#handler!ariadne

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance AU: Healer and Handler, co-author @whump-sprite

Who [ First | Prev ]

The overnight footage from Alex’s cell – and the whole block – has been deleted.

“System update fucked up the datetime on the cameras,” Peterson claims. “The rolling store got cleared early. Nothing I can do.”

It's absolute bullshit of course. Nowhere else in the facility was affected. But Peterson isn’t budging, and if the footage is somehow hidden rather than deleted outright, Ari doesn’t have the tech know how to find it.

She files an incident report for misuse of electronic resources. But unless Peterson's pulled this shit before she knows he won't get more than a slap on the wrist. Even if they don't swallow his “system update” story, he’ll say it was just a fuck-up and they’ll believe that.

She only has three suspects. She can't imagine any of those creeps putting a stooge up to it – there’s no way they’d miss out on the personal satisfaction.

So Ari spends about an hour – in between monitoring the live feeds and answering calls – trawling the recording from the closest untouched cameras, taking note of who enters and leaves the dead zone and when. Going by the blood on the floor this morning, the incident probably happened earlier in the night rather than later, but that’s not a lot to narrow it down by.

Unfortunately it turns out Frazier and Henson were both working last night. It shouldn’t be surprising, they probably talked each other into this petty little show of spite. Ari’s reminded of the time Riven spent a month stealing the ink out of one of the printers just to get under that one analyst’s skin.

She files another report, this one against Frazier. He's not supposed to have access to the healers anymore. But this isn't the first time she’s reported the same damn thing. They'll revoke his clearance, again, and in a few weeks he'll find another excuse to get someone to reinstate it. Probably Peterson again, the little rat bastard.

Probably not Peterson, she doesn't actually think he has that authority. It's just easy to be angry at his stupid smarmy face right now.

Frazier or Henson. 50-50 odds, but if she confronts the wrong one, she’ll look like an idiot. Better to be sure.

She might be able to get the answer out of Riven, he does like to run his mouth. But not today, because Frazier and Henson will still be asleep at home and they probably won’t have filled Riven in on their little ”prank” yet.

Back to Plan A, then.

She takes the time to pick up a plate of cafeteria food for Alex's afternoon meal. It'll be lukewarm by the time she gets it down to the cells, but it’s still better than his usual fare.

She hears the healer jump at the sound of the door. Sounds like he knocked a knee or elbow against the wall or floor. Hopefully not his head. He’s scrambling to get on his knees as she lets herself in.

He’d gotten less scared about that. Ariadne’s never punished him for being slow to get up, or even for skipping the formalities. But it’s no surprise he’s more hasty again with fresh stripes as a painful reminder of proper discipline.

Even though it wasn’t discipline.

“Easy,” she greets him, “it’s just your dinner.” She’s pleased to see his eyes widen with anticipation as he sees what she has for him. He’s not so miserable that he can’t be happy about a decent meal.

He reaches for his hot water first, like always. If she can convince them to change one thing about standard protocol it should be that – or turning the thermostat for the cells up. More heat getting into the healers, one way or another.

She forgot to pick up his sweater from the corner of his cell this morning. She was going to get rid of it, but Alex has struggled back into it despite the dried blood and the rents in the back and despite how much it must have pulled his back getting it on. Ariadne ought to take it off him – it’s going to start stinking soon – but she can’t quite bring herself to. Not while he’s eating.

It was only a couple of months ago she had to hold every bite to his mouth. He’d twitch at everything she said, and he could barely get a flicker of magic out without flinching and choking on fear. He’s doing so well for her. All it took was a bit of a gentler touch.

“I need to know which of them came in here and whipped you.” Terror is immediately stark in his eyes. “I won’t tell them you told me. I’ll tell them I got it out of security, okay? But I need to know. So that I can keep it from happening again.”

He doesn’t trust her. She sees it in his eyes. He doesn’t believe she has any interest in stopping them. Frustration itches, but she pushes it down. It’s a lot more to ask of him than trusting her to let him shower without raping him. He’s still doing well.

“This isn’t negotiable,” she prompts. It only takes the faintest hint of steel to make him flinch. “I’m s-s-sorry –” “I know. I’m not mad – not at you. But I need to know.”

He shrinks in on himself. Patience, Ari cautions herself. Her steady attention and expectation is enough. He’s just scared.

“N-Neil,” he whispers eventually. “I-I mean, F-Frazier, sir.” “Okay,” Ariadne agrees levelly, “Good. Well done.”

She makes herself take a deep breath and turn away from Alex so that he knows it’s not directed at him before she lets herself exhale anger.

“Jealous fucking creep. What a petty, insecure dipshit of a guy.” Alex looks shocked. But there’s something else too, something that could be appreciation or even humour just about edging out the fear. “I’d kick his teeth in if I had the chance,” Ariadne confides with a hint of a hard, conspiratorial smirk. Alex almost, almost smiles back. “I’d…” he starts, but he doesn’t finish the thought.

Ari grins at him anyway, just for a second before she turns serious again. “I will not be telling him that you told me,” she promises, “so don’t you go fessing up, okay? They don’t record audio from these cells, so it’s between you and me.”

The healer looks nervous, but he nods his head. “Okay, sir.”

She’s about to leave him when she remembers about the sweater. It's probably unsalvageable, but…

She crouches beside him and takes the hem to get a better look. As she thought, the blood’s the least of the damage. The fabric is practically shredded, not worth mending even if she was inclined to, which she isn't. Darning a healer's clothes would be ridiculous.

“I’m – sorry sir.” Alex’s voice is suddenly choked, giving away the tears in his eyes. “I – I didn’t have time t-to take it off…” “Hey. It’s okay.” “I would’ve – I d-didn’t want to ruin it but he didn’t –” “It’s not your fault. Hey, listen to me. I’ll get you a new one. It’s no big deal.” His throat bobs as he tries to swallow his tears. “Thank you, sir,” he manages. “I’ll get you a new one,” Ari repeats. “It’s okay.”

She can’t even pat his shoulder. Fucking dipshit Neil. She pats the healer's head instead. His curls are starting to grow in again. He sniffs, and wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

When she leaves, Ari’s careful to close the door softly. She changes the code on the lock again. Frazier’s clearly getting his buddies in security to sort it for him, but it’ll slow him down. It’s an obstacle in his way. And if he’s going to be fucking petty, two can play at that game.

Finding Frazier's shift pattern is a little more work than finding Henson’s. He's on nights all week, so Ariadne could catch him tonight by staying late. She doesn't much feel like rising to the bait though, not when she has nothing to use against him and it'd only be giving him the opportunity to gloat.

Before she goes home, she spends another while crawling the security feeds, trying to figure out the options that she doesn't usually have any reason to use.

If she knew how to have the cell footage make a second copy of itself or something, somewhere those assholes couldn't wipe it… but it would probably be an infosec breach if she did.

She'll find something. Frazier clearly doesn't realize what thin ice he's on after the last round of allegations. He doesn't get to mess with Ari's healer.

[brokenbarnes]

Steady Mind

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Separate from Haunted Eyes, after being taken by Hydra, Bucky identifies you as his handler. You teach him that not all handlers inflict pain, bringing him back to the present.

Warnings: mentions of canon level violence

It had been one month, three days and twelve hours since they took Bucky.

A routine mission that turned out to be not so routine. An abandoned HYDRA base awakened like a sleeping giant, putting a bullet in your leg, dragging Bucky away after he had been knocked unconscious by two large goons. You screamed for him, they left you to bleed out in pool of your own blood.

You had to return to the compound without your partner in crime, sobbing until they put you under for surgery. The last thing you remember was Steve holding your arms down as they slid the needle in your arm, his eyes sad as you’ve ever seen them.

Despite the healing hole in your leg, you insisted on sitting in on every meeting about Bucky’s whereabouts, limping onto the Quinjet to accompany the team to scout out any possible locations.

You had barely slept in a month, lying awake in the bed you shared with the missing person. Every time you looked in the mirror, you could see the heartbreak and exhaustion clinging to you like a wet blanket. Shadows under your eyes that looked like bruises, shoulders slumped, your mind fuzzy; spinning a million different directions.

This time Steve didn’t protest as you limped onto the jet, it’s destination a newly discovered hidden HYDRA base. You slumped in the copilot seat, you were past getting your hopes up. At this point, it was just to check it off the list.

Steve steered the jet south, landing in the dense forest, somewhere in the Andes Mountains of South America. You saw on the computer screen, a hidden base carved into the steep mountain side.

The team left the Quinjet, armed with whatever they could think of. There was so much uncertainty, nobody knew what to expect.

You were left behind in the jet, sitting down in front of multiple monitors. Part of your agreement was staying behind was that you could be their eyes and ears on the ground. Your leg was not quite up to speed yet and you didn’t want to hold the team back. You got to work accessing any local cameras, finding those inside and outside the base.

The team worked silently, efficiently. You listened to them over the comms, there were no jokes, no laughing, only efficient communication. This was Bucky, it was different.

You monitored cameras as the team cleared the base, making sure there weren’t any surprises like last time. Surprises get people killed. This must have been an old base, because there were very few cameras inside. You had one of Tony’s robots take a scan of the building, at least you could monitor where the team was inside. An hour went by before Steve addressed you and the tone of his voice gave you chills.

“Y/N.”

“Go ahead, Steve,” you responded, legs going numb.

“We need you.”

You stood up abruptly, your nearly healed stitches screaming in protest. You grabbed your utility belt, clipping it around your waist with your weapons. With your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you hit the button that opened the ramp of the Quinjet.

It was a moderate hike to the base entrance, but you don’t remember much of it. Ignoring the pain in your leg, you stumbled over the rocky cliffs, damp soil catching on the back of your tactical pants as you ran.

Steve met you at the entrance of the base, his face pale and shaken. The intense sun doing little for his ashen complexion.

“Steve! Is he in there?” You gasped for air, slowing to a stop in front of him. “Is he alive?”

He dipped his head, nodding slowly. With his thumbs hooked in his belt loops and his shoulders hunched, he looked as small as he once had.

“What are we waiting for?” You went to push past him, into the entrance of the labyrinth like Theseus but without Ariadne’s string. “Let’s go get him out of there!”

“Y/N, wait,” his voice was hollow, grabbing you by the arm.

“What?”

He took a deep shuddering breath, looking you in the eye. “It’s not our Bucky.”

Realization settled in your chest, the only reason they would want him would be to activate him.

“I want to see him,” your voice was low.

“He’s dangerous.”

“He’s Bucky,” you insisted. “Take me to him.”

Steve became your string, leading you through the dark maze that was the HYDRA compound. The main hallway led you past a variety of rooms, some looked like a war room, some looked like an interrogation center, other’s a sterile doctor’s office.

His gait slowed in front of a heavily locked door, it’s appearance similar to a bank vault. Your stomach twisted.

“He’s in there?” You whispered, disgust lacing your tone.

Steve nodded, “it’s for everyone’s safety.”

“Let me in there,” you reached for the lock.

“Y/N, he could hurt you,” he grabbed your arm but you shook him off.

“I need to see that he’s alive!” Your voice turned raspy, ragged with the thought of being so close to him. “Please, Steve.

His resolve crumbled, he reached for the lock to the cell door. As the door opened, Steve moved in front of you, blocking your view into the cell. You weaved around him, attempting to catch a glimpse of your soldier.

When you did, your stomach dropped.

He stood in the far corner of the cement cell, his posture defensive, eyes empty. You breath caught in your throat, he had fading bruises around his eyes, blood dried down his chin and throat.

“Bucky,” you darted around the captain before he could stop you.

The Asset’s eyes flickered to you, then over to Steve quickly. As you approached, the muscles in his face tightened, as if he was anticipating a beating.

“Bucky,” you whispered, slowing your approach. “Are you hurt, Honey?”

He eyed you apprehensively, as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. You knew that this was not the man you last saw, defending you until the cattle prods had knocked him unconscious.

“Soldat?” You willed your voice to carry a different tone.

He nodded curtly, “handler.”

It felt as if all the air had been punched from your lungs, your boyfriend has just uttered the term that haunts his nightmares. The multiple people over the decades he was under the thumb of Hydra that have caused him inexcusable pain.

Now, he’s identified you as his handler. Eying Steve suspiciously, as if he wasn’t sure if he could trust him or not.

You tried against in English, Russian vocabulary lacking considerably. “Yes, I am your handler. And I am going to call you Bucky.”

He tilted his head at you, confused, but nodding eventually to agree with you. You were unsure about your role as his handler, making it up as you go.

“Bucky, are you hurt?” You tried again; your voice devoid of its usual warmth.

He shook his head, eyes focusing on the wall over your left shoulder. When you turned your head to follow his eye sight, you could see a drying brown stain, rolling down the wall and finishing in splatters on the floor.

You looked at Steve, who was trying hard to keep it together. “Cap, let’s get him outside. He could use some fresh air.”

Steve nodded, turning stiffly towards the door and leading you back into the maze. Bucky followed, a few paces behind. You let him follow the two of you, not wanting him to feel as if he was being chased.

He followed like an obedient servant, only a few paces behind you, foot steps completely silent. You had to turn your head over your shoulder to make sure he was still behind you.

Outside in the intense sunlight, Bucky was pale as a ghost. He was watching you with careful eyes, awaiting his next orders.

“Take a seat, Bucky,” you pointed to a downed Polylepis tree. The curled, twisted trunk, half rotted from age and weather.

Apprehension crossed Bucky’s face, but he sat. To you that was evidence your Bucky was still under there, the Winter Soldier had little emotion on his face.

“Do you know who I am?” You asked, squatting down in front of him.

His hands shook, clasped together in his lap. “You are my handler.”

Another stab to the heart, you wiped your face of any devastating emotion and nodded. “Status report for your handler. Are you injured?”

The gears were turning in his mind, his beautiful blue eyes flickered from side to side. He couldn’t come up with an answer.

“That’s alright,” you said gently. “We’ll get you checked out by medical when we get home.”

“Home?”

“Mhm,” you nodded, resisting the urge to reach out and sooth your hand over his arm. “I want you to understand something.”

He nodded obediently.

“When you are with me, nobody will hurt you,” you spoke softly, gesturing back to Steve. “You have to trust me.”

He hesitated, but nodded. “Yes, Handler.”

“Call me, Y/N.”

“Y/N.”

Bucky seemed better under the sunlight, instead of the harsh, florescent lights of the cell he abandoned in. Despite the blood and the bruises, he had some color back in his cheeks but the same hollow look in his eyes.

Back on the Quinjet, he flinched as the others moved around, getting ready to return home. Usually, after a successful mission there was never a silent moment in the jet. It was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

You told Bucky to sit on the bench seat as you fetched a first aid kit. He’s eyes flitted around to everyone nervous without you there, assessing them and diagnosing who would be the biggest threat.

The jet lifted off the rocky alpine surface as you returned to Bucky. You clocked the anxiety crawling into his eyes and called his name gently.

“Remember what I said? You’re safe with me, nobody will hurt you.”

He nodded, although you knew this Bucky would find that extremely hard to believe. He flinched as Steve dropped into a seat beside him, running a hand over his tired face.

You flipped open the latch of the first aid kit, trying to steady your mind. “Alright soldier, tell me what you need.”

“The asset is not hurt,” he spoke, almost robotically.

“Hm,” you hummed, tearing open an alcohol pad and turning toward him. “Let me clean you up, then.”

As you reached toward him, you watched him fight a knee-jerk reaction. Every muscle in his body stiffened, expecting a blow. You moved slowly, trying to give his body enough time to catch up with his mind.

Your hand smoothed along his cheek, getting him to turn his head toward you. The alcohol pad probably stung as you wiped around his mouth, down his chin, but Bucky showed no reaction. His piercing blue eyes focused intently on your face as you worked.

Wiping away the blood revealed no open wounds, what was there had probably long healed over with the serum pumping through his veins. Your hand cupped his cheek, the other wiped down his neck and swooping around his hairline.

As the rest of the team started to drop off, laying down across the benches for a much needed nap, curling up in the copilots chair with the jet on autopilot; silence had settled over everything like a coat of dust. Steve tipped his head back and shut his eyes, although you weren’t sure if he was asleep or not.

You took your time, taking his hand into yours and wiping away any evidence of the cruelty he faced. You noted his knuckles were covered in fading bruises, defensive wounds. It made you smile a little bit to know he didn’t go quietly.

Bucky was confused, he had told you many times that he was not injured, he did not need care. And this was definitely not the handlers job.

“Why?” He asked quietly, just heard over Sam’s snoring across the aisle.

“Why, what?” You replied, without looking up from where you were attempting to get grime off his knuckles.

“Why are you doing this?” His voice was fragile, almost scared to use it in fear of what might come next.

You looked up into his eyes, stilling your restless hands. Bucky had a hard time reading the emotion on your face, sadness, guilt, and something else that wasn’t familiar to him. Something warm, something kind.

“I don’t want you sitting in your own blood,” you spoke carefully. “It’ll make it easier for the medics to check you over.”

“I don’t… I don’t want…” his words died off, almost regretting starting to speak.

Your Bucky was also hesitant with doctors, his checkered past involved plenty of awful experiences with medical staff. 70 years of poking and prodding, little anesthesia and dubious consent.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” your thumb was sweeping gently over the inside of his wrist. “But I want to make sure you’re alright, even if you feel fine. You’ve been gone from us for a long time.”

He tilted his head in confusion, “how long have I been gone?”

“About a month,” you could feel how tired you were with that statement. It had been too long and now he was finally here, maybe not all in one piece but he was safe.

He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing in a way that made you sit up straighter. “You… You were hurt.”

“Yes, Bucky.”

“And I… And I…” he shook his head, his hand clenched in yours. “My head-“

“Don’t worry about it, Honey,” you could see the headache forming behind his eyes as he struggled to recall memories. “Why don’t you try and sleep?”

The stubborn man still somewhere inside him shook his head. But he let you tip your head down onto his shoulder and close your eyes for the duration of the flight.

When the Quinjet touched down at the compound, Bucky followed you off the jet and into the building. He refused to go to the infirmary, but agreed to follow you up to the residential floor to shower.

The bedroom you shared with Bucky was a safe haven, soft lighting, comfortable bed, books covering both nightstands; dogeared and annotated by the both of you. So many nights spend together in comfortable silence, sometimes reading aloud a line for the other to hear.

“Recognize this place?” You asked, setting down your duffel bag down beside the dresser. Unclipping your utility belt, setting it on top of the dresser where you usually left it.

You watched as Bucky turned in a slow circle, taking in each and every detail he laid his eyes on.

“Maybe,” his lips moved.

He seemed overwhelmed, frustrated with the unfamiliarity of the bedroom, probably the aches and pains that covered his body. You helped him make a decision.

“Bucky, why don’t you take a shower,” you suggested, heading toward the closet for a clean set of clothes. “I’ll get you something comfortable to wear.”

Not wanting to be away from him, you grabbed a bundle of clothes, tucked it under your arm with a clean towel and returned to lead him to the bathroom.

After setting the clothes and towels on the counter, you reached inside the shower and turned it to a comfortable temperature. Bucky watched you carefully, swaying slightly on his feet. You wondered when was the last time he slept.

“Come feel, does this temperature work for you?” You asked over the noise of the shower, gesturing him closer.

Bucky shuffled forward, sticking his flesh hand under the spray and nodding to approve the temperature.

“I’ll be just outside-“

“No!” Burst from his mouth before he could stop it. “Could you please… Could you please stay?”

“Of course,” your eyes stung with unshed tears. “I’ll stay.”

You turned around while he undressed to give him some much needed privacy. He undressed efficiently, leaving his clothes in a neat pile on the bathmat. The glass door opened and shut before you turned around.

Sitting cross legged on the counter, you thought about how many times you had done this for your Bucky. Showering together was intimate enough, but sharing the space, just knowing you were on the other side of the door was enough.

You let yourself relax for a moment as he showered, exhaustion settling into your aching bones and the healing pain returned to your leg. All you wanted was to shower off the nervous sweat you accumulated from the last 24 hours, pull on your favorite pajamas and curl up next to your Bucky in bed.

Bucky opened the glass door, you handed him a towel and he dried off quickly. He seemed to be relaxing a little now, in his own clothes and no longer smelling like he hadn’t showered in a week.

“This is what you do usually after you shower,” you reached for his hair brush, pressing it into his hands. You laid out his tooth brush, beard trimmer, deodorant and anything else you could think of.

It was probably muscle memory at this point, he brushed the tangles from his hair, brushed his teeth with his left hand and trimmed his unruly scruff short. Using his left hand told you there were still remnants of the Winter Soldier lingering around in his consciousness.

While he cleaned up, you took a quick shower and scrubbed the day’s worries from your body. Per your request, Bucky brought you a fresh towel and a pair of pajamas. His cheeks were pink as you got dressed, rubbing a towel through your hair.

“Your leg,” he murmured, eyes straying to the pink, raised scar on your leg.

“Mhm,” you nodded, hanging both towels up to dry. “I’m okay.”

Guilt crossed his features, you reached out and held out your hand, palm up. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

Bucky fit his warm hand into yours, letting you lead him back out into the main room. He watched as you flipped open the covers, turning on the lamp beside the bed.

His mind felt fuzzy, watching you pad around the room, hair wet and in soft clothes. A headache like a lightning strike burst behind his eyes, making him press his hands to the bridge of his nose.

“My… my head.”

“I know, Sweetheart,” your voice was soft. Sweetheart, was that him? “Come to bed.”

He laid his aching body on the soft mattress, letting his handler – no, his love, cover him up with heavy blankets. His head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice, but somehow it didn’t matter because he was laying next to you.

He closed his heavy eyes, feeling his body relax for the time in a month. Next to you, sleep came easy.

The next morning, Bucky blinked slowly as the bedroom came into focus. The bedsheets were tangled around your legs, twisted up after a good night’s sleep. A heavy weight on his chest kept him anchored to the present, not reliving the past month, you were asleep on his chest.

He reached out and stroked your hair, enjoying the feeling of the silky tendrils running through his fingers. You stirred your sleep, pressing your face into his soft sleep shirt. You rubbed the fabric against your nose as you woke up, blinking up at him in the soft light.

“Heya Doll,” he murmured.

Your lips curled up in a smile, sliding your hand up the center of his chest. “Bucky,” you breathed.

He pressed his lips together in a way you knew meant he was struggling. “I’m sorry you had to see me as him.”

You sat up, turning around to face him. There were still shadows under your eyes in a way that made his stomach sick. He slid his heel up the mattress, letting you lean against his knee under the covers.

“What do you remember?” You asked.

“I remember thinking you were my handler,” he mumbled.

You nodded, reaching out for his hand. He enjoyed the way your hand felt in his, nothing had ever felt more right.

“Thank you for taking care of him,” he murmured. He had been working on this habit of separating himself from the Winter Soldier, it helped to refer to him like he was completing separate from his body.

“Of course, Honey,” you nodded.

“Nobody has ever taken care of him before,” he whispered, eyes turning wistful. “You are the nicest handler I’ve ever had.”

You tried to smile, lifting the corner of your mouth up but it fell short. He tugged you forward, until you were laying on top of him. He loved the feeling of your weight holding him down, keeping him in the present.

“I’ll always be here for you,” you whispered, pressing your face into his neck. He shivered at the feeling of your breath on his skin. “No matter who you are, no matter what happens.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears sting in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

If he had to choose anyone to be his handler, he would pick you in a heartbeat. Aside from Steve, you were the only one to never doubt him, to show him unconditional love in a way he hadn’t felt since the 40’s.

“No matter what,” he whispered quietly, letting his eyes close once more.

[random2908]

Just finished watching Kaos on Netflix. It's a shame it was cancelled, but I found the first season to be fun enough that it was worthwhile to watch even if it ended on a cliffhanger.

It's a very interesting Greek mythology in the modern day, which feels very true to the vibes of the source material if not always to the details. It includes Zeus and his family; Orpheus and Eurydice; Ariadne and the Minotaur; and a Kerberos handler in the underworld who, in life, was a trans man who was kicked out of the Amazons* (the actor is also trans). Eddie Izzard, in a recurring role, plays Lachesis (one of the fates).

* I googled it and in the original myth he's also trans. He's a king from the heroic age (his sons are among the Argonauts) who leads the human side of the battle against the centaurs, rather than being a former Amazon.

[realmackross]

[pm] You're a dumbass, Mack. They were making out with Ariadne. Way to almost blow it...again. It wasn't the greatest thing in the world, but it surprisingly wasn't as bad as I thought. The legs kind of tickled going down. And my parents don't know. They'd probably think it's weird, but I don't think they'd judge me for it.

I hope you like whatever you choose. And not right now, no. I'm kind of on a break from it.

Oh? Maybe it is. I think Handler was her mother's last name? Right. I'm not gonna say that's weird, but that's kinda weird.

Maybe one of our homes? Would that be better?

[pm] Huh? You ate a giant spider? I mean, I don't think that is a deterrent for friendship but I am a little surprised. Does your parents not approve of your diet?

I'll try and find something on Netflix! Are you acting now too or have you stopped?

That's ok! Oh, Cass told me her name was Barbara Millicent Roberts? Is Handler her mother then? At home we just call it giving birth to, not inventing, though.

Then we should do it! Do you want to do it somewhere in nature or at one of our homes?

[reddus-sideblog]

M.E.R.C.s - Crossfire (Part 1)

7-21-890 AR

The alarm buzzed. The masked mercenary looked at his wrist watch, before turning off the alarm. 11:00 AM. The first team should be moving in soon. He leaned back against the squat stairwell hut and keyed his radio twice, and within moments he received two sets of confirming clicks from the other teams. Even with their encryption chips it paid to be secretive with communications, especially in a corporate sector like Naperton that was a stone’s throw away from a federal police precinct.

    Bones hazarded a glance out from the cover he sat in, peeking out at the Power Motors Incorporated building that was half a city block away. It all looked like business as usual, no high alert lights, no lockdown shutters, no sign of security guards or corporate soldiers. Things were going right for once. The ex-soldier developed a little smirk beneath the skull-emblazoned balaclava. Maybe today wouldn’t be a horrible mess.

    “All good?” asked the rookie to his right. Her tone was only half-interested, as she was occupied with assembling the anti-material rifle that she was kneeling in front of.

    “Nothin’ out of the ordinary, anyways,” Bones replied, trying his best to sound like a responsible team leader.

    Cash, the young lady next to him, was one of the M.E.R.C.s he had hired on for this mission. The girl had been with the Mercenary-Contractor Association for a few years now, and had been a part of the M-CA’s Youth Program before becoming a full member. 

    This hit on the PMI building needed a bit more manpower than the handler usually had at his command, so he had brought on some additional help. The rookie was a bit of a gamble, but she had a reputation as a half-decent sharpshooter, and Bones couldn’t afford to be too picky. Even though Cash was a bit rough around the edges, she listened to the older M.E.R.C. and did as she was told.

    Bones remembered when he was a young buck in the Newland City Self Defense Force, listening to his commanding officer and patrolling through the civil war-wracked Souther Bay. It really had been a different time. Now he was back in Newland, sitting on top of some building in Illigan, in the act of executing an attack against one of the city-states largest heavy industry corporations.

    Under the pretext of checking his own rifle over, Bones surreptitiously watched Cash assemble the anti-materiel rifle he’d purchased for the mission. He hadn’t even had a chance to put the weapon together himself, as it had been delivered just before Bones had left for the team’s meeting place. From behind his sunglasses Bones watched Cash’s sharp eyes go over each piece before slotting it into the weapon. The blonde girl had an intense look about her face that never seemed to go away, as though everything that she looked at was actively pissing her off. The fierce appearance was only added to by the eye shadow she had smudged under her eyes to reduce glare. The golden hair on Cash’s scalp was pulled back into a small ponytail to keep it from getting into her eyes as she worked, while the short hair on either side of the ponytail was left to hang.

    The two of them were dressed to differing standards, with Cash just wearing an open flak vest over her tanktop and short shorts. She didn’t carry much more than the huge rifle and a good number of extra magazines for it. Bones on the other hand was clad in body armor from the neck down, and as the day wore on he was beginning to regret it. The sun was approaching its zenith, and he was going to start cooking in his armor soon. 

    Still, he thought to himself, better to suffer a bit of heat exhaustion than terminal lead poisoning.

    The last parts of the AMR clacked into place as Cash finished putting the weapon together. She racked the bolt, throwing a high-velocity round into the chamber before turning towards Bones, a smug look on her face.

    “Ready to fuck.”

    Bones nodded, checking his watch. 11:03AM. Ariadne and Karsyn should be at the server room within the next seven minutes, then the real mission would start.

***

    The sergeant paced back and forth up the starboard side of the monitor’s length. The light breeze was fluttering her shin-length white coat with each of her lengthy strides, and tousling her long hair that was tied in an elaborate, net-like braid along the left side of her face. Her face was screwed up in a look of concentration that made her look like the ship’s deck had offended her somehow, as she bore down on it with her sideways-slitted, blue eyes. She drummed her fingers on her shotgun’s barrel as she went over the mission’s outline like a litany. 

 Take the prisoner from the private holding cell in the Bergell security building. Take the prisoner aboard the Seabrisket and transport them to the Haysau Sector dock. Give him over to Tech-Seer Ilos at the parish the next sector over.

    It wasn’t a hard job, really, but Sergeant Maisie Stone couldn’t stop pinning her ears back and flicking her braided tail. The equine chimera wasn’t convinced that the mission would be that simple. Something always happened along to make a cakewalk into a miserable scramble for life and limb.

    The Holy Mercenary Brigade hardly ever had easy jobs thrust upon them, but the sergeant felt like she always ended up picking the shortest straw when missions were up for grabs. This one was seemingly easy, but a pessimistic attitude usually paid off in her experience. More than that, though, sticking to the plan she had constructed for the operation would surely see them through.

    Sergeant Stone stopped her pacing to make her way to the back of the vessel. The Seabrisket was a well-armed canal monitor, with a faded red paint job giving way to similarly colored rust all along her length. Despite the rust the ship was still solidly armored, and her quartet of guns did inspire some confidence in the handler. 

    Stepping over the starboard machine gun nest, the mercenary continued aft towards the Seabrisket’s engine compartment. Maisie banged on the upwards-facing shutter a few times, announcing herself in her standard Arkgomery drawl.

    “Open up private, it’s just me.”

    The latch on the shutter clicked from inside the engine compartment and one of the doors swung open. The white-clad chimera was met by a similarly dressed human youth. The iconic kevlar-padded coat of the Holy Mercenary Brigade was a bit large on Private Evan Theos, but he wore it with some dignity (though he had rolled up the sleeves). When the scrawny boy had shown up that morning to join the mission he had looked well-groomed, but his nice, combed hair was actively becoming messier by the hour, despite how much the brigade’s hat hid most of it.

    Like the other members of the 3rd Illigan Brigade of the Holy Mercenary Brigades, Theos wore a white cowboy hat with a brim that was upturned on either side, with a cord to tighten it around one’s head and the holy symbol of the Divine Church emblazoned on its brow. Hats varied from brigade to brigade, with some using berets, some others even using caps. It was a way to keep organized while en masse, and it allowed different brigades to identify each other easily enough.

    Sergeant Stone straightened the private’s hat wordlessly, making the young man’s face flush with embarrassment. She looked past the young mercenary into the engine compartment, looking over the captive that was being stowed in the armored box. 

    “He hasn’t been any trouble, ma’am. He’s stayed out like a light for most of the trip,” said Theos, saluting a bit too late. He was raising his voice to speak over the rumbling engine he stood next to.

    The sergeant returned the late salute, continuing to look at the tied up man. The devilkin was gagged, had his limbs bound, and was blindfolded on top of having been dosed with anesthetic before the M.E.R.C.s had picked him up. He was a bit battered and probably hadn’t been treated particularly well since being captured, but he was still holding on. The drab gray colors of the NCSDF’s urban camouflage nearly made the captive officer blend in with the metallic tones of the engine room, but his silvery-white hair and black horns made him stand out well enough, especially among the rest of the Seabrisket’s Divinist crew.

    The soldier that the Holy Mercenaries were transporting was a highly valuable asset to the Divine Church, and Sergeant Stone was ready to go to extreme lengths to ensure that he was brought into their custody. While the rest of her squad would go along with the operation unquestioningly, the sergeant was very aware of just how much was riding on their successful delivery. The prisoner, Captain Steffanson, was a member of the Newland City Self Defense Force’s 4th Subterranean Division, and was part of a patrol group which had happened upon a monumental discovery. While hunting down some underground smugglers a squad under the captain’s command had found some long-buried ruins that held a large quantity of unidentified oldtech. 

    While the NCSDF had little interest in the ruins, they had a number of corporate bidders lining up to put in an offer on the location. Each of those corporations certainly had their own designs on the cache, but the Divine Church wanted it even more. Last night when Captain Steffanson was walking home alone he was arrested on trumped up charges by the Bergell sector’s private security force, and held in the station, at the request of one of the Church’s higher ups. In short, it was shady business as usual.

    The chimera, however, wasn’t afraid to take on jobs with questionable morality; she'd left behind such qualms when she had joined the brigade ten years back. Along with that she truly believed that technology was the domain of the Divine faith, and Newland’s corporate scavengers were being presumptuous at best in taking ownership of the dig site. At worst it was nothing other than outright heresy.

    The hatch to the engine room opened, and another one of the sergeant’s subordinates poked his head in. Private Mills looked up through the rumbling engine room at the sergeant, while giving a quick salute that ruffled his curly black hair. 

    “Hey ma’am, we’re almost at the docks but uh… there’s a bit of a complication up ahead. Corporal Accion sent me to get you.”

    “Of fucking course there is,” Sergeant Stone said mostly to herself before closing the shutter to the engine compartment.

    Striding to the prow of the Seabrisket the squad’s handler joined one of her two corporals, the huge android one. The chimera crossed her arms as she looked at the pair of NCSDF boats that were blockading the canal up ahead. None of the Holy Mercenaries had been able to see the cordon as they were sitting just around a curve in the high-walled, concrete canal. It was also too late to reverse, as the sudden retreat would look far too conspicuous to the waiting military personnel. A number of SDF marines were milling about the deck of a tugboat that was ahead of the mercenary’s own ship, idly poking around.

    “Got a plan, ma’am?” asked Corporal Accion, glancing at the sergeant with his camera “eye” sidelong.

    In a previous life Accion had been a labor android, and it showed. He stood well above Maisie’s decent height, and was at least twice as broad. He barely fit into the standard Holy Mercenary white coat, and opted to wear it tied around his waist, rather than shred the coat’s arms with his enormous synthmuscled limbs. Otherwise he wore gear usually utilized by the heavy androids United Zones Machine Corps, bleached white and gray, as few other articles of clothing could fit his hefty form. The construction of his head was simple, though he had added additional armor plating to it in the past. The plate that formed his “brow” sat directly above his single camera, giving him the appearance of a permanent look of consternation.

    The sergeant scowled for a few moments. It was only natural that something like this would come up. She pushed her black and white hair behind her shoulder as a smile crept onto her face.   

    “It’s a bad one, but you better believe I do.”

***

The elevator dinged before the doors slid open. A devilkin and an android stepped out onto the fourteenth floor of the Power Motors Incorporated Illigan central headquarters. Before they could walk any further a PMI corpsec was trotting towards them. 

    “Hey hey, you two have your security badges ri-”

    A staccato of noise came from the elevator as the squad of drones unleashed a quiet fusilade on the security officer from their suppressed SMGs. He was dead before he tumbled down to the laminate floor. 

    The android stepped over the man’s body, carefully avoiding the spreading pool of blood. With the distraction removed she mentally commanded her A-5 drones out of the elevator. Each one of them was humanoid, though less so than their android commander. While Ariadne had synthflesh to cover and aid her more mechanical components, the drones were skeletal, with boxy, forward-facing rectangular heads that made their mechanical nature evident. While no one could mistake the android for a human, her faceplate and general assembly were quite human, even if she did have four cameras.

    Without turning, Ariadne noted that Karsyn, her devilkin ally, had stopped over the dead security officer. The android kept walking and watched through one of her drones as the devilkin ran her blade through the deadman’s chest. As she withdrew her lustrous silver blade it was coated in blood, which she quickly wiped off with a filthy rag attached to her belt.

    She looked at the observing drone’s camera with her scarred face, “Making sure he’s dead. Some people have a nasty habit of getting up just when you think they’re dead.”

    “Fine,” replied Ariadne through the drone’s vocoder, “Just don’t fall behind.”

    The android continued deeper into the mostly empty floor, moving towards the server wall that held the files she had been sent to obtain. She only had a few scant minutes to get into position and start downloading the engine design files into the heavy duty data drive that she had brought along. The drive was the size of a large encyclopedia, and about as heavy. The device’s case was designed to keep any digital information within safe from bullets, blasts, and submersion, and it had cost a good few bullion.

    The android cradled the drive in her arms, holding it against the plate carrier strapped to her lavender frame. She didn’t need to keep her hands free to order the drones under her mental control around, all of that was managed by the cybernetic systems that connected to her main processor and the radio control pack she carried on her back. In short she was bedecked in wires, after-market parts, and armor. Karsyn was also armored, though her chest piece looked more like some piece of metal forged in the depths of Hell, as it was a uniform charred black with Infernal sigils engraved across it. The plating, alongside her longsword and shrapnel-scarred face, made the devilkin appear like some warrior from the Age of Chaos, while Ariadne looked like the ultimate, cutting edge development in drone controlling.

    Finally finding her quarry the android honed in on a particular server rack, and unspooled her hardwire line as she squatted down in front of the dense, humming stack of computers. Ariadne quickly identified the necessary ports and readied her connections, hooking herself and the datadrive up. Before wholly commiting to the hacking she sent two of her drones to move the dead body and prepared the other three to ambush anyone from the Power Motors company who happened along. Karsyn stalked between the server rows, getting rid of any remaining security staff and unlucky IT workers.

    Once she had her mechanical servants in place the android opened her mental link to the server and began searching for the file. The jobs given to the rest of the team were more dangerous, to be sure, but the success or failure of the mission hinged on Ariadne finding the classified engine specifications and stealing the information. Everything else was just protection and set dressing. 

    Finding the file was none too hard. Decrypting it, though, would take time, and that had to be done before it could be copied onto the drive, which would also take a bit of time. Time that she hoped the other team would be able to provide with their “distraction”.

***

Chaplain Eckord prepared himself mentally for the inspection. The sergeant’s plan wasn’t great, but it would buy them a few seconds to get past the blockade. He did wish that Stone’s plans relied less on murder and brute force, though.

    The android would have sighed if he had lungs. The tech-overseer had said that serving with the Holy Mercenary Brigades would be trying, but he didn’t mention that it would be trying him every single day of work with the brigade. For better or for worse he was saddled with this lot of mercenaries, and in doing so had become very familiar with performing last rites.

    The sound of additional bootsteps on the Seabrisket’s deck, only audible as the engine slowed down to a light chug, indicated they had been boarded by the SDF soldiers. As he listened Eckord glanced at the captive officer he was sharing the engine room with. This man was simply a victim of circumstance, and a pawn in the church’s grander schemes. While Eckord did certainly believe that the oldtech the Self Defense Force captain knew about was the property of the church, he lacked the conviction that would lead him to capture and interrogate a person in this manner. The android did not imagine himself timid, but he hardly had the zeal and conviction Sergeant Stone could muster at the most difficult of times. 

    The stark white android recomposed himself, adjusting his admittedly ill-fitting robes and tried to keep track of what was happening outside of the cramped engine room. The young man across from Eckord, Private Theos, had been minding the prisoner alone before the chaplain had moved to the ship’s rear. 

    The actual fighters in the squad were preparing in the fore section of the ship, and Eckord preferred to keep his head down when the lead was about to start flying. No one really expected the android to use a weapon, either. He had originally been constructed as an accountant android, and while that station was many lifetimes ago, it still meant that he had a mind for numbers rather than violence. His vertically-oriented eyes were not ideally suited for using a weapon’s sights, or keeping aware in the middle of combat to boot.

    There was talking outside. He couldn’t make out just what was being said, but he could certainly make out Sergeant Stone talking to some men. The private and the chaplain exchanged a look, neither one being overly sure of how things were going, and neither wanting to comment on the situation. The young man drew the machine pistol from his holster, but didn’t hold it at the ready. Neither Eckord nor Evan knew where a threat would come from, but having a gun in hand certainly soothed one’s nerves.

    The armored door to the main crew compartment from the outside deck opened. More people moved around. Eckord and Private Theos looked towards the source of the sounds. The door closed quickly. There was a brief sound of struggle and fighting just beyond the door to the engine room. Some horrific crunching noises, a gurgle. And then it went quiet again.

    The two Divinists in the engine room felt a wave of ease wash over them. The monitor would be underway in a moment, and its armor would shrug off the machine guns that the barricade would bring to bear. Now understaffed from the men that the M.E.R.C.s had slain, the patrol boats would be much less of a threat, and the getaway would be that much easier.

    Then there were footsteps, and the hatch above Evan opened. He had forgotten to lock it after talking with the sergeant, and it seemed like one of the soldiers hadn’t gone inside the Seabrisket’s crew cabin. Eckord looked in surprise that turned to horror as he saw the SDF soldier looking down the hatch into the engine room. The android froze, utterly unsure of what to do.

    The soldier grabbed his radio with one hand, his SMG pointing down into the room as he began talking quickly, “Priority one, priority one, this boat has a captive soldier. I think I’ve found the captai-”

    The marine’s message was cut short by a burst of gunfire, which was answered in kind. The NCSDF soldier and the Holy Mercenary across from the chaplain both fell limp. The private’s unworn body armor fell off the bench he was sitting on as he fell forwards, now well beyond useless. Eckord leapt across the small room to grab Evan. The young mercenary was gushing blood from a dense cluster of gunshot wounds through his chest, staining his white coat red at an alarming pace. Eckord tried to stop the bleeding, but only coated his synthetic hands in the young man’s blood.

    The door to the crew compartment flew open as Corporal Accion’s huge frame blocked the doorway for a moment. His single camera went wide as surveyed the situation.

    “Medic! MEDIC! HELP EVAN NOW!” Accion bellowed, pulling back from the doorframe to let the team’s medic through.

    “”We need to go! They know we have the captain now!” Eckord proclaimed, still clinging to the horrendously injured private.

    A sudden rain of lead began as one of the patrol boats fired on the Seabrisket. The shells smashed into the monitor’s armor, but had little effect. The armor would hold, at least.

“Riley, get back there dammit! Schneider, get the engine into gear, we need to move!”

    The engine roared to thunderous life as Eckord laid the private on the floor to let the medic go to work. Private Riley arrived, throwing a large, backpack sized medical kit onto the greasy deck of the engine room. The chaplain helped as best he could, following every instruction that Private Riley gave him.

    Nothing worked. The extra blood, the biofoam, the sutures, all of it only prolonged the inevitable. The soldier’s burst of close-ranged fire had simply obliterated the boy’s heart, ripping his spine apart, and reducing his chest cavity to a heterogenous mixture of bone, organ meat, and blood. He was already dead before Private Riley began working on him.

    Eckord bowed his head as watched another human life slip away before his optics. Riley seemed unable to let the death go, and he simply began sobbing, the tears streaming out of his eyes into his thick beard. The chaplain knew the pain of losing comrades and friends much younger than himself, and he would have shed tears at this point as well if he were physically capable of doing it. 

    Eckord began rehearsing the Final Rite of Shutdown over his young friend’s body.

“Almighty Machine-Lord, See you the end of this unit’s mortal service, And let him now reside in your heavenly domain hereafter. Let there be succor to those who survive him, that they too may know your love.”

    Having intoned the prayer the chaplain pulled his blood-slicked hands apart from their praying position. He had done all he could for the deceased private, and it was all in the hand of the Machina thereafter. Eckord rose and withdrew to the crew compartment to inform the sergeant of Private Theos’ passing.

    The crew compartment of the Seabrisket was cramped, and made only more so by the bodies of the murdered SDF soldiers lain against the rear wall. The cabin was filled with the rattling of machine guns as the Holy Mercenaries unleashed fire onto the NCSDF ship off the starboard side. It seemed that at least one of the patrol boats was keeping pace as the M.E.R.C.s broke the cordon. Keeping up with the monitor was no real feat, as the armor and weapons on the ship made its top speed well below a patrol boat’s limit.

    Eckord barely kept his footing, as the motion of the moving boat, the rattle of gunfire, and the pangs of impacting rounds filled the bunker-like cabin. He moved towards the central, raised helmsman’s seat, in which sat Corporal Schneider, with Sergeant Stone holding on to the seat’s frame.

    “Sergeant Stone, ma’am?” asked Eckord, loudly.

    “What’s Private Theos’ status, chaplain?”

    “D-deceased, ma’am.”

    The chimera didn’t turn to face the android, rather she bowed her head for a moment before inhaling deeply like she always did. Eckord had seen Sergeant Stone given the news of her subordinates and comrades deaths at least a dozen times now, she never let it slow her down. The chaplain wasn’t sure if he should admire her composure or be worried about her being able to keep it at times like this. 

    “Fine,” she said eventually, through gritted teeth, “We have bigger problems right now. We’ve gotta ditch the SDF guys and get our prisoner to the drop off point.”

    Eckord nodded. At the moment the sergeant’s focus helped him keep his mind on the mission. It wasn’t comforting, but moping in an active combat area was far less healthy than being focused on a goal.

    “Shit!” proclaimed Schneider as surveyed the canal ahead.

    The android and the chimera both looked over the dark-skinned, blonde human’s shoulders, through the armored slit that was the monitor’s front window. A massive, mechanical silhouette was wading into the canal a couple of blocks away. The machine was armored like a tank, but stood upright on two heavily armored legs. The body supported by the legs was hefty, almost shaped like a more conventional armored vehicle. It mounted a large cannon on one side of its chassis, supplemented by a pair of machine guns on the forefront “chin” of the vehicle, and a rack of rockets on the opposite side from the cannon. It, much like the patrol boat that had begun falling back from the Seabrisket, was adorned in the unmistakable blue and gold of the Newland City Self Defense Force.

    “A fucking stand tank. Just our luck,” said Sergeant Stone from between gritted teeth.

[undead-bones]

Some exemples to my other posts's ideas

Inaction/Neutrality. (Cowardice? Refusal to Save? To Rebel? To Protect? To Punish? To get Revenge? To Fight Back? To Stop? Or denied you the right to take said action?)

Abuse? Refugees? Punishment? Insult? Revenge? Injustice? Didn't save you/take you from the bad situation you're in? Let the person hurt you? Expect to accept the bullshit?

Doran Martell, Hinata (for Neji), Thranduil, Jaime Lannister (for Rhaella), the Valar.

Ungratefulness (Betray after they Help/Save you? Refuse to aid after everything you did and sacrifice for them? Don't valorize you enough?).

Defended when they lied. Killed because they helped you. Demand help/forgiveness after what they did to you. Got in trouble for helping them and was abandoned.

Walder Frey, Ariadne, Cersei (with Ned), Daenerys (with the Starks).

Not taking your side in the conflict. They forgive and stay with the person who wronged you (both of you?) or take their side, befriend or ally with said person, even help in hurting you or save them. Assist in the cover up. Or even giving a false testimony.

Finrod, Celebrimbor, King Viserys, Ned, Ollie, Sawada Nana, Wei Wuxian.

A character does shit and runs away, leaving their friends/family behind to suffer the consequences (or stigma) of being associated with them.

Defector, Run Away Bride, Evil Lineage, Kidnapped by Enemies

Rhaegar, Paris, Orochimaru (with Anko), Iemitsu.

Traitor of the Folk or Race/Category Traitor, maybe can be related to the '•' above or a Hunter of His Own Kind. (Inner-Prejudice maybe? Denial of Origin? Mixed Heritage? Or marrying someone of a 'lesser' kin can be considered 'treason'. Depends which the Folk in question is the considered superior/inferior, or can be a more Grey area too)

Raised by Rival/Adopted, Pretend to be Evil, Survival, Exception, Unware of their own Nature, Stolkhome Syndrome, Rose to a High Position (like in goverment or perhaps a celebrity)

Honerva (Haggar), Mance Rayder (kinda?), Norlin 'Silver Zoro', Uchiha Itachi, Conner (the Android), Raine Whispers.

Blitz and Fizzarolli from HB are considered that by Striker

Having a Relationship (or even children) with a member of a group you are prejudicial against is another level of wild shit

Maybe they are just civilians or maybe the prejudiced one is famous or got in a position of power and often interact with the oppressors

Luka (Alien Stage) and the Career Tributes actually playing and enjoying the competition could be this

Maybe its a Oppresive Pair Up (Master/Servant/Handler relationship?). Can catch feelings with time. Like...some oppressed are often 'needed' for a certain use?

Turns Against (their Faction? Their Family? their Leader? A member? Encouraged by a specific person?)

Nargothrond, Argella Durrandon, Havria.

Amnesic Crimes (maybe being unaware or mind controled?)

Bucky, Roy Clone, Clone Trooper Fox, Amnesic Villain, Hercules, Light Yagami

Pre Redemption Crimes

Ignus, Maleficent, Jaime Lannister, Ollie

Seduce an Character (like a Lady Mcbeth/Evil Advisor, Evil Stepmother, Black Widow or an Gold Digger). A powerful person? political power? magical? Its an non-human supernatural being? Your Archnemesis? A Love Matyr? Manipulation? For their assistance/help? Face-Heel Turn? Using a person's feelings for your own benefit? Revenge? (on your other love? On the subject in question or someone related to them?)

Human Weapon

Mal (Descendants), Alyss Baskerville, Lysa Arryn, Ilosovic Stayne, Cora from Ouat, Queen Ariana (Barbie), Stephan (Maleficent), Annatar (Silm), Prince Hans

Secret Child

Of a posmortum character, missing, trump card, revenge, throne rival.

Oak Greenbriar, Jon Snow, Setsuna and Towa, Jinmi, Luke and Leia, Lyra Belaqua, Kubo, Jenna Greenwood, Jake Brandon, the Sawada Family, Aurora, Killmonger, Ryan Butcher, Melody (Ariel), Historia Reiss, Arthur Curry

Chosen One Wannabe/I Could Have been a Containder

Orochimaru, Princess Rhaenys, Morro, Tai Lung.

There is Another/Hidden Tribe

Planet Pollux, Pandas (Po's Family), Maleficent's people, Quincy, Rio 2. Kara Danvers.

Locked in the Basement

Giles Grimm, Morpheus, Lapis Lazulli, Elk (Centaurworld)

Battle Royality/Infiltration

Joshua (twewy), Player 001 (Squid Game), Logan (Jigsaw)

Loyal Servant

Xiao, Sui-Feng

Villain and Hero (kind off?) have a kid together

BB (Kill Bill), Alice Baskeville (PH), Damian Wayne, Zuko (Cuz of Ursa), Sephiroth, Luke Skywalker, Kubo, Illyasviel Von Einzbern, Lloyd Garmadon

Identity

Yue, Venti, Utawarerumono, Yaotl, Gabriel (SP)

Alayne Stole, Mare Barrow

Vessel/In another Form

Bakura, Kurama, Kur, Blue Beetle, Angra Mainyu, Fnaf's Animatronics

Mogget Abhorsen, Annatar, Neliel Tu Oderschvank, Yaolt, Annatar

Unfriendly Fire

Anna of Arendelle, Rin Nohara, Yanli, Crepus Ragnvindr, Connla

Recruit the Enemy

Celaena (TOG), Levi Arckerman, Mukuro Rokudo, Suicide Squad, Xiao

Exiled

Dionysus, Kaedehara Kazuha, Zuko

Random Excentric is actually plot relevant and OP

Freya (GOW), Urahara Kisuke, San Lang (HOB), Old Man Mcgucket (Gravity Falls)

[thewritersroomblog]

Vamos falar sobre self-insert

Todos nós somos protagonistas das nossas próprias histórias. E às vezes também queremos ser das histórias que nós escrevemos. Afinal, quem não quer ser um herói com superpoderes, viajar para uma galáxia distante, ser o par romântico do seu personagem dos sonhos ou apenas sentir-se representado em uma narrativa? Caso você esteja se perguntando… Sim, existe um termo para isso: autoinserção. Também conhecido como self-insert, esse fenômeno fala sobre a prática do autor colocar-se como protagonista ou personagem secundário da própria narrativa em uma obra de ficção, geralmente como uma forma idealizada de si próprio. E, em muitos casos, feito de forma acidental. 

Isso mesmo, você pode ter criado uma história com um self-insert sem querer. E agora, será que isso é algo bom ou ruim?

Continue lendo o post para saber mais:

Sobre o self-insert

Apesar de ser algo constantemente apontado nas fanfictions, o self-insert também é comum em diversos gêneros literários e em outras formas de arte. Acredita-se que desde o eterno Stan Lee em algumas de suas obras até George Lucas com o Luke Skywalker de Star Wars, são inúmeros exemplos dessa autoinserção na cultura pop. Entre os escritores, podemos destacar grandes nomes como Dante Alighieri em sua obra A Divina Comédia e Agatha Christie com a personagem Ariadne Oliver, presente nos contos do livro Poirot Investiga.

No entanto, é importante ter em mente que o self-insert não é a mesma coisa que uma autobiografia ou o caso do autor criar um personagem baseado em si mesmo apenas para fazer uma aparição rápida. O termo para isso, também em inglês, chama-se cameo — algo que Stan Lee também fazia com frequência, tanto em suas histórias em quadrinhos quanto em suas versões cinematográficas.

Também é preciso frisar que a autoinserção não se trata, necessariamente, de uma narrativa em primeira ou terceira pessoa: nesses casos, por mais que a escrita pareça pessoal e que o autor faça comentários, ele ainda está no papel de nos contar os acontecimentos, não como uma parte importante destes. No entanto, existem casos em que o autor usa os dois artifícios ao mesmo tempo: na série de livros Desventuras em Série, por exemplo, é discutível que Lemony Snicket seja um self-insert, já que tanto autor quanto personagem possuem o mesmo nome. Só que tem um detalhe: Lemony Snicket, na verdade, é o pseudônimo de Daniel Handler: ou seja, o personagem Lemony então seria um self-insert do alter ego de Daniel, que também se chama Lemony. Meio confuso, não é? 

Ainda dentro das possibilidades de uma autoinserção consciente — ou seja, quando o autor sabe o que está fazendo — existem casos em que esse personagem pode ser uma paródia, servir de ferramenta para levar o enredo adiante ou um alívio cômico. Um exemplo disso é a personagem criada por Agatha Christie já mencionada nesse artigo, Ariadne Oliver: ela é uma escritora de mistério que tenta auxiliar o detetive Hercule Poirot nas investigações, pois alega ter uma “intuição feminina” especial, mas isso acaba levando-a para conclusões precipitadas e errôneas. 

Apesar disso, em algumas histórias ela divide seus “insights” que acabam trazendo a solução para o mistério, como na obra A Terceira Moça e; de quebra, usa a personagem para fazer referências ao seu próprio trabalho, inclusive para um furo de enredo! Em A Morte da Sra. McGinty, a personagem confessa ter cometido um erro sobre o tamanho de um objeto em uma de suas obras — erro que, na verdade, foi cometido pela própria Agatha Christie em Morte nas Nuvens.

Apesar de nunca ter dito com todas as letras que a personagem se tratava de um self-insert e que não se baseava em pessoas reais para criar personagens, a autora admitiu que a Sra. Oliver tinha “uma forte pitada” dela mesma.

No entanto, apesar de alguns autores utilizarem esses personagens propositalmente, é muito comum que os autores nem sequer percebam o que estão fazendo. Isso ocorre, segundo diversos estudiosos e autores como Neil Gaiman — um grande defensor do self-insert — porque o autor, a partir do momento que decide escrever uma história,  está se doando para a mesma e, por causa disso, a autoinserção é inevitável até certo ponto. 

Vantagens e desvantagens

A autoinserção é algo que divide opiniões: alguns acreditam que é uma ótima alternativa para escritores, já outros alegam que pode ser um sinal de amadorismo por parte do autor. Por conta disso, eu vou mostrar algumas vantagens e desvantagens de criar esse tipo de personagem  — e o veredito final será todo seu. 

Vamos lá?

VANTAGENS

O self-insert pode ser uma forma divertida de refinar a sua escrita, estudar a criação de personagens — onde o objeto desse estudo é você mesmo — e até mesmo tornar-se um exercício de autoconhecimento. Além disso, é uma oportunidade de criar ficção baseada na realidade (e você pode conferir algumas dicas para fazer isso nesse post aqui)

Outra vantagem da autoinserção é o fato de que essa prática pode fazer com que o autor seja mais espontâneo e honesto em sua escrita, o que vai tornar a experiência de leitura mais pessoal e criar uma conexão entre autor e leitor. Quando o self-insert é bem aplicado, ele tem o poder de criar a identificação, onde essas experiências pessoais do autor ou o seu ponto de vista pode ser dividido com outras pessoas, o que vai tornar o personagem mais cativante.

DESVANTAGENS

Por outro lado, o autor pode errar a mão na idealização desse personagem e criar uma Mary Sue ou um Marty Stu (não conhece essa dupla? Confira esse post aqui). Nesse caso, pode acontecer do escritor não apenas criar um personagem totalmente perfeito e provavelmente nada interessante, mas também retratá-lo como alguém invencível — de forma que todo o enredo se “dobra” para que tudo dê certo para este self-insert. E isso pode impedir que o autor corra riscos necessários com o enredo e não coloque conflitos o suficiente na história, o que pode torná-la entediante e previsível.

Além disso, justamente por ser algo mais pessoal, existe a possibilidade do autor ficar ofendido com qualquer crítica em relação a esse self-insert, de uma maneira mais intensa do que seria caso fosse um personagem “comum”. Outro risco aqui é o escritor tentar justificar os erros ou falhas de caráter desse personagem por conta da projeção criada — onde o autor entende que a crítica ao personagem, na verdade, é dirigida diretamente a ele. 

Nesse caso, também se trata de aprender a lidar com críticas (e você pode conferir dicas para isso nesse post aqui).

Dicas para escrever self-insert

Ficou interessado em criar um personagem a sua imagem e semelhança? Aqui vão algumas dicas sobre como fazer isso:

COLOQUE DIFERENÇAS

Apesar desse personagem ser totalmente inspirado em você, vocês não precisam ser idênticos em tudo! Experimente adicionar características — sejam físicas ou traços de personalidade — diferentes e opostas, para criar um certo distanciamento entre você e o personagem que fará parte da sua história. Essa separação entre autor e personagem também irá impedir que você leve as críticas tanto para o pessoal.

NADA DE PERSONAGENS PERFEITOS

Um dos principais problemas da autoinserção, como mencionado logo ali em cima, é o fato de que muitos escritores acabam criando versões extremamente idealizadas deles mesmos. Por isso, tome cuidado para não transformar o seu personagem em um ser perfeito e não se esqueça de colocar falhas. Você pode, inclusive aprofundar-se em si mesmo e projetar seus próprios defeitos na escrita e trabalhar a partir daí, criando até, quem sabe, um arco de redenção para esse self-insert. Não é a toa que dizem que escrever é terapêutico… 

MUDE AS CIRCUNSTÂNCIAS 

Experimente colocar o seu personagem self-insert em ambientes e situações totalmente fora de sua zona de conforto, longe de um mundo ideal. Mesmo que o seu objetivo aqui seja usar essa autoinserção para realizar a sua fantasia de ser um bruxo poderoso, por exemplo, aqui vale a pena criar um universo com regras que o personagem precisa aprender e respeitar, além de conflitos entre outros personagens e dificuldades a serem superadas. Assim, você garante que seu personagem terá a própria história — em vez de viver a sua — e, de quebra, cria a tensão necessária para seu enredo se desenvolver. 

DIVIDA-SE

Por fim, caso você perceba que não quer concentrar todas as suas características em um único self-insert, uma opção é fazer algo muito comum entre escritores é dividir-se, espalhando um pouquinho de você mesmo em diferentes personagens. Dessa forma, você ainda passa aquela honestidade na sua escrita, mas sem o risco de ocorrer um eventual favoritismo.

Espero que você tenha gostado do post! Beijos e até mais

---

Referências:

DANGER! Writing a Self-Insert in Your Novel | Alexa Donne

Ariadne Oliver - Characters | The home of Agatha Christie

Ariadne Oliver - Agatha Christie Wiki

Neil Gaiman Teaches the Art of Storytelling | Masterclass 

On Self-Insertion, Intersectionality, and Writing

[thesummerstorms]

Ariadne Blackhallow, Vih’thrian Spy Nomad

Ariadne is the adopted daughter of a Prioress of Ungara, the God of Nature, intended to become a Priestess herself. However, she was left alone as a  young child following her mother’s death. She was taken and trained by a local thief disguised as a novitiate of her mother’s order, before eventually being given to her Vih’thrian handler, who made her into a spy.

Ariadne has some rather radical ideologies, and was passed on to the Hand of the Serpent in Novus not only to fulfill a request, but to get her out of trouble in her homeland.  

[joaquinwhorres]

List 10 female faves from 10 different fandoms and then tag 10 people

tagged by @paperpocalypse​!

(in no particular order)

1. Ginny Weasley (Harry Potter - the books)

2. The Handler (The Umbrella Academy)

3. Valkyrie (Marvel, movies)

4. Jessica Jones (Marvel, Netflix)

5. Lieutenant Nyota Uhura (Star Trek)

6. Piper Halliwell (Charmed)

7. Rose Tyler (Dr. Who)

8. Ariadne (Inception)

9. Indra (The 100)

10. Arwen (Lord of the Rings)

tagging (no pressure!) @hairringtonsteve​ and anyone else?

[jeannereames]

I really enjoyed the first part of Dancing with the Lion, and I was wondering if you are planning to write any more fiction about Alexander beyond the second part?

I do. From the beginning, I’d intended to write his story all the way to the end. But I’m not sure that’ll happen immediately for a couple reasons.

First, I really need to work on a non-fiction, academic biography of Hephaistion that’s a serious update of my dissertation from 20 years ago.

Second, I actually started these novels 30 years ago. It’s taken me this long to find a publisher willing to take a chance on them. And even then, I had to cut the book in half for Riptide to do so. In the meantime, I started another book series, a trilogy about Dionysos and Ariadne, called 49. The first of that is done and the second is about half done. At the time, I thought it might sell first, as it’s an SFF adventure story. The pacing is much faster, etc. But it, also, had issues due to length. I just…can’t write short. Although all beta readers say it really DOES read fast, publishers look at word-count, especially for a first novel. Many have a “no exceptions” policy and won’t even consider a first novel past 120K words, and many prefer it under 110K. 49 is 145K, and unlike Dancing with the Lion, it really can’t be split or cut further without doing severe violence to the plot.

(Dancing is a novel, in that the focus is on character development; 49 is a romance (in the old meaning), so that the focus is on the plot.)

I’m hoping Dancing with the Lion sells enough to allow me to sell 49 finally. I think readers will really enjoy it, given feedback from beta readers. That, of course, rests on word of mouth about Dancing getting out, as Riptide doesn’t have the publicity budget of the big House publishers, such as Bloomsbury, who published A Song for Achilles. Unless Dancing sells well enough, 49 will never sell (and for that matter, neither will any of the follow-up novels in the Dancing series). That’s just the realities of publishing, unfortunately. Sometimes it’s easier to sell a first novel than a third.

In any case, I do plan to continue Alexander’s story, although probably not with Riptide, as the tale will turn darker and sadder as it progresses. Alexander’s story really doesn’t have a “happy” ending, and Riptide, as primarily a Romance publisher, wants HEA endings. The first novel, or now pair of novels, has that (more or less), but once we get past Gaugamela, that’ll be a lot harder to maintain. Of course, if the novels make them a lot of money, they might change their minds (ha), but going forward, I’ll probably have to get a new publisher.

I have quite a number of aspects of the rest of the series in mind. I know several character plot threads that’ll run through the books, and some important characters who haven’t shown up yet (although one will appear in Rise).

For instance, in the next book (which will go from Alexandros becoming king up till Granikos), Hephaistion gets to be a spy in Athens for some months, with Aristoteles as his “handler,” if you will. He volunteers for it, but decides he’s not really made for that. And I want to actually DO Alexander’s Thracian and Illyrian campaigns, as they’re usually ignored but it’s there that we see him emerging as an utterly brilliant tactician.

So I have given a fair bit of thought to the rest of the story, not just in terms of known historical events, but fictional threads, as well. :-)

[just-horrible-things]

I’m not sure if you’re taking requests but if you are, could you please write about what Frazier said to Ariadne about the healer?

'Verse: Resistance, co-author @whump-sprite AU: Healer and Handler Timeline: just before Ariadne meets Alex

File

The healers’ files are formatted a lot like the POI files that Ariadne’s familiar with. She’s been given primary responsibility for exactly one healer, so it’s his folder she starts with, though she’ll make sure to read the others’ before she has to work with them.

The first burning question she has is: Alex Morgen? As in Taryn Morgen? She knew Taryn Morgen was in captivity briefly with a healer brother… and sure enough, this is him.

Her second question is: why the hell aren’t they making use of him as a tactical asset? She leafs back through the pages searching for any kind of an answer, but all she finds is one brief note from a couple of years ago – which must have been about the time Taryn Morgen was starting to attract real attention.

Taryn Morgen seems unaware that he is still alive. Risk assessment finds unacceptably high risk for uncertain reward.

That’s a bullshit non-answer if ever Ariadne heard one. She suspects the hospital just didn’t want to give up an asset to another team. 

There’s no evidence that anyone ever followed up or re-assessed, despite Taryn’s meteoric rise to infamy in the intervening years. Fucking typical. 

Well, there’s something for Ariadne to try and follow up on, once she’s built up a bit of trust here.

In the process of searching for answers, she’s skimmed through several years worth of notes on the healer’s output. They’re also pretty sparse – healer keepers hate documentation about as much as everyone else, Ariadne supposes. But there’s enough to paint a rough picture of steady decline. Which fits with what Ari understands. Everyone knows healers burn out over time.

Disciplinary events don’t seem to make it into the records.

His former primary handler is one Neil Frazier. Some relative of General Frazier, as far as Ariadne can recall. Probably he has the same attitude as all the other nepotism hires. It would be bad form to go trying to pull up his file, even though she is curious about the “inappropriate conduct” that apparently got him reassigned. Besides, she doubts her clearance would cover it.

Most of Frazier’s notes are brief to the point of unhelpful and give little hint of personality – his or the healer’s – aside from the most recent update to the general overview:

Lazy, disobedient, manipulative. Favourite lie is to fake running out of magic. Needs a firm hand.

He cries to provoke sympathy but the disobedience doesn’t stop until it’s punished.

Close to burnout, he’ll need disposal soon.

Well, that’s just great. They did say the healer wasn’t working and they wanted Ariadne’s skillset to get him obeying orders again. But “close to burnout” doesn’t sound good. Doesn’t sound like she’s being set up to succeed. 

But still, it’s this or paperwork.

She’ll take the rest of the criticism with a pinch of salt, she thinks. It does sound a bit like the grousing of a guy who’s just lost his job for failing to get results. Still, she’ll watch out for the manipulation.

[ao3feed-arthureames]

On My Knees I Think Clearer

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2R6cDMf

by storm_of_sharp_things

Secret agent/spy Arthur is part of a private investigation to infiltrate a secret collusion of the world’s biggest energy corporations but treachery exposes the operation and he has to go into hiding. His handler, Cobb, sends him to a Catholic boarding school for his cover. As a student.

Eames is a forger and thief who got double-crossed trying to steal art from the Vatican. For his sins, he's been sent to teach art at the same Catholic school.

Words: 3268, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Inception (2010)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Arthur (Inception), Eames (Inception), Yusuf (Inception), Ariadne (Inception), Mal Cobb, Dom Cobb, Robert Fischer

Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)

Additional Tags: Catholic school AU, Spies & Secret Agents, Not Underage

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2R6cDMf

[poisonapple83]

Me watching The Umbrella Academy:

To Klaus: ehi Nathan, always the same giant, wonderful dork? Nice to see some things never change!

To Luther: Oh no Dickon Tarly, are you still a papa’s boy???

To Vanya: Ariadne, darling, are you messing around with the city buldings again?

To Leonard/Harold: Vince you really have a weakness for dangerous cute brunettes, haven’t you?

To the Handler: why I’m not surprised Addison is a goddess here too???

If you can recognize all the references we can be best friends.

[achilles81--archive]

@sorchamidnite [Private]

Dearest Sorcha,

I just got word from the handlers that the bar is almost set up. If you wish, you are welcome to visit the premises from here on out! To my understanding, the hiring process for bartenders has completed and renovations are in their final steps. The basement is still being worked on, but the heavy construction work is done, or no longer happening in any areas bar patrons might hear.

You (or any ghouls you might send) should be good to visit night or day. Ask for Ariadne; to my understanding, she is on site 3 am through noon, and she is in charge of the site itself. She will be able to give you detailed information on the progress.

That being said, this week is looking to be quite busy, so responses may be delayed. Indeed on Wednesday I don't expect to be available at all - though I will keep Ariadne up to date on the System's organisation as well. Any other requests I will see to asap.

I hope you had a restful weekend and we will meet again soon.

Kind regards,

Achilles

[reddus-sideblog]

M.E.R.C.s - The Santa Free Broadside

3-01-890 AR

Bones admired the large pickup truck as he climbed across its bed. A number of the Tuckerson pirates were already loaded up in the back of the vehicle, and he made sure not to disturb any of them as he moved up to the open-topped cab of the vehicle. The highwaymen were good at what they did, if touchy.

    The extra armor plating welded across the chassis and the pintle mounted .50 cal machine gun really added to the beast of a vehicle’s ferocious appearance, and it definitely earned the name of The Road Gladiator. The armor, guns, and men would hopefully make the job a sinch, but Bones had seen surer bets go awry. Still, the hearty thrum of the DD-630’s modified engine and the wind of the interzone highway made the M.E.R.C. confident that his quarry was within his grasp.

    As he reached the cab he leaned forward to speak, loudly, with the driver.

    “Hey Cap’n Tuckerson!” Bones shouted over the whipping wind.

    The surly captain didn’t look up from the road, “Whut is it Bonesy?”

    Bones was glad that his ski mask and sunglasses hid his expression. He hated cutesy nicknames.

    “We’ll be coming up on the route in a minute here, slow down a lil so we don’t pass by too fast, alright?”

    The captain grumbled loudly, indicating an affirmation. Bones hauled himself back up and rested his elbows on the top of the cab’s frame, next to the machine gun mounting. The rapid thrum of the engine slowed to a lower tempo and the M.E.R.C. scanned the highway ahead for an armored truck with the colors of the Newland Federal Bank. Like anything “federal” in Newland it would be done up in a deep, somewhat desaturated blue, with secondary gold tones.

    This neck of the highway led into the Moswell Mega-Bridge, the megastructure that spanned the Grand Canal to connect both Jeffria and Santa Free, along with the whole of the North and South half of Newland. The bridge was a sector unto itself, despite how much of it was just infrastructure. The height and depth of the three kilometer long bridge was such that numerous apartment stacks, stores, and businesses had been built into and upon the ancient megastructure, flanking the eight lane highway that ran through it.

    The pirate’s truck swung around a curve that brought them in alignment with the mega-bridge. The spire of the implausibly huge suspension bridge stood one hundred and twenty stories tall, and the afternoon sun was basking the enormous bridge in light, making the wear on the old bridge quite evident. The Moswell Mega-Bridge was nearly five hundred years old, but it was still holding on, despite the thousands of vehicles that crossed its span every day.

    Bones scanned the vehicles ahead. So long as he was right about the timing, he’d be able to snatch the briefcase from the armored truck before anything went wrong. The Handler had decided against involving his subordinates to prevent any such problems; Mellie was too large and clumsy for something like this, Holiday was both too trigger-happy and too infamous to keep a low profile, and Ariadne was useless without her drones, who would be too slow to be useful in the high speed chase. Still, he wished the girls were here, as the pirates left something to be desired in terms of congeniality. Bones had only got names from half of them, and the other half made him glad that he routinely forgot his checkbook at his apartment.

    The NFB truck was just up ahead, two lanes to the right, and Bones caught sight of it just as the lookout in the passenger seat of the cab did as well. The pirates suddenly came to life, letting out hollers of joy as the Gladiator’s engine roared. The Tuckerson’s truck was about a hundred meters away from their target, and the oversized, custom-tooled V8-S engine was making short work of the distance, as the captain wove in and out of the light traffic on the bridge.

    The element of surprise, however, was not on the side of the M.E.R.C. and the pirates. The approach of the Gladiator was far from subtle, and the truck’s security guards were following the classic mantra of any corpsec in Newland: protect company property first, and ask for bodybags later. The machine gun mounted on the top middle section of the armored truck had already been tracking the Tuckerson vehicle, and it opened fire as they closed the gap to a mere four car’s lengths, spraying the truck, and some other unfortunates in the vicinity with lead.

    A number of the lightly armored pirates were blown away by the gun, and Bones thanked every power above and below that he had stubbornly insisted on bringing his body armor when the captain had told him not to. Erico and a pirate whose name Bones hadn’t caught were blown overboard by the first burst of machine gun fire, and the rest of the five in the back took cover before the next burst hit.

    Bones sidled across the armored bed up to the side closest to the bank truck and lifted his LMR-5 out of cover to spray a burst of fire back at the machine gunner. After a couple bursts he heard a yelp of pain and the machine gun fire stopped for a moment. The M.E.R.C. and the uninjured pirates leaped up to take advantage of the break in the gunfire, each one unleashing a burst of fire that left the corpsec in the turret an unrecognizable red ruin of meat.

    Their victory was short-lived, as the side door of the truck flew open, and another corpsec came out blasting with his shotgun. The pirate readying the machine gun got perforated by a half-dozen pieces of shot, and Bones was once more glad to be wearing his body armor as he felt the familiar impact of shot against armored plating. Somedays he wondered why he even  left the SDF if he was going to get shot in Newland just as much as he did when he was in Souther Bay.

    Bones readied his rifle again, this time bracing himself and aiming at his target properly, over the panicked and confused cars in the lanes between the pirates and the corpsecs. With a sudden “thunk” the underbarrel grenade launcher of his rifle went off, detonating two lanes over on the bank truck’s side. The M.E.R.C. cursed, the damn corpsec had swung the door closed as he was firing the grenade, and now all he’d done was dent the truck’s armor. He felt slightly more safe in the knowledge that the Gladiator could definitely take a 40mm grenade shell without denting. Bones clambered up to the cab once more to speak with Captain Tuckerson.

    “Nice shot, Bonesy,” came the mocking, gruff voice of the bearded captain, still at the wheel. “But I got something better to take ‘em off the road. Alright Gus, give ‘em the Santa Free Broadside!”

    The back door on the right side of the cab flew open and a sheet was pulled off the bulky piece of machinery in the back of the truck that Bones had assumed was a winch or crane arm. In truth the machine was a cannon, likely from a light tank, that had been cut down considerably to fit in the cab of the truck. Bones watched as the pirate behind the captain, Gus, readied the cannon, took aim, and fired.

    The knockback from the shot rattled The Road Gladiator, but she kept steady in her path across the bridge. The same could not be said for the NFB truck. The shot ripped through the armor of the bank truck and  slammed into the engine block of the inferior vehicle, instantly setting the front half of the vehicle on fire, and sending it swerving away from the Gladiator. The listing turned into a full on swerve off of the highway that sent the bank truck careening through another lane of traffic, through the safety barricade at the side of the road, through a pedestrian walkway, and off the side of the Moswell Mega-Bridge.

    The pirate’s cheered, though their cheering slowly petered out as they all realized that they had just sent their own payday into the depths of the Grand Canal. Bones sighed heavily. The contract paid double if he could actually retrieve the bearer bonds, but them being at the bottom of the canal was probably good enough to claim the agreed on $750. He could cover a lot of expenses with the cash from this job, and give the pirates a decent cut. 

    “Well… seems like we need to work on the powder ratio for the shells, eh Gus?” asked the captain rhetorically. The bitter taste of failure was thick in his tone.

    The handler was already mad at himself for hiring the pirates, his own team could have fumbled this job just as efficiently, with a lot less preparation. Bones sat back in the truck bed and let the, admittedly impressive, beast of the highways take him away from the failed robbery.

[earlywrites]

there’s no place like 127.0.0.1 commentary part II: ‘keeping up’

Welcome to part two of the commentary for my fic there's no place like 127.0.0.1! Let's dive right into Sunday morning. As before, here there be spoilers for the majority of Season 3.

“[...] And, for your information, the internet exists. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but you can find anything on there. Literally anything. Including a Keeping Up With The Kardashians fact-checker resource.” 

Keeping up with the Kontinuity Errors is a blog, currently run on the Cut, that breaks down episodes of KUWTK scene by scene, using social media and paparazzi photos to determine when each scene was actually filmed versus the date/timeframe that is claimed on the show. Here is the post on the first episode Robot and Angela watched, wherein the Kardashian-West clan et al travel to Armenia and also may or may not be in Jerusalem at any given time. I didn’t choose particular episodes for rounds two and three, but I do have a fondness for the one where Kim loses her diamond earrings in the ocean, and Kourtney goes:

“How about, the loser gets to do the dishes from last night. And this morning.”

I actually wrote this section before 3x09 came out, so this ended up being a sad piece of foreshadowing.

:(

“That’s the cholesterol,” she retorts, as she marks out new columns into her notebook. “Your diet is terrible.”

“No, Elliot’s diet is terrible,” he says, licking maple syrup off of his fingers and setting his score sheet up on his knee. It still gets a little sticky, but whatever. “I don’t get much choice in that matter. Occasionally, when I get the chance, I eat a vegetable.”

Literally how is Elliot a functioning human being. Robot brings this up in Part I, but that post was getting full, so I'm putting the discussion here, and, look. Everything about his lifestyle, his love for junk food and the fact that he probably gets 0 sleep now given Robot’s nocturnal cycle points to him being deeply, incredibly unhealthy. Having Robot making some effort to take care of their body, even as a semi-joke, is my way of somewhat justifying how Elliot is still alive, lol.

“[...] vaguely considers beating one out – because it’s been a while, and Tyrell’s snarl under the press of his hand at his throat is still tucked away in his spank bank, awaiting withdrawal [...]”

I feel like 3x09 proved unequivocally that Robot is absolutely into playing rough.

[source: @knownoshamc, x] 

“[...] I bought a few titles that looked interesting. And a few things just to mess with him - did you know there’s a game where you can date pigeons? Like, actual birds. It’s apparently very popular.”

Yes, of course I’m referring to the masterpiece of visual media and storytelling that is Hatoful Boyfriend.

He stares at her, breathing heavily, and thinks about picking up his laptop and smashing it against the smooth surface of the coffee table, watching it splinter and crack, then taking her MacBook and sending it flying across the room, shattering the glass of a window, compromising the integrity of the perfect little box she’s living in, the one she’s caged him inside. He visualizes it, until he can feel the weight of the laptop in his hands, sees in the reflection of her eyes – big, blue, steady and unwavering – how the arc of destruction plays out, walls crumbling around them, fragments spinning out in slow motion, catching the light.

Elliot and Robot are highly creative, and are shown to manipulate the world around them to fit their perspective - in that vein, from Robot’s point of view, that scene would play out similarly to Cobb and Ariadne’s first dreamsharing experience in Inception.

Then he sits down next to her.

I separated this line from the preceding paragraph because this, for me, was the biggest character moment for Robot in the fic -- rather than doing what he wants, and releasing his rage, being his usual rash and destructive self, he chooses not to, and essentially releases his anger like air slowly leaving a balloon (minus the squeaking, lol). He tried to bait Angela, to get under her skin, after she made an astute judgement about him and exposed a major vulnerability of his, but she was unwavering, meeting him eye to eye. I think this point was when he gave into trusting her, knowing that she knows his weakness -- his deeply complicated, protective, antagonistic relationship with Elliot, the fact that he doesn’t want to face that he misses him -- and allowing her to keep that secret for him.

Completing Portal 2 in co-op mode ends up taking the rest of the afternoon, only pausing for snacks – and Angela takes his blithe comment on Elliot’s nutrition seriously, because of course she fucking does, and prepares shit like carrot sticks and celery with hummus which are both incredibly bland and deeply unsatisfying, so in retaliation he spends an inordinate amount of time dicking around with the portal mechanics so her character keeps falling to its untimely end. But he quickly gets bored of that, and of Angela making empty threats to beat him over the head with her MacBook (yeah, like her noodle arms could ever manage it), and does end up working with her to beat the game. The entire concept is problem-solving and teamwork, which is genuinely engaging, even though it’s obvious Angela picked this as some kind of teambuilding exercise for the two of them — which, on paper, is annoying as hell, he’s not some fucking suit in an intern program. Still, she’s not a bad partner – they bounce off each other well, sometimes literally, and she’s the one to actually figure out the shoot-while-jumping sequence needed to get through the penultimate level. For some reason, though, her favorite characters, if you can even count them as characters, are the cubes. The cubes. She fucking loves those dumb, inanimate objects. GLaDOS would definitely take her ass in to test for whatever malfunctioning part of her cortex causes her to express affection for a cube.

Hey, look, it's a game where two characters work together to aid the agenda of an evil megalomanic who's actually manipulating them and ultimately wants them to die to serve her true purpose, while ignoring warning signs saying not to trust her. Sound familiar? ;) But yes, for those unfamiliar with the Portal series, here's a little article about the essence of the co-op game; the purpose was to directly parallel it with Robot and Angela's doomed plan under Whiterose's thumb. Totally check out the games, if you haven't already! The co-op is a lot of fun, and the penultimate level took my friend and I like an hour to figure out how to complete (whereas the last level? Total cakewalk, even if The Cake Is A Lie :P)

“And we will have to manage Darlene,” she continues, bringing several onions on a chopping board over to him. “I don’t know what her motives are in coming here to look for Elliot, but either way, we have to play it safe. I’m going to give you your phone back tomorrow and if she calls, you can answer it, but… tell her you wanted to go off the grid this weekend, or something, clear your head. You can use the fact that you’ll be at work to keep it short, just enough to keep her from looking in any further.” “That excuse won’t stretch too far – isn’t Elliot getting fired tomorrow?” he asks, peeling the skin off the first onion and starting to slice it up. 

“Yes,” Angela says. “Mid-morning at the latest, but she wouldn’t know about that, so even if she wants to meet she’ll have to wait until the end of the day – if she presses for the lunch break, you can say you’ve made prior plans with me. [...] Okay, so, you’re just going to sit tight until security escorts you out, as we discussed, and don’t make a scene [...] Once you’re out, keep your distance from the data recovery center but stay in the area in case Irving and Tyrell need assistance with the execution, in which case I will contact you directly and escort you through any E-Corp facilities, since your card access will be revoked. Otherwise, go somewhere public, so that you have an alibi that can be corroborated by at least several witnesses concerning your whereabouts at the time the building comes down – but keep a low profile, get a Starbucks, or something. Make sure not to take your laptop out of your bag unless there’s an emergency, you don’t want anyone making assumptions about what you were doing during Stage Two once the dust clears and the feds look for someone to pin it on. And, if you need to call me, ring and let it dial once, hang up, and then immediately ring again. That way I’ll know it’s you calling, and not Elliot.”

We never got to really find out what Robot & Angela’s original plan was for that day, if Elliot hadn’t taken over for the events of 3x05-06. I assumed that, after Tyrell and Robot’s altercation in 3x04, the reins had been handed over to Tyrell and the Dark Army to execute, and Robot’s job was essentially support-if-needed, Angela still acting as his handler and liaising with Irving. This is my interpretation of what the OG plan might have been like -- at the beginning of 3x05, Angela encourages Elliot to pick up his phone as it rings, and then seemingly clicks that it’s no longer Robot, but still calls out to Elliot to grab lunch later. Later, she didn’t pick up her phone when Elliot called her, which I wondered about at the time since we weren’t given an indication as to whether she knew who was actually calling, and so this is my justification for that too. 

“We’ll toss those in olive oil with the carrots and set them to roast in the oven for about twenty, and in a couple of minutes I’ll get started on the steaks [...]”

I made a few fun Matrix shoutouts in this fic, and this is another one -- Cypher eats a virtual steak dinner as he trades the crew on his ship to the Agents in exchange for insertion back into the matrix, rejecting his harsh reality for the comfort of an artificial world. The recipe I had in mind is something along the lines of this one.

His memories are a muddled patchwork, haphazard at best – the clearest ones he has are also the darkest, ones Elliot didn’t want to deal with, shoved into a box and couriered to his doorstep with DO NOT RETURN TO SENDER in big red lettering, his burden now to bear. It’s no sweat, he’s stronger than Elliot, anyhow, which is probably is the point – the nightmares of yesteryear don’t faze him much, especially now their bitch of a mother is slowly rotting away upstate.

3x07 heavily implied Robot had already emerged before Edward Alderson died, and was the alter in control when Edward collapsed at the cinema -- but, in Season One, Robot begged Elliot not to let people ‘try to get rid of [him]’ again, implying there were stretches of time in Elliot’s life when he wasn’t present. Mr. Robot’s timeline is muddled to hell thanks to Elliot’s unreliable narration anyway, but I figured that Robot’s memories would be somewhat similar to Elliot’s with more gaps in them, and more strongly feature the abuse exacted by their mother, per Robot’s role as a (deeply flawed) ‘protector’ to Elliot. Also, I’m not sure whether Magda Alderson is actually alive or dead, but ‘slowly rotting away’ can mean both physically rotting in a grave and just generally living a stagnant existence (in a nursing home, presumably), so that’s up to interpretation! 

He’s not much one for wine, but this one’s pretty good – it’s apparently a 2008 Penfolds Grange, whatever the fuck that means, and they’ve made quick work of it as the evening has wound down.

The Penfolds Grange vintage 2008 Shiraz (South Australia) scored a rare 100 points in both The Wine Advocate and the Wine Spectator, two of the world’s most influential wine journals, when it was released in 2013, and I believe was initially priced at around $600-700. Price probably gave her this bottle, so it’s a good one to crack open when intending to destroy his company.

“I guess… I’m nervous, about seeing her again,” she murmurs. “It’s been so long, and so much has changed… it’s weird, because all I’ve felt up until this point is excitement, like, this is the whole reason I’m going through with all of this, to finally destroy E-Corp and create our new world, to share it with her – and yet, now we’re here, I’m not sure if I’m ready.”

Her whole deal with Whiterose is bordering on obsession, at this point. It’s somewhat disconcerting, but then again, he supposes that’s Angela – she’s just intense like that. “Look, Angela, don’t set your expectations too high on that one,” he cautions. “I don’t think either of us are going to see Whiterose again, at least, not in the immediate future. She’s not the type to just swing by to pop off some champagne for a job well done.”

Angela looks at him, frowning slightly, and then her expression clears. “Of course,” she says, finishing up her glass. “You’re right, Whiterose has more important things to do. Maybe we’ll just have to have our own celebration.”

“Maybe,” he replies, looking at her narrowly. He has an odd feeling that she wasn’t talking about Whiterose. But then, who else would it be? Darlene? No, that doesn’t quite add up.

I mean, look, at this point, it’s very obvious to we the audience that Angela is talking about seeing her mother again, and she then makes reference to Elliot believing in the #cause once he gets to see his father just before the brownout comes in. These scenes always made me feel sad to write.

The inset on the face says 29, and the hands glint at a little after six. Early, but not quite early enough to justify a little more shuteye.

In 3x05, Elliot says the Dark Army tried to execute Stage Two at 6am. Robot waking up with a start around the time the Dark Army try to attack but being completely unaware of it happening is the beginning of the end for his usurped revolution.

So that's it, for now. If you’re still here -- thanks for reading, friend! Hope you enjoyed this self indulgent spiel -- catch you on the flipside :P