#is disdain or misdirecting blame

[onlybeeewrites]

Easy to Blame

Request: Darling....can I request a fic of xaden ....where the reader is her sister and he and other marked ones don't like her due to some reason...but then she's a goddamn badass and yeah make it angsty as hell(I don't know if this makes sense)

Pairings: Xaden Riorson x sister!reader, Marked ones x Reader, sort of Sawyer x fem!Reader

Word count: 1.7k

Warnings: IRON FLAME SPOILERS, cannon accurate violence, targeted hated, cursing, life threats, past deaths, misdirected hatred and grief, bad parenting.

A/N: This is where my mind went with this request! Hopefully you all enjoy it ❤️

~~~~~~~~~~~

The weight of the guilt clung to you like a second skin, thick and suffocating. A burden and weight that seems to be placed rather unfairly onto your shoulders. As each and every step through the halls of Basgiath War College was met with narrowed eyes, cold glares, and the ever-present whispers that followed like a specter.

It didn’t matter who you passed in the halls. It didn’t matter when. Didn’t matter who you sat with in class or in the dining hall. The other cadets in your year would see the swirling dark tattoo on your left arm and lift their noses at you. While other marked ones would do the very same thing.

They didn’t trust you.

No one trusted you.

He didn’t trust you.

Xaden Riorson had made sure of that.

Your older brother—the only family you had left—had turned his back on you the moment you arrived at the college when you were old enough. His expression carved from stone, his voice sharp enough to cut. You had known it would be difficult. You had expected anger, the frustration, even the resentment.

But this? This was something worse.

You wasn’t just unwanted. You were avoided. You were the enemy. To everyone.

“Stay the hell out of my way.”

His voice was ice, cutting through the tension between them like a blade. And cut through you like shards.

You had found him in the training yard, surrounded by the Marked Ones in his squad, his second-in-command Garrick, your old friend, leaning against a post while Bodhi, your cousin, didn’t even look at you. While Imogen crossed her arms, regarding her with a mixture of distrust and disdain.

But ever so determined, you lifted your chin. It had been almost two months since you had gotten there. Almost two months and he still refused to even give you two minutes of his time. And yet you refusing to shrink under their scrutiny. “I’m not your enemy, Xaden. I’m your sister. You’d think after six years you’d know that. I’m not here to cause trouble, I’m here to,”

He scoffed. “A little late for that, don’t you think?” Interrupting your sentence

That had hurt. Had it been too late? You could feel your stomach twisted. You had prepared herself for hostility, but hearing it aloud—from him—still hurt. Hurt more than expected. That was your brother.

But in that moment you had never more like a stranger.

Garrick sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, it’s not personal—”

��Like hell it isn’t,” Xaden cut in, his jaw clenched. He took a step toward you, his voice lowering to something dangerous. “Because of you, our father is dead. Because of you, our mother walked away from us. Had you just been a little more helpful, things wouldn’t be this fucking difficult,” he said. His voice filled with pure distain, pure hatred and anger.

His words hit like a punch to the ribs.

You had only been fourteen years old, just barely understanding what was even happening when their father was executed for his rebellion along with the other leaders. You had stood there, frozen, tears streaming down her face while Xaden held her hand so tightly it hurt.

But it was your mother who shattered everything.

It had been before the rebellion. Years before. Right after Xaden’s birthday. She had tucked you both in at bed that night. Told you both how much she loved you. Kissed you both so lovingly and softly. And the next morning?

Gone.

No note. No explanation. Just a home that felt empty and wrong.

Xaden had never forgiven her for that. Neither had you.

And now, surrounded by the people who would die for him, who would follow him into battle without hesitation, he made sure they all knew where she stood.

“She can’t be trusted,” he had told them. “Keep your distance.”

And they had listened.

The isolation was suffocating.

It was a permanent weight in you chest that was always threatening your mind constantly.

You were used to whispers, but the silence was worse. The Marked Ones didn’t speak to you unless necessary. They didn’t train with you. If you tried to spar, they found someone else. If you sat down at a table, they left.

Even the others followed their lead.

Even your squad. They put up with you when they had to. But that was it.

Sawyer was the only one who seemed indifferent, watching her with something like curiosity rather than outright hatred. At least she had him. Sawyer was sweet.

But Xaden?

Xaden didn’t look at you at all.

And that was worse than all of it.

It was months past, presentation and threshing was just around the corner—or just over the gauntlet.

The Gauntlet loomed in the distance above them, an unforgiving structure of swinging beams, crumbling platforms, and gaps that seemed impossible to cross.

Failure meant death.

And you weren’t about to fail.

The morning of the run, whispers followed her as she strapped on her training leathers. Echoed whispers surrounded them around the dining hall and through the halls out side.

“She’ll fall.”

“She won’t even make it halfway.”

“She should’ve never been allowed here in the first place.”

“She won’t make it past threshing.”

“Let’s hope not.”

You ignored them.

You had to.

You couldn’t allow those thoughts to take over. You couldn’t let them be right.

All the odds were against you. Abandoned and ignored by your brother. Ignored and shunned by your family from a decision that you truly had no part of. It wasn’t your fault. In the big grand scheme of things, it was not your fault. But that didn’t matter.

Because in their minds, and in Xaden’s, it was your fault. Everything. Was. Your. Fault.

And that guilt? That unfair burden? That would always remain as long as Xaden blamed you for everything.

It had been months now after parapet. Threshing was in a few weeks. Presentation. But first was the Gauntlet.

Xaden stood at the top with Garrick, arms crossed as he surveyed the cadets. If he heard the murmurs, he didn’t acknowledge them. His dark eyes narrowing down the course at his wing as the other sections and squads prepared to do their practice runs before the timed trials.

Practicing for when threshing was finally around. The test for a chance to prove themselves worthy. Worthy enough to make it past presentation, they’d need all these skills. To ride your dragons. If you made it that far, at least.

The course was grueling. Designed to push cadets past their limits. Designed with dragons in mind for each obstacle. Designed to weed out the weak ones.

And so here you were. Standing in the front of the line for your squad, just behind Sawyer. First squad was finishing up ahead of you. The first few competitors barely made it over the first swinging bridge before slipping to their deaths. Others hesitated at the crumbling stones, losing precious time.

Then it was time for your squad. Sawyer went first, his agility unmatched as he maneuvered through the course with a speed no one could match. It was probably because he had done this before.

Sawyer was a repeat, as you had learned. He had gone through all this last year.

Then it was your turn.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, but you shoved the nerves down. You didn’t have the luxury of fear. You couldn’t afford to feel. Not now. Not in front of the rest of your Squad, the

As the signal to begin echoed through the training grounds, you launched yourself forward with unwavering resolve.

The first obstacle, a towering vertical wall, stood as an imposing sentinel. Without hesitation, you sprinted toward it, you steps light and measured. Utilizing your momentum, you leaped, you fingers gripping the edge with practiced precision. With a controlled pull, she swung her leg over and descended smoothly, barely pausing before advancing to the next challenge.

The rotating wheel loomed ahead, a notorious obstacle that had bested many cadets. Timing her approach, you synchronized your movements with the wheel’s rotations. With a swift, calculated jump, you grasped a handle and swung yourself to the other side, landing in a crouch before springing forward without losing momentum.

A series of balance beams awaited, each narrowing mean. You navigated the beams with grace. Your arms subtly adjusting to maintain equilibrium. Your focus was absolute, gaze fixed ahead, blocking out the murmurs of onlookers and the weight of expectations.

Next came the rope climb. Seizing the coarse rope, you ascended hand over hand, you movements fluid and efficient. Reaching the summit, you tapped the marker and descended in controlled slides, your feet touching the ground with barely a sound.

The next challenge, the chimney climb, required both strength and strategy. Positioning yourself between the narrow walls, you used opposing pressure to “walk” upward, your movements steady and controlled.

The final challenge was the huge steep wall. The one to run up, the challenge that simulates climbing up the dragon leg to ride. And just above it was where your brother was.

Taking a deep breath, you backed up. Backing up as far as she possibly could. This was where she proved them all wrong. And then. Suddenly, you bolted forward. Using all the strength she had, she spent it into and bolted up the wall. Your feet pressed against the wall as you pushed yourself up and up and up until your hand reached the lip of the curve.

With all the strength you had left, you pulled yourself over the edge. Your body was pulled over with the last bit of your strength as finally your right leg got pulled over. And a soft click of the stop watch sounded in your ears.

A stunned silence fell over the crowd as you finished hauling yourself over the edge.

Garrick’s voiced cleared before he read your time aloud.

Second place.

Second place.

Only second to Sawyer.

The silence stretched, heavy and stunned, before someone let out a low whistle. And then some hushed mumbling.

You got to your feet before you turned, locking eyes with Xaden. Onyx eyes, locking with onyx eyes. Sweat dripping down your skin.

For the first time since you had arrived, he was looking at you.

Really looking at you.

And for a moment—a single, fleeting moment—you saw something crack in his expression. Something uncertain. Looking like you big brother again. But there was something else.

Something like doubt.

But then he turned away, jaw tightening.

He didn’t congratulate you.

Didn’t acknowledge what you had done.

But he couldn’t ignore it, either.

You weren’t weak.

Just like Xaden, you were a Riorson.

And you were a goddamn force to be reckoned with.

[corndoggod]

Anatomy of Failure

I felt like I was on trial watching Anatomy of a Fall -- for my failures as a writer and the ensuing resentments misdirected at my partner. Seeing my private torments litigated in a riveting courtroom drama, spoken in clinical French, was titillating. The writing was so sharp I could’ve just listened like the blind son Daniel and been engaged. But I loved watching Daniel practice piano, the baby blue glaze over his eyes and his surprise testimony in a redrum turtleneck. 

The story wastes no time. Within five minutes, the husband is found dead, bleeding out in the snow. An autopsy cannot rule out foul play and his wife, a writer, becomes the sole suspect. What unravels in court is not only the events that precipitated the death of her husband, but an ultimate tea concoction of their strained relationship, competing literary ambitions and the blame and guilt surrounding the accident that blinded their son.

Entering a foreign court is a bit jarring. The rules, procedures and dress are notably different from America and seem silly when defamiliarized. The prosecutor, a bald little gremlin robed in red, was probably my favorite character. Arched, dry and eloquent, he bludgeoned the accused writer with an avalanche of incriminating evidence and was quick to undercut any counter/argument from the defense. Court rules in France appear to allow more cross-talk, making the arguments more conversational than U.S. court dramas, which glorify long-winded monologues. 

Impressively, the writer/director thread the needle so well that one is never quite convinced one way or the other. I am easily persuaded and in this lawyerly tug of war, I felt myself suspended over a chasm with demons of jealousy, envy and pride snapping at my feet. 

For all the talk of literary failure, this was a written masterpiece. I am drawn to such stories, like a moth to flame, for so many deep and cutting reasons. Like the husband, I deflect and blame others for my shortcomings: If only X, Y and Z were different, then I could write! The wife’s gaslighting voice lives within me too: Make the time and do it, coward! And I disdain my father for giving up sports journalism, and for withholding those ambitions from me (Had I known earlier, maybe then I’d be a staff writer!) and on himself in general. 

Funny enough, when I was biking home after seeing Fallen Leaves last week, I had the high thought that my senior thesis anticipated my current condition with regards to writing. My argument was garbled -- something about the author subverting masculine forms/expectations of writing (adventure, heroism) using feminine forms (diary, domesticity) through an act of ventriloquy -- but the book I chose to write about was a book about a wannabe writer’s failure. 

Called El Libro Vacio and written by Josefina Vicens, it was a novel about the shortcomings of a middle class man working in middle management and his literary shortcomings. He wanted to be a great writer, but he was tormented and uninspired by the banality of his day-to-day life as a family man. If only he didn’t have a kid and wife, he could hit the road and sail the high seas and finally have something to say! He studiously documents his failures and torments in a diary that amounts to the novel by Vicens. 

In my early 20s, I was interested in what makes a good leader. I studied the polar explorer Ernest Shackleton, the most winningest basketball coach Gregg Popovich and read more than a dozen presidential biographies. But now I find myself fixated on failure, my own and my fathers, and I want to learn the art of letting go. 

[doodlepede]

i think transmisandry (i like the older term more, sue me), like transmisogyny, can't be isolated to only themes and experiences etc that only affect trans men. i think each necessarily encompasses themes and experiences that affect any or all trans people. it's more about the whole of the experience, not the parts. I think picking and choosing that This transphobic event was transmisandric but This one was just transphobic is reductive and self defeating. i think there's significant merit to the concept of the fact that it happened to a trans man makes it transmisandric no matter what. I don't believe in the concept of "misdirected" bigotry or violence. it was directed at the victim, and if the victim was a trans man, then he's the victim. the system is what it does, and it affects trans men violently and not even less obviously if you pay attention

the problem is that if transmisandry includes experiences that are more typically associated with trans women because the fact that it happened to a trans man makes it transmisandry, then why have the term? because it's not just the transphobia that makes the experience of transmisandry, its the context of being raised a girl, expected to grow up into a woman, and being Very affected by misogyny, and never not being affected by it. if you dont pass, you're treated as a freakish failure woman, and if you do, you can still be beaten or raped pregnant unless and ONLY unless you've had a hysterectomy or vaginectomy. being raised female means you absolutely fucking know this. pregnancy is something a lot of trans women want to achieve, great for them, but pregnancy is something that is VERY often used to chain us to abusers and forcibly detransition us, or else, it's just the consequence of being female and a visible freak. people punish freaks. to say nothing of trans men who actually want to get pregnant on purpose.

so with all that said, it's no wonder feminist types fucking hate trans men for abandoning their sisters for the enemy, after all, women are soft and good, and men are rape and violence. they act like we have stockholm syndrome and treat us accordingly: some feel pity and try to make us see the light, and others blame the victim since, if she could want to become one of Them, then she's just as evil, and a traitor too.

and trans women do it too. baeddelism has been and continues to be allowed to fester for YEARS on tumblr. yes yes not all trans women and yes yes it's mostly an online thing but unfortunately people online are people in real life, and people who support their ideology, even if they don't know they are, are a VERY significant percentage of tumblr users. a definition of terms, a Baeddel is specifically a trans woman who believes, via a misunderstanding of intersectionality, that trans women are The Most Oppressed and also Most Goodest gender combination, no matter what. to be a woman is good, to be a man is evil. trans women disdain for manhood and maleness, so they are even more good than cis women because they are women (inherently good) by choice, and trans men are the most evil because they are men by choice, they abandoned the grace of womanhood, and cis men can't help but be evil, it's in their nature. its like terfism+ and this specific brand of bioessentialism is all over the fucking place. any time anybody says or implies that trans women are the most import kind of trans, and that trans men need to sit down and be quiet and know that the conversation is never actually about him and that he must endeavor to support trans women above himself always. that is at least the echo of baeddelism. it's a softer kind, one that gives the trans man a way to redeem himself, by supporting the More Gooder trans. it's part of why people on this site hate that we want to have our own word (transmisandry, androphobia, whatever) so fucking much, it pisses them off that we won't just shut up and do as we're told

being a trans man is being an invisible contradiction. to the sexist man, you're a girl way out line who needs to be taught a lesson through verbal, physical or sexual violence. to the sexist woman, you're a girl way out of line who needs to be taught a lesson through verbal, physical or sexual violence, because you're a traitor. to the baeddel and her ally, you're a boy way out of line who needs to be taught a lesson through verbal, physical or sexual violence, because you knew that men are the bad ones, you knew better, and you fell from grace on purpose, so you're a traitor

is it any wonder the detransition kink is so prevalent among trans men? just let that cook in your mind a bit and really chew on it

and that's just the conceptual stuff. that's not even digging into my personal anecdotes. i could also spend the next year rambling about the nuance between straight vs gay male violence against trans men, and straight vs gay female violence against trans men, or how trans men bully eachother in different ways to be one of the good ones to baeddel types or to prove himself man enough to deserve to exist, or how tme/tma binarism is JUST baeddelism 2, still placing trans men as the perpetual scapegoat and silent punching bag with trans women in the rhetorical position of power (being the Most Oppressed™️ means you have to shut up)(the woman/traitor/tme displeases me, beat her. it kinda all feels the same doesnt it, even if the logic is shifted) etc. but whatever you get the idea. we dont do womanhood properly, so we need to be punished, and men are evil, so be one of the good ones and don't bitch

reading comprehension check: am i transmisogynyst for not kissing ass or do i hate bioessentialism no matter who does it. also, am i being bioessentialist myself or am i just able to recognize that transness exists in the context of being raised one gender according to sex and transitioning (in some fashion) into something else (to some extent)

❗️❗️ This is asked entirely in good faith. This post is intended to open dialogue and help with solidarity and understanding. ❗️❗️

I would like to hear specifically from trans men and trans mascs how the system of [whatever the fuck you call the intersection of transphobia, misogyny, and specifically your gender- whether transandrophobia, isomisogny, antitransmasculinity, transandromisia, transmisandry, or any that I have missed as there are a lot of words to describe similar concepts] uniquely targets and affects you. Things that you feel other demographics do not experience. Reblogs and replies are very encouraged! If you would prefer, you could dm or send an ask to be added anonymously by me.

This is in the spirit of wanting to understand. I am listening. I encourage all non-trans-mascs to not speak on this topic and let trans mascs and trans men do the talking here. Reblog the post to spread it, but please say nothing.

Any and all people who identify as trans men and/or trans mascs are encouraged to participate.

This is not bait to start a fight. I will block without hesitation anyone who is actively being a shithead on this post. I want to hear and uplift your voices by getting it directly from you.

Click this to access the trans fem and trans women version of this post.

[violentviolette]

Heads up that captainkiwitheboobkian is interacting with your recent posts. He was one of the people sharing l*licon images with JD in the old eggy gobs server and talking about how he liked it, you might want to block and warn others

this is misinformation being spread by Tonys crew in order to misdirect blame and discredit people who are supporting what im saying

while I was acquiring the screenshots of Jadith, Gabe, and Tony having one of their many many conversations in the general chat of the server about how much they love lolicon, i found a conversation where nix (captainkiwitheboobian) sent a sarcastic message that read "yea I love it" and that was it. he was 18 at the time of that conversation 2 years ago. there is no hard evidence or screenshots of nix ever doing anything more than sending that single sarcastic message

he has never had innapropriate relationships to minors, has never distributed cp, and is currently as of this day very vocal about his disdain for that kind of content

in contrast as recently as just yesterday, Tony and its crew of friends in the mod chat of mad pride were defending loli as "not really cp" and an okay thing to posses, share, and get off too

[argentdandelion]

Grace Monroe is a Liar (And Why That’s a Good Thing)

Note: this article does not sufficiently weigh Simon’s bad behaviors in Episode 11, “The New Apex”. This article has been kept unmodified for posterity.

Grace Analysis

“You know Sheena...you were right. Chloe shouldn't smile until her parents can afford to give her braces."

Grace is not simply a liar, however: she is also, to put it plainly, fake. She’s something of a social chameleon, but rather than drastically changing her presentation to fit in, she dons a fabricated, friendly and encouraging persona to make others “fit” her own desires. She even has variants of her persona for different audiences. She sounds like a friendly “cool kid” to 15-year-old Jesse, claiming he was a “natural” on his first raid although he only halfheartedly kicked a cube. She acts like an adoring parent to the younger Apex kids, squatting to the level of shorter Apex children, praising their offerings, and telling them she’ll keep the offerings someplace special. To Hazel (and Tuba) she acts like a kindergarten teacher at the first day of school, simultaneously making Hazel excited about The Apex and acting assuring to Tuba.

The most striking evidence for Grace’s lying social-chameleon-esque acts is how much her mannerisms and very voice change when addressing the Apex kids and Jesse compared to addressing Simon. In the first and second episode, she feels open to banter and bicker with Simon, such as exchanging unflattering nicknames or saying she doesn’t want his “ripeness” (body odor) giving away their position; she treats no one else as a friend like this.

Grace is not simply an insincere “queen bee” highschooler-type, either. As Uncivilized Elk has pointed out in “Cult Recruitment in "The Mall Car" – Infinity Train Analysis & Review” (warning; profanity), intentionally or not Grace’s tactics with Jesse show a step-by-step plan to indoctrinate Jesse into the Apex’s worldview. She praises Jesse and acts as if she cares about him, but is only manipulating him to a particular end. For example, when Jesse thinks the candy tastes bad, she convinces him to throw it to the wheels of the train, telling him he can “do what he wants”. However, this is almost certainly a precursor to making Jesse accept “wheeling” (killing by throwing them to the train’s wheels) denizens. Furthermore, in “The Jungle Car” she misdirects Hazel on who’s to blame for an unpopular decision, minimizes it (saying Simon was “confused”) and “resolves” the problem almost immediately: very suspicious abuser or cult-like behavior.

Initially, she engages in cognitive empathy (internal emulation of the emotional states of others) without really caring about others, to figure out how people work and so manipulate them. She has a utilitarian sort of approach, changing her persona to make others do what she wants and change them. To be fair, it’s possible not all of her kindness and empathy is faked. When Jesse took his exit, Simon calls him “weak”, but Grace says he wasn’t weak, but misled, and says: "We just lost another human, Simon. Show some respect.” Still, she’s certainly not sincere, overall. For example, despite teaching him he can “do what he wants”, when what Jesse wants goes against The Apex, Grace and Simon immediately try to stop him.

However, over time, Grace's temporary, utilitarian approach of altering personas to her goal makes her "become the mask". She eventually finds it hard to justify her continued kind and compassionate acts to Hazel in relation to her Apex worldviews, and the contradiction causes her distress.

Simon Analysis

Simon, in contrast, lies much less than Grace and is more open about how he feels, especially in his disdain for Denizens. While he initially seems friendly, when Jesse’s off on a raid he has no patience with MT’s concerns and outright tells her to “get out of here before Jesse gets back. You can’t help him like we can.” (Possible: it didn’t occur to him that Jesse might still trust Lake, so being too mean to Lake would come back to bite him.) He is also more open about his disdain for nulls around Hazel, though it would clearly benefit him to tone it down before they can “ditch” Tuba.

Two of Simon’s more important deceptions are notably half-truths, not outright claims. He claims MT broke Todd’s ankle, which is technically true: Todd kicked MT’s metal body and in the process broke his ankle. Arguably, him saying “no one knows” where the passengers go is him honestly saying he doesn’t know exactly where they go; how could he know Jesse Cosay’s home was in Arizona, and which specific location? Indeed, sometimes he does not lie even would it be very practical to do so. For example, although acting as if he “couldn’t save her in time” and pretending to be deeply unsettled by Tuba’s death would have gotten rid of Tuba and not put Hazel’s cooperation into question, he outright tells Hazel he wheeled her. His attempt to comfort her about “never hav[ing] to worry about that null again” could suggest obliviousness to the viewpoints of others, but it could also be his version of trustworthy, straightforward honesty, in accordance with his own beliefs.

It’s important to note that, though Simon is more honest than Grace, he still lies, deceives, and manipulates others. The difference between them is finesse, speed, and frequency. Though Simon may think of Grace as his plaything, or come to think of her as such, it’s Grace who’s effective at making others her playthings, by manipulating her social presentation like a social chameleon.

Root Causes

Arguably, both Grace and Simon do not treat people as means in themselves, but means to an end: in essence, other passengers are treated as tools for their own goals. It’s interesting to see how much Grace and Simon treat Apex members (and each other) like they treat nulls: that they are “only good as they are useful”. When they stop being “useful”, in the sense of helping the Apex or each other according to plan, they eventually become aggressive. Admittedly, the change to aggression is slower and more complicated for Simon to Grace in Season 3; Simon’s end goal for Grace could easily have been “comfort and companionship”, which friends naturally give anyway.

Grace emphasizes Jesse’s ability to choose for himself, but when Jesse’s decision strays from The Apex’s values and Grace’s plans, she doesn’t let him go with a “you’re missing out, buddy” lamentation. Instead, she says: “I wanted to go for the easy way, but you made it hard” and shows the Flecs where Lake is, presumably so they can do the dirty work for them. Jesse has value to Grace as an Apex member, one under her control, and not in any other sense. Grace’s logic for showing Lake to the Flecs parallels Simon’s actions in trapping Grace in her own memory tape; he says “you made me do this”. The Cat outright says Simon treats Grace as an object with: “and how should she be acting? She’s not like one of your toys.”

Grace Monroe is a liar, and much more so than Simon. And it’s because she is, in the words of the Memory Tape’s Hazel, a “coward leading cowards”. Grace’s lying comes from her fear: her fear of being wrong, of not being enough, of being alone. Her kindness to the Apex kids, faked or superficial as it may be, probably comes from the desire to give them what her parents would not. Adding onto her cowardice and fears, she initially hid her dropping number from Simon in “The Chat Chalet Car” because she "didn't want the Apex...or you...to see me like this...and think less of me." Though her fear Simon would think less of her for it was unfounded, as Simon sincerely supported her then, afterwards she hid her number from Simon. She “cut him out” (in Simon’s words) from her lack of courage to be open and honest. As Memory-Hazel points out, when Grace had the “chance to make it right”, by revealing she knew about Hazel’s condition when it was obvious she was a turtle, she did not.

Conclusion

Grace and Simon are both villain protagonists messed up by unresolved trauma and eight years of being on the train with no guidance whatsoever. One starts off slightly worse than the other, only to get much better discard her animus for nulls. One starts off slightly better, only to get much worse and expand his animus for nulls to humans as well: his former best (and only) friend, at that. It’s the tiny differences in how they relate to others and operate that cause their slightly different moral starting points and massively different end points.

[ikkaku-of-heart]

@medicus-mortem

For all that Ikkaku hated the idea of Law selling his soul to the World Government by becoming a Warlord, she refused to let him walk into the lion's den alone. The fact that she got to dress up in a fancy gown only slightly softened the indignity of the whole thing. This party was just a publicity stunt. Hell, she doubted whatever charity this shindig was claiming to be supporting would see a dime after paying off the expenses of the food, decor, and bottle service. It absolutely made her sick.

Thankfully, she'd gotten better at not letting her disdain show on her face, but she was grateful for the black and gold mask helping her hide. It only covered half her face, but the long, skeletal fingers that wrapped around it gave it a morbid touch that kept too many people from staring at her too long, despite the opulent gold and black gown she wore. Plus, it complimented Law's plague doctor attire quite nicely, in her opinion. A princess who wasn't immune to death's grasp.

A message she was sure would be too subtle for this crowd, but she knew being too overt in flipping off the World Government wouldn't end well.

Finally, she got back to Law, grateful she hadn't spilled any of the precious booze needed to get through the night, despite having to elbow her way through the crowd. "With all the money they're throwing around, you'd think they'd offer up some stronger alcohol," Ikkaku griped, handing her captain his glass. Sneakily lifting up one of the top layers of her skirt, she flashed him a peek at a flask hidden underneath. "Thankfully, your brilliant engineer came prepared. Figured my charitable contribution to this stupid party is a generous helping of Gramps' moonshine to the punchbowl. Might make things more interesting around here, at the very least."

Taking a sip of her own glass, she smirked. There was a slight burn at the back of her throat, but nothing too noticeable. But the more unsuspecting people drank, the harder it would hit them. Maybe that would provide some entertainment later on.

Unfortunately, she was bored now, and she suspected so was Law. If the World Government didn't want their new pet Warlord to start performing open-heart surgery on the buffet table, he was going to need enrichment. And while Ikkaku thought that would serve them right, she knew her captain's plans hinged on putting on the illusion of cooperation until the time was right.

But that didn't mean they couldn't subtlely misbehave. Especially since a party like this, full of masks and devious fellow Warlords, made it easy to misdirect any blame.

"You know what's great about a big, fancy ballgown?" she asked Law, careful to keep her voice low. "Lots of hiding places for little gizmos and gadgets. Which are totally necessary for livening up a dull party. Unless you're perfectly content to just play nice and wait for your dance card to be filled?"

@ikkaku-of-heart provided a plot [+] for a starter.

Law can not believe he let the Marines talk him into attending this shit. A charity masquerade ball where the Warlords are the guests of honour? It's a fucking joke. Yet, here he is. Dressed up and mingling with the pompous dipshits that came to gawk at the tamed pirates. The Hearts Captain doubts Sakazuki and Naval high command came up with this idea. It reeks too much of propaganda and forced positive publicity to be that walking volcano's brain child. This has the stench of the World Government all over it.

The doctor peers out from his plague doctor mask, watching the crowd and thankful for the anonymity his full face mask gives him. Morgans flutters from one influential pair to another, looking to get photos and quotes for his news paper. An extravagant figure in amongst so many others. How Law hopes the bird man doesn't notice him. The last thing he needs is to be herded into a photo with either Doflamingo or Boa Hancock. That would tip him towards foregoing that little promise to behave.

He huffs inside his mask. Black leather with yellow highlights. Made to match his perfectly tailored black and yellow suit. Trafalgar Law most certainly looks sharp and menacing. As he deserves. He just wishes it was a different situation.

As gloved hands rise to adjust his tie a figure elbows her way through a couple people who look quickly affronted. Ikkaku emerges, holding a couple glasses of wine that are sorely needed right now. Law straightens then, taking a step closer to his engineer to accept the drink. Ikkaku, of course, is his plus one to this event. Yes, they butt heads a bit about his choices regarding the Marines but Law can absolutely appreciate her snarky skepticism right now.

[complicatedandstained]

The Other Day at Hot Topic: Kingdom of Isolation

Xion’s plan had been to get to the mall early. And not just the regular kind of early. The ridiculous, what-the-heck-was-I-even-thinking-?, now I have to go buy a coffee and scroll through my Instagram feed twelve times kind of early.

The plan had been to surprise Roxas. Roxas being her college roomie and favorite human bean and best friend since they split a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich in fifth grade.  

“Hey bestie, I got a job next door to you and now we can hang out on our breaks and Christmas shop together and gossip about your SEXY NEW GINGER CRUSH and give each other rides home and chit chat and stuff.”

Just, you know. Something along those lines, maybe.

Except Xion does not get to the mall early.

She was going to leave on time—really, she was—but then she started watching the second half of this Hallmark Christmas movie that she couldn’t remember if she had seen before or not. And then, it was time to leave, but the movie wasn’t quite over yet.

And Xion needed to know if the middle-aged, big city celebrity chef lady was going to stay with the smexy, small town cookie baker with the heart of gold that she used to date in high school, and thereby rediscover the magic of Christmas, or if she was going to go back to the gorgeous, but kind of boring, but definitely more financially secure, attorney she had been seeing back in NYC, who, footnote, plays the prince in a different Hallmark Christmas movie.

Also, Xion was all curled up on the couch of her parents’ condo, nested in pillows and blankets, and her chubby black cat, Pete, was sitting on her lap, and he looked so peaceful, she didn’t have it in her heart to disturb him.

Also, she hadn’t quite finished her mug of tea.

So, by the time that the celebrity chef lady and the small town cookie baker had their tasteful yet disgustingly romantic first kiss during the first snowfall of the season, just after they had won the town’s annual baking competition and donated the prize money to the local children’s hospital, and Pete the Cat had deigned to move on to another part of the loveseat, and her tea was gone, it was well past when Xion should have left if she wanted to be the regular kind of on-time.

The best part of running late is that, because Xion is literally running, she does not have to exert as much effort as she usually does to force herself not to go into Hot Topic and buy half of the inventory.

The worst part of running late is, of course, the actual running, which is making itself known as the air enters her lungs with an unusual sharpness, and sweat glues her long-sleeved white blouse to the small of her back and the inside of her elbows.

The second worst part of running late is that she does not get to surprise Roxas.

And the third worst part of running late is that when she skids to a halt in the entrance of Claire’s, her black combat boots squeaking like rubber ducks, and her breaths a bit heavy, nobody actually notices.  

Xion lifts her phone from one of the pockets of her black denim overall mini-dress by its pink bunny ear attachment and checks the time.

Five minutes early.

“Fuck,” Xion mumbles, and then slaps a hand over her mouth as a five-year-old trying to fit an entire candy cane in his mouth jostles her knee.

*

The new woman’s wearing sheer black hose with black combat boots, under a short black dress with overall straps and a long-sleeved white blouse. Looped around her arm is a black handbag shaped like the head of a cat, with three yellow eyes. Her own dark eye make-up makes her eyes enormous.

She’s nodding gently to a kiddo with half a candy cane in its mouth, who is animatedly explaining to her what kind of dinosaur it wants to be when it grows up.

Sizing the new young woman up as he, Larxene, and Marly approach, Axel can’t help but think Saïx will be a little disappointed Hot Topic didn’t nab her first. She’s so on-brand, it hurts a little. Axel’s half waiting for her to welcome him to Night Vale.

Then again, he sees why Marly called dibs.  

Aside from a short, choppy black bob that would have looked more at home in the flapper era, she is every inch Kairi 3.0.

She has, objectively speaking, the world’s softest smile. She’s short and slender, her face too thin and heart-shaped, her skin the kind of pale that doesn’t tan. Although, unlike Kairi’s 1 and 2, he can still see a smear of hastily applied sunscreen thumbed across one cheek.  

“I’d want to be an Apatosaurus,” the new employee replies in a soft voice to the kid without prompting. “Maybe we could be herbivore friends, is—” She pauses, eye catching on someone in the crowd. “Is that your mommy looking for you?”

The Claire’s newbie turns the child by the shoulder.

A relieved looking woman with another two kids hanging on either arm, alongside at least four shopping bags, hustles over to corral the third one, offering Newbie a grateful smile.

Think I just met your soulmate, Axel will text Naminé later that day. How’d you feel about a pastel goth? Naminé will send back seventeen question marks in response and not receive a reply.

*

“Over here.” 

Marly waves Newbie over to Axel and Larxene. They have paused near Axel’s piercing station, just beside the shop window, only a few feet away from the mouth of Claire’s, so that Marly can continue to monitor the traffic trickling in and out while they chat. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Larxene mutters to Axel as she catches sight of the approaching Newbie. Larxene’s obviously seeing what Axel saw because her eyes get bigger and her lips twitch—whether in disdain or amusement, he can’t tell. 

Axel nods his reluctant agreement. “Think you’re outdone yourself this time, Marly.”

“Her hair is completely different than Kairi’s…” Marly argues, scowling as Larxene playfully swats his arm. 

“That’s the only thing.” Larxene takes another long look at Newbie. “What are you and Vexen growing these things in a lab or something?”

The heavy electronic beat of the club overtakes the hum of Christmas music, and Axel’s nostrils fill with the sickening sweetness of e-cigarette smoke instead of vanilla bean. 

The gaunt face of the med student with his pin-straight, platinum blond hair materializes in Axel’s mind’s eye, his pale, narrow lips curling up as if at the tail end of yet another condescending remark.

Axel winces, hisses, “Larxene, really?” His gaze shifts to Marly, concerned. It’s difficult to imagine what’s whirling through his head. Axel’s not sure if Marly never told Larxene what happened between him and Vexen; if it slipped her mind; or if she’s just 100% that bitch.

Marly’s own smile has evaporated, but not his composure. His posture remains sure and confident as ever, though his arms cross with an air of impatience. “Now’s hardly the time for this conversation.”  

Axel makes yet another mental note to ask Marly when he last went out with somebody. Axel and Marly aren’t exactly best friends. In fact, he’s not sure Marly would bless him with basic human interaction at all if Marly and Saïx weren’t so close, and they are so close—a gardening club of two, high-end fashion snobs, closet The Bachelor addicts.  

Axel and Marly, not so much. So, ordinarily, Axel would mind his own, but under the circumstances, he might be the only man for the job.  

If Larxene doesn’t know what happened between Marly and Vexen, and Saïx definitely doesn’t know what happened… that just leaves him. He’s not exactly Mr. Matchmaker, but he supposes he could give it a whirl. 

Larxene doesn’t miss the tension that passes between her two favorite coworkers, and she rolls her eyes. “Axel needs to get over it already.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Axel counters, tone gone hard, cold, hoping she’ll drop it, if she realizes the wound is still fresh. Which it is—it’s just not him bleeding.

“Everybody knows, Axel.” Larxene plants her hands on her hips. She leans closer, in his face. “You and Saïx and Marly and Vexen went out and drank too much. You flirted with Marly’s date all night long and then got pissed when he made a pass at you. Saïx found out, so you blamed everything on Vexen, and now he’s fired. How’m I doing?” 

She reaches out to rap her knuckles against Axel’s chest. “Because if you’re not careful, you’re going to wind up doing the same damn thing to your new buddy boy.”

Axel grits his teeth, something burning in his chest. Months. It’s been months. He thought the worst of this was done with. Leave it to Larxene to dredge it up. 

No wonder she’d gotten in such a snit about Roxas.

“Well, you seem to know what you’re talking about.” Axel’s just as tempted to tell her everything as he is to tell her off. She’d feel like shit if she knew. She would understand. 

But it’s not his place. 

This isn’t the response she’d been expecting. Her confidence slips for a second. “Am I wrong?”

Marly steps between them. He places a hand on Larxene’s shoulder, “Shut,” a hand on Axel’s, “up.” 

Marly doesn’t look like he’s hurting, there’s no pout to his lip, no wild, injured animal wideness to his eyes, but the command in his voice is sharp and the grip on Axel’s arm is firm and insistent. Hurt doesn’t always look the same on everybody. 

The message is clear. Keep your mouth shut, Axel. You promised you would. 

Axel can’t help but glare at Marly, Marly stares back, wearily. Realizing how misdirected his anger is, Axel’s expression softens. He covers Marly’s hand with his own, and smirks at Larxene. “None of your business, babe.”

Ordinarily, this would make her absolutely explode, but with Marly grounding her shoulder and the approaching Newbie stopping just in front of her, Larxene becomes painfully aware that she’s standing in the middle of Claire’s in a goddamn flower crown. 

Larxene blinks at Axel, the kind of calm that’s too calm, the eye of a storm. “Fine. Sorry I brought it up.” 

Marly’s hand loosens on Axel’s shoulder. There’s something in his nod like gratitude. Axel wishes it made him feel better. Doing the right thing really sucks. 

They shift their attention to the new recruit whose wide blue eyes scream: SOS. What the fuck did I sign on to?

Which honestly sounds about right to Axel. God, forget Kairi. This is Roxas all over again. 

“I’m so sorry if I’m interrupting…!” Newbie exclaims too quickly in her quiet voice. Her lips halt in an apologetic pout and her hands clutch tightly at the strap of her alien cat head handbag. 

Axel and Larxene both sigh and ease out of their locked glares, but the air still feels a bit thick, almost staticky with tension. Frozen’s “Let It Go” seems to be playing six times as loud as it should be. 

“Not at all,” Marly says, but it doesn’t come out sincere enough for anybody’s taste.

 *

Xion had certain expectations about what her coworkers at Claire’s would be like: bubbly, chatty, smiley females, maybe a little shallow, maybe a little dumb. Maybe she had been stereotyping. Maybe she had watched one too many Christmas movies. Maybe she’s jumping to conclusions.  

Watching the trio in front of her, flower crowns settled in their vibrant hair, bickering in quiet tones dripping with sarcasm, almost launching into a full on, fist-clenched argument as Queen Elsa belts her heart out overhead, Xion is not sure whether she wants to laugh or cry.

But then the crazy tall one with his wild red mane and the well-dressed, The Rock level muscle-y one with the pink hair that had seemed so nice and pleasant when he interviewed her and talked to her earlier—Marluxia—seem to come to some kind of abruptly tender understanding. So, the angry blonde chick seems to reign in her temper. 

And that makes Xion feel just a smidge better about things. She’s a sucker for a happy ending.   

And at least they didn’t realize she was late. 

But then all three of them turn, these expressive, snide, emotionally-charged Claire’s people, and they are looking right at her, their neatly manicured brows raised in question.

Xion feels a little bit like she had day one, back in the middle school cafeteria, before Roxas had offered her a seat and a half of his grilled cheese sandwich, looking out at the strangers, wondering which sharks to throw herself to. The strangers looking back up at her, wondering what the hell the new kid who hadn’t said a word all day was going to do now.

Fuck. 

[colossalbeltloop-art]

Oh...

I think I know where this is going.

So the Agreste's have a foundation, eh?

Why do I get the feeling that this is an Emilie idea, and not a Gabriel one?

And why do I feel like the foundation involves sick, ailing children?

I'm sure many of those kids are sad and despairing. Hmmm, seems like ideal territory to bestow "protection" and other acts of superhero kindness. A very noble cause. Seems very Emilie-like, given Adrien's particular attachment to her.

Finally, the Peacock miraculous damages the user, right? (apparently to death if the power is abused. Yes, I really think Emilie is dead, and that's why there's a massive funeral portrait hanging above the stairs, Gabriel moved his wedding ring to his middle finger, and also allows Nathalie to get handsy with him without so much as a complaint.)

Anyway, what does all of this mean? Here's a theory...

I think Emilie wanted to help the helpless, especially regarding kids. By whatever means she obtained the Peacock miraculous, she viewed it as a force for good and used it as such, with only Gabriel knowing her identity and intentions. With his help, I think her goal eventually became "their goal" and it led to starting their own foundation. And if you wanna real tear jerker, maybe that promise included having more of their own kids, or maybe she was unable to have more after Adrien, thus leading her to adopt a building full of disadvantaged ones.

Perhaps part of their promise was to continue and expand on this. When Emilie's health started to fail, she was willing to endure the suffering, even as it became evident to Gabriel that the toll was becoming dangerous and not just painful. Imagine the sad circumstances they must have been in, being both contentious, stressful, argumentative, but also loving each other and willing to suffer for the other--all for the sake of what was originally a noble idea.

I'm not sure if they took a single trip to Tibet, or if they took multiple ones. But a strong case can be made that their last one was an attempt to either find a cure  for Emilie, or to fix the Peacock miraculous. Whatever the case, they obtain the grimoire, and hope seems to be just in their reach when the worst happens.

And the most heart-stabbing thing of all? It may very well have been Adrien who unknowingly made her succumb to her final act of protection. Perhaps when the family structure was slowly falling apart, with no apparent reason Adrien could see for himself, despair took over, as did Emilie's nature to be a protective mom. She may have overcompensated when using her power, feeling guilty for a perceived neglect of her own son because she was busy taking responsibility for so many other ailing children. (The irony of her actions causing not just a short stint, but a daily lifestyle of neglect and loneliness for Adrien is damn depressing and wonderful entertainment. More please.)

This could explain Gabriel's really strange, unexplained disdain for Adrien. It's a Catch 22. He loves his son, but knows that he is the direct cause of Emilie's death... but also can’t blame him for it. (Combine this with my theory that Chat Noir will have to be the one to destroy the coffin a la Cataclysm, either by directly touching it, or indirectly by destroying the entire Agreste mansion and all of its weird mom idols. You’d have one helluva beautiful tragedy).

So to poor Adrien's confusion and frustration, he experiences these sporadic, bi-polar episodes from his dad. And even when Gabriel is being "nice", he has a bitter and bristled demeanor, compounded with a misdirected anger he can't shake. Thus, Gabriel puts a really determined distance between himself and Adrien, partly for his own sanity, and partly as a peculiar sort of mercy for Adrien.

I don't know. Maybe I'm just messed up in the head and drama is neat, and this show has rich enough potential to go that direction. Who knows. I hope the series doesn't get nerf-batted in the knees by the "kid's show" baton. :P

[convxction]

Rebecca had escaped the knights and guards that Chrom had sent after her time and time again. She could always be one step ahead of them since she knew how they searched and operated. It wasn’t too hard to trick them and misdirect them from where she actually was. Honestly she was a little disappointed that it was this easy. She thought that Frederick had trained them better. 

Her luck finally ran out however as her hiding place was given away by one of the villagers. She was quickly brought out of her hiding place and thrown into a prison cart to be hauled back to Ylisse for Exalt Chrom to decide the runaway queen’s fate. Another problem arose with her capture however. The children were not with her and Rebecca refused to answer their questions. On the way back, the guards had different looks about them. Some looked at her with disdain, some didn’t have any expressions, and some just looked on with pity.

After a few days travel, Rebecca was finally brought back to the castle. It felt foreign to her as she was dragged around the halls of what was once a happy home. How long had it been since she left? It didn’t matter. A lot of thoughts crossed her mind but she was content with one thing. The children would be safe with S.T.A.R. She told S.T.A.R that should something happen to her, the A.I would be in charge of keeping them safe and have them run somewhere away from wherever they currently were. Rebecca could see the face of the staff as they passed by and were shown similar responses to that of the guards. Some blamed her for the Exalt’s current ire, some pitied her. Not much Rebecca could do.

One unlucky staff member had gone to Chrom to deliver the news that they had finally captured the queen and soon she was dragged in, her arms chained together and was how she was being guided in. She was soon brought to her knees to kneel in front of the Exalt.

“Oh my. I didn’t think I would be meeting with the Exalt. I thought it was just straight to execution. I must look a mess in front of his royal highness. Forgive me, I wasn’t given a change of clothing suitable for this meeting.”

Her sarcasm was not even hidden at this point. Her tone soon changed when she started to speak again.

“Don’t go looking for the children. You’ll never find them. S.T.A.R is guiding them and I dare say she’ll be a better parent than either of us.”

Rebecca looked around but noticed a couple of people missing. She didn’t see Frederick next to Chrom, nor did she see Lissa anywhere as she was dragged through the castle.

“Where’s Frederick?”

The runaway queen | @pieman1112​

The search for the queen and the royal children never stopped. Soldiers, even thieves and spies were hired to track her down and the children. There was no way Chrom would let her disrespect him like that; not to mention breaking his trust. 

                                            I TRUSTED HER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                                   SHE BETRAYED ME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Violent voices echoed in his head every second of every hour of every day. On top of the voices that hunted him day and night, the hallucinations he sees of his deceased parents and older sister, now add to that the pain of being betrayed by the only person you truly ...loved.

This pain could be even greater than losing his big sister . . . He  . . . He gave her his heart, the one thing he was terrified of handing it to about just anyone. He knew he was not strong to protect it because he didn’t know what love truly mean but the moment she walked into his life, it became stronger with her by his side. Yet ... she ripped it away and stomped on it! On his feelings! On his pain! On EVERYTHING!

A woman such like her deserve to  . . . . 

                                                                             ?   ?  ?

The Exalt was in his study room, closed on himself waiting for any ‘good’ news. He had been burning some threatening letters from the Khan, condemning him of his actions. Bah! What do they know! When the news of his dearest wife being captured and is brought into the castle, something for a brief moment moved inside of him. Rebecca ... 

“She LIED to me ... She BETRAYED me ... ” he reproached his heart for trying to get him out of what he is planning to do. Shh ... just go to sleep ... You don’t exist anymore, ...past me.

Chrom made his way back to the courtroom and waited for her arrival. The sight was not something he personally enjoyed one bit but the flames madness were fueled once she opened her mouth. Had she not spoken would he have ...had a change of heart? Who knows.

Eye twitched at her sarcastic monologue. Chrom gestured for everyone to leave at this instance and some knights were ensure if they should follow this or not but a glare from the Exalt was enough to send everyone outside. Pushing himself off his throne, he got down slowly, staring at what used to be ...the love of his life, his partner, his queen, his wife. He let her talk the way she want knowing he will not get her to tell him anything useful but she did tell him one thing ... S.T.A.R. got the kids. Little did Rebecca know, that Chrom was not that dumb to know think of that. Lucina is old to understand and execute what that junk of a helmet tells her to do. Though she didn’t plan how a child like her is going to handle living with her three other young siblings. A helmet cannot feed nor place a roof over their heads.

“You worry about the wrong person ... love,” his face twisted in one of the rarest disgusted faces he ever shown. Love ... but she throw it all away. He stood right in front of her before he crouched down, kneeling on one knee to get a better closer look at her. His right hand forcibly seized her jaw, tightly. “Why . . . ?” his voice was low, enough for her only to hear. His eyes locked on to hers (something he found it hard to do for longer than two seconds before he started blushing.) “ ... Why ... ?” his voice got higher as his grip on her jaw tightened.  

                                                 “WHY!?”

It gradually got higher and the King snapped at her, pushing her by force to the ground, angrily. 

Though when she moved to push herself back, Chrom noticed that her lower lip started bleeding which made him, even momentarily return back to his old self. He helped her back to sit properly, hands cupping her face. “I’m sorry!..I’m sorry..I’m sorry....I--I that’s not how-- I didn’t mean to--- ugh...” but she pushed him away which made him stumble back on fall on his back, and it was like the last clinging flame in a candle that was snuffed. His face regained no emotions, now just a blank without any remorse or regret.

“ . . . I heard enough ... When you have something better to say ... You will talk.” he got up, dusted himself and walked back to his throne. “GUARDS!” he called, propping his head against his left hand. “Throw her away in a cell ... in the deepest dungeon.” a place he never sent anyone to ever. a place his father used to graciously use to lock up people. One of the darkest most dreadful places in Ylisse. “If she ever wanted to talk .... let me know. Away with you.” and the guards did what they were ordered. 

“ . . . I’ll ...get you back ... Lucina ....”

[badsithnocookie]

Unification (7/?)

Making it behind Imperial lines was not, of course, the challenge - nor was it breaching what passed for their command centre, even if the Empire wasn't letting their territory go without a fight. Not that Eirn expected anything else; not that this made her any happier, especially as Lana was showing far less hesitation to cut down Imperials who got in her way than Eirn. Truthfully, Eirn would have rather kept casualties to a non-existent minimum, but- well, that was her idealism talking, the irritatingly bright-eyed optimism that Anya had infected her with (that she'd always wanted to strive for, deep down, even if it wasn't a yearning that would have won her any admiration among the Sith).

'Your people will all be given medical treatment. Cooperate,' Eirn started, not expecting it in the slightest, 'And I will make sure you all get home. You have my word on this. Now, where is the Empress-?'

There weren't many here, in truth - a skeleton crew, and for a moment, Eirn wondered if there was some misdirection going on. Of course, it was probable that most had been called out to the front lines, but her paranoia was a beast that was never truly sated. Quinn was conspicuously absent, too; a fact that gnawed at her, and she tried to tell herself that these things were likely unrelated.

'You'll get nothing from me,' the commander - a Captain, by his insignia, though he looked older than M- Quinn, and probably resented him for it, 'Traitorous scum-'

In a calmer situation, Eirn might have admired his courage, levelling a pistol at two armed Sith as he did - but as it was, she had neither the time nor inclination to play games and, before Lana could involve herself, pulled the man's pistol from his hand with the Force - crushing it, after a moment, before tossing it to one side, along with the other weapons they'd pulled from his underlings.

'I'll ask again,' Eirn repeated, keeping her tone as even as she could. Sith fury was one thing, but there was little as terrifying as a Sith who had not yet resorted to it, 'Only once. Where is the Empress?'

('Eirn, Lana,  you there? We've got a problem-'

It was Koth - one of the few people in the Alliance who did Eirn the favour of addressing her by name. He also had the worst timing in the Alliance - if not the entire galaxy, though Eirn had resolved not to hold him to blame for things frequently far beyond his control.

'Koth,' Lana sighed, 'We don't have time-')

'I've got nothing to say to you,' the Captain retorted, sneering at Eirn with something rapidly approaching disdain. 'Lieutenant,' he started to add, 'We will not be surrendering to these-'

('We're picking up power spikes all round your location. Something's powering up down there. Something big.'

The weapon. And they still didn't know where it was - or how to shut the thing down. Fucking fantastic.

'Noted,' Lana replied, sharply. 'No other changes?')

His Lieutenant, though - a tall, slightly nervous woman with her share of cybernetics - just glanced between him and Eirn (who was long out of patience with this world), before setting her face in grim determination, and-

'Empress's lab is down that hallway,' she replied, jerking one arm to indicate one of the hallways that lead off the command centre. 'Second door on the left. Just- please, my lord- we're all just doing our jobs. None of us wants to get shipped off to the Pubs. No offence,' she finished, glancing at Dorne - or, at the very least, at Dorne's Republic armour.

-did the one thing that Eirn had definitely not been expecting.

'I'll do my best,' Eirn replied - promised, and hoped she could keep that promise. 'Thank you, Lieutenant.'

('Lieutenant!' Her Captain, of course, did not take this well - rounding on her, and only stopped from moving further by the fact that Lana still had her saber lit and levelled at the lot of them.

'Lord Illte got our Tom off Ziost, sir. If she says this is for the good of the Empire, I believe her.')

('Looks like the dampening field is offline, too. Weapons are all back online, so it's just a matter of time before- no, they just started shooting at each other,' Koth managed, in her earpiece. 'Evasive manoeuvres! Is the Omnicannon good-?'

'Koth! Koth, are you there-?' Lana, of course, was instantly distracted from the mission, though not without good cause - the Gravestone was more than just a flagship, and Koth was- well, more than simply her friend.)

('Lieutenant,' the Captain started, angrily, 'This will mean a disciplinary-'

'If we're alive for it, sir,' she replied, apparently unfazed, 'You can tell the board whatever you want.')

'Viper Squad is almost on our position,' Dorne added - their backup, the Republic special operations team clearing up in their wake. 'We can hold this until they arrive.'

Shadowing them, Eirn hadn't failed to note; likely watching them, watching her, there to ensure that if Eirn did turn on the Republic, that she wouldn't do so without a fight. It wasn't a thought that sat pleasantly, not least because of Dorne's admission that they carried Force suppressants.

'Go,' Lana interrupted, before she could take that thought any further. 'We'll hold this position, and join you as soon as we can.'

Which wasn't ideal - but Eirn knew she wasn't in a position to negotiate - with Lana, with the Empire, with the Force itself - and so she just nodded, before heading deeper into Imperial territory.

-

Acina's laboratory was not difficult to find - even if Acina herself was difficult to pick out with the Force, not least because of the way the weapon's tech seemed imbued with it in a way that did not set Eirn at ease in the slightest, and which clouded the Force presences of all on its surface. Iokath had always been a strange world; not even a world, technically, though it was difficult to think of somewhere with open skies as any kind of structure. Still, the Force flowed here in the manner of electricity through wiring, or water through irrigation pipes; artificially, conducted in manners that Eirn had to assume were some approximation of precise, or at least once had been, and in a far more clinical, paradoxically modern way than any ancient Sith or Rakatan artefact.

The Empire, from what Eirn was seeing - from what she was guessing, mostly - seemed to have settled on this hack the planet plan long before leaving Kaas, as well, if the Force-imbued wiring bundled through the passageways was any indication. Despite Lana's protests, Acina had come here intending to force the issue, and that was a thought that made Eirn grip her saber harder.

The laboratory, much to Eirn's surprise, was not guarded - and for a moment, she wondered if the helpful Lieutenant had sent her on a wild gizka chase. When the door opened, though, it was to an almost-familiar sight - a storage room, like the one they'd visited with Dorne, with a Throne built against one wall that was clearly of Imperial design and recent construction but modelled rather closely on the one that had contained the remains of the last person to attempt Acina's folly. This throne's inhabitant, though, was still alive - and focused on a control panel set into one of the Throne's arms, an Imperial datapad, from the look of it, repurposed and wired into the system that Acina was attempting to manhandle. She was protected, too, by a forcefield - not a Forcefield, but a thing of mundane energy that would nonetheless fail to be felled by Eirn's lightsaber.

Eirn entering the lab, of course, changed at least some of that - Acina looked up sharply, before immediately scowling.  'Well don't just stand there,' Acina snapped, looking sharply to the lab's other lone inhabitant - her Major, Eirn's Major - who, in turn, abruptly wore an expression not unlike a deer in headlights. Quinn had always managed to rearrange his expressions promptly, of course, and it was gone as quickly as it was there, but the abrupt, surprised terror didn't fade nearly as quickly from his aura.

There they were - there she was, faced with the one person that she wanted to fight with the least on this cursed sphere. He seemed to be as thrilled by this as she was, though it was little comfort - especially given the way his gaze kept flickering to his blaster (currently placed to one side, on the control panel he'd been monitoring) as though he was thinking about actually attempting to use it.

'Major Quinn,' Eirn started - not even sure where she was going to go with this, but she wasn't about to let this encounter be directed by someone else. 'I have no quarrel with you. But I can't let Acina do this.'

'My lord,' Quinn started, speaking up - standing, pulling himself into as confident a position as he could muster. It wasn't a convincing confidence - his fear radiated through the Force, and Eirn wondered which one of them, exactly, he was attempting to lie to. 'This has gone far enough. You are a traitor to the Empire, and I am asking you to stand down. Surrender peacefully, and you will be treated fairly.'

Words that had been spoken to her before, though not by him, and for a moment, her memories of the Empire's version of fair snarled unpleasantly. She extinguished her saber, though, clipping it to her belt - and, after a moment, unclipped her helmet's faceplate, too. If nothing else, it felt good to feel air on her skin - her helmet had been becoming the worst kind of claustrophobic, and being able to breathe always made life so much easier.

(More than that, though, it humanised her; made a person, with a face, and not a nameless, monstrous Sith. Not the Wrath, nor the Outlander, but- Eirnhaya Illte-Quinn, Darth Meliora, scarred and mortal and her)

'Malavai,' she started - looking right at him, grabbing his attention with his name, and refusing to let it go - 'Please. You know me. I have only ever acted for the best interests of the Empire. And right now, that means stopping this war before it gets started. Lower. The forcefield. Please.'

He just looked at her, though - glanced over her, his eyes darting over her armour - assessing it, assessing her. It was not the stiff, almost-ceremonial armour she'd been wearing on Darth Marr's vessel, all those years ago, but the same gear she'd had on Voss - and on Kaas, for that matter, battle-worn and battle-proven, scarred by each of Vitiate's living children but paradoxically stronger, for it. It wasn't Sith, though, but one of the Alliance's own design and manufacture, as much an attempt to distance herself from the Empire and all it produced as it was a practical piece of gear. If nothing else, Eirn knew the importance of costume - of the messages it sent, the meanings it held, and- well, for Sith, the whole galaxy was expected to be their stage.

'You lower that forcefield, Major,' Acina spat, safe for now on her fabricated throne, 'And I'll make you wish I'd left you where I found you.'

'Malavai,' Eirn repeated, ignoring her - attempting to ignore her, and not entirely succeeding, 'Please, listen to me. What- the Empress is doing, right now, it's been tried before. But it didn't work. Iokath's own creators died because the weapon fired indiscriminately. If that happens again- everyone here will die, and the Empire will have a war on its hands it can't afford-'

'I have total control,' Acina hissed - still tapping frantically at the control panel, though, a nervous terror propelling her movements that put lie to that statement. 'And as for you, Wrath,' she added - the venom in her tone twisting up into something else entirely, at Eirn's ancient, hated, title, 'When I am finished with you, you'll wish we'd executed you for Ziost.'

The theatrical threats of Sith were nothing new, though hearing them from Acina was - and to hear such a promise made by one who had courted more than simple attention, once, made Eirn wince unpleasantly. Not just the words, but the venom with which they were spoken; this was not the verbal sparring of rival Sith, but the hatred that all acolytes were taught to nurture following an inevitable betrayal.

A for-real traitor, Illte. Only one of you is walking away from this.

She was saved from having to respond by an alarm blaring - a local one, contained to the control panel that Quinn was standing watch over, and which grabbed his attention from the rest of the room quite entirely.

'Empress,' Quinn started, a note of concern in his voice, 'Synchronisation rate is rapidly decreasing-'

'Then get rid of Illte,' Acina hissed, through clenched teeth, 'So I can focus-'

'Stop this, Acina,' Eirn interrupted, ignoring that remark. 'Whoever wanted you here- fed you- bad intel from the beginning,' she started - grabbing at that piece of information, determined to make some use of it. 'There's no way for you to succeed-'

'And how would you know, Wrath,' Acina growled, baring her teeth, 'Unless you were the one to sabotage us-?'

'Empress,' Quinn repeated, far more urgently, 'I am reading massive power buildup in the ancillary stations. The system can't handle this-'

'Malavai,' Eirn repeated, switching her attempts back to him, 'Lower the forcefield. Please. Let me get her out of there.'

He was looking right at Eirn, in turn, forcing himself to, his eyes constantly darting away before he forced them back to hers. They seemed- he seemed, stubborn and defiant and- afraid, though Eirn found it impossible to fathom out what of. Her? Acina? The Republic? All valid things to be afraid of, in that moment - Eirn was just as terrified, of all of them, in varying quantities - but most of all, right in that moment, it was dying - pointlessly, and stupidly, and utterly needlessly.

That alarm sounding again snapped her out of it, though - shattered the moment, snapping the both of them out of whatever reverie they'd been in and prompting Quinn to immediately start tapping at his own panel. For an awful moment, Eirn was convinced that he was continuing to ignore her, that he was still going along with Acina's mad scheme - and then he wasn't, the forcefield was down and Eirn, seeing her chance, seized it with both hands.

'Acina,' Eirn started - taking the first steps past the boundary, towards her - saber out, but not yet lit. 'This is your final chance. Stop this, before it's too late.'

Acina, though, was barely paying her attention - had abruptly ceased her tapping at the control panel, and was staring off into some unseen distance.

'I see it,' she whispered - her gaze distant and her focus elsewhere. 'It's- so beautiful...'

All Eirn saw, though, was the Empress, staring off into some middle distance as the Force pulsed through and round her, flowing from the Throne, from Iokath itself, stronger than it had before - strong enough that Acina's own aura was drowned out, strong enough that for a moment, all Eirn could feel was the artificial heartbeat of this hollow world.

'Dammit, Acina,' Eirn muttered, pushing forward - closing the space between her and the Sith Empress, half expecting Acina to finally stand or push back and half grateful she wasn't and half slowly realising that something else here was already very wrong. It was far too late to do anything about it, though, except the half-baked plan she'd already committed to. At the very least, removing Acina from the Throne would break whatever connection she had to Iokath, which was why Eirn reached out for the Empress - grabbing her by her robes and yanking her away from her counterfeit control throne, the same way Senya had once abruptly yanked her from Zakuul's throne, severing Vitiate's grasp on his once-fleet (and like the fleet, Eirn reasoned, with no input, the weapon would power down and they could have a sensible discussion, like the adults they were-)

-but the Force, as always, had other ideas.

[northernmisery-blog]

Monk(ey) Business

So, the church has ex-communicated the Monk.

Either he’s a snake, or Radrizzani has his PR head on.

Whichever way you want to look at things, Garry Monks tenure as Leeds United’s head coach is no more.

First and foremost, I absolutely hate the term “Head Coach”, but, it would appear we are going down the continental route of having too many chiefs and not enough Indians at the club and lining the structure with superfluous roles and positions, Technical Director, Director of Team Strategy, Director of Football, etc, etc, etc.

What happened to the manager having a coaching team, training the players, seeing who he wants for the team and getting the chairman to sort it?

Where did football turn into this multi-levelled three ring circus? We were paying Brian McDermott upwards of £800,000 per year and we were tight, so Derek Acorah only knows how much some of these other Championship Managers are on. These owners and chairman appoint managers on sometimes multi-million pound contracts and then expect them to just get given staff to work into their preferred methods.

Quite frankly, along with half and half scarves and plastic clappers, it’s one of the reasons so many people look at modern football with disdain.

Although the flip side of this is people like Neil Warnock, Harry Redknapp and Sam Allardyce, allegedly preferring certain players to follow them around in return for a slice of their weekly pay packet, so maybe total autocracy by a manager isn’t as nice as it sounds and we look back on the old way with rose tinted spectacles.

That aside, at Leeds United we are going to follow the continental model and we will just have to ride it out and deal with it.

We’ve had worse, we had to follow the Ken Bates model of selling all our players for cream cladding, the GFH route of buying players based on Football Manager ratings and the Massimo Cellino route of abandoned, wanton, Chivas fuelled chaos.

With Radrizzani, he seems composed. His business dealings are above board and googling his name doesn’t return stories of pistol whippings, ships with missing cargo and murdered sailors, tax evasion, embezzlement, fraud, false accounting, sexism and pages and pages of embarrassing news articles.

Radrizzani has taken the time to do his due diligence. He has pored through the accounts and the black holes. I guess we will never truly know the full extent of the Bates, GFH or Cellino eras. I imagine their accounts are very much like a Yeti hunt – exciting for five minutes, then boring as you realise someone is just playing silly buggers and messing you about with misdirection because the truth is actually non-existent.

He makes the right noises and has said already that he is not happy with the end of the season capitulation.  A feeling echoed by the fans.

He has stated his desire to repurchase Elland Road – Note, he has not promised that tomorrow he is going to the bank, he has not promised he will buy it by Thursday, he has stated he wants to. That should be a given for anyone sensible taking over at Leeds United.

He’s said he isn’t happy with a losing mentality and has moved to quickly tie up the brightest prospect at the club to a four year deal, unheard of in recent years.

Andrea’s tenure started off positively – we were finally rid of the crooked lying charlatan who had dragged our club from embarrassment to embarrassment, now it was time to change, yet Garry Monk, for whatever reason, is not going to be part of it.

It’s easy to blame the bloke who has officially owned the club for three days.

It’s also easy to blame Monk, calling him a snake and louse like we tend to do when we feel betrayed or hurt. Even I have called him satsuma balls in my faux outrage. (Although Judas was ginger and he betrayed Jesus, so maybe there is something in religiously titled people hanging people out to dry in exchange for money)

There are clearly two sides to the story;

One is that Monk decided back in February, amidst his stock rising, that he would not entertain extending his contract.

Whether this was off the back of him not feeling he was backed in the January window is possible.

It is also possible that, out of work last year, he decided to work for Leeds United with a view to using the club as a stepping stone. (There’s not a chance he took the job expecting to ride out a full season under Cellino anyway, such a step was unprecedented)

The other side is Monk desperately wanted a three year deal and the club don’t want him, so messed him about with a contract offer so he walked.

Any new owner will look to do things their own way. Not many clubs have a takeover without a change of personnel. Radrizzani has been involved one way or another at Leeds United for nearly a year since he initially spoke to Cellino in May 2016 about buying the club. There were rumours Radrizzani stopped Cellino sacking Monk after 6 games. Cellinos track record lends credence to these rumours.

Maybe Monk was upset with the proposed continental structure and maybe the club feel that he wasn’t going to share the ethos.

I personally thought the initial contract extension was to drive off interest from other clubs, giving Radrizzani the opportunity to sit down with Monk and strategise. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps it was an attempt to call Monks bluff as has been claimed online.

The club claims Monks agent told them not to trigger the extension as he would not be entertaining discussing a new contract. Monks statement claims he wanted a long term strategic deal.

However, I suspect the truth lies between all of these factors. 

If the club and by extension Radrizzani had truly wanted Garry Monk, they would have moved heaven and earth to keep him. If Garry Monk had truly wanted a three year deal at Leeds United, he would be sitting there today having signed a contract.

Sometimes, people just aren’t a good fit for each other. It’s why 42% of marriages in the UK end in divorce. Sometimes, just sometimes, you have to move on.

Our younger fans will not remember George Graham being given a job at Leeds when nobody would touch him after his ban from football. He immediately ditched us and went to Tottenham as soon as his stock had risen. From those ashes we inherited David O’Leary and had some of our best football memories in my lifetime, outside of 1992.

Our younger fans may not even remember Simon Grayson and his kamikaze football. Simon Grayson, who, had he been backed by the Bearded Clam Ken Bates would have had us promoted years ago and we would never have had to suffer GFH or Cellino.

They certainly won’t remember Wilko, hell, even I am too young to have seen us play under The Don in person.

These are all fondly remembered managers, and Monk, for this season, isn’t on a par with achieving anything that any of them achieved.

Monk wasn’t the be all and end all. He was the best option at the time when Cellino was looking at the likes of Karl Robinson.

At times last season, we were woeful. We were inadequate at the latter third of the season when it counted and we were very, very often lacking in a plan B, C or D when things went against us. It was masked by Chris Wood banging goals in and everyone falling in love with the likes of Bartley and Pontus. 

Yes, Monk gave us our best season in ages, but, as I’ve said before with the shit sandwich analogy, it’s still a shit sandwich, even if you stick some lettuce and fancy mayo in there.

However, in the face of adversity, working for an unhinged and chemically induced crooked fraudster lunatic, Garry Monk and his team did deliver something we have not had in eons – hope.

For that, I will be grateful to Monk.

I didn’t make that clear to him when I retorted to “fuck off” in response to him issuing a statement he had blatantly had prepared weeks in advance, my reaction was that of anger. Putting it aside, I can see things in a different light.

He did give us a sliver of hope. His coaching staff and the players who put in a shift for him last season did their jobs “good”, but ultimately, not good enough.

Monk will leave with my thanks and barbed comment that he will never, ever, ever manage a club like this, with fans like this (for better or worse) who chant his name at a boxing event, who can make the earth tremble beneath his feet with the roar they generate inside a football ground.

Radrizzani will be given time to assert himself and show his intent. The fact he has no form as one of the biggest twats in football affords him this luxury.

Whoever comes in as manager or head coach, even if I don’t want them personally,  will be welcomed and given time to prove they are the right person for the job.

Events this week put football into perspective – but purely from a footballing point of view, we will move on to our next head coach or manager with Radrizzanis version of Leeds United Football Club.

Unless he appoints an underqualified PE teacher who strategises with condiment pots in a Travelodge, and has a late night pissed up phonecall with a mental Michael Jackson soundalike, then all bets will be off.

MOT.

[kayseerenee]

"If only we could be strangers again."

You may mock me You may laugh at my stubborn heart I may play the role of fool, But you're the true victim. I am not afraid of you. How could be I when I see the injured version of yourself that you've embraced. The worst kind of coward isn't one that cries But instead hides behind the redirection of blames. The worst kind of coward cares. Not for the impact of his misdirected frustrations, But for his image. Such a fragile thing with regards to, The "image" to the coward. It is his sheild. It is his religion. It is his family. And in his struggle to protect this tiny thing, He destroys the very things in which he claims to value. He is made weak by this facade, And the stronger this picture becomes, The more out of focus becomes the man. He idealizes men of a similar costigan, Not knowing that the very cancer eating the marrow of him Is what makes these actors cling so tightly to this ideology. I once felt disdain for such men, Now I pity them. Now I weep for my inability to repair. Now I bury the love that I used to shine daily and proudly display for all to see. Now I grieve for what they could've been, For what they've chosen to be. With averted eyes I step over their haggard souls as they shake their bottomless cups at me. They are empty, and no matter how much of me I give they will always be. Caring for the careless is spiritual suicide.

[medicus-mortem]

ikkaku-of-heart: @ikkaku-of-heart

For all that Ikkaku hated the idea of Law selling his soul to the World Government by becoming a Warlord, she refused to let him walk into the lion's den alone. The fact that she got to dress up in a fancy gown only slightly softened the indignity of the whole thing. This party was just a publicity stunt. Hell, she doubted whatever charity this shindig was claiming to be supporting would see a dime after paying off the expenses of the food, decor, and bottle service. It absolutely made her sick. Thankfully, she'd gotten better at not letting her disdain show on her face, but she was grateful for the black and gold mask helping her hide. It only covered half her face, but the long, skeletal fingers that wrapped around it gave it a morbid touch that kept too many people from staring at her too long, despite the opulent gold and black gown she wore. Plus, it complimented Law's plague doctor attire quite nicely, in her opinion. A princess who wasn't immune to death's grasp. A message she was sure would be too subtle for this crowd, but she knew being too overt in flipping off the World Government wouldn't end well. Finally, she got back to Law, grateful she hadn't spilled any of the precious booze needed to get through the night, despite having to elbow her way through the crowd. "With all the money they're throwing around, you'd think they'd offer up some stronger alcohol," Ikkaku griped, handing her captain his glass. Sneakily lifting up one of the top layers of her skirt, she flashed him a peek at a flask hidden underneath. "Thankfully, your brilliant engineer came prepared. Figured my charitable contribution to this stupid party is a generous helping of Gramps' moonshine to the punchbowl. Might make things more interesting around here, at the very least." Taking a sip of her own glass, she smirked. There was a slight burn at the back of her throat, but nothing too noticeable. But the more unsuspecting people drank, the harder it would hit them. Maybe that would provide some entertainment later on. Unfortunately, she was bored now, and she suspected so was Law. If the World Government didn't want their new pet Warlord to start performing open-heart surgery on the buffet table, he was going to need enrichment. And while Ikkaku thought that would serve them right, she knew her captain's plans hinged on putting on the illusion of cooperation until the time was right. But that didn't mean they couldn't subtlely misbehave. Especially since a party like this, full of masks and devious fellow Warlords, made it easy to misdirect any blame. "You know what's great about a big, fancy ballgown?" she asked Law, careful to keep her voice low. "Lots of hiding places for little gizmos and gadgets. Which are totally necessary for livening up a dull party. Unless you're perfectly content to just play nice and wait for your dance card to be filled?"

   Law accepts the glass she hands him. His other hand goes to his mask, moving to take it off so he can drink the fruity beverage. He gives Ikkaku a grunt in response to her griping. It would be nice to have something stronger on hand but that wouldn’t be considered high class enough for this crowd. Not suitable for these nobles and government officials. Law’s plague doctor mask gets shoved under an armpit as he brings his drink to his lips. He pauses when Ikkaku flashes him a view of that familiar flask. An eyebrow arches and he sniffs at the wine. The fruity sweetness overpowers everything else but since he knows what to look for Law can detect a hint of sharp, pure alcohol. He smirks at that and takes his drink, noting the brief burn. Ikkaku really is here to cause problems, isn’t she?

   He runs his fingers through his hair, ruffling the messy dark locks as he scratches out the itch the mask was causing. Law’s eyes go back to the party goers, feeling some relief when very few seem to notice him. Guess they’re all stuck in their own petty needs to mingle and make connections. Everyone has a scheme in this kind of crowd. Right now, Law just wants to get through the night. Find a likely time to slip away, steal some valuables, maybe get some information, and then fuck off to whatever dive bar he can find. That moment to slip away won’t happen soon because unfortunately he is expected to get a photo eventually, even if he is trying real hard to avoid that.

   Ikkaku sidles closer to Law and, perhaps sensing his boredom and annoyance, offers a not-so-subtle suggestion. He turns his gaze to her, a devious smile slipping onto his features. He tries to disguise it with another drink as he shoves a gloved hand into a pocket, but his relaxed and confident posture might hint that he is up to something.

    “You do have a lot of skirt goin’ on there,” he says, head tilting as he regards his engineer’s outfit. “You wanna give me a hint on what you got hidden? Preferable before Morgans-ya gets over here and demands I start posing with Snake Empress-ya like we’re a couple.”

   Out of the corner of his eye he does note the bird Mink turning his gaze in Law’s direction. Is that recognition mixing with excitement on his beak?