed to be.

There were some odd plot holes as well. For example, the final battle involves securing a ship to sail the civilians out of the city. But the narration before that battle includes a giant sea monster out in the bay, which the module does not have the heroes deal with. Also, for some reason it assumes that the heroes do not themselves get on the ship and have to find some other means of escape for themselves.

Finally, there is a lot going on in all of these fights. There’s secondary objectives, there’s changing terrain, there’s encounter-specific mechanics… and that’s cool and all, but I feel the need to point out that this is most likely a player’s first encounter with the system. They’ve got enough to worry about just learning the game! Draw Steel is not a lightweight system!

Conclusions

Overall, Draw Steel is a mechanically interesting game, but I don’t think they quite hit their target this go around. That can be fixed in later revisions, of course, but I think MCDM needs to assess whether their design is serving their goals. My enthusiasm for the game is not totally dispelled, but it is certainly diminished.

[dextrousfred]

Etsy listing for "Guernsy Cow Life Size Statue". The more I read of this page, the wilder it gets. "50 lb" "Shipping: Free" "Only 1 available" "15 people have this in their carts right now" "YIKES"

[silentwalrus1]

sum total of things ed knows about women: 1. all tougher than me, 2. i ain't one

AMHSGVCKAHFCFKGS CORRECT 

[icarus-suraki]

lmao I bought a denim/chambray kind of dress for the fall and it arrived so I washed it and when I pulled it out of the washer...there were these claw marks on it? Like someone had taken a fork and dragged it across the fabric in a couple of spots. What the shit? So I’m reaching into my washer freaking out that there’s something sharp in there and I’m going to ruin all my clothes oh my fuck. So I go to the website and I’m ready to send an email and I take another look at the sales photos of this dress. And there are the same scratches--but you can only see them when you zoom in to maximum. 

I mean, crisis resolved, but fuck me running that was a Moment.

[starkerscoop]

🌹🌹

for every "🌹" received in my inbox i'll post one random sentence of a random WIP i'm currently writing

Thank you for the roses! I couldn't decide on just one sentence, and I love sharing my writing, so I'm just going to break the rules and give you more.

The following snippet is from a WIP I haven't posted yet:

Tony knew nothing of riches now. He slept on a stained mattress he bought at a garage sale for five bucks. It was riddled with holes burrowed into the fabric by moths to lay eggs that have yet to hatch. 

He was perched on that mattress now, reading the two words printed onto the card, over and over, until they were seared into his brain. 

Caveat emptor.

Let the buyer beware.

Tony inhaled, deep and just a touch shaky. What did he have to lose nowadays? The meager earnings he sent to his landlord. The apartment that could never feel like home. The despairing eyes that bored into his soul whenever he dared look into a mirror. The moth-eaten mattress he thought was a steal. 

His list used to be infinite. It could be again.

-

And, for your second rose:

They’d anticipated his response. They were watching him. Tony dropped the phone and the card, the former dangling over the latter when it fluttered to the ground. His fingers curled into tight fists as he fought back the shivers that raced up his spine. 

Even in poverty he couldn’t escape the watchful eyes.

-

I guess this is a good opportunity to soft-launch this WIP and see what people think! Thanks again for the roses <3

[xcziel]

AO3 Reading Survey

Hello friends!

If you have a few minutes, please take this survey for my dissertation research:

AO3 Participation { surveymonkey.com/r/esuao3 }

If you read *at all* on AO3, I’d love to have you included. (details below the cut)

Also, I’m not too proud to beg: PLEASE reblog this post and share with your friends (or enemies)!

Keep reading

[aturinfortheworse]

(I'm worried that if you read my fics this will become impossible to unsee so... caveat emptor, i guess)

I'm doing some grammar/style editing on a long fic before posting and before I started, 0.4% of the words in the fic were "just". for comparison, the main character's name is 2% of the words. I used the word just a fifth as often as I used the main character's name.

I deleted 85 of them in five minutes.

[kundalinifire111]

Kundalini Caveat Emptor

Not everyone here has Kundalini activated or awakened. And if they do have Kundalini activated or awakened they may not have the ability to discern outside of their own egotistical life.

Many make assumptions based upon what they read in books or on the internet. Many haven't had it long enough to really be able to find the subtle truths that can be very important to the Kundalini equation.

All Kundalini people are welcome here in the various stages they are in. Not all information is accurate though the helpfulness and kindness and consideration are definite benefits not only to the receiver but also to The Giver. But you must be aware of this that not all yet have the wisdom accessible to them yet and may merely be guessing.

I try to disseminate what my Grace informs me is true and what is not so accurate. But I'm not on 24/7, even though I am on this group quite a bit, so I may miss some of these people that are a bit more challenged in the stage of Grace and the quality of information that is coming to them. Caveat emptor.

-chrism kundalini

[sabraeal]

Age of Reason, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Supernatural AU

The looming wrought-iron glares down at him; even choked with briars, it stands as proud as any guard, denying him entrance with a glance. She’d gotten in, she said, and out again even quicker. It’s possible. He just has to find the way.

His shoulders twitch, unimpressed.There’s a reason he wears gloves.

One hand wraps around a twisted bar, and a briar pierces through the leather like it’s paper. He recoils with a hiss, and to his extreme displeasure, the needle comes with him, broken right off near the glove.

He’s had worse splinters-- hell, he’s had worse stabs, but the thing’s hard to find even with the moonlight behind him. His head and shoulders keep falling into the worst angle, casting shadows shadows no matter which way he turns, leaving him to work half blind as he tries to pull it out. It makes it worse of course, each movement of his muscles sends the thing dancing around his palm, probing deeper into his flesh until he tears it out.

These damned gloves are supposed to protect him, but blood coats them still, shimmering black in the moonlight. He gives them a real contemplative look, some real consideration, and then cusses a streak so blue fire would be jealous. Damn that woman. If she’d gotten in, she owes him the professional courtesy of telling him how. He has half a mind to stomp right back to that tavern and shake her till she spills her secrets.

He takes a breath, holds it. It’s fine. This is far from the worst job he’s ever done.

The thing slides across the packed dirt, sand and scree skittering beneath its bare skin. It’s a woman in shape, diaphanous nightrail clinging so scandalously to its curves that wives clap hands over wandering eyes. She would have been a pretty girl in life, but in her undeath, she makes more than a convincing monster.

He stands in the holy circle of the Heavenly Maiden, salt staining his hands, and it hisses at him, back arched like a cat’s. Red stains its front, dribbling from full lips down to soak her gown.

“Kurei!” The name catches on the wind, already torn away. The mayor clutches at his door, lifting a hand to point through his wards. “It’s her-- the demon--”

“I know.” It’s an effort to lift the words out of a deadpan. “She’s no match for me.”

The spirit cocks its head; he knows that angle too well, the one that says, oh you think so? He lifts his shoulders, a subtle shrug. No hard feelings.

Her claws clench in the dirt. Ah, he’ll pay for that little line later. Already he’s at a disadvantage-- a full moon might have shone through, but with a chunk shaved from one side he’s stuck waiting for the wind to hurry it all along while he stands here, stalling.

His breath mists in the night air. Just one of the hazards of the job.

“You’re trapped in here with me, spirit.” In the dark, its hair is coarse, thick and black, rippling with each breath. The perfect hand-hold, should it dare tread close enough. “Your fight is with me!”

He grins as it growls, edging around his circle of salt. It follows, mimicking his movements, it on all fours and him on the balls of his feet. Already his cheek stings-- its limbs are long and strong but he didn’t expect the elbow to be so sharp-- but he doesn’t lift a hand to rub at it. Each moment here is the space between victory and condemnation, and he has none of them to spare.

Finally, the clouds part.

“I have you, beast!” Around him, the circle flares to life, the pure light of the heavens infusing it, glowing with an intensity would blind to those outside it. “Tempus fugit! Sapere aude! Ad meliora!”

For a moment its body leaps into the air, lunging for him, trying to tear his throat, but in the next it’s thrown to the ground, as if grabbed by heaven’s hand itself. With his last words still echoing in the square, the spirit spasms, voice railing to an unholy keen.

“Erat ergo sum! Quid pro quo!” He calls out, shaking holy water over it, black and red spotting her as he washes away its monstrous desires. “Non ducor duco!”

It gives a single, great heave of its body, and suddenly she’s limp, no longer a vengeful spirit but a girl once more. A mere husk that once held life. Mist rises from the circle as he lifts her body, curling coolly around his fingers.

“Caveat.” The night carrying his voice further than any earthy words should-- “Emptor.”

The villagers all peer out their windows, the more daring of them peeking out doors. Now that the danger’s over, everyone wants to see the monster hunter and his prey. He’s heard plenty talk about the noble nature of man, but none of them know the truth-- when fear strips away all else, it’s only cowardice and curiosity that remain.

“Kurei,” creaks the mayor. “What--?”

“It’s over,” he announces. “I must bring the corpse away from here, and bury it.” With a dark look, he adds, “Alone.”

He turns his back on them, letting the moon burn away the mist he leaves behind.

The barmaid here is all curves, coarse tawny hair tumbling down her back, meant to draw the eye straight to her swinging hips. A tempting morsel; at least by the way the men here follow her with their gaze, hungry for more than ale. The barman must have tripled his profits having a girl like her on; there’s no limit to drink a man can have while he’s thirsting with his eyes.

But not Shuuka. His stare is fixed right across the table, brows drawn tight in thought. “That’s some story, mister.”

“And all true.” He waits until the man takes a good, long draught from his cup to add, “I earn my keep traveling, finding spirits to soothe and monsters to cull. Or maidens to save, when the situation demands it.”

“Just maidens?” The barmaid sidles up to him, a frothing mug in hand, and already his mouth is watering. “Or are you looking to expand your repertoire?”

He lets his lips lilt into a leer. “I’m willing to help with any problem that needs solving, maiden or--” he lets his gaze rake up her-- “otherwise. Provided I’m welcome.”

Her own mouth is a mirror of his own. “You seem the sort to always be finding doors open, if you don’t mind me saying, mister.”

“Ah.” He hums, leaning close. The other men in the pub lean in too, faces ripe with envy. “That’s the trick of it-- I wait to be asked.”

Amusement flickers through her eyes, as amber as his own. She sets the mug in front of him, its thick head sloshing over the rim. “Here you are, on the house.”

The maid casts one last, linger look over at him, all hooded. The sort that says he could find more than a drink on the house if he played his cards right. And here’s him, a man who never lost a hand.

“So that’s what brings you here?” Shuuka says, voice tight. Nerves, he thinks, the sort a rational man might have in the face of the unknown. “Sh-- the prince’s mistress?”

Ah, or maybe that’s guilt, he’s hearing. “So it’s true, then? There’s a girl sleeping in that manor house?”

Shuuka’s fingers clench, knuckles white where they lay on the table. “If it was...?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just waits.

Dark eyes lift, glimmering as they meet his. “You could do something about it?”

He lets his mouth ease, swallowing down the victory in his throat. “I can’t do anything that would hurt.”

For a long moment, Shuuka sits still. Not the sort that comes from fear or hope but indecision. A man on a precipice.

And oh, how easy it is to see when they jump. “What’s your name? What do they...” He hesitates, swallowing. “What do they call you?”

“Lots of things. Jack of all trades, for one,” he hums, settling back in his seat. “Monster Hunter. Miracle Man. Savior.”

Shuuka’s brow draws tight. “You’re some kind of...priest?”

“Oh, no.” He lets his eyes linger when the barmaid bends at the waist, leaning over the counter to talk to the barman. “Not that. But you can call me...Nanaki.”

There’s a tree.

He surveys the old gnarled grandfather, its thinning leaves rustling in the wind, a single branch hunched over the briars. He should have guessed; it wasn’t like she was going to get her hands dirty and bleeding to take a look at a dead girl.

His hands flex, the leather around them creaking. His palm aches when he presses it to the trunk-- that’ll teach him to get impatient-- but he knows how to climb without relying on his grip. It’s nothing to shimmy right up, soles planted solid on grandfather’s inquisitive arm. He’d call this sloppy-- nobles often were, thinking that guards and dogs and a lady’s scream could keep them safe-- but...

Ten years. Plenty of time for even a well-trimmed tree to insinuate an elbow where it didn’t belong. Especially one that looked as nosy as this old grandfather did.

He edges out, the branch solid beneath his feet. Each step is inquisitive; impatient he may be, but enough tumbles from too high had taught him the value of respecting nature’s limit. The last thing he needs is for this to break over one of those fleur-tipped spears. Career limiting, his old master used to tell him, followed by one of those hideous braying laughs.

Dead was his preference. He might make his money putting on a show, but it didn’t serve to forget that some finales were final.

The branch bows beneath his feet, those iron-tips scraping at its bottom. Looks like he’s ridden this particular pony as far as it’ll go. With a breath and a wish, he leapt from the tree, tumbling down, down--

His feet catch, hard earth beneath them. No, stone, since his foot slips, nearly spilling him straight into a knot of brambles. Pretty ones, at least, dripping with roses as bright as an apple’s skin.

He whistles, plucking a petal off one. “Well now,” he breathes, letting it flutter away in the wind. “Isn’t that lucky.”

Cat calls and wolf whistles cleave through the din when the barmaid wraps her fingers around his wrist, leading him away from the table. There’s glares too, envy making eyes dark as he passes. There will be men who hate him in the morning for no other reason than he had what they couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Fine by him, anyway. Angry men are easy to predict-- they only want to do what will cause the most pain. It’s the ones that cheer him on that are dangerous; they need to be courted, molded.

Shuuka is neither. Curious.

“Hey, hero,” the barmaid purrs, pressing her body against his. “Keep your eyes where they belong.”

By the swing of her hips, she means on her. Well, it’s certainly not a bad view.

She sashays up those last few steps, shoving him into a room--

Torou’s smile is gone the moment the latch catches. “You are on your own with this one. I am out.”

Leaving Oberwald takes an extra day; the villagers keep him plied with ale until he tumbles into bed. When he wakes while the sky’s still moonless and dark, two sets of hands rubbing down his chest. Who is he to deny himself a reward so justly earned?

Still, waiting makes the spirits restless.

“Serves you right,” he grouses, rubbing at the new lump dulling the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “You’re supposed to make it look good, not actually hit me!”

The spirit folds her arms across her chest-- or under it, rather, framing their best asset when it comes to fooling these bumpkins. A barmaid with big tits never fails to turn heads, and should someone get suspicious of the girl who disappears when the evil spirit does, well-- no one can pick her face from a crowd.

“Oh, complain, complain.” The huff she lets out doesn’t even have a hint of remorse. “I’m sure you got those village girls to kiss it all better.”

He can’t help his grin. “Two of ‘em.”

“Ugh.” Her eyes roll, the kohl still clinging to the corner of them. It’s the most stubborn part of the makeup, but Torou makes do; by the next town she’ll have wings drawn on so sharp they could cut a man’s throat. “How is it you get to bed down with every miss looking for a good time, but I can only look at all those strapping young farm boys?”

“Pitchforks. Torches,” he reminds her. “Us, running away in the middle of the night...”

No one remembers the barmaid, except for an angry wife. And they know how to drum up some bloody-minded friends once night falls. That’s another thing that makes the spirits angry, but well, that’s not his problem. Maybe if they were more circumspect, they could tumble a few village boys-- or girls-- if they liked.

“Fine,” she mutters, itching at her neck. Some red flakes off, falling to the dirt below, lost beneath the tread of their boots. “Where to next?”

He’d thought he’d been mulling it over still, but the second she asks, it’s the answer at the tip of his tongue. The only one.

“Nowhere that needs a drowned girl!” Torou warns him, pitch raising to one that would make dogs howl. “My ears still don’t feel right after the last one...”

“Clarines.”

She scuffs to a halt. “Clarines? The ‘realm of reason?’ That Clarines?”

He doesn’t stop, just shortens his stride as he puts a jaunty skip in his step. “The very same.”

Her steps start again, hurrying to keep pace with his. “Why? I thought they were enlightened out there. Above all this folk talk.”

“No one is, if we play them well enough.” He slides her a sly smile. “And we will.”

“Best of the best,” she agrees. “So what’s the score?”

His grin pulls wide. “I hope you have your kissing lips ready. We have a princess to awaken.”

His hands fly up between them, trying to ward off her waggling finger. She’s carrying five knives at minimum, but of all the weapons on her body, that finger scares him the most. “Torou, come on--”

“Don’t you ‘come on’ me, Nanaki.” She doesn’t need a steel when her tone’s already so pointed. “I’m not going back there, not even if you beg me. Not even if you drag me. I’ll gnaw off my own leg if you try.”

“Torou, what--?” She shifts, just enough for him to see the wide stretch of her eyes, pupils blown and white all around the rim. “Are you...scared?”

“Scared? Scared?” Torou laughs, wild. “I’m terrified. We’ve played a lot of games, but this, this-- this curse thing, it’s real.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he huffs, leaning against a bedpost. “You know that’s not true. We’ve been running this grift for how long now, and the only supernatural thing out there is how easily everyone will believe it.”

“Listen, that’s what I thought. That’s what I always thought, you know that.” Her voice trembles, shoulders hunching around her chest. “But I went there. I went right into that manor to case the joint-- I knew there’d be stuff in there, stuff we could sell and get out of this rat race.”

His jaw slackens. They’d never talked about that, about what could lie at the end of a real good grift, of what they would do if they had enough coin to stop. He hadn’t even known she’d wanted to, let alone that she--

“I went in there,” she murmurs, rounding into herself. “And someone-- someone screamed.”

He licks his lips, brain jittering with the thought of this ending, or having somewhere to stop. “Screamed?”

“Don’t laugh.” Torou’s voice barely wavers above a whisper. “Someone screamed, and I-- I went to find them. Maybe some kid got in there and broke a leg. I could get some credit you know, really get those bumpkins eating out of my palm. But I walked in and--” she chokes, fingers clawing at her throat-- “there was blood, so much blood, just covering the floor, and then--”

Her breath fills his ears, so harsh, so pained. He’s only heard her like this once, back before, and his blood runs cold.

“And then.” Her hand comes out to grip his wrist, drawing him into her terrified gaze. “It sounded like someone was dying.”