#excuse the garbage fire quality

[zuppizup]

Honestly, they both dumb AF. You guys are facing potential death. Can you stop making googly eyes for five minutes?!

[physalian]

There’s this unskippable Google AI ad on YouTube where this girl consults the robot about how to cancel dinner plans with the people across the table in the most annoying voice (likely because I have seen this ad now and had to listen to her asinine questions 20 times at least) and this ad, right here, speaks to my frustration around AI:

It disincentivizes critical thinking.

I know the ad is a joke and meant to be lighthearted and I’m only this annoyed because it’s unskippable and irritating af, but every time I see it all I can think is “if you can’t manage enough creativity and critical thinking to come up with your own excuse to cancel on your friends, maybe you shouldn’t have those friends.”

I have a relative who is firmly in the ChatGPT camp and, for example, yesterday I was trying to figure out how to compress a video file and was venting to them about it. They sent me back something I didn’t read from ChatGPT. Meanwhile, I looked up a YouTube video and figured out how to do the rest on my own, and getting the file compressed was immensely satisfying. Far more than mindlessly and thoughtlessly consulting the robot.

“It’s just like a YouTube video!” They’d told me.

No, a real person put time and effort into that video. That robot stole their content without their consent, didn’t credit them, and spat it back out. I used to patronizingly refer to ChatGPT as "the magic conch" and now I can barely do that anymore because that metaphor is becoming all-too real.

While I can understand the barriers it lowers—like if you struggle with writing the robot does it for you, or if you need a piece of art and are too poor, you can generate it for free. Mindless, repetitive tasks that eat up creative juices that can just be automated by a robot, too (even though everyone can tell when a response is canned and artificial and no one appreciates talking to a machine).

If you keep consulting ChatGPT for how to articulate what you want to say, or just straight-up having it do the hard work for you, you’re never going to learn. Yes it’s taken me 8 years to reach the quality and skill of writing I have but as another Tumblr post out there said: The time will pass anyway.

I can’t draw to the skill level that I’d like to. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep practicing until I get there. I thrive off that sense of accomplishment. There’s no little hit of dopamine from typing in a prompt and clicking a button and I certainly don’t appreciate the final product scalped without consequence from real artists.

Or, like when I had to fire a beta reader for flagrant abuse of AI in her work: I can copy-paste my manuscript into ChatGPT, too. I’d paid her for a human response, not garbage feedback that couldn’t understand what I was writing beyond that there were words on the page. I wanted so badly to ask her why she does a job in a creative field if she's just going to have a robot do all the fun parts? I beta read at a great loss of profit because I enjoy beta reading and it's a fiercely competetive market. Surely if she wanted to scam people, she could have done so in so many other ways. You don't need to know how to pen complex prose in your every day life, but by god, you do need to know how to effectively communicate, contextualize, and argue your perspective and this ridiculous ad joking about cancelling dinner plans sure is funny, until it isn't.

And I know the people who made AI probably did so with the best of intentions but people can be lazy and cheap and we love taking shortcuts to save money and I stand by this: "Your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could, they didn't stop to think if they should."

So. Yeah. This is a writing advice blog and this post has almost nothing to do with it, but that ad annoys me to no end and I had to say something somewhere about it. Bottom line: Robots were supposed to make the hard jobs, the monotonous jobs, the overcomplicated jobs, the belittling jobs easier, not make us all into pudding-boned Wall-E people. If you want to write, learning is absolutely free - write on the back of your grocery receipts for all I care. If you want to draw, pick up a notebook and pack of pencils from the local dollar store and start drawing.

What you made will always mean more to you than something that didn't cost you time, effort, brain power, or even money to obtain.

[xspilltheteapleasex]

Life Is In The Souls of Birds

A Poem by xspilltheteapleasex

My Main Masterlist

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶

My Poetry & Art Masterlist

A day as ordinary as any other can be full of beautiful and curious little things,

Moments that bring joy and peace like this one can be remembered for a lifetime,

But it only takes a second for things to change and fade away, no matter how hard you cling,

Everything will have its chance at life and its chance to pass at the right time.

Anyone can do anything, and anyone can take away the chance for something,

Maybe the chance at blossoming into a beautiful flower or the chance for dedication to commit,

Taking away a moment of joy and peace leading to destroying the beauty of life like a bombing,

So I think it would be best, yes, very much so,

It would be best if you put that back where you found it.

A little birdie with its black feathers sleek and smooth,

Glistening under the sun with little sparkles every time it turns his head,

The knight in shining armor adorning a vibrant red splotch with meaning of sleuth,

Jumping along the many tree branches of his mighty kingdom bred.

Birdies that twitter and flutter about with a song in their mouths,

All of this can be taking away if you steal their wings and souls,

No care in the world, they didn't ask for this, can you at least put them in the ground,

You shouldn’t be in charge of what jewels your body, for only God is at the controls.

Those many tree branches belong to a fortress of solitude,

A tree who upholds the very breath of every living thing we call life,

Weaving roots throughout the earth that no one can allude,

Whom some call home, a place to escape the fear of strife.

Billions upon billions of fortresses are destroyed each year,

No one gives another thought to saving their much needed lives,

Am I the only one seeing how our situation is this horrific and severe,

Can we not just follow the will our God gave us to abide?

Geese fly overhead of all the forest and under the misty clouds,

Loud as can be to announce their grateful presence,

They never break formation and they never stop making sound,

One day they will leave again, but I know they will once again show their luminescence.

Pillows are what I use to lower my head and have magnificent dreams of love,

Cushioning cotton or memory foam will do just fine for me to close my eyes,

So why do we need the best pillow that leave geese in cold blood,

God made these noble creatures for our kind to take care of with our hearts.

The wondrous lake is where the geese lay the wings and take a rest,

Making ever so little creases in this body of water and leaving behind traces of beautiful down,

Basking in the vigorous fountain of never ending droplets which it has expressed,

Our beautiful lake is my queen with a solid rim atop her head as a glorious crown.

Water is the something that every living thing needs in his temple of a body,

It provides an oasis for creatures and plants alike,

Yet we still feel the need to dump our garbage into the sea and turn it snotty,

Polluting the quality, which makes for a great realization of your throat being hit with a spike.

A rim holds place for little children to rest their little feet and have some fun and play,

Pitter-patter on the rim of rocks holding the foundation for centuries,

Just an excuse needed only for me to gaze upon such beauty of life, whom am I to say,

Rocks can be eroded with time, but etched forever are our wonderful memories.

Smoke and ashes rise above our children heads and strikes fear into their eyes,

Take care of your children and hold them tight as can be,

Your neighbor just started a fire that grows and grows as implied,

It started from his mouth but spread into the size of the northern sea.

My gaze is interrupted by an alarming siren warning of swiftness,

Quick must the siren's owner reach the fearful destination,

Praying with my hand and in my heart, with hope this lifts us,

God, oh please, please God, please help those of your own creation.

Taking the wings and soul of a little birdie is taking a life,

Chopping billions of trees is destroying the earth's fortress,

Starting fires in your mouths and littering them to the ground is the same as a thousand knives,

Can't you just stop for once, leave it, and support us?

Anyone can do anything, and anyone can take away the chance for something,

Maybe the chance at blossoming into a beautiful flower or the chance for dedication to commit,

Taking away a moment of joy and peace leading to destroying the beauty of life like a bombing,

So I think it would be best, yes, very much so,

It would be best if you put that back where you found it.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⋆⊶⊷⊶

[criticalbennifer]

This makes it seem like he’ll be sticking around for a little longer?

He’s got a point. The Elaine/Jlo/Benny team put out a lot of work but it’s all…garbage. Who cares how hard they work when it’s all so mediocre. All her projects with her current team are sort of just Jlo being a Mary Sue where she’s the special-est special and “she’s gonna get it done!!!” They’re not real movies. It all just feels like product and they always waste a great supporting cast.

There’s not even a joy in experiencing the artistic process. That Atlas project…woof. A lot of over-emphasizing-telenovela-level acting. No one was there to say “scale it back a bit?!” 

She was determined to give a performance I guess

But I can see why she’s resistant to just listening to Ben. The last time she put her faith in him and fired Benny Medina, he bailed on her and left her hanging while he retreated behind a white picket life. He still does it now. Every time there’s trouble he doesn’t stand by Jlo’s side, he runs to the white fam for the photo op. 

It took forever to recover some semblance of a career. With Benny M. It might be a battle between Ben and their past, which he’s not helping with, moving out of the house. He’s making all of the moves to abandon her again. Why would Jlo put trust in him like that? She might keep begging to be in one of Ben’s movies but she wants her people to come along too. Which I can see Ben not wanting to do. And he shouldn’t. He would end up making concessions opposed to what he actually wants and everything would blow up in their faces.

Right now I can see her holding on to Benny/Elaine as sounding boards. At least they’ve been consistent and present. They’re not constantly running off, cowering for media protection behind some socially acceptable bland white lady every time there’s a sign of negativity. Bennifer should stay on the “he’s producing” level they’re on right now. Any more now would be too much too soon. 

How much time does the trio even have left to produce quality work? Work, where Jlo doesn’t have to keep pretending she’s 25 to her mid thirties. I mean is she really that mentally and emotionally underdeveloped?

But maybe this is all just Ben’s next excuse to extricate himself from this marriage. “The entourage got in the way again!! Jlo valued other people’s opinions over his!! Ben just wants a simple normal life!!!”

[dreamstar-moonlight]

Yeah FOR REAL.

I’ve had it with these "pjo tv" fans. If I see one more person defending that dumpster fire of a show with "it's a kids' show," I'm actually gonna scream. Since when did “for kids” become a synonym for “brainless rot”?Are y'all seriously so blind and deluded that you can't distinguish between quality content and a shameless cash grab? It's infuriating how one can stomach such a pathetic excuse for entertainment and have the audacity to defend it.

To everyone out here bending over backwards to defend this garbage just because your precious "Uncle Rick" is involved this time around—what’s with the hive mind? Need validation much? A desperate desire to fit in with the crowd?

Grow a spine. You're all parroting the same drivel without taking a single moment to actually sit down and objectively analyze what you're defending.

Sure, negativity is bad, but this level of toxic positivity is downright pathetic. Calling you blind would be an insult to the visually impaired, and even they see better.

WAKE UP.

Rick’s not your "uncle." He’s a cash cow. The Rick who wrote the original books out of love for his dyslexic son, Haley? He’s long gone. Now, he’s just cranking out low-quality, mediocre junk riding on the coattails of PJO—and you’re all partly to blame for this nosedive in quality. You’ve turned him into some untouchable deity and swallow whatever crap he dishes out.

GROW THE FUCK UP!

Or at least grow a pair of eyes and enough brain cells to realize that putting someone up on a pedestal and hero-worshipping them is is nothing short of idiotic and mindless. It's embarrassingly pathetic, making you look like you've got the critical thinking skills of a goldfish. You're not fans; you're mindless sheep, blindly following without a shred of individuality or intelligence.

And while we're on the subject, let’s tackle your pathetic defense of "it's a kids' show!", shall we? Enlighten me, what exactly qualifies as a kids' show?

Better yet, give me some names.

Starting with the classics—Tom and Jerry, Looney Tunes. Absolute staples of childhood entertainment. Ever heard of them? Of course, you have. These aren't just kids' shows; they’re household names around the globe.

How about Scooby-Doo? Powerpuff Girls? Samurai Jack? Each one a masterpiece, cherished by kids and adults alike. These shows have stood the test of time and are just as popular now as they were when they first aired. Scooby-Doo churns out new content every year, with a Japanese version on the way. Powerpuff Girls is not just getting a comic revival but also a new show with the original creator, Craig McCracken himself at the helm.

Ben 10? Danny Phantom? Avatar: The Last Airbender? Tell me, is there a soul in the multiverse who hasn’t heard of Ben 10? The show grossed $8 billion, and is listed among the highest-grossing shows ever.

Danny Phantom is still beloved, continuing in graphic novels and a fan-made crossover with Ben 10 called "5 Years Later" by Kuro the Ink Tank. It's so popular that even the official creators and voice cast have taken notice and appeared on their YouTube channel.

And A: TLA? If you're unaware of this goldmine, you've been living under a rock. It has continued in graphic novels, fan adaptations, and is so loved across all age groups that new movies are being made, with an ongoing live-action adaptation that, by all accounts, outshines the Percy Jackson show in quality—even without the original creators involved.

And oh, how could I forget? The Barbie movies—yet another cornerstone of kids' entertainment. Her fairytale classics have enchanted kids for generations. and let's not kid ourselves—whole families could enjoy them too. Take it from me, a grown man; when I was a kid and a Barbie movie came on, my entire family would gather around to watch. The music? Phenomenal. It introduced me to Tchaikovsky and Beethoven, and it's directly responsible for me taking up music studies myself. The animation, for its time, was spectacular and still holds up with a nostalgic, ethereal quality.

The stories were super fun, magical, and relaxing. I’ll never forget how my grandfather passed away listening to "Written in Your Heart" from The Princess and the Pauper. The impact these Barbie movies—meant for children—can have on a person speaks volumes about their magic and the love poured into them.

Finally we have My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. The pinnacle of "kids' shows". This show took the world by storm, leaving everyone wondering why adults are head over heels for a show meant for 5-year-olds. It ran for 9 seasons (with a 10th in the comics), nearly 400 comics, novels, mangas, role-playing games, toys, merch of all kinds, flash games, and fan works of such a massive volume that there are specific fandoms for them—animations, PMVs, comics, you name it (ever heard of Fallout: Equestria, Equestria at War?) And guess what? Much like Ben 10, MLP: FIM MLP: FIM is listed among the highest-grossing shows of all time, raking in over $6 billion.

There you have it—these are kids' shows. What do they all have in common?

Epic storytelling that grabs you by the throat and doesn’t let go. Gripping, multi-dimensional characters who feel so real you cry for them, laugh with them, and feel every triumph and heartbreak like it’s your own. Their arcs wring emotions out of you that you never even knew you had. Creativity so wild and off-the-charts it makes you wonder, “How the fuck did they come up with that?”

Unforgettable stories that burn into your brain, living rent-free in your memory forever. Awesome action scenes that have you gripping the edge of your seat, teeth chattering, heart pounding. Fantastic world-building and immersive lore that you feel like you're right there, living in those realms.

And despite being labelled as "kids' shows," they transcend age, nature, color, gender, nationalities. People of all walks of life love them. Why? Because they’re actually GOOD. Truly good.

These shows don’t just entertain kids; they build massive, loyal fandoms that span all ages. Adults are binge-watching these shows, buying the merch, and diving into the lore because quality entertainment knows no age limit.

Now, tell me with a straight face that the Percy Jackson Disney show compares even remotely to any of these actual kids' shows I’ve just mentioned. Does it have even one-tenth of the elements these shows boast?

And it's not like Percy Jackson lacks these elements—it does, very much so—IN THE BOOKS.

But the show? Bland as unsalted butter. You can't get more vanilla than that. Stilted acting, lackluster writing, exposition-heavy narrative—basically everything OP pointed out. They even watered down the fun and exciting story into a dreary "I'm dying" snooze-fest.

So if you’re out here using “it’s a kids' show” to justify bad, lazy writing, you need to sit down and rethink your life choices.

Seriously, stop. Just STOP using that phrase as a free pass for mediocrity. You’re insulting the audience and the entire medium.

Kids deserve better. We all do. You don’t write “for kids” or “for adults”—you write a good story, period. Quality storytelling resonates with everyone, no matter their age. Focus on making something great, and the rest will take care of itself.

People using “it’s a kids show!” as a defense for the PJOTV show makes no sense to me for many reasons, and one of the reason is that if the show’s questionable quality is a result of it being for children, how then do you explain or justify the removal or weakening of so many elements that kids enjoyed about the books in the first place?

You know one thing kids like? Cool action scenes, and yet most of the action scenes in the show were pretty lackluster. They were over within seconds, and largely replaced by conversations and exposition.

You know one thing kids like? Cool outfits and cool costumes, yet the costuming for the characters, especially the gods, was extremely bland, uninteresting, and devoid of any charm or personality.

You know one thing kids like? Humor. And yet the humor in this show was also very lackluster, especially in the way of Percy, who’s supposed to be a funny, snarky, and witty protagonist, and yet this depiction of him was incredibly dry.

You know one things kids like? Relatability. And yet you watered down or even straight up excluded so many of the character’s relatable traits, especially the depiction of ADHD/dyslexia, Grover’s shyness and cynical yet funny remarks, or Annabeth’s crush on an older friend figure or hear tearing up when it was time to leave the dog, or her grabbing Percy’s hand when they first get in the Underworld because she was scared.

You know one thing kids like? Bold personalities. Yet, so many of the gods are missing the elements that made them bold and memorable, and they just seem like nothing more than a bunch of grumpy adults.

You know one thing kids like? Mystery and suspense. And yet every chance this show had to build some, it was killed on arrival by the insistence that the characters needed to know everything.

You know one thing kids like? Funny references and fun twists. The Underworld was supposed to be set up like airport lines. The entrance was supposed to be a record studio named DOA (Dead on Arrival). Chiron was supposed to be in a fancy Italian suit and shoes. Each of the cabins and thrones on Olympus was supposed to be uniquely constructed and colorful to depict each god’s domain. And yet all of that got eliminated.

You know one thing kids like? Places and adventures that feel grand and magical. And yet, when it was time to show off grandeur at the Lotus Casino, we took away all the sky diving and reverse deer hunter games and replaced it with exposition, and activities that don’t seem magical in the slightest. And we didn’t even get to watch the characters play and be kids.

So how, just how, do y’all get off saying that we should go easy on the show because it’s “just a kid’s story”, and yet the show neutered most of the elements that endeared kids to this story in the first place?

[pixeldinostorytelling]

Here you have it, every time Antigone called Chapman by his first name! (excuse the on-fire-garbage quality of the sound, I'll do it again properly when I have the time)

Now you might be saying, Q! The finale is not in this! It's like, the most important one!

And you'd be right. But I'm refusing to listen to it again lest I cry for a month. So we're pretending it's still March and there's still the shining glimmering hope of a whole other episode on the horizon.

[oopey-doopey]

Okay but I can’t get the idea out of my head that lady d actually has a really sweet tooth. Like her biggest indulgence is anything sweet. Her favorite however I like to think is lemon meringue and any sort of sour gummy. Oh and chocolate ice cream holds a special place in her heart

I’ve been wanting to do head canons on the lords’ eating habits and these give me an excuse.

Alcina Dimitrescu

She is from a noble and regal background, so of course she has very high standards in terms of food. This translates to blood as well, quality over quantity. (She wouldn’t drink from someone unfit)

I love the idea she had a sweet tooth, blood and flesh must’ve sucked at first as it is metallic and tangy but she learned to love it.

I think she’d like more out there and complex sweets, things that look or sound fancy: Eclairs, Tiramisu, parfaits, macaroon, etc. But I think she’d also be fond of something traditonal: Arlechin, Cornulete cu Gem, Cozonac (I had a Romanian teacher who brought in these)

As for food, I like to think she’s big on savory things, not salty, but something with a lot of flavor and texture

Again, only high quality ingredients or she won’t dare take the plate, let alone try some. This is of course she’s not more interested in eating you

Donna + Angie

Again, Angie has convinced Donna that eating only sugary treats and snacks is the way to go, this of course is not good

Doesn’t really have a type she goes for but it has to be pretty and be able to plate nice for parties or table settings. This often rules out candies that burst, pastries that fall apart and drinks that can separate

Not a big eater either, so everything is like appetizer sized, she mostly snacks on these things throughout her day (Will sometimes share with Moreau and Alcina if they cross her path)

As for food? It’s also sweet things. Honey glazed, sugar rubs, sweet rolls and things with fruit cooked with them so the sugar makes it sweet. You’ll find it impossible to feed her anything else

Secretly sneaks vegetables when no ones looking. She doesn’t want Angie to know her lies

Salvatore Moreau

I had a long debate over whether him eating fish is technically cannibalism, weirdly fucked or absolutely normal. The conclusion was Sal would not eat fish as they are his only friends in the reservoir 

He probably throws up so much because all he really eats is cheese, not because he can’t get other things, I just think it’s a comfort food and he needs all the comfort he can get

Of course, as a cheese lover he’d like crackers and breads and fruits. Pretty much his diet is like a make shift Charcuterie Board. Probably like Donna where he eats a small amount at a time but is munching all day

Meat. Meat is a specials case as he only really eats it in his big fish-toad form and it usually the livestock that swim into the reservoir. Occasionally he’ll slip up and eat a person but shit happens y’know.

Probably would cry if offered a cooked/warm meal, the reservoir doesn’t look to have a place to cook stuff and he is probably too sensitive to fire to cook it that way. Ixnay, everything besides the cheese is raw.

Karl Heisenberg

I think I mentioned he only eats the worst of the worst food. He is very spiteful towards Miranda and if his body was supposed to be a vessel he’s gonna ruin it for her

No fruits or veggies, lots of meats and sweets, it’s one the few things he and Alcina have in common. Of course, he likes all the processed garbage she loathes; chips, sodas, things like Twinkies

Likes hardy meals too, I think he’d eat heavy so he could work for a long time without needing to refill for a while. But it’s like dad/man food. Those combinations of things that don’t go but it’s edible.

Has the gene that makes cilantro taste like soap (weakling) Alcina sneaks it into his food

For the spicy Ethan anon, I bet Karl is the type ot put hot things into foods that have no reason to be like that. He’d put it in a milkshake or some crushed pepper on a cake as sprinkles

[windsfavored]

he  doesn't  seem  bothered  by  the  SILENCE  as  they  travel.  on  the  contrary,  kunikuzushi  greatly  prefers  it  over  any  attempts  to  make  pointless  conversation.  although,  he  is  a  bit  surprised  to  see  that  tartaglia  is  able  to  keep  his  MOUTH  SHUT  for  so  long  —  apparently  the  eleventh  isn't  entirely  devoid  of  positive  qualities.  or  perhaps  his  companion  is  too  entangled  in  his  own  thoughts  to  even  bother  with  idle  chatter;  the  balladeer  can  practically  hear  just  how  loud  he's  thinking  when  they  reach  their  destination  —  though  about  what,  he  hasn't  a  clue.  childe  isn't  the  type  to  simply  lose  his  nerve  whenever  there's  a  fight  involved.  on  the  contrary,  if  he  isn't  the  one  delving  in  first,  there's  something  seriously  wrong.  kunikuzushi  glances  at  the  harbinger,  crossing  his  arms  and  arching  one  thin  brow  as  if  to  silently  QUESTION  his  hesitation  —  though  ultimately  tartaglia  gets  over  whatever  thought  he's  wrestling  with  and  steps  through.

finally.  the  balladeer  wastes  no  time  following  behind  him.

a  strange  pins  and  needles  sensation  sweeps  over  his  exposed  skin.  perhaps  he's  imagining  it,  but  there's  always  something  eerie  about  the  abyss.  teyvat  operates  on  its  own  set  of  laws  —  yet  this  land,  this  realm,  this  place  isn't  obligated  to  follow  any  of  those  rules.  on  the  contrary,  if  he  didn't  know  any  better,  he  would  say  it  somehow  relishes  in  its  lack  of  sense.  immediately  the  harbinger's  eyes  settle  upon  the  abyss  mage,  much  like  a  circling  hawk  spotting  an  oblivious  field  mouse.  huh.  it  only  makes  sense  that  the  insects  would  CLUSTER  around  here.  at  the  same  time,  childe  decides  to  fire  off  an  arrow.  the  creature  squeaks  and  shrieks,  spinning  around  in  bewilderment  as  the  hydro  shatters  its  sad  excuse  for  a  shield  —  though  it  doesn't  have  a  chance  to  utter  so  much  as  a  single  word  (  nor  truly  comprehend  its  dire  circumstances  at  all  )  before  kunikuzushi  disappears  in  a  crackle  of  lightning.

he  reappears  behind  it  in  an  instant.  electro  curls  around  his  arm,  blindingly  bright.  without  so  much  as  a  scrap  of  hesitation,  the  balladeer  drives  it  through  the  creature's  back  and  out  the  other  side  —  cutting  through  its  fragile  body  as  though  it  were  made  of  wet  paper.  it  hangs  there,  suspended  by  his  limb  like  some  MACABRE  decoration.  then,  the  mage  slumps  —  soundlessly,  perhaps  never  even  realizing  it  was  DEAD.  (  he  supposes  some  might  consider  that  a  mercy.  )  clicking  his  tongue,  kunikuzushi  tosses  it  aside  as  though  it  were  little  more  than  garbage.  there's  another  harsh  crackle  as  electricity  envelops  his  arm  once  again  —  drying  out  the  abyss  mage's  blood,  cracking  it  and  then  seeing  it  flake  away  from  his  skin  like  ash.  they  may  be  in  the  midst  of  a  battle,  but  there's  no  point  in  making  a  MESS.  (  at  least  not  of  himself.  )  ❝  try  not  to  get  too  excited, ❞  the  sixth  tells  his  companion,  giving  his  wrist  a  little  shake,  ❝  but  where  there's  one,  there's  bound  to  be  more ...  i  doubt  they're  going  to  let  us  in  without  a  fight. ❞

so  be  it.

there's no more need for discussion on the trek there. at least on childe's part, he doesn't have much to add, and there's no reason to annoy even himself with pointless discussion over what they'll potentially find in the abyss.

the entire trek there is filled with sideways glances periodically over in scaramouche's direction though, with childe wondering what exactly the sixth is thinking half the time. childe had always wanted to get to know him better, but there's always some sort of shield, or barrier in place that makes it hard to figure out what to even talk about. he's determined to TRY, at least. if there's one thing childe prides himself on, it's his tenacity to be annoyingly stubborn.

when they finally reach the entrance, childe hesitates only for a moment. there really is no leader to be had when it's just the two of them, but childe also doesn't want to constantly be ordered around, either. and what with how stubborn scaramouche has been shown to be in the past, childe can see one of two scenarios happening:

either he let scaramouche go through the portal first, so childe can see that it's safe for him to follow suit. or HE go first to prove that he's no coward. which, it isn't something childe needs to prove in the first place. he's confident that scaramouche can see what childe is capable of, or will see it soon enough.

it's not like childe is even SCARED in the first place. this is the first time he's partnered up with a harbinger he actually enjoys being around, and childe really doesn't want to do anything stupid with this opportunity. it's probably better that he show off a bit. so, childe is picking himself.

"see you on the other side." he gives scaramouche a wink before strolling through, though he DOES pull up his bow, just in case there is need for it right away. the abyss is unpredictable at best, and childe is well aware of what dangers can be lurking.

it's a GOOD thing he readied his weapon ― a pyro mage is lurking just in front of him on the other side. childe wastes no time in creating an arrow out of his hydro and loosing it straight at the shield. he could take it out himself, but why deprive scaramouche of some fun too?

[rinkrats]

is the Duthie book any good?

it’s a veryyy quick read - little bite-sized stories from a bunch of players and... they vary in quality 🥴

but i loved this one:

To the countless young hockey players who idolize her, Hayley Wickenheiser is puck perfection. On Canada’s national team by age 15, she has four Olympic gold medals and seven World Championship gold medals. She is the first woman to score a goal in a men’s professional league (Finland, 2003), and a first-year-eligible Hall of Famer. Oh, and she played softball in the Olympics, too. Legend.

She’s so legendary, in fact, that it rattles rookies to share the ice with her on the national team.

“The first time I suit up for Canada and get to play with Wick is the Four Nations Cup in Lake Placid,” says Tessa Bonhomme. “I can’t even speak to her, I’m so overwhelmed to be on her team. We’re playing the Americans, and I get a penalty on a terrible call. My first game, and I’m in the box, staring at the coach, thinking I’m going to get benched. Then Wick gets a penalty and we’re down five-on-three. Now we’re in the box together.

“I’ve never spoken to her. I just take a seat so she has her space, because she’s just giving it to the ref. There is literally foam coming from both sides of her mouth. I’m sitting there, thinking, ‘This is your moment. Just say something to her!’ So I say, ‘That was a bullshit call!’ And she just looks at me, then stands by the door for the rest of her penalty. I feel like an idiot. What a terrible time to say something. Maybe I should have offered her water or something. These are things you think about in the box with the GOAT!

“Now my penalty is about to end, and Wick is blocking the door. What do I say? ‘Excuse me, legend, but the rookie has to go out first?’ She’s such a competitor, I really think she’s going to jump on the ice for me. Thank God, there’s a whistle with a few seconds left in my penalty. I stand up and try to figure out a way to tell her I need to get past her. So I say, ‘Do you think the coach is going to tell me to go to the bench or go on the ice?’ She doesn’t say anything, but she gives me a little nod towards the bench. My first real moment with Wick. One little nod, and I figure we’re now best buds forever! It’s amazing how you can remember every detail when it’s one of the great ones. I bet Wick doesn’t remember a second of that.”

Tessa’s right: she doesn’t. But the GOAT was a green kid once, too, with her own “I can’t believe I did that” tale.

It is Wickenheiser’s second season with the Canadian national team. She is just 16, playing in the final of the Pacific Rim Challenge against Team USA. After two periods, the game is tight. The tournament is on the line.

“We come off the ice after two, and our dressing room is like a shoebox. We’re all crammed together in this little community. There are a couple of full spray bottles on the table,” Wick says. “I always like to pour water all over my face after a period. My teammates can all attest to the fact I usually have snot flying out of my nose or spit or some form of something gross all over my face while I’m playing. I’m pretty disgusting during games.”

“So, I grab a spray bottle and I just spray it all over my face like I always do. And in a couple of seconds, I go, ‘Oh God, that’s not water!’”

Uh oh. The spray bottle is rubbing alcohol.

“My face is on fire and I can’t see anything! France St-Louis, who is our veteran at the time, and Stacy Wilson jump up and grab a bunch of water bottles and basically do the old chemical face wash, dipping my head over the garbage can, running water over my face endlessly. After a few minutes, I kind of start to see again and the stinging goes away. Still, my eyes are really messed up.”

But she’s Hayley Wickenheiser and it’s a championship game. Zero chance she sits. Wick takes her regular shift for the entire third period.

“I can make out shapes and I can tell the difference between my teammates and the other team, but everything is blurry,” Wick says. “I really have no idea if I accomplish much, but somehow we win the game. It is one of the finest moments of stupidity in my career. But I gave the girls a good laugh. They weren’t real surprised. I get so focused during a game, I’m pretty oblivious to everything going on around me.”

[imhereforbvcky]

Watch Me Run - Part 14

Masterlist  -  Series Masterpage  -  Part 15

Summary: You inherit a family relic that gives you the gift of foresight but there are others who are interested for more nefarious reasons. You turn to the Avengers for help. (Bucky x reader) Chapter: Bucky makes you breakfast and you have a new dream. Meanwhile, Natasha gets some answers.

Word Count: 3557

A/N: I make up so much shit related to infinity stones in this chapter. I have no excuse other than that idga(nymore)f. The rest is just mushy mush mush! Enjoy!

The last warm rays stretched long golden fingers through the trees. A breathless chill seeped into the air on the claws of shadow that crawled over the cabin earlier and earlier with each passing day. Even the sun hid its face from winter’s harsh touch in this barren place.

Glimmering ice lingered in every shadow: a frosty warning of the coming storm. Even sheltered inside, your nose had grown cold to the touch on that first morning when you woke to the unmistakable crunch of fresh snow.

You’d dreamed of that sound your whole life, if such horrors could be considered dreams. That grinding, biting, crunch of snow and ice under heavy boots had been knit into your bones, burned in your blood. It was the sound of a world too cold and too sharp to yield to the will of any man in it.

As a child it had been the sound of rescue, of paramedics come to haul your small shivering body from the wreckage of your mother’s car. Lately, the sound of otherworldly golden boots wading through snow and blood hunted you across dream and daylight alike.

Hiding from the unwelcome sound, your eyes pinched tighter shut, and you burrowed deeper beneath the heavy Italian wool blanket. Waiting. It smelled of the raw cedar linen chest. Its rough weave scratched against your cheek as you waited for the sound of relief.

In the long hours here in this small quiet cabin, in this wide open and silent wood, every noise – even Bucky’s hushed ones – had become intimately comforting. First, the deadbolt gliding into place with a swish-thunk. Then, the swift zip of his jacket, and finally the heavy one-two of his boots stomping off the mud, or today… the snow.

You’d learned long ago that while sleep was a necessity, it was not the relief for Bucky, that it was for you. True rest came with great difficulty, and when it did finally claim him, he often woke early, shoving away that unknowable darkness in favor of controllable, definable protocol.

Today had been no different. Dry logs clattered in the fire, crumbling their bark on the stone floor of the hearth. The stiff crumple of newspapers came next, then the sharp fwick of a match. While you’d been hiding from the cold and the steady march of time, he’d already checked his snares and trips, scouted the area for unexpected tracks, and returned with a sled full of bright smelling pine for the fire.

You shuffled to the doorway, dragging the scratchy wool blanket over your shoulders and paused at the entry. Sleep might not bear rest for Bucky, but just now, he looked about as peaceful as you’d seen him. Confident in his sweep, warming by the fire he’d just built, muscles a little sore from the work and a little stiff from the chill in the air, he sat on his feet, kneeling before the bright flames.

Relaxed by his ease, by the very nature of his constancy, you watched for a moment. The warm glow brightened the dark brown of his hair, softened the steel blue of his eyes until he let them fall closed and his head fall back on his shoulders with a sigh. He rarely looked so at ease.

The smile crept across your face unbidden. A slow curl of your lips accompanied a contented tilt of your head. When had running for your life become so pleasant?

“Sleeping Beauty wakes,” he teased, smiling to himself, but otherwise unmoving as he soaked up the fire’s warmth.

“Does that make you my fairy godmother?” you tossed back as you stepped into the room, laughing away the heat rising in your cheeks. “You know, swooping me off to the forest to protect me.”

He laughed, turning to watch you arrange the blanket as you sat beside him in front of the fire. “Not how I’m usually cast, but I’ll take what I can get.”

“Who would you rather be?”

Again, he laughed, this time shaking his head, with his eyes firmly on his feet.

“Hey, I’ve got something for you,” he changed the subject. Or tried.

“Fauna, did you make me a cake?! It’s not even my birthday!”

“What?” he frowned, clearly the cabin hadn’t been stocked with Disney movies. “No. Not a cake.”

Natasha stood on the sidewalk looking up at the lavish building with a scoff on her lips. Stately carved stone pillars stood in perfect lines, dividing the deep red brick. Row after row of delicately wrought iron balconets guarded lavishly shrouded windows. At the center of the steeply pitched copper roof, green with age and weather, stood the unmistakable round window. It was intricately latticed and appeared as an exact twin to the one she’d just left behind in Nepal.

She checked the paper in her hands one last time, the one the Sorcerer Supreme had given her.

“Flew half way across the world and I could’ve just taken a cab down 6th,” she grumbled, shoving the paper in her pocket before bounding up the stairs.

She froze when she raised a softly closed fist to knock and the cheery fall morning around her melted into a dim, musky hall filled with ancient looking relics, knick-knacks, books and museum-quality furniture. Immediately on edge, she tried to keep her stomach from flipping again.

“You don’t have the stone.” The voice echoed off the richly stained wood cases.

“Seemed unwise until we know why everyone wants it,” she answered coolly, eyeing the man who seemed to float down the wide staircase. He reminded her vaguely of Tony. Dark hair tinged with grey, carefully kept facial hair, a sharp intelligent eye, and an even sharper tongue. “Why you want it.”

“I need to see to the stone-keeper.”

“And I need answers.”

“There’s no time for mincing words, Ms. Romanoff,” he complained, sweeping past her and pointing a sharply angled hand at the door. “You brought a homicidal Asguardian fugitive to my doorstep  who is hunting infinity stones. That stone protects your reality. My job is to protect this realm, and that means the stone. It’s always been safest with The Seers, but if the chain has been broken…”

“The Seers?” Natasha interrupted. “Who are they? What makes them equipped to protect it over your order? Over us?”

Strange sighed. Irritation sagged in the frown of his lips and the roll of his eyes as he reached for a heavy tome. It flew to his waiting hand from a shelf across the room and when he dropped it on the table, thundered open to a page depicting a family tree in minute detail.

Natasha recognized it immediately as a perfect copy of the one she’d seen that day you first crashed into their lives with a story that seemed too crazy to be true. A story of visions and time-bending and stones. And yet, here she stood in the sanctum of a practitioner of the mystic arts, staring at the exact same family tree that had been scribbled into the back of the family album your grandfather had mailed to you. The one that had held the time stone itself.

“They’re a family,” he explained, pointing to the page. He studied Natasha as she worked to school her shock. “An ancient line of sorcerers. Gifted in our arts, they go as far back as we have written record.” He pointed to a name high on the list. “Suresh The Philosopher: authored many of our foundational texts and spells.” He indicated another name. “Mina The Guardian: appointed the first masters of the mystic arts to maintain the sanctums. Nobis The Wise created the Order of Seers. And so on and so on for generations. Decades.”

“She knows none of this,” Natasha breathed, drawing light fingers over the names on the page and recalling that day in Tony’s office. “She had no idea what that album meant. What she could be.”

“Who she is.” Strange corrected. “She must be told. I can’t allow the stone to remain unprotected. I can help, but you have to take me to the stone-keeper. Now. Loki is not the only one in the universe who seeks that power.”

Natasha sighed, finally in concession. “That’s impossible. I don’t know where she is.” And it was true. She had nothing. No stone, no stone-keeper. Just a word with a man who had a phone number.

“Nothing’s impossible.”

His word was curt and final. Before Natasha’s frown could dawn into an argument, he’d spun a gleaming orange rope, sparking and snapping as it opened a hole in the reality of space and they stepped into a conference room in Stark Tower.

“You might want to lock down the next room.” He calmly suggested before nodding through the glass to an empty office.

The sparking gold ring had just begun to fade as Loki stumbled into the vacant office as if out of thin air.

“Maybe you should let me do the cooking,” you grinned, sliding your elbows over the counter.

Bucky spared a quick glance for you from the overflowing pan. Over his shoulder, you could just see the corner of his mouth quirked up and that glint in his eye. It was like a lightning strike, sending a fresh heat zipping through your entire nervous system.

“You haven’t even tried it yet,” he argued.

“What is… it exactly?”

His smirk only grew as he reached for two plates.

“Garbage eggs,” he said with absolutely no further explanation.

Your excitement turned to a scowl while he scooped the concoction onto two plates and slid one to you.

Bucky had a very different definition of cooking than yours. You had argued about it once, early on. Well, argue isn’t the right word. It was playful prodding really and the conversation ended in a shrug when he offered one of those grins. The kind that invariably forced all the sensible words out of your head.

He was far more likely to heat up a can of beans over the stove – still in the can. Or take a fork straight into a rehydrated sleeve of rice and beef goo, made for camping and efficiency. It wasn’t that he didn’t like good cooking, only that he didn’t require it. Not on mission, anyway. He’d been trained by the US Military and then by HYDRA into the perfect soldier. Anything that tasted good was simply a waste of precious energy.

You, on the other hand, were certain your insides had turned to molten imitation cheese weeks ago from all the frozen or rehydrated food.

“You said you were sick of junk food,” he shrugged, strangely unwilling to meet your eye.

“So you made garbage instead?” you teased.

“Yup.” He shoveled a massive bite into into his mouth and grinned. Still, though he smiled, he wouldn’t look up. Instead he stirred the plate around. “It’s eggs and potatoes and whatever is almost ready for the garbage.”

“An empty-the-cupboard breakfast,” you surmised.

“Mhmm. Try it,” he stabbed a piece of potato.

You eyed him warily as you scooped up a bite. As you did,  he finally lifted his eyes. Not his head, though. He looked like a puppy waiting to be kicked. It wasn’t a five-star meal, but you’d take anything over a microwaved gas station breakfast sandwich. This, at least, was fresh-cooked and warm, and damn it all if it wasn’t alright.

“Not bad?” This time, he grinned a little. His brows lifted slightly, waiting and anxious.

It was then you realized he’d done this for you. When you’d complained about all the food-in-a-bag, when he’d denied you the chance at the hospital café and you’d griped, he’d heard. Not only had he heard you, here he sat offering what you asked for, or as best as he could manage given the circumstances.

“’S good,” you beamed up at him, warmed head to toe by this one small, intimate act. “Nice and salty.”

He nodded, pleased and relieved. He glanced back at the pan, still warm on the stove. “You um,” he stumbled, “You were tired of the instant meals, so.”

Your face burned at the memory of complaining about the food at the hospital, at the recollection of Bucky’s hand closed around yours. How comfortable, how easy it had been done, and how something from that instant had shifted. Something you couldn’t – wouldn’t – name. If you gave it a name it had a shape and that shape might not fit in this tiny cabin, on this dangerous assignment. Or worse, it might not fit in the shapeless world after the danger passed, when the boundaries were lifted.

“You know what this needs?” you asked. Taking another grateful bite and smiling wide, you swallowed the garbage eggs with the anxiety. “Hot sauce!”

You could see the wheels turning, as he eyed you, measuring your suggestion.

“It does,” he finally agreed, turning back to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” you laughed, knowing full well there was no hot sauce to be found in the efficient little cabin. Only dehydrated chicken and rice, canned beans and more potatoes.

Without a word, he reached deep into a cupboard and set a can on the counter with a loud clank. He peeled back the lid on a stew of hot chilies.

Your eyes lit up before you dove into the can with a spoon, drizzling the sauce all over your eggs and potatoes. Bucky did the same. When you both reached into the can simultaneously, you jumped back, a laugh on your lips at your own eagerness.

Bucky looked at you with an expression warm and gentle, like leaves falling quietly in golden afternoon sun. It quickly grew into a laugh of his own.

“You’ve uh,” he chuckled. “You’ve got something…” he motioned to your cheek. The brick red sauce had flung from your spoon when you’d withdrawn so quickly and now splattered your face.

Heat rose in your face again; you tried to laugh it off. You swiped at your cheek with the heel of your hand.

“Did I get it?”

Another chuckle as he shook his head. His lips rolled between his teeth for a fraction of a second.

“Now?”

“Here.” He reached a hand across the counter between you. Without even thinking, you leaned forward, pushing up on your toes to close the distance.

It wasn’t until his thumb swept high over your cheek that your heart began to race. As if, with that touch, that brush of skin, the unspoken shift had been not named, but marked. Without meaning to, he’d brought the feeling to life, shoved it into that golden light.

He’d swept the sauce away but lingered close, fingers hovering just barely over the span of your cheek. Frozen, mesmerized by this newness, you waited, drawn tight as a bow. He never broke eye contact, never pulled away. So finally, you leaned into his hand, just a small tilt of your head.

In an instant you were spinning. The copper relic at your neck burst into green radiance. A sharp intake of breath served as the only notice something was not right.

Bucky pulled away and watched as you stumbled back, completely lost to the power of the stone.

Somewhere in the blend of present and future before your eyes, you knew what you must look like. You knew your eyes had glazed over, had become distant and unseeing Your face had fallen slack with the force of the change, fingers dancing over the cool metal of the necklace. You mirrored your grandfather.

Without his control, however. The dreams took hold when they would, and you fell, powerless to their urging.

In the dream Bucky’s hand still lay on your cheek as it had in waking. His touch remained gentle and warm. He smiled at you with an ease you’d never seen before. It settled over you like a glowing fire. Familiarity, comfort, safety.

The coarse scratch of his growing beard made a pleasant swishing sound as it moved over the soft white fabric on his pillow.

“Do you know you smile when you’re dreaming?” he asked, voice rough and quiet. He must have just woken. You loved when his voice sounded this way. It meant he’d slept well, rested, safe and at home beside you.

Your own voice mumbled out an answer, heavy with contentment and sleep. “Only when I dream of you.”  

Your fingers curled around Bucky’s wrist, holding him close while you turned your head slightly to kiss his open palm.

He rolled his eyes, a silent joke, always teasing. But there was a smile there too, the soft content kind that let you know there would be no interruptions today. No missions. No fear. Just this. The cotton sheets ruffled quietly as he shifted closer and pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead, then your nose.

“What was I doing?” he asked while the tips of your fingers traced the strong curve of his shoulder. “In the dream.”

“You know how when you’re mad, you clench your jaw?”

“I do not,” he argued.

You laughed and burrowed tightly against his chest, legs tangling as you scooted closer.

“And you sigh.”

He took a breath and paused, holding back the inevitable sigh, before letting out a small chuckle. “Well you got me there.”

“I brought home an elephant, and you were doing the jaw thing,” you traced the line of his jaw. “And then you sighed when I said I wanted to keep it.”

“I’d do a lot more than that if you brought home a 6-ton pet.”

“But I saved it from a circus, so you let me keep it anyway,” you continued.

He hummed, smoothing a hand over your hair and pressing his lips to the top of your head. “That big bleeding heart o’ yours,” he kissed you again. “Always gettin’ us into trouble.”

“No more than your stubborn streak,” you countered, tipping your head to kiss his neck, up, and up to the edge of his chin.

“Who’s stubborn?” He slid strong unrelenting arms around you, pinning your own to your sides. Your entire body locked immobile against his.

“Bucky!” You tried to sound outraged when you were anything but. Your giggles drifted on the breeze beside the gossamer curtains on out the open window. The soft rumble of his happiness tickled and scratched at your ear, it warmed your skin and rippled down to your belly until you stilled again in his arms.

Just as quickly as the dream had fallen upon you, taking hold of all your senses, it lifted. Worried grey eyes roved over you, glancing furtively at the ornament hanging over your chest, its green light dimming slowly.

You sat on the floor, leaning against the couch. That was unusual. Normally when the dreams struck, the force of it overtook you, left you in a heap on the floor. But this time, you hadn’t woken with so much as an ache. Not one bruise.

You noticed Bucky’s hands just then. One curled over your shoulder, the other cradled your head with fingers curling behind your neck. “I’ve got you,” he kept muttering quietly while looking you over again and again, worry pitched in every syllable. He must’ve caught you, guided you to safety, and stayed, watching helplessly as you’d slipped into another time.

“You okay?”

You only nodded, swallowing thickly and dodging his probing gaze.

“What was it?” he pressed. He was anxious and that was unusual. “What did you see?”

“I—Nothing,” you hedged. Your skin had begun to burn at the memory, at the way he was holding you now, so like the dream and yet so unlike. “It was nothing. We’re not in any danger.”

Except you were. You were in very real danger of leaning forward to kiss those almost-familiar lips that had whispered such sweet words in your dream.

“That thing has lit up every time you’ve had one of those dreams,” he urged. His fingers dug into your shoulder. “And every time it does, Loki has been close. Close enough to take it from you. You need to tell me what you saw.”

“It wasn’t Loki,” you managed. “It was you.”

His eyes flashed wide for a moment, before a frown deepened across his dark features. “Me? I did someth--”

“Not like that,” you stumbled. “You wouldn’t have hurt me. It was after, I think. After all of this. I wasn’t worried about Loki, or the stone, or any of this.”

Bucky stared at you, frown as firm as before. He was unsure and critical. Finally, his gaze tore away from you at the sound of a sharp repetitive beep. You watched the color drain from his face before he leapt to his feet, reaching for the pager on the table. The pager he’d bought for Tony Stark to call if anything came up between check-in calls.

He glanced at it, then stared at you for a long moment, trying to work out the puzzle. If you’d withheld anything from him.

Meanwhile, your heart was hammering like ocean waves in your ears. So loud you wondered if he could hear it too. The longer his silence stretched, the more you began to dread what he might say.

“We have to go.”

Part 15 >>

[themuzzleofnemesis]

3–Memory of the Four Seasons; Scene 8

The Muzzle of Nemesis, pages 118-134

I hadn’t reported Shakuson’s true identity to the organization.

The only duty they had given to me was killing people.

They hadn’t said anything about searching for the targets myself.

.

Perhaps as a result of war breaking out, I would sometimes see soldiers in town.

Why were they fighting? And for what reason did they kill?

For their country, for their families, for justice—the reasons were endless.

Whatever the case, I thought it was splendid.

There were pacifists out in the town square shouting about opposing the war and for everyone to join hands and such, but such things were mere idealism—it sounded like little more than the excuses of cowards who didn’t have the courage to fight.

I was certain they were the privileged sort. They had probably never been in a situation where it was kill or be killed.

Even animals killed other animals, to sustain themselves and to protect their territory.

Those humans who couldn’t were lower than beasts.

.

It wasn’t like I didn’t have pangs of conscience about killing people.

But every time I would hesitate, the “other me” would whisper in my mind.

--It’s not my fault.

--Someone killing someone else is instinctual, natural, and destined.

--All the people in this world exist to be killed.

She would erase my doubts.

She would make me a cold assassin.

.

It would be Christmas soon.

This had become a topic of conversation while I was walking with Shakuson along the main street.

“Themis, what are you doing for Christmas?”

“What am I…doing?”

“Well, I had just thought you’d probably be spending it with your family.”

I silently shook my head.

“You’re not going home?”

“No…My mother’s probably away at work.”

Most of the Christmases in my childhood, I had spent with my mother. And when she wasn’t around, Nikolay.

There were benefits and drawbacks to either case.

My mother greatly understood what it was that I liked, so she always had excellent sense when selecting my Christmas presents. Come to think of it, Mr. Ziz had also been one of the presents she gave me for Christmas. On the other hand, her cooking when it came to the cake and turkey was…All the good will in the world couldn’t get me to compliment it. Though I would persevere to eat it even so.

Nikolay, who looked a lot like Santa Claus, would make superb dishes. They were always fairly eccentric in appearance, overflowing with his unique sensibilities, but they tasted good nonetheless. Thinking on it now I was curious as to how he made them, considering he didn’t have any decent cooking equipment at that camp of his. As for his presents…Well, there wasn’t much to say. It was all useless to me, so I’d thrown them out the day after I moved here.

--I would never spend Christmas with my mother or Nikolay again.

“What do you plan to do, Shakuson?”

I’d heard him say that his parents had already passed on. But he—had a younger brother.

I recalled that letter, but quickly put it out of my mind.

“I—can’t go back to my home country either. It’s just the state of the world.”

“Then your real family’s in—”

“Asmodean. The country that Lucifenia’s currently at war with. I can’t get across the border so easily.”

“I see…”

“…So. Would you like to spend Christmas together this year? You and me.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t want to?”

“That’s…not it.”

My face right then was probably as red as the uniform that Santa Claus wore.

“Well then, I’ll have to get a present for you,” Shakuson said happily.

“In that case, I’ll do the cooking.”

“Oh, sounds good.”

The two of us headed home, getting excited as the conversation went on.

.

After seeing Shakuson off as he went up the stairs, I entered my own room.

--Santa Claus was waiting for me there a little early.

"Postman…"

He had come, wearing his red coat.

There was—only one thing that could mean.

A killing assignment.

"…"

Wordlessly, Postman held out a small box.

I didn't want to accept it.

I didn't need this sort of Christmas present.

"…"

The other standing before me silently pressed me on.

I crumbled, and reluctantly accepted the box.

When I undid the string and opened it up, inside was a twice-folded piece of paper, a box of ammo, and—a revolver.

"This is--"

I had seen this gun before.

The "Naga Custom .44"--It was unmistakable.

Shiro's gun.

She told me she’d used it since she was young—it was a precious treasure to her.

From a quick look at its condition, all of its adjustments were complete. Shiro would frequently perform maintenance on this gun even if she didn’t actually use it.

This was, without a doubt, the highest quality gun I had ever held in my hand.

With this, I would never miss my target.

…Even Postman, right in front of me.

“…”

I pointed the muzzle at him.

Postman didn’t move an inch.

--That was only natural. He knew that the gun wasn’t loaded.

I lowered the gun.

…That left the paper.

I had a guess as to the orders that were written on it.

There was only one assassination target left.

.

Kill Nyoze Octo by the end of the year.

He is going by the name of Shakuson.

You need no further explanation.

.

That was it.

Unlike the others, there was no picture.

“…Understood,” I whispered.

After verifying that, Postman left the room.

.

--In no time at all it was Christmas.

.

It was cold.

Nikolay would have said it was “quite chilly today”.

Shakuson was away at work again.

But he told me he would try to wrap it up and head back as soon as possible.

On my end I…was putting together his Christmas present in my room.

“…”

I had decided.

I would bring it all to an end today.

“—Heey!”

I could hear Shakuson’s voice from outside.

I opened up the window—it must have been cold. It had started snowing.

Shakuson waved to me underneath the withered cherry blossom tree.

"Could you come over here?"

A request from the one I love.

I couldn't very well refuse.

…Ha ha ha.

I left the room and headed for Shakuson's side.

He was wearing his police uniform.

“Sorry. It lookd like…I’m gonna be coming home a lot later than I thought. I might not make it back while the sun’s still up.”

“Oh…Well, you can’t help work.”

"That’s why--I thought I'd give this to you first."

Shakuson took out a box.

It was small enough to fit into his palm.

"It's your Christmas present. …Open it."

I took the box from him, and looked inside.

Inside it was--

"…I don't believe it…"

A diamond ring.

When I looked to Shakuson I noticed that he was also wearing a ring.

On his left ring finger.

"It's an engagement ring. Though I didn’t have much choice in diamond size with my salary.”

"…"

"--Will you marry me, Themis?"

"…Thank you. You've made me very happy."

"--! Then--"

"I have a present for you too."

I pulled it out from my pocket where I had been keeping it hidden.

.

Santa gave to me a revolver.

Right now it was loaded with live rounds.

I aimed the muzzle at him, standing before my eyes.

.

--Goodbye, the one I love.

.

I had intended to fire it immediately.

But…I couldn't.

My vision grew blurred, and I couldn’t lock down my aim.

No matter how good the gun, it meant nothing if the person firing was like this.

“…So you’ve figured it out then. Themis—no, Nemesis,” Shakuson said with a calm demeanor. “How long have you known?”

“…I figured it out in fall. I found the letter from your brother you had in your room.”

“--That was careless of me, and Gammon for having written it. I should have disposed of it immediately after reading it.”

“You’re trying to combat the Dark Star Bureau. And so you got close to me to use me—I looked into when you moved into the apartment building we’re in now. …It was one week before I arrived.”

That was why the organization hadn’t known that there was a police officer living there.

“…It was a risky gamble. Deliberately getting into direct contact with the person who would be targeting me. But I figured it would be the perfect chance to get close to PN’s dark side.”

“I had always thought that you were in the side of justice, and I was evil—but…I was wrong.”

“It was actually the opposite?”

“No. You and I are both…evil.”

“…Maybe so.”

Despite having a gun pointed at him, Shakuson showed no sign of resistance.

He was still on duty, so he must have had a gun on him. But he made no move to pull it out, and there was no hint of him preparing to run away.

--Why didn't he run away?

If he ran away--

Run--

"…Hey, Shakuson."

"What is it?"

"What if we ran away? The two of us."

I knew it was crazy.

Still, right now the whole world was breaking out in war. If we took advantage of the chaos, maybe--

But Shakuson slowly shook his head.

"We can’t do that, Themis."

"…Why?"

"It isn't a matter of just us. We each have things we need to protect. In my case, I have my brother and my comrades in the Tasan Party. In yours--"

"I have nothing to protect."

"You don't have to hide it now. I've done my bit of research too. --About your relation to that man."

That man?

I didn’t know what Shakuson was getting at.

"You killing people--that's for your father, isn't it?"        

 “...I don't have a father."

"It's okay, I know. The head of the Dark Star Bureau, Gallerian--he is your father."

"…Huh?"

Gallerian--"Master" was my…father!?

"It can't be…That's a lie."

"--Did you really not know?"

How could I?

How could I know the one making me kill was my true father?

"Ha--Ha ha ha…Enough!" I screamed, unable to hold in my feelings. "Every last one of them, they're all garbage! Nikolay, Bruno, Gallerian--and you too!"

I once more pointed the gun I had lowered at Shakuson.

"Everyone…Everyone should die!"

.

That's exactly right.

Give over to it.

To the feelings inside you

And--destroy everything.

.

"Shut up!"

I had meant to scream that at the "other me" who had been speaking just then, but it seemed Shakuson thought it was directed at him.

"Please calm down, Themis."

"Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!"

"--Calm down!"

Shakuson drew closer, and tightly embraced me.

--And with just that, I regained my composure so fast I could scarcely believe it.

"…Hey, Shakuson."

"What?"

"If I could do it over--"

I wanted to gaze at the cherry blossoms in full bloom with him again.

I wanted to go see the summer fireworks with him again.

And--

"…No, nevermind."

Sorry--'cause I know that such things are already impossible.

Because from the beginning everything between us was just too different.

But--

Even so, I came to like you.

.

I pushed away from Shakuson, and for a third time brought up my gun.

"…"

This wasn't my first time shooting someone.

But…I guess this would be the first time I'd shoot while crying.

"…"

Shakuson didn't say anything.

He just looked at me with a kind expression.

Please--stop making such a face.

I knew the truth.

He wasn't the one at fault, nor was anyone else.

…It was me.

If only I hadn’t sunk that ship back then. If only I hadn’t killed anyone.

I'm sure things wouldn't have turned out this way.

Though I might regret it, I couldn’t go back to that day.

.

Shakuson--

I met you in spring.

Thinking on it now, maybe at that time I had already fallen in love with you.

In summer we made a lot of memories, on an autumn night we were joined.

And in this winter--we marked the end of everything.

.

The hammer raises, my index finger drawing close to the trigger.

That finger trembled slightly, but I couldn’t tell.

"I'm sorry…"

Those were my last words to you.

And--

In the end, you--

.

A dry gunshot rang out from beneath the cherry blossom tree.

.

…

……

It's alright, Shakuson.

Don't worry.

Because I'm sure I'll be able to see you soon.

I’m not making you go alone.

Because--

"Let's always be together"--

That's something we always said to each other, right?

.

The gun that shot Shakuson.

I turned the muzzle on my own temple.

--Once I’m gone, it will all be over.

.

I squeezed the trigger.

<<prev------directory------next>>

[hi-epervier]

In other news I'm back with more Naruto & Fugaku Uchiha dumbassery!! Still pre-sasunaru (for now). Now tagged 'matchmaking tyrant au' and 'mt' for easier search.

When Fugaku is not singing the praises of Japan (free healthcare. Does Naruto have any STIs? What? It's a valid concern. Having been dropped on his head as an infant is not an excuse for neglecting his health) he's on the phone barking orders to some poor bastard.

At some point early on, Naruto goes 'How come you never call your family? Don't you miss them?'

And gets told that keeping in touch would only serve to worry them needlessly. Fun fact: Naruto is a garbage collector. He has a PhD in bullshit.

'Well, yeah, okay. But what about just calling them, without mentioning the hospital thing?'

'...That is wholly unnecessary. My responsibilities-'

'I'm sure mrs Old Pimp would appreciate a call. Come on. It's your wife! Don't you want to talk to your wife?'

'I assure you that Mikoto does not require-'

'I'll let you get me a new shirt if you call them right now.'

Naruto's shirts collection is comprised of three identical orange rags riddled with stains and holes. All previous attempts of shoving money at the brat to make him replace them with something decent were shut down.

Fugaku makes the call.

It goes well, if by 'well', one means that it's marginally less mortifying once it's established that he is indeed not dying, nor in any immediate danger of doing so, and that no, there's no natural disaster currently unfolding, nor economy collapse, nor any urgent matter of any kind. Fugaku is calling because he felt like it, out of his own free will. Mikoto teases that now she knows he must have food poisoning. Then, mercifully, she makes small talk. Fugaku forms one full, stilted sentence, and a series of grunts, and, eventually, gets to mumble something that may or may not resemble a 'goodnight'.

'That wasn't so hard, huh, you old bastard? Don't you feel much better now?'

Fugaku should have bargained to make it two shirts.

*

In the mornings, Naruto rises bright and early and leaves with a 'please don't croak while I'm at work, Cranky Old Pimp!'

His day starts with collecting people's shit to throw it in the truck. It's an ok job, once you get over the smell, and the maggots, and the fucking squirrels, all of which he already had to deal with as a kid anyways. At least he's not stuck in an office. And in winter he knows which dumpsters are more likely to have someone hiding in them.

After that, he usually has one of two part-time gigs, but the boss of the fast-food place has been riding his ass more and more about the orders Naruto messed up once or twice, and he suspects he's going to be fired soon (his short-term memory is pretty shit, as well as his focus if he's not bouncing, or dancing, or just doing anything that involves moving a lot; but he'd been trying, and he'd hoped that being nice to customers would save his ass). Demand for construction workers is at a low, so he's been meaning to find a new job, but his dyslexia is making things difficult, and as a cherry on top of this shit cake, his cheap phone died last month. In short, he's pretty much fucked. He's not one to let that stop him, though.

Plus, there are people he can't let down.

*

Fugaku is a naughty old bastard.

'What the fuck do you mean, you're 'going to the office'?!'

'You came in at 2 in the morning covered in shiny substance and looking like you'd been mauled.'

Yeah, the old asshole had teared him a new one and decided he was 'grounded'. Naruto had told him to go fuck himself.

'It's glitter, oh my god, and the nice nurses said you need to rest! Sakura is going to beat my ass when she hears about this!'

This sounds like a your problem.'

'A you problem, it's you! You! At least say it correctly!'

'Did I stutter?'

Naruto may have created a monster.

*

If the old man is well enough to sneak off to buy stocks, he's well enough to make himself useful. Naruto needles him into coming with to the food bank. It's easy getting Fugaku short-notice permission to give a hand, because Naruto is a regular volunteer and seems to get along with everyone.

As always, Fugaku complains a lot; about the quality of the food, about unsavory characters and slackers, about work conditions, about pens. Most of Naruto's friends take a dislike to him immediately for being a disrespectful asshole, but. He gets the work done.

He also bosses around several more impressionable volunteers and somehow manages to make the process more efficient, and he's really good at soothing that one baby whose mom couldn't find a nanny that day, so, hey, silver linings.

Fugaku hates every single minute of it.

(Okay, maybe not the baby.)

(He wasn't kidding about grandchildren. Fugaku loves babies.)

(They like him back They're discerning creatures, unlike teenagers.)

*

They go shopping.

'When I said you could buy me a shirt, I meant a normal one for like, 20 bucks! Not... this!'

Fugaku will be taking his business to a different tailor in the future, and firing the imbecile who recommended this establishment.

This isn't in any way related to Naruto's deafening screech that 'Oh my god, they think you're my sugar daddy!' in the middle of measurements taking, nor with the humiliation of being associated with this cretin.

*

They powerwalk their way out of the store at a sensible pace.

'They thought that you-' something something, hand gestures. 'Me' shirt, not orange. 'For sex! Ew! Ew ew ew!'

...

This is preprosterous.

'I'm a married man.'

'Oh, good, so it's not me, it's you?'

Fugaku pulls a face like he just stepped in a turd.

He really should have bargained to make it two shirts.

[crusherthedoctor]

Sonic Villains: Sweet or Shite? - Part 14: SCOURGE

............

............

......Huh?

Oh, hello there! My name's Lutrudis, pleased to meet you. Judging from that look of surprise on your face however, it's evident that you weren't looking for ME per say... What's that? You want to know what this is? Right, of course, my apologies.

Well, this is a mini-series belonging to... ahem, my creator, in which he goes into slightly more detail about his thoughts on the villains in Sonic's history, and why he thinks they either work well, or fall flat (or somewhere in-between). Usually he gives his stance on their designs, their personalities, and what they had to show for themselves in the game(s) they featured in. He also stresses that these are just his own personal thoughts, and that whether you agree or disagree, you're free to share your own thoughts and opinions.

Unfortunately, as you may have gathered, it seems he's a bit occupied for today, and is thus unable to do a review... is what I WOULD be saying if he didn't let me cover for him! That's right boys and girls, I'll be filling in for him today, by doing a little review of my own! Please forgive me if I prattle on for extended periods, but I sincerely hope my efforts in assessing the Wrong'un of the Week are of the utmost quality. Truth be told, it's kind of nerve-wracking, but I'm happy to give it my all for you guys. ❤️

So then, let's carry on with the show, shall we? Welcome to a new edition of Sweet or... Sour. Welcome to Sweet or Sour. Yes indeed, heh heh... (Is the creator's language normally this gratuitous? I hope Cream hasn't seen his posts...)

Anyhow, for today's review... well, this is quite interesting. Normally the creator prefers to keep his reviews focused on game-centric villains, but I guess he made an exception with this one. Today, we'll be directing our attention to a notorious copycat of our blue hero in the Archie continuity, and legendary connoisseur of 70's fashion: Scourge the Hedgehog.

The Gist: Once upon a time, in the land of comics, there was a world known by all as Mobius. But there was also a parallel dimension called Anti-Mobius, or as it would later become known as, Moebius... one E makes all the difference, apparently. Anyway, in this dimension, everyone and everything that existed in Mobius had an identical equivalent in Anti-Mobius, but things operated a bit differently, in the sense that they were largely the opposite of what we were familiar with.

Putting aside the rather disturbing implication that this world might not have had any real will or independence if it existed purely to do the opposite of what Mobius did, this meant that it had a Sonic the Hedgehog of its very own, as well as a father to that Sonic. Sadly though, this Sonic's father was not that kind to him. In fact, he was said to be a rather poor excuse for a father, as evidenced by how he didn't give his son enough attention, and... oh, that's it.

How awful.

I'd say his choice of attire is the real crime presented here.

Anti-Mobius in its original form experienced a period of Great Peace, but alas, it was not to last. It soon became a shadow of its former glory, which seemed prophetic in hindsight, as it was by this time that this world's Sonic the Hedgehog - Evil Sonic - murdered his own father in cold blood, and then threw his world's incarnation of King Maximilian Acorn into the Zone of Silence. He quickly became a dictator to the people of Anti-Mobius, with his only immediate opposition coming in the form of the kindhearted counterpart to Dr. Ivo Robotnik... or should that be Dr. Julian Robotnik, in this continuity...? Hmm, I suppose it doesn't matter anymore...

Naturally, the laws of the universe saw fit to correct this wrong. Just as water is wet, and fire is hot, Sonic gives evildoers a right kicking. And lo and behold, our magnificent hero did eventually meet his evil duplicate. The two were evenly matched in speed, but the good-natured Sonic triumphed regardless, possibly because he had more wittiness on his person.

Pictured: Quality banter.

Evil Sonic later brought along the rest of his gang to aid him, who predictably mirrored Sonic's own band of Freedom Fighters. They were just as much of a match for our heroes, which is a polite way of saying they weren't. You really shouldn't expect anything exquisite when they looked like this.

Maybe you should call your group something else then...

These parlor games went on for a while, with the status quo never truly changing. But then, after one final showdown with Sonic, the evil Robotnik of Mobius kicked the bucket, which among other things, inspired ANOTHER Robotnik to fill the void. This Robo-Robotnik took Evil Sonic along with him to commit many acts of dastardly intent, an act of generosity that proved to be tragically undermined by Evil Sonic getting caught and trapped by different people time and time again, to the point where even his old gang had long replaced him with a new leader. He did go on to escape the grasp of one Zonic the Zone Cop... only to later get arrested again by the same guy. So far, so adorably incompetent, right?

Still, he did bust out once more, and he proceeded to turn the overall universe into a glorified soap drama by pulling the moves on numerous ladies in Mobius, which in true Evil Sonic style, achieved precisely nothing of merit. Even after he briefly teamed up with Rouge the Bat, his luck persisted in not manifesting. But things were about to get even worse... for us. On a meta level, if you know what I mean.

After one final botched attempt at pointless thievery, with the Master Emerald being the prime target in this particular case, Evil Sonic's attempt to gain himself a super form was halted midway with great force by none other than Locke, the notorious father and attempted microwave murderer of Knuckles the Echidna. Rather than kill him however, all this did was change his fur to green, and leave him with some hardcore scars.

He promptly renamed himself Scourge. Because he's a real SCOURGE to good ideas, har har.

New kid in town, do not steal.

With his first act of villainy as a new man tattering to pieces due to foolishly invoking the wrath of Shadow the Hedgehog, he soon crossed paths with Dr. Finitevus, an albino echidna who otherwise looked exactly like Knuckles (good heavens, how many of these can one muster?), and spent some time on his side by aiding a new gang of lovely gentlemen called the Destructix. Together, these functioning psychopaths committed more mindless evil.

He also managed to swoon over Fiona Fox to his side, a miraculous modicum of success considering you need some sort of charm to be able to do that, of which Scourge has shown nil. I'm hardly an expert on dishing out romantic advice, but I'm willing to bet there's plenty of superior fish in the sea, Fiona...

How about “Oh my god, did I seriously die to THESE losers?”

Eventually, Scourge and Fiona broke away from Finitevus' allegiance after the deadly and boring Enerjak was unleashed on Mobius. He returned to Anti-Mobius, and it turned out that any repairs made since the last time he was king didn't amount to anything substantial, because he went and conquered the entire land all over again. Rechristening his old gang as the Suppression Squad, he continued Being Evil™ some more, until the aforementioned Suppression Squad betrayed him for constantly being abhorrent to them, which led to him being stuck with Rosy the Rascal for a while, yet another shameful derivative of a close friend.

In his last days, at long last, he finally achieved a super form with the power of an Anarchy Beryl... only to get soundly thrashed once again, get thrown in prison, and then just when it seemed he'd be back in business, he got wiped out by the Genesis Wave. Tch, Mondays, am I right?

As you can tell from my words alone, let alone in an extremely abridged format, he did a fair amount over the years... and yet at the same time, when you really think about it, he ultimately did so very little.

Oh, and there was also a Metal Scourge at one point. I'm aware that the man who made him has never been all there in the head, but I still find myself questioning why he saw fit to go through with this nonsense.

I shouldn't need to say this, but that's a disgrace to the hostile Eggman robot that I know and detest.

The Design: Well, he started off as a Sonic, so it's to be expected that he'd look exactly like the lovable goof. Since this was ~Evil~ Sonic though, he was determined to remind us at all times that Grease was in fact the word.

~You're the one I don't want, you're not the one for, no-ho-ho, honey~

Then he turned green, and... yeah, he turned green. All I can say, really.

Please excuse me, I'm utterly beside myself with amazement.

It doesn't quite strike the imaginative chords, needless to say. And neither does his super state, which... I'm sorry, it's not normally my cup of tea to chide others for their appearance, but just look at this tripe for a moment.

No, I don't think I will.

When you combine his already ridiculous self with black eyes and a tiara... what exactly is the intent here? Am I supposed to be intimidated by this display?

Keep this between us if you can, but personally, I'm more intimidated by staircases than I am by this fiend.

The Personality: You would think that since a Sonic is a Sonic, Scourge would share a lot of his personality with our Sonic. And that is true... in the most superficial sense possible.

Sure, he's jovial, cocky, and prone to moments of overconfidence, which is enough to sound very familiar to us on paper. Beyond that however, that's all they really have in common beside their appearance. In every other category, you could argue that Scourge is the exact opposite of Sonic.

For instance, whereas Sonic is supremely loyal to his friends (trust me, I’m grateful to know!), Scourge treats his gang like fetid garbage, and that's when he's not outright abandoning them, neglecting them, and putting them in danger. Likewise, whereas Sonic is a blue bundle of bravery no matter the odds, Scourge is a poor little chicken when the going gets tough, despite all his ramblings about being Sonic's full potential.

This means that for all the acclaim he receives as Sonic's evil doppelganger... he shares very few similarities with who he's replicating. He's barely any different from all the other ruffians that Sonic faces, so what point is there to him being a Sonic at all? If he had a different name and design entirely, what would honestly be lost in translation?

But then, maybe he would just become Mephiles the Dark instead.

Or Mimic the Octopus instead.

Or Eggman Nega instead.

Or Ken Penders instead.

Or... sheesh, they all kind of blend together after a while, don’t they?

The Execution: If my general tone has thus far not been enough of an obvious indication, I do not rank Scourge with any particular favouritism when it comes to Sonic's rogue gallery.

Mind you, ANYONE who threatens our world and tries to kill my friends is nothing but rancid at their core, and as long as they remain unrepentant, I would never support any of them. Asking me which dangerous maniac is “the best” is like asking me which sewage stinks the least, after all. But even I can understand that there's a right way to do bad, and a wrong way to do bad. Scourge, Evil Sonic, whatever you wish to call him, falls squarely into the latter category.

How I'd love to shove an arrow up His Majesty's rear end.

First of all, his motivations were poorly structured, and that's putting it tactfully. Most of the time, we're led to assume that he does evil for no other reason than because it's evil, so we're already not looking at masterpiece material. But as it turns out, as I mentioned way earlier on, he grew resentful of his father for not giving him as much attention as he felt he deserved.

So when he killed his dear old dad, and went on to do everything else to bitterly stick it to his dad's memory, we're supposed to... sympathise...? Understand his point of view, perhaps...?

Well, I dare say I'll be sticking my nose up to THAT presumption, because there is no pathos to be had here. None at all. It's just a selfish brat becoming a violent and murderous selfish brat, and nothing more. By doing everything for evil's sake, intertwined with this sorry excuse of a tragic backstory, it's as if he's trying to have the best of both villainous worlds, without understanding what makes either of them work.

Secondly, for what little success that Scourge actually had to his name, few of them were by his own hand so to speak. As much as it pains me to give Dr. Eggman even a veneer of kudos, it does require mentioning that for all of the doctor's contemptible attributes, he truly is single-handedly responsible for a great majority of his own... achievements, if you wish to call them such. By contrast, this stinker rarely worked for his moments, instead often relying solely on others to get anything done efficiently, whether it be Fiona, Finitevus, his gangs, or the Anarchy Beryl. Without them, Scourge was always nothing.

Thirdly, as mentioned, he failed to fulfill even the basic concept of what Sonic would be like if he became evil, since he has virtually nothing in common with the hero he's trying so desperately to present himself as the corrupted counterpart to. While I'd obviously prefer not to entertain the mere notion of an evil Sonic anyways, since I know deep in my heart that he would never go down that path, I know him well enough to reasonably assume that even if he did lose his way, he would still be recognisable in some capacity, since there are countless aspects to his personality that remain so... inherent to how his mind operates.

I guess what I'm saying is that if an evil Sonic came to be, he would exist as a darker mirror of how Sonic actually is, and not... something that is not at all like Sonic beyond the physical.

What's the matter? Not used to a horse seeing you for what you really are?

Finally, remember when I said he was considerably more cowardly than Sonic? I wasn't simply referring to life or death battles and similar heat of the moment situations. Even when the scenario is of lower intensity, when the odds are completely in his favor at that, Scourge proves himself to be what Sonic isn't. Remember when he broke into the house of Sonic's father, with the intent to intimidate and kill said father... only to be scolded into submission by him? We're expected to believe this guy is a big baddie who ranks high in threat level, yet getting a telling off is sufficient enough to shoo him away?

If only Eggman was this easy to deal with...

Now granted, it's to my understanding that all of Scourge's failings are occasionally explained as him being a parody character. But, and correct me if I'm wrong here... aren't parodies supposed to be, you know, parodic, even if done subtly? As opposed to being played completely straight with no trace of irony, which is exactly how Scourge was portrayed throughout the entire duration of the comic's run, with no exceptions whatsoever?

Despite how often the comic insisted otherwise, and despite how often he received it, Scourge was not a villain who warranted importance. He was not a master planner, or a legendary conquerer, or a malevolent force of nature. He was bottom of the barrel, a wannabe at best, who thought he was made for bigger stripes, but remained little more than a walking pile of fresh manure, with nothing to show for it till the very end. His credibility was often alluded to, and handed to him, but never in any stretch was it properly earned. A punk who occasionally got lucky is hardly worth the rank of arch-fiend, in my humble opinion. He was a disgrace who simply had the luxury of wearing Sonic's skin to mask his shortcomings, and I can’t say I’m crestfallen to see him go.

And quite frankly, anyone who impersonates Sonic in the first place reeks to high heaven anyway. To think this trash heap thought he could ever compare in the slightest to my darling... Oh goodness, did I say that out loud?

Lutrudis Gives Scourge a: Thumbs Down!

[etraytin]

Quarantine, Day 253-255

November 19-22 So I haven't updated the journal for another couple of days and I have little excuse except for busyness, but I will make up for it now by really half-assing the job so I can go to bed. That's the sort of quality I know you've all come to expect from 255 days of this Quarantine Journal, and I aim to deliver!  We are currently on our deeply unrecommended Thanksgiving trip, the one we've been mostly locked down for for the past two weeks in order to prepare for. I am a generally deeply rule-following eldest child personality, so doing something I know I'm being told not to causes me a lot of anxiety, even when I'm doing it in the best way possible. I have skipped basically everything I could get out of for the past two weeks just to minimize our chances of getting COVID and bringing it to my folks. Now we'll spend the next couple of weeks basically locked down with them in order to minimize our chances of taking COVID home with us. We will then spend a couple weeks at home as sort of an airlock quarantine period so when we go see MIL for the Christmas Season, we will no longer have germs from any of our previous travels on us. Swear to god, this vaccine can't go into circulation fast enough. I feel like we're measuring out our lives with coffee spoons.  Okay, so Friday was mostly preparing for the trip. Desert Bus for Hope wrapped up in the morning (9am EST, after a walloping 164 hours of driving and $987k raised for charity) so I didn't get a lot of sleep. This affected my productivity in the daytime, but I still managed to get the kitchen cleaned up and supervise packing activities. I packed up a dozen wrap sandwiches and large bags of chips, snacks, fruit and drinks so that we could minimize our contact with the world during our trip.  The plan immediately hit a snag Saturday morning when the truck would not start. This normally would not be a big problem because we were taking the minivan, but our truck was full of bags of garbage that our neighbors would be most displeased to see festering for two weeks. Our jumper box was not powerful enough to jolt it back to life, so we had to call roadside assistance. Towing guy not only did not wear a mask, he smoked nearly the entire time he was around so we had to stay way back from him, but he did get the truck going. Husband took the truck around the complex to let it run and deliver all the bags to the big dumpster while kiddo and I finished packing and locking up. We were on the road by 11, which was not great but could've been worse.  We drove to Dayton on the first day, our usual stopover point at about 9.5 hours into the drive. We stopped twice on the way, both at Loves stations because they always do a good job cleaning. We didn't buy anything, just in and out in the time it takes to use a bathroom. Most people were wearing masks. I was able to get us quite a nice deal on a one room suite with a sofabed in Dayton, and the room was nice and very clean. We still took a bottle of bleach cleaner and hit up all the high-touch surfaces, just in case. The hot water was copious and I enjoyed a nice bath before going to bed. We did not get any food that day, just ate what we brought with us.  I was woken up at just before 5am by the Red Cross, which means we all woke up because one-room suite. There was a fire in the nearby town to where we lived, and they needed a runner because the guy didn't have a phone. I told them that yes I'm on duty, but I'm only doing virtual intake. I arranged it with my partner A that he would run and I would do the computer stuff while I was gone. (It took two phone calls just for me to clarify that I could not run to Nearby Town because I was in fact in  Dayton.) A was not picking up his phone this morning so that was not great, but there wasn't much I could do. I clarified all this, hung up, went back to sleep, and was woken twenty minutes later to have the same conversation with another DAT supervisor. She was irritated that I hadn't told her about the arrangement A and I made, even when I told her that I cleared it with the DAT coordinator because apparently he has faffed off to California for the week. All I could do was shrug, because I'd asked for Thanksgiving week off ages ago and didn't get it, so I was doing my best.  Anyway, by the time I finished the call we were all awake, but we did manage to catch a little more sleep before it was time to get up for real. We cleaned up, dressed, and packed up the hotel room in very good time because we do it a lot and are experts. We were just about to leave when the Red Cross called again. I was about to be seriously irked until I realized this was legit a totally different event and apparently today is just a "things catch on fire" day. The unusual thing was that the building that caught fire was actually incredibly close to where we live, so close that I could've walked to the response if I weren't in, you know, Dayton. As it was though, we finally got hold of A to do the runs, so I wound up hotspotting my laptop to my phone, which I hadn't known I could do in a moving car until today, then did intake calls for this apartment building fire while Husband navigated us through an extremely rainy morning drive and my stomach severely rejected the Burger King breakfast we'd grabbed because the hotel had suspended its breakfast service. It was not the least stressful car ride I've ever had, but stuff got done.  We had to stop three times for the six hour drive today because my stomach was Extremely Sad About French Toast Sandwich, but each one was very short and careful. Once I stopped eating or drinking anything, my stomach and I were able to reach detente and we arrived at our destination around 3:30. By then we were super hungry, but that was okay because my folks were totally ready to feed us delicious hamburgers on the grill, fried parsnips, and cauliflower tots from the air fryer. It was all very delicious. Tomorrow is going to be an early day because kiddo's school starts at 9est, which is 8 in Illinois, and I have to make sure he's ready and that his internet is working. Knock on wood, because he'll be doing school like this for the next little while! 

[toomuchponytail]

Hello, big fan!! Could you do something friendly-fire flavored? >:3 Thank you!! Keep writing, you beautiful unicorn!!!

Hey Anon! (sorry I’m late! sorry this took so long, I am an excuse of a human! ) First of all, thank you, but I am barely a horse–let alone a unicorn. (Also: “NO YOU!! ;) )  But thank you so much for this prompt! It’s such a good one that I had trouble choosing the setting, so many possibilities! So if you don’t favor this one I totally understand and can offer others of unfortunately similar quality…

But oh my goodness, thank you again! I honestly don’t deserve you, and I will prove it with the exorbitant amount of garbage I have spewed forth. 

I hope you have a day like a ginger bread cookie, sweet with just a hint of spice and bitterness that makes the sweet that much more enjoyable. I hope today is full of zest–both orange and otherwise, may you take small treats as they are offered, and use the good to weather the bad. 

Love a goblin who doesn’t own a calendar. 

“He could have killed you,” Sidekick breathes, they are tired and mournful in the cold morning light, they hand hero their mask, rust colored stains and all, they can’t bear to look at it, they make a point of looking out the window as hero takes it from them, their warm hand brushing sidekick’s ice cold one. 

“But he didn’t,” Hero grinned, they took hold of sidekick’s trembling fingers and don’t let go until sidekick looked back at them again, they don’t look as bad as sidekick was expecting them to after last night, after the building had collapsed with them inside. They were still bruised and pale, their left arm in a sling, the medic had said that three of their ribs were broken–they’d also told hero to stay in bed, but here they were coffee in hand asking sidekick where their mask had gone in the scramble to save them. 

“I’ll kill them,” Sidekick murmured, going back to looking out the window again, the sky blushed a soft golden peach color that melted into violet at the edges, the sun would be above the ridge in a few minutes, starting a day sidekick wasn’t ready for, not this time. 

“Sidekick,” hero started, wincing as he twisted a little too far, the pang of sympathy the sidekick felt only solidified in their mind what they had to do, for the city, for hero, so that they could sleep at night again even if it was in a prison cell. 

“I know that you don’t want to talk too much about your time as Villain’s sidekick, and I respect that choice, but like I said when we agreed to be partners,” hero took a sip of their coffee, “We do things differently than them, I don’t expect–or even allow you to kill, it’s too final, everyone deserves a chance at redemption, maybe even multiple chances.” 

Normally sidekick would try to take hero’s words to heart, they were still learning how to be a good person after so many years with Villain, but today the words just grated on their panic frayed nerves, “And when do those chances run out hero?” They hear themselves ask, hero looks up in surprise at their biting tone, “When the city is in rubble around their feet? When they’ve killed enough innocents to warrant the death penalty? When you’re dead?!” Sidekick’s voice broke at the end of their sentence, they stuttered and apology and left the kitchen, their throat burning with every venom fueled question they’d asked. Those were Villain’s morals, passing judgement on others, kill or be killed, and it filled sidekick with rage to realize that they were still carrying Villain’s ideology around with them like a demon on their shoulder. 

After a few hours blowing off steam by training alone in the basement of the base, sidekick’s mind was made up, sure it wasn’t hero’s way, but they had to do something. They had to be rid of Villain once and for all, it didn’t matter what came after, knowing hero was safe–would never look so frail and helpless as they had last night again–was enough peace of mind for sidekick. 

If they had to live by Villain’s rules then that sorry excuse for a life would die because of them. 

Sidekick carefully concealed a pistol the next time they were called out on a mission, the worst part was lying to hero, smiling at them and forcing themselves to be normal with hero sitting across from them feeling the cold barrel of the gun against their leg was maybe the worst sort of betrayal they felt like they’d ever committed. And they were on their way to murder their old friend and former partner. 

The battle started out innocently enough, Villain had been spotted out in the densely forested oak grove, it was a big place, long suspected of concealing Villain’s home base. The Villain had stayed concealed in the dark, thick mist rising as the sun went down. Sidekick felt nearly sick waiting for their chance to kill them, it had to be times just right or hero would stop them–and they couldn’t allow that to happen. 

Hours into their mission, Villain had run them raggedly through the forest, seeming to vanish into mist every time they got close to catching them, three times Sidekick had pulled their gun free in the darkness, and three times they’d had to hastily conceal it again as Villain slipped away. Hero was lagging now, their gasping breaths making clouds of steam in the cooling air, their hair was stuck to their head with sweat. 

“They’re just running us!” Hero exclaimed, unconsciously holding the side with the broken ribs, “At this point I’m thinking about calling it,” Hero chuckled easily, but Sidekick glanced at them, their whole body radiating nervous energy,  they couldn’t go back without achieving their secret goal, the stress of the decision had already eaten away all of their sleep, they had gone beyond twitchy and on edge, their nerves were shot with the waiting, they couldn’t possibly wait another day to ensure hero’s safety. 

They just couldn’t take it. 

“I’ll go on,” they said finally, putting what they hoped was a reassuring hand on hero’s shoulder, “I don’t want this bastard to think that they tired us out.” 

“Even if it’s true?”  Humor glinting in their tired eyes, sidekick wanted to strangle medic for allowing hero back onto the field so soon after their near-death experience, but they also knew that they really couldn’t blame them, the hero would be out here no matter what the medic said. 

“I’ll go,” Sidekick repeated, “I’ll go and get them,” If Sidekick gave away any of the odd hollowness they felt eating away at them hero didn’t seem to notice. 

They just nodded, still breathing hard, “Just be careful okay?” 

Sidekick has the decency to nod at hero’s concern, feeling a wave of fondness wash over them for hero, they hadn’t had to accept them after their work with Villain, they could have locked them up and thrown away the key and no one would have blamed them–least of all sidekick–but they didn’t, they’d seen the want to try in them, the wish to be something better than a killer. And instead of judging them they’d accepted them, gently, patiently, not rushing sidekick to grow all at once. 

That alone warranted repayment, call it retribution, call it love, call it duty or penance, Sidekick was just ready to get it over with. 

They were thinking all of these things as they trudged into the darkness, gun in hand as soon as hero was out of sight, ready to finally protect hero in the only way that hero couldn’t protect themselves. 

Villain evaded them a few more times, clueless to sidekick’s plan themselves, they couldn’t see the gun clenched in Sidekick’s hands in the dark. Speaking of the dark, now that they were alone Sidekick felt the darkness closing in, it felt like a creature crouched at their feet, they couldn’t quite shake the feeling that the darkness was on Villain’s side. 

Finally after what felt like hours they saw the silhouette of a figure crouched in the grass, moving carefully along the underbrush–Villain! They readied their gun, taking a half breath to try and stop their hand from shaking so badly–they’d done this before, but not recently, and they were now very aware of what they were about to do–kill a man. 

But in one shot they’d be free, and hero would be safe, it didn’t really matter what happened after that. 

88888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

Villain thought they’d finally lost their former sidekick in the woods when they heard an anguished cry split the night. It was so raw that for a moment Villain thought it was an animal, they froze to listen, tilting their head to the side slightly in the dark. The sound came again, realizing it was human sent a cold chill down Villain’s spine. 

Villain went towards the sound without really making a decision to, they got close when they recognized the voice as Sidekick’s, screaming and sobbing like their limbs were being ripped off. Villain felt a wave of fear prickle beneath their skin, Sidekick never cried, when they got to the tiny clearing where Sidekick was what they saw there made them feel like someone had let all of the air out of their lungs unannounced. 

Sidekick’s hands and arms were covered in blood as they leaned over hero, they were trying to stop the bleeding from the wound in hero’s side, but to Villain it already looked too late, hero was far too pale, and completely limp, unresponsive, their blood was still seeping between sidekick’s frantic fingers.

“No!” Sidekick howled, “Please god, no!” They were shaking badly, Villain could see the gun just out of reach to their left, “I’m sorry!” They sobbed desperately down at hero, “I’m so sorry, I just–I didn’t want–oh please no!” 

“What did you do?” Villain asked, not completely able to keep the horror out of their voice, sidekick didn’t hear them come up behind them, they looked up their face a mess of tears and instantly their open grieving expression hardened to one of hate. 

“This was supposed to be you!” they growled, “I–I tried!” But their heaving sobs cut them off as they decided to ignore Villain and keep putting pressure on hero’s wounds. 

It was a losing battle, both Villain and sidekick knew it. 

Villain took a measured breath, they didn’t mind killing people who stood against them, or those who put them in a corner, murder to eliminate or lower damages was of no regard to them, but this was hero, the goody two-shoes who’d saved their own worthless life more times than they could count. 

This wasn’t heroics, this was simply repaying part of a giant debt. 

“Come on, bring them, follow me,” Villain commanded their old sidekick, their voice full of bitter pity. 

Sidekick decided then that saving hero wasn’t going to be possible, they let their hands drop from hero’s wound, the wound that they’d inflicted, their grief turning to acid in their throat, they scrambled for the gun, but Villain was faster than them, kicking the pistol away and after a brief scuffle pinning sidekick to the ground. 

“Listen!” Villain hissed, “I can save them! But I need your help to get them to my base, if you still want to kill me after, then we can arrange something!” 

Sidekick looked up at them in confusion, Villain noted that a thumbprint of hero’s blood had somehow gotten on their cheek. Sick, Villain felt sick, they could almost feel the violent agony of Sidekick’s emotions swirling inside of them when they looked their once friend now prospective murderer in the eyes. 

“But I can’t do both die and save them, so make your decision!” They released sidekick and stood up, brushing dried pine needles from their jacket. 

Sidekick didn’t say anything, but they knew that they were losing time with every second that it took them to deliberate, so they chose hero, there hadn’t really ever been another choice, between them and Villain they carried the limp hero through the forest. By the time they reached Villain’s base sidekick’s mind had melted numb, they focused on putting one foot in front of the other, then holding hero alone while Villain opened the door. 

Sidekick didn’t even have any thoughts about walking willingly back into the home base of a person they’d sworn to kill, they thought absently if they were going into shock, Villain must have thought so too, as soon as hero was laid on the long silver table and Villain’s people were scrambling to get the medic and the equipment they’d requested Villain handed Sidekick a large blanket and told them to sit on the couch in the corner. 

Villain looked at sidekick’s wide hollow eyes, “I’ll get you when they’re stable,” they stated briskly, steering Sidekick away from the action. 

Sidekick surprised them with a high frantic bray of laughter, “I’ll get them!” They choked out, “That’s the last thing I said to hero before I shot them! Oh my god I’ll get them!” 

Villain wasn’t sure what to do as sidekick crept over to the couch and sat down laughing hysterically all the way, even as tears streamed down their face. Villain didn’t think that they were ever going to forget this, no matter how badly they wanted to,  Sidekick had always been so stoic, seeing something that needed to be done and doing it, no questions asked, that was what had made them such a valuable asset.Seeing them like this shook Villain to the core, but Villain had to get back to hero, they stood there for a long second, watching Sidekick come apart completely right in front of them. 

“I’ll get them!” Sidekick howled, and Villain was no longer sure if they were laughing or crying, only that they were broken completely. 

[legobiwan]

Whumptober #1 (shaking hands)

TW: functional alcoholism

Fandom: Star Wars (Obi-wan Kenobi)

Notes: this is kind of experimental, guys

--------

His hands shake. 

Fatigue. Overused muscles. Drawing on an already-depleted reservoir of adrenaline, just one last time. 

A simple explanation, really.

Obi-wan brings the metal flask to his lips, drawing deep. Liquid fire burns a path down his throat, pooling at the base of his empty stomach. Sharp, ragged edges give way to a quiet, consistent thrum.

A crisis. Florrum had been a crisis. 

Obi-wan knows how to handle a crisis, how to stay steady as everything else falls apart, how to cleave the unnecessary fat of his emotions from the meaty, immediate task at hand.

He can handle a crisis. Perhaps even enjoys them. The cold logic of it, the way they leave no room for thinking, for emotion, for contemplation. Pure mechanics, even in the context of diplomacy. Press here, compliment there, a knowing nod and a well-placed chuckle and everything fell into place.

Obi-wan Kenobi was a master at crisis. 

But every storm eventually dies out, worn down by the elements, by time itself. 

He doesn’t have the luxury of falling apart. Not now.

Not ever.

His hands shake.

It’s a terrible manifestation, this loss of control, of his locus in the Force, a bright-lit sign, just like those ones in the Entertainment District. It shouts his failures at all who pass, showcasing his buried doubts, flashing in garish neon lights for each tourist, each drunk, each criminal, each passer-by - that he has never been enough.

Obi-wan takes another sip. The world warms from grey to sepia.

It's just something to take the edge off, he tells himself, his invisible critics. Something to round the sharp edges of the after.

A quick nip, hidden in a corner of the Temple, ashes of his dead Master still clinging to his robes. The first few months, a frantic blur, shuttling a small blond ball of energy from class to quartermaster to meetings to...

He hadn’t felt good about leaving Anakin with the Chancellor. But he had been desperate for the respite, unwilling to extend himself, to ask for support, lest he been seen as incapable.

Qui-gon had deemed him, if nothing else, capable. He would not fail his former Master in that. 

And so what else could he do but acquiesce, to allow the most powerful politician in the Republic to have his way?

(You could have done more. You could have accepted the invitations from the others. Instead you demurred, claiming a need to meditate, to catch up on paperwork, to perfect your Form III.)

Sometimes, it was the truth. Other times, he snuck down to the mid-levels, broad hood hiding his red-faced shame, long sleeves covering shaking hands, shaking hands, which, with enough help, would turn steady as he forgot, as his stubborn brain produced the chemicals necessary to remember what it was like to be...)

His hands were always steady as he stepped into the turbolift, racing back to the grand halls of the Senate, Anakin’s grin as wide as a desert canyon.  

Obi-wan needed that anchor, that control. 

(Meeting with the Chancellor always left his Padawan in a state. Recalcitrant and proud, unwilling to follow the simplest of Obi-wan’s dictates. He wasn’t capable of being a tyrant, didn’t have the unshakable confidence in his own moral code as Qui-gon had. All he could do was fall back on what he knew, on what others had provided for him, for the Order, over the years.)

The Code, did not waver, did not shake in the face of questions.

The Code remained steady when he couldn’t.

There was another way, of course. His hands had been steady in the red shadow of the reactor shaft. His hands had not wavered in the face of Dooku’s silky temptations. 

(If only his thoughts had been of equal fidelity.) 

Not a single tremor on Mortis. No tremble of an outstreched, pathetic arm on Zygerria, laid low on his knees, begging for the salvation of another. (Never his own.)

(Later, aboard the safety of the Star Destroyer, he would hole up in a forgotten cargo hold, his only company a ratty blanket, several generous bottles of Corellian whiskey, and the stern glare of a good friend. Cody, true to his word, had kept his disapproving silence, taking a place next to Obi-wan on the unforgiving durasteel floor, bottle dancing back and forth between their hands (Obi-wan’s steady hands) well into the night.)

Falling apart had not been a luxury during the Rako Hardeen debacle, and on Raydonia - 

Not once had his hand wavered on Raydonia. His thoughts had stumbled, his ribs had pulsed in an unrelenting ache, blood seeping from his right ear, the jagged tear in his lip screaming at nerves - 

But his hands had not shaken as they held Ventress’s lightsaber.

Then again, rage did much to focus one’s thoughts.

He remembered it from Naboo, the way the Force coalesced, a single point in his subconscious, a weapon of his will, his gathered ire, barely able to wait, yearning to be unleashed on its target.

Maul’s survival had served as odd comfort. For as much as he had been disgusted by his own descent into that well of hatred, it had been mere child’s play in comparison to Maul’s unrelenting rage, an anger so deep, so broken in the Force that it had allowed him to survive, bisected, stranded in a garbage heap, for years.

Maul’s hands, Obi-wan had noticed, never shook.

Cool metal meets his lips. Obi-wan takes another gulp, the cheap, barely diluted liquid razing what is left of his esophagus. 

Maul had razed Raydonia, too, burning it, fires towering, swallowing, suffocating what little life had been left as witness to his terror.

Pain gives focus. Focus, as Obi-wan knows all too well, is central to the life of a Jedi, to his relationship with the Force. He briefly wonders if this is how it is with the Sith, if they torture and maim and kill by means of a million small cuts as a way to focus.

It’s disgusting, a perversion of everything meant to be be good in the galaxy.

It’s also highly effective.

The battle on Florrum shouldn’t have him so distracted. Unlike Raydonia, unlike Naboo, unlike Geonosis, he knew what - who - awaited him on that dusty backwater.

And yet it still hadn’t been enough.

Not for Adi Gallia.

His hands had been steady. But his eyes had widened, unable tear themselves away from the gruesome image of Adi’s skewered, smoking corpse. His hands had not wavered as he leapt from the fallen speeder, vision filtered through the crimson blade at the side of the enemy, his body, his thoughts steel as he landed a single kick at Savage, his own blue weapon raised to cleave the bastard in two.

Hate, anger, fear - it wasn’t that a Jedi never felt these emotions. They were sentients, and even Yoda himself manifested moments of irritation, the closest to any negative emotion the old troll had likely come close to in many years.

It was part of their training, to familiarize themselves with these negative thoughts, to identify their triggers, to understand what was at the heart of that ball of anger, to be able to pull at the thread which would undo the dangerous tangle in a single motion.

Or, that’s what it should be. What he tried to teach Anakin, tried to communicate to Ahsoka. 

That’s what he should have done for himself years ago.

Instead, that knot of unpleasantness only grew, threads multiplying, sprouting, decaying, only to rise again, twice as terrible, twice as tangled. And each time Obi-wan shoved the whole ugly shape into his metaphorical closet, shaking hands the only indication anything had been at all wrong, slamming the door shut with a silent curse and a deft movement to his belt.

Enough alcohol locked the whole thing away, buried under layers of thick, woolen denial

Better quality than the blankets we receive from the Republic, he had mused once, fingering the standard-issue military fabric draped over his knees.

Obi-wan reached for the flask stationed on the floor. Nearly steady now.

His hands had not shaken as they brandished the dual weapons - his own and Adi’s. Backed against a wall, at impossible odds, the image of a fallen body playing on repeat -

He had been confident, steady as he jumped onto the back of Hondo’s speeder, even as his growing unease wrested against the heavy locked door. He had not shaken as he excused himself to one of Hondo’s last intact holding cells, stopping by the abandoned bar to swipe several bottles of alcohol likely made in some ‘fresher still.

A precautionary measure. He had felt fine, good even. Steady, focused in the Force.

Perhaps this time he had been able to banish that knot once and for all.

And then the closet burst open.

He nearly dropped the bottles - once, twice, three times. Only with the minor application of the Force had he been able to open the damned things, bringing the aperture to his lips, his swallows as desperate as those of a man stranded in the desert.

It had been an hour. Maybe two. He would need to report to the Council. Make arrangements for transport back to Republic space - for both himself and Adi’s body, he thought grimly.

Obi-wan lifted an arm.

Steady.

No tremor, no spasms. Not even a twitch.

Crimson threads gathered, contorting, a haphazard weave of guilt, anger, and sadness - no pattern, meaning, no reason why. 

(You know why, Kenobi).

Strong hands grabbed the traitorous little ball, shoving it to the back of the closet once again, the heavy door slamming shut with a dangerous finality.

Steady hands turned the lock as long, confident fingers cast the key far into the ether of his own mind.

Somehow, it always came back.

Hands. His hands. Which did not shake, did not waver - reached for the communicator buried in his utility belt.

Obi-wan sat straight. His vision remained fuzzy, his mind a delicate balance of temporary, blunted euphoria and rigid logic.

It would have to do for now.

With a sigh, he pressed the activator.

“This is General Kenobi…"