#''are we going to shift entirely to voice commands and generated audio and stop having a written language?''

[daisywords]

when people are sooo sure the AI and other developments are going to totally upend all elements of our society it feels like I'm talking to someone from 1970 who is sooooo sure that by 2025 we would only be taking weird meal pills instead of anyone ever cooking or eating. and it's like well I guess some people take multivitamins. there are those like scammy supplement regimens. protein powder I guess? but um I wouldn't say that fundamentally changed everything about eating. like we're still people

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

World War Z was published in 2006, but takes place in 2009 at the earliest.  Late in the book, astronaut Terry Knox states that the International Space Station took over 10 years to complete; it started construction in November 1998, and Chief of Staff Karl Rove Grover Carlson says that the Republican party barely eked back into power after a disastrous 2-termer who started a “brush fire war” in the Middle East (George W. Bush).  He mentions an election year, but he doesn’t specify if it was the new president’s first or second term, so it’s either set right after 2008 or 2012.  This was written before the Nintendo Wii was announced, but one chapter mentions that people brought their GameCubes with them as they fled their homes in search of safety in the frozen Canadian wilderness.  This same chapter also mentions that they didn’t know how to pick survival gear; a park ranger finds a SpongeBob SquarePants sleeping bag frozen in the mud because its owner didn’t know the difference between a child’s indoor sleeping bag for slumber parties and a real insulated survival bag for camping.

The new president is never named, he’s just told be be pro-big business and anti-regulation, pushing a placebo zombie vaccine through the FDA to jumpstart the economy.  When shit hits the fan, he is “sedated” and his vice president takes power; we’re never told what happened to the president, whether he was bitten or had a stroke, just that he was “sedated.”  His Vice President is directly implied to be Colin Powell; he’s former military with family in Jamaica and black.  He appoints Howard Dean to be his vice president to form a bipartisan coalition; he is never referred to by name, but it is clearly supposed to be Howard Dean.  He was a rising star in the Democratic party from Vermont whose wife is a doctor and whose career imploded after he had a passionate outburst.  In 2004, Howard Dean gave a speech where he started passinately screaming about how he was gonna start sweeping state primaries and ride a wave into the White House, punctuating his point by going “HHEEUEAHHGH!!”  This was political suicide in 2004, and he was laughed out of the race.  In the book, he is referred to only as “the Whacko” because of this.  It is implied that he was Powell’s second choice for VP, his first being Barack Obama; the Whacko says that the Democrats wanted somebody else, somebody of the same skin color as the president, but that the country wasn’t ready for that.  In 2004, Obama was a candidate for senate in Illinois, so popular and so well spoken that he gave a speech at the Democratic National Convention before he even won his seat; then and there, pundits already had him pegged as the first black president, they could see the writing on the walls.  The Whacko becomes president when Powell dies of stress, but he is consistently referred to only as the wartime Vice President, out of respect for his boss.

Also, the Attorney General is implied to be Rudy Giuliani; all that is said about him was that he was the mayor of New York and once tried to give himself emergency powers to stay in office after his term.  Giuliani did exactly that after 9/11.

Other real life figures mentioned in the book

Fidel Castro; a ton of Cuban Americans flee the continent and return to the island during the zombie war, and he jumpstarts the economy by putting them to work as cheap laborers and slowly integrating them back into Cuban society.  He rehabilitates his image by stepping down as dictator and democratizing the country, voting himself out of office before the “nortecubanos” could hang him for decades of war crimes.

Nelson Mendela, referred to by his birth name Rolihlahla, the father of modern South Africa, he personally invites Paul Redekker, a former apartheid era political analyst, to solve the zombie problem; in the 80s, Redekker created a plan for the white minority government in case the black majority ever rose up against them.  In real life, Mandela lowered the temperature when he was elected president, saying that revenge against the apartheid government would do more harm than good.  In the story, Mandela uses this as justification to reuse the apartheid era plan to handle the zombie outbreak instead.  Redekker is so overcome by his compassion and forgiveness that he has a mental episode and dissociates, believing himself to be a black South African.

Kim Jong-il, the dictator of North Korea, he withdraws all troops from the DMZ and shuts the entire country down.  After months of radio silence, it is revealed that the entire country’s population has vanished; all satellite imagery shows a desolate wasteland, no zombies, but no humans either. He presumably moved everyone into subterranean bunker systems where he not only control their lives as on the surface, but now their access to food, water, and air.  He presumably became the god emperor he always wanted to be; either that, or the entire tunnel complex has been overrun, turning every man woman and child in North Korea into zombies.  The South Korean government refuses to send a expedition into the North to figure out what happened, lest they open up one of the tunnels and unleash millions of zombies onto the surface.

Martin Scorsese, mentioned in passing only as “Marty,” a friend of world famous film director Roy Elliot, who himself is a thinly veiled pastiche of Steven Spielberg.  Interestingly enough, the audio book features Martin Scorsese doing the voice of the conartist who created the placebo vaccine

One chapter has a ton of vapid celebrities hole together in a fortified mansion on Long Island, and takes great care to show each of them getting torn apart not by zombies but by regular people who storm the facility because they were stupid enough to broadcast their location on reality television.  A redneck with a “Get’er Done” hat (Larry the Cable Guy) and some bald guy with diamond earrings (Howie Mandel) blow themselves up with a grenade.  Rival political commentators, an annoying guy who talks about feminization of western society and a leathery blonde (Bill Maher and Ann Coulter) have end-of-the-world viking sex as the facility burns to the ground.  A dumb starlet (Paris Hilton) is killed by one of her handlers and her little rat dog escapes on foot.  A radio shock jock (Howard Stern) actually survives the war and restarts his show.

Michael Stipe of REM joins the army to fight the zombies

Another war veteran mentions how his brother used to have a bunch of Mel Brooks’ old comedy skits on vinyl record, and how he and his squad acted out the “Boy meets Girl” puppet skit with some human skulls.  Mel Brooks is author and narrator Max Brooks’ father.

Queen Elizabeth II, refuses to evacuate England when the island is overrun by zombies.  She intends to remain in Buckingham Palace “for the duration,” mirroring the fact that her parents refused to evacuate to Canada during World War II.

Vladimir Putin declares himself Tsar of the Holy Russian Empire, an ultra-orthodox religious state that has armed priests execute political dissidents under the guise of mercy killing people who have been bitten by zombies.

Yang Liwei, the first “taikonaut” (Chinese astronaut) has a space station named after him

While the main conflict is about government responses to the zombie pandemic, we see glimpses of a greater war torn planet.

A major plot line involves a Chinese Civil War which sees the entire communist politburo nuked out of existence by a rebel sub commander, as well as an attempted “scorched space policy” where the government planned to blow up their space station with scuttling charges to cause a cascade of space debris to encircle the Earth and prevent any other countries from launching missions in the future (this is known as Kessler Syndrome in real life, and was featured as the inciting incident of the 2013 movie Gravity).  The People’s Republic becomes the United Federation.

Iran and Pakistan destroy each other in nuclear war; everyone thought it would be India and Pakistan, but they had very close diplomatic infrastructure in place to prevent such a catastrophe; Pakistan helped Iran build a nuclear arsenal, but as millions of refugees fled from India through Pakistan to the east, Iran had to blow up some Pakistani bridges to stem the flow of zombies, which led to a border war and eventually total nuclear retaliation.

Floridians flee to Cuba, Wisconsinites flee to Canada, the federal government flees to Hawaii.  Everything east of the Rockies is abandoned and ruled by warlords until the government sorts itself out and mounts an expedition to clear the continent of zombies by literally marching an unbroken line of soldiers stretching from Canada to Mexico across the wasteland to the Atlantic.

Israel withdraws from Gaza and the West Bank to become super isolationist, building a wall around the entire country to stop the zombies getting in (they were the first country to respond to the pandemic, and the most successful), but the religious right rebels against the secular left in a civil war that sees Jerusalem ceded to a unified Palestine.

It is an amazing, multifaceted story with so much going on that nobody recognizes.  It was written as a response to the end of the Cold War and the start of the War on Terror.  It’s about a geopolitical shift, a change in the status quo, a disaster from which the world never recovers; America before 9/11 was a very different place than American after 9/11.  Iraq and Afghanistan changed everything, and we’re still feeling their effects to this day; the story uses the zombie apocalypse as the next big international disaster the world must adapt to.  World War Z is World War III with zombies, and I think it would do a lot better if it were published today, now that we’ve had several decades to respond to the fall of the Soviet Union and the endless wars in the Middle East and a global pandemic.

[sfiddy]

So Bad

For @academialynx , who made a donation to her local food bank in return for a fic!  This is a college AU, moderately prof/student (though the theme is that they DON’T break the rules) boatloads of yearning, and janky building maintenance that leads to getting locked in a closet.  She asked me to consider the Brandon Colbein song So Bad.  Which I did.  :)

Thank you, Dear!  Here we go!

Rated T

On AO3

On FF

On Tumblr!  (keep reading!)

Another champagne cork popped and a delighted cheer spread through the room.  Glasses, plastic cups, and hastily drained coffee mugs were refreshed and the party carried on.  Theirs was not a large music department, so to have attracted a fresh, exciting, multi-talented composition and collaborative piano specialist with a few international awards, one ‘early career’ grant and another from the National Endowment for the Arts meant their modest program was about to gain a little fresh clout at interdepartmental tenured faculty meetings.

“Congratulations again, Erik!”  Dr. Nadir Khan hauled Erik into a vigorous handshake and pumped for a full three seconds.  

Erik winced.  He’d be hamfisting the keys tomorrow if they kept this up.  “Thank you, Dean Khan.  It’s an honor to join as a full professor.”

“I am Nadir to you, and don’t forget it.”  Nadir refilled Erik’s plastic cup and tapped his department coffee mug against it, sloshing their champagne into frothy heads.  “It’s hard to believe it’s been five years, Erik!  You cost me a bet, I’ll have you know.  I didn’t think you’d stay after you had to teach that semester of History of Rock and Roll for non-majors.”

The lantern-jawed oboe professor laughed.  “Or the infamous Intro to Music Theory.”

“No, no,” disagreed Umbaldo Piangi, the portly voice teacher.  “When I went on sabbatical to Teatro La Fenice and you gave him The Chamber Music Outreach Project and graduate tutoring.  No warning!”  Even the big man’s clucking tongue was musical.  “But, Piangi is back, no?  I will cut back my performance hours and take back all the lessons and weekends and let Dr. Erik Devereaux return to his writing!”

“Actually,” Erik said, and the room stilled.  “The only part I disliked was the public part.  I never minded the private instruction.  If you would like to split the load, I’m happy to keep the instructional portion while you handle the tours, performances, and...outreach?”  He suppressed the grimace well enough.

Piangi, Italian down to his fine shoes, let out a whoop and grabbed Erik in a hug so tight it pressed his ribcage and nearly dislodged his delicate porcelain mask from it’s fine wire and leather fittings.

“Ah, my partner now!  I will call donors and show off the little tweeting songbirds with my lovely Carlotta while you teach them not to call for worms!  A toast!”  Piangi held up his plastic cup once again.  

Erik accepted a toast that crackled the edge of his plastic cup and hoped for something new and shiny to distract them.  Or for the lights to suddenly flicker and fail as they were prone to do, along with randomly closing doors in the terribly laid out office and work spaces.  The college had access to talent pipelines that the underfunded and neglected department had not been able to tap.  Their aggressive recruitment of him was a last ditch effort for change before the tiny group was relegated to a four piece for the university reagent’s cocktail brunch and a marching band for the far-better funded football team.

“To Dr. Devereaux!”

With a conspiratorial grin, Erik drained his cup and winked at Piangi.  “To the songbirds.”

…

Tenure in hand, Erik started his campaign.  Once he ditched the worst teaching credits to lecturers and adjuncts, he could focus on recruiting.  Specifically, to score a few respected but not-yet-headliner talents.  Emerging performers without a good gig had few options and the status and modest stipend to be a ‘visiting artist’ might be more attractive than the floating gulag of a cruise ship.  

A few excellent but relatively unknown performers could teach and perform, receive some finishing, and get quickly farmed out into the world.  The reputation-building move would be pricey, but no one gets paid dividends before investing.

His development grant would cover three such artists.  He got more than fifty applications.  Erik rubbed his eyes under the mask.  It was a good thing he never had plans-- it would be a long weekend.

…

The old music labs building had settled over the years and gained what the senior faculty referred to as ‘personality’.   Erik took this to mean ‘genially hazardous’.  No amount of facility requests or complaints brought the doors and keys division to do maintenance.

He was a quick learner though, and only got locked in his workroom twice before catching the door with his foot became second nature.   He even set a flaking brick, plucked from a neglected flower bed outside, in the corner by the door and kicked it against the frame as a doorstop.  Every time he came to his workroom, a narrow converted closet with a work bench and packed with shelves of manuscripts, music, errant repair kits and recording equipment, he would hit the outside light switch, unlock the door, step in, catch the door, then kick the brick.  

Switch, step, catch, kick.  His shoes were gaining new wear marks.

After kicking the brick into place, Erik opened his laptop and went over the last files.  He’d asked the department admins to strip out the audio files to just the audition pieces and remove identifying details from the fifty applications.  If he was going to invite talent, their first hurdle would be their musicianship.  Once he’d culled the herd to ten, he’d submitted his picks to the dean to select the three finalists.  Now they needed invitations.  Two vocalists and a classical guitarist made the cut and he spent the next few hours getting more acquainted with their files and ignoring the pings of his filling inbox.

At least it was just his inbox.  No one came to the music labs and his closet if they could help it.

If he was honest, no one came to meet him in person if they could help it.

…

Most performers were beautiful.  Entire websites and product lines were devoted to skincare for singers, makeup tutorials, look books and wardrobe consulting.  Erik’s particular variety of deformity would stand out in any circumstances, but in an entire department stuffed with the striking, stunning, and unconventionally glorious, he bordered on eyesore.  Even Piangi could command a room with his generous, rosy smiles and booming laugh.  

The mask was the best combination of memorable and functional he could muster.  Yes, surgery was an option but who signed up for years of unnecessary pain and the risk of infection?  He had better things to do.  

Like meet with his new visiting artists.  

The classical guitarist had supple wrists and forearms like Popeye.  His rolled cuffs drew the eye to the action while his cleverly knotted scarf kept you looking at his face, framed by artfully mussed hair.  

“We’re looking forward to your first concerts and hope you’ll consider collaborations with local programs.”

The baritone had a one in a million voice.  How he hadn’t been snapped up for opera yet was a mystery but Erik supposed it was his poor presence.  When you had the goods, you still had to sell them, and the young man’s love of neon, bad hair, and questionable repertoire (pin the tail on a Hal Leonard page) needed polish.  His work was shockingly precise and sounded like he had a cathedral in his mouth.

“Our faculty and staff are a rich resource for young performers and are always eager to assist.  We often work in parallel with the communications department and local professionals to prepare our artists for the culture and community as well as the stage.”

The soprano was the risk.  The recording had been largely boilerplate and her prior experience thin.  The reason she got in was a one-point-two second pause in her audition tape.  It was the silence that told Erik she had chops.  

Imagine, a soprano unafraid of silence.  It had been late in the weekend when he selected her and had not yet been able to examine the head shot.

“I… um...”

“Yes, Dr. Devereaux?”

“Welcome, Miss Daaé.”

…

The visiting artists would survey classes, provide demonstrations and guest lectures, and appear at university events, auditions, and generally get the word out that the department was shifting to a growth phase.  That was the official description.  Unofficially, there would be a mountain of effort to make each emerging artist a shot on goal for the department.  Recording deals, major and paid appearances, and successful auditions all counted toward the tally.  

Guitar was not Erik’s forte, and as much as he could contribute to the baritone’s look and polish, Erik had cultivated a far more… refined profile than the young man aspired to.  Erik maintained collars sharp enough to cut bread and a spotless sheen on his porcelain mask.  Right now, Dean Khan aspired to cut the young man’s mullet tail off.  

“Excellent, Miss Daaé, right on time.”  Erik slid the fall board up and they prepared to work.  She understood how to modulate her tone, how to select the emotional pitch to match the song, to contrast with it for effect.  She explored her range and willingly failed to find her borders.  It all made for an excellent student.

It was the quiet that made her breathtaking.  The anticipation of her.  Tenths of seconds that tightened the chest and made a quiver run through the blood.  Not often, only when it mattered, and only when it would matter enough to do so.  

When he could stand it no more, he asked her about it.

“I’m sorry, I can try to stop.”

“I didn’t ask you to stop, I asked when you started doing it.”

She considered him, her ribbons of curling hair twisting as she shifted.  “When my father was sick.  I could feel the need for silences because he couldn’t talk anymore.  It just felt… right.”

Erik nodded.  “Again.”

…

She’d been a late bloomer.  A ghost on the scene and at least five years older than the rest of the sopranos at her stage.  It also meant she hadn’t spent her entire high school and college career belting Broadway in the recital rooms, building nodes on her vocal chords.  

They finished late one night and he walked her to her car.  “So what did you do for practice?”

She pinked under the parking lot lights.  “I, um… waited tables at an Italian restaurant.  You know, where your server might sing opera when they bring you breadsticks?”

Erik nodded.  “Parmesan and Puccini?”

Bless her, she giggled.  “Bellinis and Bellini.  A few really knew when they were hearing but most just wanted to hear Nessun Dorma because they heard it on Youtube.  I managed to get a few singing jobs out of it but I mostly just waited tables.”  They stopped at her car but she hadn’t reached for her keys yet.  “I was a bartender and the second understudy for a Gilbert and Sullivan society when I saw your announcement.”

“Their loss,” Erik said.  He left off the second half.

“Thanks.”  Christine hesitated.  “I didn’t expect to be accepted, so… thanks.”  

Something changed in the breeze.  Something cool and soft in the night air mixed with the gold light pouring down from the lights.  It highlighted the curls that spiralled out of control around her neck as she tilted her head just so.  

It was just a moment, a funny thump that ricocheted in his chest at her upturned face, her soft smile.  Maybe her eyes flicked down, maybe her sharp inhale had a little catch in it.  Maybe it was the way her lip twitched, but a red flag suddenly waved in Erik’s head and he stepped back carefully.  He had a powerful fear of heat and burns.

“Yes, of course.  The, uh, department was very happy to offer the opportunity.”

She blinked.  “Of course.  Well, thanks for the great session and walking me to my car.  Have a nice evening, Erik.”

Christine drove away and Erik stood in the parking lot for some minutes after her taillights had faded.  He imagined it.  Surely, he’d taken a friendly conversation the wrong way.  She wasn’t his student, strictly speaking, but he had influence over her career, which would be just as bad.  

Besides, he had completely misread the whole thing.  Surely.  Women didn’t look up at him like that-- like he would kiss them.  After a walk after dark, telling him about themselves, and looking at him like that.

No one looked at him like... that.

Oh no.

…

She wasn’t strictly his student.  He was her mentor.  Even a brief thought made it obvious and completely inappropriate.  Did she think it would improve her opportunities?

Erik swallowed.  No, if that was the game she wouldn’t have backed off.  Surely he’d misread the situation.

…

They brewed tea together.  She remembered his favorite oolong.

…

He saw a cascade of curling hair on his way to the post office and his heart leapt.

It wasn’t her.  The disappointment was too confusing to examine.

…

His mouth went dry when her sweater slipped from her shoulder.  Then he knocked the music from the stand.

She smiled and helped him pick up the sheets.  

There were freckles on her shoulder.

... 

Five months into the visiting artist tour and Piangi had the concert hall packed for their first performances.  Franco the guitarist, who preferred just the one name, would play a twenty minute set, followed by the baritone Burton Armstrong, as baritoney a name as Erik had ever heard, then Christine, and finally Franco would play again with accompaniment.  

Erik was content to stay in a tiny box seat far to the side as Piangi introduced each performer.  Franco had gained the stage he deserved, and Burton had been convinced to get a proper haircut and suit, and sang a particularly impressive Russian ballad set.  

Christine was introduced and settled onto the stage.  She was radiant in dark blue, and decorated her baroque set with agility.  From his perch, Erik could as easily imagine her distributing bellinis as gracing an opera stage.  It was not an insult.  After her short set, she nodded and was joined by Burton.  A duet?  

She looked up and found him, up in his perch.  She nodded, and the two launched into a series of excerpts from Semele, Handel’s somewhat neglected tale of a torrid affair between a mortal woman and the god, Jupiter.

Their gazes met as she sang.

O Jove! In pity teach me which to choose,

Incline me to comply, or help me to refuse!

The baritone thundered.

Too well I read her meaning,

But must not understand her.

If Erik’s ears heard the rest of the concert, he could not recall it later.

…

Dean Khan adjourned the faculty meeting.  “Oh Erik, if you have a moment?”

They waited until the room was cleared and Nadir closed the door, then casually looked over the remaining pastries.  “Excellent concert last month.  The work with Burton is certainly paying off.”  

Erik leaned against the table.  “His socks were bright green, but we felt it was a workable compromise.”

“Franco is excellent in front of the crowd.  Has he met the flamenco dancers yet?”

“I put in a call.  I think he’s going to their weekly meeting next Thursday.”

“Marvelous.  Let me know how that goes when you hear, won’t you?”

“Of course.”  Erik felt his chest tighten the longer Nadir perused the snacks and chose to tear off the bandage himself.  “Anything else?”

“There is, in fact,” Nadir did not look up from the muffins.  “Christine’s performance was exceptional.  Truly filled with passion.”

Erik tried to take a sip of coffee but his cup was empty.  He faked it.  “She’s a wonderful artist.”

“Yes.  I couldn’t help but notice--” Nadir paused over the croissants, then passed them over to examine the cookies.  “You two seem to have a unique and strong mentor-trainee relationship.”

“Thank you.”  It had not been a question.  There was nothing here… yet.  “We work well together.”  

“I’m glad to hear that.  The program you’ve created is admirable for it’s transparency and integrity.”

“I agree.  Thank you for noticing.”

Nadir looked up with a slight nod, then selected a macadamia cookie.  “I’m sure the remaining six months will fly by, Erik.”

He had no idea how to respond.

...

Six months.  There were six months left in the visiting artist term.  There were more sessions, a mini tour, and a series of small concerts meant to showcase the new talent the department had ‘produced’.  

Six months of lies, pretending he was misunderstanding something.  Pretending he didn’t notice the way she was at his side and on his mind.  Then she would leave him to the dull, overworked life he’d made for himself in the hopes of making a name for himself while simultaneously avoiding attention.  More lies, but easier to swallow.  

Her voice came from the hallway.  “Erik?  I’m heating up some water, would you like tea?”

“Is it the one you brought?”

A light laugh.  Sparkling.  “Of course.”

He dropped his work and grabbed his cup.  “Be right there.”

…

A very successful fundraiser was wrapping up on the top floor of the performing arts center.  It had a view over the campus, the nice side, and the glow of downtown caught the streaking rain on the tall glass walls.  

The donors had been generous, delighted with the new features of the program and the willingness to be accessible.  Erik stayed to the side, avoiding the center of the room where Piangi and his wife Carlotta took up residence.  Nadir circulated the room, nudging him out from time to time for a refill and to participate.  When forced to do so, Erik sloshed some middling red wine into his glass and let himself slip into Christine’s gravity for a few minutes before drifting away again.  

He could feel her gaze.

The cocktail party was to end at eleven-thirty, and by then nearly all the guests had left.  The last ones were rushed  out and Piangi hurried to the bar.  

“Open season!” 

A quick crush to the bar and every open bottle was ‘liberated’ to the long-suffering exhibits.  Christine topped off her glass and passed the bottle to a fellow soprano, hardly twenty years old, and the two laughed and kicked off their heels.  Piangi and Burton laughed over an earlier flub and the cello player, finally able to pack his instrument and relax, demanded and received a full glass.

Erik tipped back a hearty, warm swallow and emerged from the hinterlands.

“Oh, hi Dr. Devereaux!  Did you just get here?” teased Carlotta.  “Your legend only grows the more you hide.”

“All part of my devious plan,” he conceded.  Christine’s giggle mingled with the laughs of her peers.  “If you’ll excuse me.  Piangi, brilliant as always.”

“Same to you, Erik!  We plan many parties now, no?”

Easing his way towards the mirth, Erik relaxed.  There were plenty of others around, and this was just the after party to a long dog and pony show.  Listen to the pretty songbirds and throw money at the program, invitation only.  They all deserved drinks after three hours of that.

Christine was plucking a pin from her hair.  She shook the curls loose.  “Hi Erik!  God, I’m so glad to see you.”

“Oh?”

She held up a bottle.  “Yeah, you need a refill.”  

It had been a long night.  These events could be tricky to navigate.  Sometimes there was politics, other times business rivals.  More often, donors expected special privilege and access in exchange for their checks, as if the last hundred years of progress meant nothing.  The way a few of them had looked at Erik, maybe it didn’t.  

He let her pour some white wine over the dregs of his red.  Improvised rosé.  “Everything go okay?”  

“Good enough.  I think I have some auditions, and some stuff nearby might open up for me.”

“That’s great.  Who with?”

A nice chorus.  A solid baroque group.  Both could springboard to bigger things.  A few bigger things were here.  

“What’s bigger?”  She asked, her eyes dark and soft.  

He had not meant to speak, and now he rushed his words.  “Things!  Choirs, operas.  There’s a few small opera troupes and there’s churches that need choral directors that know how to work with organ and piano.”

She sniggered.  “Organs.”  The other soprano dissolved into giggles.

Erik pulled out his phone.  Clearly neither was driving tonight.  He absently tallied up his glasses and admitted he wasn’t either.

“Do you play the organ, Erik?”

“Yes.”

Christine stepped closer and, on pure instinct, Erik put his arm around her as she turned her head to speak.

“Can I watch?”  

His collar was tight.  He pulled up the app and ordered a car.

They ran through the rain, more than sprinkled, less than soaked.  Plenty wet to shiver from the chill of the driver’s exuberant air conditioning, though.  Between giggles and poorly composed directions, they dropped off the other soprano who wobbled successfully to her door before their driver sped away.  Christine did not shift away to the other seat, but leaned into him, tucking herself against his side.  

The driver glanced in the rear view mirror, then looked away.

She was cool and smooth.  Her loosened curls had tightened from the wet and tickled his neck and brushed against his mask.  

Her hand on his thigh.  Erik said nothing.  If he was silent there was a kind of deniability, or denial at least, of what was happening.  If he could deny that her fingernails caught on the inner seam of his trousers, then she could deny that his hand was firmly planted at her waist, holding her close.

And if she could deny that, then she could also deny that her nose bumped his chin, her ragged breath loud in his ears.  And they could both deny that their lips grazed, a not-kiss somehow more intimate than if their lips moved and pulled at each other.  Like her singing, it was the pause that made your breath catch and your insides tug.

“What number?”

Dashboards lights reflected in her eyes.  “That one,” she said, and cautiously settled.  The driver pulled forward and Christine unbuckled.  

“Good night, Erik.  See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Christine.”

The driver glanced in the rearview.  Erik looked down.  “Sorry.”

The driver shrugged.  

One more month.

…

He was hiding.  He’d been hiding for weeks; stopped looking for her, stopped even wondering where she was or if she was alone.  There was no way to be near her without the pretense of a piano that wouldn’t leave him shaking.  No way to think about her without wanting.

He was Erik, a composer, a conductor, performer, designer of auditory spaces and translator of music.  He was a collaborative pianist and vocal specialist.  He’d given everything to music and the service of it, the delivery of it.  He didn’t need this. He’d never had this.

No one ever offered.  So he’d found fulfillment elsewhere, until now.

Erik hunched over his work, safely tucked into his corner of the music labs building.  Between grading, senior thesis submissions, revisions to his own publications, and a request for a letter of recommendation, he could be plenty busy late into the night with no need for anyone to--

“Hello?  Erik?”

Erik snatched at his mask and settled it.  He’d been found.  Time to lie, except he can’t lie to her.

“Can I help you with something, Christine?”  He gathered a stack and stood.  She met him by his door.

“Well, yeah,” she paused, blocking his path momentarily before stepping aside.  “I need your signature on my visiting artist release.  And another on my endorsement for my new job.”

Erik hefted his armload to the work closet.  “I’m sure they look forward to meeting you.  Come on.”  He unlocked the door and held it open, then followed behind her, hitting the light switch with his elbow before catching the door on his foot, then he kicked the brick into place.  He had to hold the stack to keep it from spilling across the work table.

She handed him the forms.  Erik moved to a span of clean tabletop and started scanning the release form.  Government agency boilerplate to satisfy the grant was mixed with flowery language so no one would suspect they were anything but artists.  Yesterday Franco had brought Burton’s form-- yep, this was Christine’s.  So on and so forth.

Erik had just finished scratching out his signature when he heard a familiar scrape.

“Why on earth do you keep a-”

Click.

“--brick?”

Erik pressed the heel of his hand into his chin.  

“Are we… locked in?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”  A faint rumble vibrated in the walls.  “I don’t suppose that was just… construction?”

Erik let out a mirthless laugh.  “There were storms brewing earlier.  Besides, does this building look like they work on it?”

“Not really.”

Another rumble, louder, and the light fixture jittered.  

Christine finally took a deep breath.  “Have you been avoiding me?”

“No!  Yes.  I don’t know.”  He touched his hairline, recapped a pen.  “We crossed a line.  I had to get back behind it and I couldn’t if we…”  His hands skated across the table top nervously.  

“Is this about being my mentor?”

Erik barked an ugly, bitter laugh.  “What else?  God, you just, out of nowhere, with your smiles, and the way you look at me, and sing to me, and the Semele…” Erik’s skin grew tight as he recalled the cocktail party.  He turned, face growing hot beneath the porcelain and his throat tightening.  He was a ruin.

“--and the touching and wanting and you’re… you’re just going to leave!  I’m a fucking idiot!”

On cue, an extended, throaty roar of thunder rattled the stone and brick until the bare bulb above could suffer no more.  With a loud pop, the narrow room went dark.  They both scuffled in the dark until they had hold of something sturdy.

“Erik?”

He was embarrassed.  He was frustrated.  “What.”

“You need to sign the other form.”

“Want to get away that bad?  Fine.”  He reached for a desk lamp and tried to turn it on.  He flipped the switch furiously.  The power was out.

“Here,” Christine held up her phone and lit the screen.  Her screensaver was… them? Beside a piano together?

Erik snatched a pen from the table and slashed his name.  “There.  Just search for facilities or call the university police.  They can unlock the door.”

“Erik, did you even look at it?”

“Why bother.”

She snorted at him.  “God, you’re so blind.”

“The lights were out.”

“Fine, you want to be a jerk, be one, but at least look at where I’m taking a job before you decide to walk.”

She lit up her phone once more and he glared at the page like it was staring at his mask.  He tracked the offer and terms until he reached the party names and…

“You took a job at… a middle school?  Here?”  He looked up into the dim light.  “You’re not leaving?”

“Meet the new grade six to eight choir director.  Go Scotties.  And now you have no direct influence over my career.”

Her screensaver dimmed, and before it went dark, Erik could make out a flash of their faces, turned to each other.  He wondered if Nadir had seen this moment, because they looked as passionate as lovers despite being feet apart.

The room went black again, and he could hear her moving.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That much has been apparent.  What do you know?”

She was close.  Close enough to feel the way she shifted the air.  “I know way too much about motif design, lyric phrasing--”

Closer.  “Go on.”  Her hips were near his. 

“Harmonic theory, vocals”

 “Can attest.”  Her fingertips were at his jawline, tracing his mask.  “I thought it would be cold.”

“It’s been on my face all day.  Early Romantic era competition and,” his voice scraped over gravel, “that I want you. So bad.”

Her kiss was her reply.  Erik’s hands flew around her as she pivoted to the table with him, dragging his mask upwards.  He gasped as cool air brushed his face, followed by light, curious fingertips and her hot mouth.  Erik knocked over the stack of papers and files with a satisfying splatter.

“Is that light over there?” she asked, dragging her lips from his.  “Around that cabinet door?”

“What?” he panted.  “I thought that was a panel.”

She pushed him off gently, peering up at the wall.  “Right there, see?”

Sure enough, there was a thin line of light.  It was a hidden door with a magnetic latch. 

“They can’t keep the regular door from locking you in but they put a trick door at the back?”  Erik complained as he climbed through awkwardly.  Very awkwardly.  Her lips were red and swollen.

“Let me grab my things and we can get out of here.”

Erik checked his watch.  “First, we’re turning in your forms.”

“It’s almost five!”

“We’ll make it if we run.”

Panting, they caught the dean just as he was packing up to leave.

“Erik, Christine?  Are you alright?  That was some storm we--”

Erik shoved the forms at him.  “Yep. Terrible storm.  Here.”

“Indeed, Erik.  Why, your hair is a mess and I’ve never seen your shirt untucked.”

“Big wind.  Yep.  Almost hit by lightning.  Here, time stamp?”

“Miss Daaé, you may want to adjust…”

“For God’s sake just take the stupid form so we can go!” Christine shouted.

Nadir laughed and scanned the forms.  “I don’t want to see you until Monday, Erik.  You better be late.”

He didn’t make it in until Wednesday.

...

[dottiechan]

Finders Keepers Pt. 2 (A SWTOR Imperial Agent story)

Part 1 / Part 2

Wordcount: 1882

Summary: Havoc learns of the survival of SIS agent Dorathine Garza, now classified rogue due to her treasonous acts against the Republic. Months of futile investigation lead Aric Jorgan to finally stumble upon a strange clue.

Warnings: death, mentions of drinking/alcohol

Aric stalks across the ship like a ghost, starting from the ramp and arriving in the armoury without saying a word. Not a single member of Havoc squad dares ask him how his rendezvous with the SIS went – even the usually chipper and socially unaware Forex can sense the tension Jorgan’s arrival has generated, so he lets Yuun run his usual diagnostic scans on him in silence. The last time the war bot did a patriotic speech about destroying the Republic’s enemies, their commander almost put a blaster bolt between the droid’s mechanical eyes. Had it not been for Elara’s and Yuun’s joined effort to hold him back, Aric is pretty sure he would have dropped the clanker then and there. Commander Jorgan knows that it’s not that simple. It’s not the fight of light versus dark. Good versus evil. It’s a fight between one half of the Galaxy and the other, with both good and bad on both sides. And when he’s not seeing red, he knows that Forex’s simplistic patriotic programming could never understand that.

But he can’t help it. Every time Dee’s involved, he loses it.

Even now, he’s not fully himself as he inspects their weaponry that he knows he’ll find in pristine condition. Aric would like to blame it all on having to spend – and thus argue – an entire day with SIS agent Jonas Balkar, but it’s not that simple. The topic was Dee. More specifically the accusations the Republic has been pinning on her for months, now crowned with a sizeable bounty and the authorisation of lethal force should she resist arrest. “Who in their right minds wouldn’t though?” he argued back to Balkar. “Especially if said person is innocent.”

There’s undoubtedly blood on her hands now. Fifty, sixty military personnel and civvies. It’s reason enough to demand her apprehension, Aric agrees with that. But Dee cannot be doing it willingly – she must have been tortured, beaten into submission, controlled by fear. There’s got to be a reason, because the soldier he helped advance, the young woman he shaped to become who she is cannot with good conscience commit war crimes so remorselessly. Aric taught her discipline, morals, enjoying the fruit of hard labour. He never concerned himself with the wild streak in the girl, because she continuously delivered what she promised. Then one intelligence op that went a little too well, and the blasted SIS swooped in to claim her like a shyrack grabbing prey. He cannot truly vouch for who she is now, but it doesn’t lessen his responsibility – he gave her the foundations of being a loyal soldier, a military asset. If she failed, she failed because his teachings didn’t take root in her. And that is something the Cathar refuses to face. That, and the fact that he would have given her all the stars in the Galaxy had she ever thought to ask. But she never did. She never asked him for a damned thing.

Admitting that he might not have known her as well as he thought is another recognition that causes pressure right behind his eyes, and he can feel two ways this strictly ordered R&R night can go for him – either he takes a speeder to the Coruscanti army base and wrecks as many training dummies as he can, or he knocks back the rest of the booze he secretly stashes in his footlocker underneath his cot in the commander’s quarters and passes out. What he wouldn’t give for an Imperial spymaster to sink his claws into now! Maybe then this constant buzzing in his mind would finally stop. It has to. He’s been stretched out too thin lately, chasing an enemy of the Republic that seemingly does not want to be found. And he’s wearing down Havoc in the process, he knows. Quiet Elara is more elusive than ever, always locked in her coffin-sized quarters listening to medical lectures and holojournals. Yuun busies himself with the ship, and the droid. Blast, even Forex is quiet now when he enters. Only Tanno Vik seems to be taking it well, but Jorgan never liked the man. Then again, he doesn’t really trust his judgement when it comes to people anymore.

The whirring static of the holotable draws him away from his thoughts and he abandons the blasters to investigate. It’s soon plain to him – despite being quite the layman when it comes to technological equipment – that someone is trying to slice into their comm channel. Aric wants to call for Elara, but by the time he remembers she’s left not ten minutes ago, it’s too late.

She’s luminescent, blue, static and fraying. Audio a little distorted. But it’s her.

“You really need to up the security of your ship, LT.”

“It’s captain now, actually.”

“I heard. It’s just difficult to let go of old habits.”

“And what should I call you?” he asks cautiously, arms crossed over his chest, pacing up and down like a caged nexu. “Dee? Agent? Traitor?”

“I didn’t call you to trade names.”

“Then why are we talking? Surely you’re not interested in my wellbeing all of a sudden?”

“You’d be surprised... But no. I’m calling because this has to stop. Because you need to stop coming after me like that. I had a clear shot at you on Kashyyyk, but since you and I go way back, I thought I’d give you a warning first.”

...

“Are you listening, Sergeant?”

“Yes, LT. Hanging on every word.”

It’s late at night, but she’s being loaned temporarily for an intel mission in a week and Aric wastes no time to prepare one of the finest troops he had the honour of training. Such raw talent and potential, paired with such an attitude – if only she could tone it down. But she’s young, and reckless, and not broken in properly yet. The years will do that job for him, Jorgan knows. They’ll teach her what words cannot.

“Good. Then name the key infiltration points of the listening outpost.”

She lists them effortlessly, though the slight hesitation in her voice here and there gives him cause to believe that she’s guessing more than telling. He’s had to learn how to weed out the untrustworthy, deceitful candidates in the army, so he knows what it sound like when someone lies to him.

“Educated guess, but it shows your lack of preparation.”

“Did I get them right though, sir?”

She’s smirking now, leaning back, hands moving to the back of her neck to support the weight of her head. If she wasn’t wearing 30 kg of Republic issue reinforced plastoid armour, she’d look like a senator’s daughter enjoying a round of Sabacc at the Star Cluster Casino on Nar Shaddaa.

“That... is beside the point. You can’t always rely on quick wit to save you.”

“That’s why I always bring a big gun and a few thermal detonators with me.”

“I’m hoping to still be around when you realise weapons aren’t everything. That being a soldier is much more than just aiming and pulling the trigger.”

“Oh, you’ll be around, LT. Just not sure I’ll be too.”

That smirk forms on her lips again, head lolling lazily to one side. Aric feels tightness in his chest – concern over her words, and quickened heartbeat due to corners of her mouth being tugged up into a smile that is enough to make him completely unbalanced. He says a silent prayer to the GAR for keeping Dee mostly on the right path. Stars know what this young woman would turn into if she didn’t have the moral guidance of the military life. She’d waste her potential on something lowly, his rational mind tells Aric. But there’s an even bigger, more suppressed fear in the back of his head – he’s afraid she’d turn into someone he couldn’t like anymore. Someone he couldn’t respect. Someone he couldn’t love.

“Nonsense. Your mother would court martial me if I ever let anything happen to you.”

He regrets the joke as soon as it’s out, because it wipes the smile right off her face. “Or she’d give you a medal. There’s a fifty-fifty chance, if you’re brave enough to take it. Now, where were we, sir? Not five minutes ago you were like a broken reg manual spouting your military wisdom on repeat, and now somehow we’re analysing my relationship with my mother.”

“Dee... If you ever needed someone to talk to... It couldn’t have been easy, growing up in her shadow...” Aric starts cautiously, pained voice trailing off. It’s his turn to hesitate, and hers to pick it up and scorn.

“I hear the Crater is still open at this time of the night. If you want to talk family, I’ll need an optimal level of alcohol first.”

Greedy. Exploitative. Unprofessional.

Jorgan scolds himself as he agrees before they walk across the now quiet Fort Garnik, saluting the troopers on guard duty as they head over the small, dirty watering hole in the camp.

But he just cannot feel bad about it when it all feels so good.

...

The cot feels smaller and colder than usual. This solitary life is no stranger to the man, but to hear her voice again after so long is enough to make his body inject itself with more adrenalin than what it could handle. He has already submitted his request for leave – it shouldn’t surprise the higher ups, especially General Garza, that he needs some time away after learning of the GAR approved, SIS issued bounty placed on Dee’s head. By his calculations, they will accept it effective immediately, leaving him just enough time to take a shuttle to Nar Shaddaa, shed his armour and slip into something less conspicuous before heading to the rendezvous point as agreed. She knows how to pick a good spot – it’s where they ended a massive organ harvesting ring back in the days. Now, it’s nothing more than an abandoned warehouse rusting away in the slums of the Hutt-controlled world. But to them, it’s the peak of what they could achieve if they worked together.

He wants to believe that they can restore that state. That whatever it is the Empire has on her to keep her obedient can be broken by him somehow.

Just as he’s about to shift and turn onto his other side on the mattress, his datapad blinks in the dark. He reaches out and turns it on, yellow eyes skimming through the formalities of Garza’s message to get to the bottom of it. As anticipated, he is granted a leave of four days starting tomorrow. Aric switches the lights on, stretches, and abandons the datapad on the bed in favour of getting dressed. He knows he would never be able to sleep in such an ecstatic state that he finds himself in now, so he prepares, stocks up his personal supplies. He then studies the holomap of the Nar Shaddaa district while chewing on a ration bar absentmindedly. Like a soldier prepping for a battle.

To anyone else, this might sound like a brewing confrontation. But no, not to Aric. To him, it’s an extraction mission. One where he’ll use words rather than guns in the heat of the battle. One that should have happened a long time ago.

[dearlazerbunny]

Cornered

Pairings: Kylo x Reader

Genre/Ratings: G, some harsh words

Words: 2500

Summary: Written for anon, who requested that Kylo hurt the reader and thus ensues a lengthy forgiveness. Anon, you didn’t specify what *kind* of hurt, so I filled in the blanks myself... hope you enjoy!

The day has been long and hard, and you can’t wait to just get back to your room and sleep. Working for Hux has never been a cakewalk exactly, and you do have to put up with his moods, but it’s the job you’re best suited for and you do a pretty damn good job, if you do say so yourself. It generally leaves you exhausted, though, making it hard to do… well, just about anything else other than work. You have some friends that you catch dinner with occasionally, but your strange hours and frequent sleep schedule often leave you eating alone at 2AM. It can get lonely, if you’re being honest. But you try to shove those feelings deep down as you slide open the door to your bunk and unlace your boots, preparing to fall into bed. Dwelling on those feelings wouldn’t help anyways.

Just as your head hits the pillow, there’s a knock on the door. You sigh and rub your eyes, desperately hoping it’s not a courier calling you back to Hux’s office.

“Can I help- Kylo! Hi!” Rather than a stormtrooper, your boyfriend of the tall, dark, and handsome kind steps into your room before removing his helmet. “What are you doing here?”

“I sensed you as you were walking home.” With his helmet on the ground at his side, he’s transformed into a terrifying Knight to the surprisingly sweet and sensitive boyfriend you know and love. You reach up and tuck a piece of hair behind his ears, which makes him smile faintly. You love that you’re one of the only people he feels comfortable enough to be himself around.  “You aren’t feeling well.”

You roll your eyes and sit on the edge of your mattress. “What have I told you about the whole mind reading thing, Kylo?” After a moment, he sits with you, and you lean into his side until he tucks an arm securely around your waist. “I’m fine, just… tired.”

“It’s less mind reading and more sensing your emotions. And I can’t exactly turn it off.” He kisses the top of your head. “I would sense you if you were on another planet completely.”

You yawn. “Handy if I ever get stranded on Hoth.” You shift your head, which is laid on his shoulder by this point, so you can see his face. “Will you stay with me? I know you’re probably busy, but…”

In one fluid movement, he’s got the both of you lying vertical, with you cradled into his side, arms around you. You muffle a shriek of delight as you practically fly through the air. It always amazes you how strong he is. “Perks of being a commander- if I want to disappear for a few hours, no one is going to question me.”

You snuggle down into the folds of his cape. “Lucky me,” you whisper, eyes already fluttering and about to drift off. Just before you fall asleep completely, you can feel him tuck the edges of his cape around you and kiss the very top of your ear so softly you wonder if you dreamt it.

…

The next day, you’re off running errands across base when you’re suddenly summoned back to Hux’s office. “Sir? You wanted to see me?” “Sit down, Y/N.” He gestures to a seat across from his desk. He seems uncharacteristically stern, so you sit cautiously, bracing yourself for whatever’s to come.

“Now then. Yesterday, at around 1800 hours, Commander Ren went, for lack of a better word, missing, for several hours.” He doesn’t glance up from the paperwork he’s filling out in front of him, but you can tell his attention is entirely on you. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“I…”  shit. Shitshitshit. What are you supposed to say? “Should I know something about it? Sir?”

“It’s actually quite interesting. Because the past few months, all of the commander’s, ahem, disappearances have happened to almost always coincide with your breaks.”

At this point you’re having to physically stop your mouth from hanging open. You’re so busted. Would you get in trouble? Fired? Worse? “That’s… certainly interesting, sir.”

“Mm. Yes, I would say so.” He finally looks up at you, fingers steepled in front of his face. “And it’s certainly interesting that a stormtrooper reported seeing the commander enter your bunks at around 1600 hours yesterday.”

“Of course, he would have no valid reason to make a personal call on my assistant without my knowing,” he continued, “so naturally, I questioned him about it.” Hux pauses, then flips his digipad around to where you can see the screen. “I suggest you listen carefully.”

There’s a video pulled up on the screen. Hux and Kylo, in Hux’s office, clearly arguing about something. But once the audio kicks in, it’s clear they’re arguing about you.

“Are you sleeping with her?” Hux is obviously livid, his voice as fiery as his hair. “Defiling her? She’s one of our brightest officers, I don’t need you corrupting her-”

“Corrupt her?” Kylo shouts back, equally as heated. “Why should I care? About who, the girl? Some assistant I picked off the line to have a little fun with?” He smirks, and you feel your heart sink to the floor so fast you feel like falling with it. “She’s nothing, Hux. A piece of meat to serve my needs. You don’t have to worry about your precious assistant; I’ll be done with her soon enough.”

The video pauses, along with all your vital functions. You can’t blink, you can’t breathe. You just sit there, staring at the screen, Kylo’s words echoing in your head. Serve my needs. Done with her soon enough.

Hux calmly retrieves his digipad and leans back in his chair. “Now then. I trust these little disappearances of the commander’s will not be an issue anymore, yes?”

Tears sting at your eyes, but refuse to fall in front of your boss. “No, sir. They won’t be.”

“Excellent.” He nods once, curtly, and goes back to his paperwork. “You are dismissed.”

You’re a zombie as you walk back to your quarters, barely moving out of the way in time for other people to pass you in the corridors. A piece of meat to him. Nothing more. Is that… is that really what he thinks of you?

Have the past few months been the biggest mistake of your entire life?

Once you’re back in your room, you do something you’ve never done before- you open your mind up and scream Kylo’s name in your head as loud as you can, sure that will get his attention. Sure enough, a few minutes later there’s a banging on your door so loud you wince in your catatonic state. You open the door and he rushes in, saber drawn, clearly ready to fight off kidnappers or a rouge trooper. When all he sees is you, small and defeated, crying on the bed, he immediately waves the door closed and kneels in front of you. “Y/N? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

You close your eyes against the image of his face; his brown eyes so caring and his hair falling all over the place. “Hux knows.”

You hear him exhale, long and slow. “I know. He cornered me yesterday. But I think I threw him off, don’t worry.”

A tear slips down your cheek. “And how exactly did you do that?” You finally look into his eyes, unable to hold back the tidal wave of hurt anymore. “A piece of meat, Kylo? Is that really all I am to you?” You hold back a sob. “We haven’t even…” the tears finally begin to fall in earnest as you hunch over, unable to avoid collapsing.

Kylo’s face goes white, and his knuckles do the same as he slowly clenches his hands into fists. “What are you talking about.”

“He videoed you, Kylo!” You practically scream, even though he’s right in front of you. “Saying those awful things! About how you’ll be done with me? You picked me off the line to serve your needs?” You cry harder and faster. “Fuck you. Fuck you, Kylo Ren, and every single day I’ve spent on you since I met you.”

“No- no, Y/N, listen to me.” His voice is a little frantic. “I had to throw him off of our trail. If- if he knew we were together, he would take steps to destroy us.” He pauses. “Just like he’s doing now.”

“But shit, Kylo, you didn’t have to sound so sincere!”

“I meant none of that, Y/N. Not a single word. You are everything to me, and just saying it made me want to rip my heart out of my chest. To have to say those things about you broke me.”

“Except you didn’t have to say them,” you whisper. “You could have just avoided the question, or lied, or done a million things other than call me your slut.

“Y/N-”

“Get out,” you say quietly. “I don’t want to see you.”

“Please, Y/N-”

“I said get out.”

He seems to sense your mind is made up, so he backs away, albeit reluctantly. And then he’s gone, back into the depths of base, while you lay your head down onto your pillow and cry.

…

The next few days- then weeks, then months- pass in a blur. You’ve isolated yourself from everyone not essential to your survival, and on the off times can usually be found laying in your bunk staring at the ceiling. Every moment you spend alone makes your heart pang, but you force it to shut up so often the pain has begun to fade to a dull numbness. You push all thoughts of Kylo Ren out of your head, only risking to remember him in the very dead of night when you’re sure he wouldn’t be listening. And even then the memories only make you cry.

He’s tried to contact you- notes, messages, messengers, even knocking on your door himself, but you never respond. You can’t. You can’t risk opening up that box and being used again like you had before. Never again, that’s what you promised yourself.

So you went on with your work, day after day, with nothing to break the monotony or the silence. A stormtrooper hands you papers for Hux and you go to deliver them, wandering the corridors checking various offices and conference rooms for him. Nowhere to be found. Eventually, you notice the cavernous space reserved only for meetings with the Supreme Leader is occupied. He must be in there. Normally you wouldn’t dare interrupt, but these papers were urgent.

You knock, but of course in the large hall he doesn’t hear you. So you risk opening the door a crack and listening in, waiting to find a good time to intervene. They seem to be discussing Kylo, and that makes your heart hurt, so you’re about to turn away, when a few choice words catch your ear.

“And the distraction has been eliminated?”

“Yes, Supreme Leader.” Hux pauses, as if he’s searching for words. “We finally caught him visiting her room. Solid proof. So I interrogated him until he felt the need to try and trick me; make it seem as though the girl was nothing to him.” He continues in a tone that makes it seem like there’s a bad taste in his mouth. “He was obviously lying. He clearly… cared for her. But after showing her his rant she hasn’t contacted him in months.”

“Excellent. You have done well, General.”

“Thank you, Supreme Leader.”

You back away from the door, in shock. A set up. It was all a set up. Just like Kylo had said. And you hadn’t believed him.

You’d turned him away so many times he’d stopped trying.

Instantly, you’re running, dodging white armored men and maintenance trolleys as you race to the flight hangar. Despite yourself, you had been keeping up with Kylo’s schedule, and you knew that today he left on a mission of an undetermined length. You couldn’t let him leave without apologizing. Even… even if he didn’t accept it, it would haunt you until you did.

The hangar is vast, with pilots and mechs bustling every which way, and you quickly lose your way in the chaos. Only when you make your way to the middle of the room do you see Kylo in full regalia, preparing to board his TIE. Unable to stop yourself, you hear yourself shout “Commander!” At the top of your lungs. Everyone stops. Turns. Looks at you, small and uncertain, clutching papers in one hand. Kylo pauses with his back to you, clearly recognizing your voice, and obviously deciding whether or not to acknowledge you.

Finally, he does turn. His face is frustratingly impassive, and you hesitantly approach him, not able to meet his eyes. You hold out the papers in your hand. “Im… important papers from the General. Sir.” Except on top are big bold words that spell out I’M SORRY.

He takes the papers from your hand and studies it for a few minutes. Then pretends to flip through the other papers in the stack as if they are actually important documents. Finally, he turns to a mechanic hovering uncertainly to the side and says, “My ship was not prepared correctly.”

“S- sir?” The mechanic goes white. “I assure you everything is operating under-”

“And I assure you that if you do not recheck every inch of this ship I will personally have your head.” With that, he stalks off towards his quarters. But before he does, you catch the emotion in his eyes. You’ve gotten his attention. Hurriedly, you nod to the mechanic and scamper off, taking a different route to his room so you won’t be following in his footsteps.

When you knock, he lets you in in an instant, obviously waiting for you. “What is this?” He holds up the paper with your apology dashed across it.

To your embarrassment, tears fill your eyes, and you wipe them harshly from your face. “Kylo- I heard Hux talking. To Snoke. About how… they set you up. To say those horrible things about me.” Your breath catches in your chest, and you let the rest of the words spill out and puddle onto the floor. “And I wanted to say that I’m sorry I didn’t believe you and I’m sorry I kicked you out and I’m sorry I’ve been ignoring you and-”

He comes at you, and for a horrible moment he looks like he’s going to hit you, but instead he captures your face between his palms and bends over, giving you a heated kiss. That shuts you up, and you kiss him back in a heartbeat, weaving your fingers through his hair. God, you missed him. You missed him so much.

When you break away, you’re both panting, but not willing to leave each other’s space. His forehead rests on yours and you laugh breathlessly, unable to keep a smile from working its way across your face. “Well. Wasn’t exactly expecting that.”

You can feel his thumb gliding its way across your cheek, brushing away dried tears. “Y/N. I never- I never stopped hoping that-”

“-that I’d come back to you,” you whisper, finishing his sentence. “Kylo, I’m so sorry I ever left.”

He kisses you again, and for the first time in months, you feel like you’ve begun to breathe again.

[skyfallofcybertron-blog]

Transformers Skyfall: Chapter 3. Famous Blue Raincoat.

Singers never forget. Singers record everything. Their minds are filled with the songs of Cybertron. Generations of stories and history; passed down from parent to child. If I wasn’t sparked Minicon; if I was forged pure, I’m sure I would have learned the way that Singers could communicated through the spark. I lacked that fundamental teaching. However, I still recorded everything and stored it safely behind an near unbreakable firewall.

Commander Starscream deemed that was a priority. So, logically, I was taken to Shockwave. To be improved.

Shockwave’s lab was just a creepy as he was. It was a crosscut of every sick experiment or torture that you could think of, but kept in a neat, organized and sterile fashion. Megatron basically let him have free rein to do whatever he pleased. Most bots hoped and prayed to never see his lab in their function. I shifted on my peds; completely overshadowed by the monstrous mech.

"Minicon," He began, his signal red optic staring expressionlessly at my medical records, "Lord Megatron as deemed that your Singer subsets to be an assist to the Decepticons. Your ability to process information at a quick and efficient manner has impressed him. He has instructed me to enhance your Singer capabilities and proved you with upgrades so you can more suitably function as communications officer and spy. Lord Megatron wishes for the process to begin eminently."

I had no time to make a retort.

The pain was unbearable. Everything was removed and deep wired. Parts disappeared. Parts where added. By the end of it, I wasn't sure what was left of me was me to begin with.

I woke up to the world spinning and my audios screaming. I covered them, but the sound of my own servos and joints made it worst. Not only could I hear my joints, but I could hear the machines in the room inner workings and the conversations through the walls, the marching outside, the yelling from the battle that was being fought clicks away.

My internal gyros couldn't tell if I was up or down or walking or sitting or flying. Intakes turned and I emptied them on the floor. I hung over the side of the berth, my frame staking as I tried to reorient myself. I clutched the frame of the berth tightly in my digits as I struggled to breathe. Long, sticky lines of haft processed energon dipped from my mouth.

I didn’t have a chance to get my bearings. A vechicon drone scooped me up and brought me to my next appointment. Starscream waiting impatiently outside of what I would find out later to be my new home. Starscream grumbled something about the mess I was in, but to be honest, I wasn’t really focusing on that. I was more deterred by the fact that the drone set me on the floor. I was now being forced to stand on my own two peds. The walls looked like they were swimming. I set a servo on the vechicon’s leg just to make sure I wasn’t actually the one swimming. It was definitely the walls.

The Air Commander was greeted by Night Glide. I don’t actually remember how the conversation went. I do have it uploaded and backuped, but even after thousands of years, I never watched the footage of my third pass off. I can only assume that Starscream was stroking his own ego and only threw in the fact that I had just gotten out of surgery. The two Seekers didn’t chat for long. Thank Primus.

Once Starscream and his escort disappeared, Night Glide gathered me up. He set me on his berth while he tried to get any sense of function out of me. It must have been a challenge. Bless his stubborn spark for doing so.

“My name isn’t Minicon…” I remember muttering.

There was a flash of relief in his optics. I remember that clear as day. It was the only good thing that I saw all day. Somebot that actually wanted to help me. Somebot that didn’t want to murder me outright. Somebot that actually cared about me.

“Then what is your name?” Night Glide replied. I remember that he was being ever so careful wiping the energon off of my faceplate.

“...Skyfall...”

Then, Night Glide smiled.

“Skyfall.”

I was pulled from my thoughts when Night Glide tapped me on the shoulder plate. I rubbed my optic and yawned. It was too early for this. The two of us were sitting in a colour parlour; waiting for my appointment. Since both of us had work, I had to get the earliest slot possible. For once, my tinyness was a good thing. It wasn’t going to take long for a complete overhaul.

“Are you alright?” Night Glide asked.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I'm alright. Just tired still.”

“The Immigration Office is making you work too hard.”

“There's a lot of work to do.”

Night Glide’s month became a thin little line of displeasure. I rubbed his leg to comfort him. He took my servo in his.

There was a commotion from one of the offices down the hall. An excited squeal from both an engine and vocalizer. Then the sudden charge of peds. A rounded out groundpounder femme came racing down the corridor.

“SKYFALL! YOU’RE ALIVE!”

I smiled brightly. My optics couldn't believe what I was seeing. I hadn't seen this femme in years and not even because of the War. I hadn't seen Wind Whistler since before being sold to Calloway. I was whipped up in soft blues and pastel pinks as Wind Whistler hugged me tightly to her chestplates.

“Sweet Solus Prime, Windy!” I giggled, “It's nice to see you too!”

“Where’s Jetstream and the mechs!? I haven't seen you guys since Erion’s air show! Primus, that's so long ago now-”

Jetstream.

That wasn't a name I had thought about for a long, long time. A flash of her faceplate appeared in my mind. Gentle yellow optics that was always fill with affection. An affectionation that never blossomed. It just lead to back door agreements and Swindle’s lies.

My spark suddenly ached.

Night Glide once again brought me back to reality. The Seeker stood; setting his servo on my shoulder. He leaned in to whisper, though loud enough for Wind Whistler to hear.

“Now, who's your friend, sweetspark?”

“Ahh…”

The words fizzled out in my voice box. I looked between the now concerned bots. I faked a smile; hoping that it would drown out my spark.

“Ah, yeah, I'm sorry. I haven't introduced you two yet.” I gestured to the Seeker, “Windy, this is Night Glide; my endura and carrier.”

I watched as the poor grounder’s face try to pick an emotion. Primus only knows what Wind Whistler was now thinking. Oh, well. I had plenty of time to explain what happened once we got started. Wind Whistler finally settled on a delight.

“Oh wow! You got hitched!? Congratulations!” She said with a giggle. She looked over to Night Glide, “To the both of you!” Then back to me, “Looks like we have a lot to catch up on, huh, Sky?”

I couldn’t help, but to nod. “Seems like that.”

Night Glide said his goodbyes. He hurried off to work as Wind Whistler chirped away about the last few thousand years or so. She had joined the Autobots in the end. She was stationed on an ark with her partner, Evac. They were basically rescue bots, but for the ship’s inhabitants. Two fast cars racing around to save the lives of bots in distress. Seemed like she had it a bit better than most.

After a few quick hours of surgery and part clean up; I was surprised how good I felt. My chassis didn't rattle nearly as much. The stiffness that I had ignored, to the point where I believed it was normal, was gone. My wings didn't creak anymore. Nor when I transformed. Wind Whistler was insistent that I had go and fly around the building before she started on my new paint. I cycled the block a few times; enjoying the sun. The feeling of wind under my wings. The sensation felt fresh, new, like the first time I took to the air...

I had to admit it. Windy was as good as ever.

I felt like a million credits.

I decided that the grounder would be the one to choose my new paint. Wind Whistler was ecstatic. To be perfectly honest, I had no idea what colors I wanted. I had been sparked a dull gray color with purple trim. I never gave a thought about changing it. It was what it was. Calloway tried a few times to get me brighten up my plates, but I never took him up on his offer. During the War, there was no time to fuss over paint jobs. I was kind of surprised I still had paint still clinging to my metal.

We settled on a flashy chameleon paint; something that changed on the angle and the lighting. It was a brilliant violet as first, but if it hit the right light it flashed a deep blue or a soft lavender. Tiny shimmering flecks glistened throughout the entire finish and it was all wrapped up in a bright orange trim. I looked like and felt like stardust.

With a hug and a wave, I hopped to my shift over at the Immigration Office; definitely feeling better then I had have ever been. I trotted down hallways with a tall stack of data pads as my coworkers stopped to give me a compliment or two. Not going to lie, it was a good ego boost. I began to wonder why I had never done it sooner. Too busy with work, I suppose.

“My, my, my, look at Ms. Skyfall.” I heard a voice purr.

I peeked over my stack. A slick pearly black racer decked out in bright orange biolights was standing in front of the door I was trying to enter. The mech smiled coyly and bented down at the waist to get on my optic level.

“Does Sweet Wings know you’re charming all the mechs?”

I felt my armor puff up in embarrassment, “Delegate Fireworks.”

Fireworks chuckled. If I was to have a best friend, it would be Fireworks. I had only known the racer for a few short cycles. He was a delegate from Velocitron; a colony that prided itself on their speed and engineering. He was part of the latter. Fireworks was a celebrity back on his homeworld. A daredevil with a flare for pyrotechnics. He crashed into my spark and he had falling helm over ped for Night Glide and I. I never could figure out why.

“I’m sorry,” I continued as Firework’s help me with my paperwork, “Where you all waiting for me? I meant to get here sooner.”

“Don’t worry about it, sweetspark. The Mistress of Flame is fashionably late as always.”

He rolled his optics. I didn’t really know much about Camiens, but from what little Fireworks spoke about, the Mistress of Flame seem to work on her own schedule. She afterall was her colony’s head figure. The femme must have been a busy bot.

“We’re still puttering around and setting things up.”

“Oh thank Primus.”

I followed Fireworks through the doors to a large chamber room. Delegates from across the colonies milled about the room; socializing with Cybertron’s new government heads. History is written by those who won and those who won where the Autobots. Team Prime in particular took up the mantle of government officials until there was enough of an infrastructure to host an election. That point was coming, sooner than expected, but all of this forward motion was a good thing in everyone’s books.

I did still get shivers just standing in a room filled with some of the most elite Autobot warriors though. They may have been my new bosses and I might have had a flashy new paint job, but they still scared the ever living scrap out of me. So, I did my job; setting up the conference table with the meeting’s tasks and files. Quickly and discreetly. So, I could get in and get the pits out. I wasn’t a warrior bot by any stretch of the imagination.

One bot always noticed me though. Every single time. Without fail. Yet every time, he would make me jump out of my plating when he addressed me. I thought I would have gotten used to it by now. He was the biggest bot in the room after all.

“Thank you, Skyfall.” Optimus Prime softly spoke.

I froze in my spot. Slowly, I turned my helm up to look at the massive Prime. Sweet Primus, he could have crushed me under his ped no problem if he wanted to. Any further back into the War, he probably would have. Yet, Optimus had his usual kind and soft smile on. I smiled meekly in return. Out of instinct. Like the well trained Minicon I am.

“Y-You’re welcome, Optimus, s-sir.” I sputtered out.

Optimus smile turned into the thinnest of frowns. He looked so sad. Or perhaps, disappointed? It would be hard to ever know what happens in the mind of a Prime. I’m not one after all. I have no idea what kind of thought process he has with all that ancient knowledge stored in his helm. I felt my wings droop low to the floor anyways.

After a moment of contemplating; the mighty Optimus Prime did lean down and offer me his servo. I blinked a few times; trying to process what to do. It slowly clicked into place. I handed over one my last data pads to Optimus. My servo was impossibly small in Prime’s as I gave him the pad, but he took it with utmost care.

“Good luck with the meeting, s-sir.” I managed to say.

Optimus Prime’s smile returned. This time, it was a little brighter.

“Thank you, Skyfall.”

“You’re welcome, sir.” I repeated.

The Prime softly nodded. He stood to address the Mistress of Flame and Cityspeaker Windblade. I took the opportunity to disengage from Optimus and skirt over to Windblade to give her the meeting’s notes. Like Fireworks, Windblade was somebot I could actually speak too without going into a panic attack. Windblade reinsured me that Optimus wasn’t going to crush me. I can only be so sure though.

Later that night, I was resting on top of Night Glide’s chestplate. The both of us off in our own little worlds. Just quietly enjoying each other’s company. This is how we loosened up at the end of the day. With just the warmth of each other close. The War made us paranoid for the other’s contact. We both needed it to function.

“Why didn’t you ever talk about Wind Whistler? Or that Jetstream and Erion that she spoke about?” Night Glide suddenly broke the silence.

I fumbled with my data pad. It bounced off his plating onto our berth. For a moment, I forgot that my voice box could work. It crackled as I forced myself to speak.

“Because… I didn’t think I would ever seen them again.” I whispered, “They were my...friends from Kalis. Before I started working for Calloway of Iacon.”

“Friends or masters?” Night Glide accused.

To be honest, I didn’t really have an answer for him.

[ridiculous-in-action]

Quintmagic Chronicles 1: Chapter 4

(THE BEGINNING | LAST | NEXT) -----------------------------------------------

Here’s some more Quintmagic Chronicles content for y’all! I’ve been holding this chapter hostage for a long while, haha. 

The backstory of Allura and Priya continues this chapter, and Kolivan makes an important space-phonecall. 

Like always, chapter under the cut~

Mystery Message

Kolivan huffs, staring down at the reports he had been sent earlier this quintant. He had received an urgent message concerning the druids’ newest experiments. Kolivan almost drops his data-pad when he finds out what is so urgent. Apparently, subjects of a secret project managed to escape their holding cells in-between experiments and now a group of them is on the loose.

“…Are those… Ulaz’ quinthybrids? He said he lost track of them after they were transferred to a more secure location”, he mumbles, frowning at the report. He exits his personal quarters and heads down the hallways of the HQ towards the command center. Upon his entry, he’s greeted by one lone agent supervising the incoming reports and the main systems.

“Leader”, she acknowledges him upon his entry into the room. She turns to him and nods, letting her mask dissolve to make herself known to him.

“Greetings, Airi”, Kolivan says, nodding at her with a brief smile. While the hybrid has only been briefly with them, she’s dead-set on serving the blade with enthusiasm and all she has. Her light-violet skin seems almost blue in the dim lighting of the room, and a row of three bioluminescent purple circles line the lower side of her eyes. Her eyes are pupil-less and of a vibrant yellow color, just like Kolivan’s own.

“What brings you here? Checking for an update on Kogane?”, Airi asks, leaning back in her seat and stretching out her arms and shoulders, implying that she’s been here for some time already, checking every incoming data and intel for any kind of unwanted extras, like a virus. It’s a boring, but very important job.

“No…I need to access some of Ulaz’ files. It might help me understand one of the reports I’ve received. Why, did you get something about him?”, Kolivan explains to the younger member of the blade.

Keith has been missing for quite some time now, disappearing during his recent solo-mission. Kolivan doubts that he’ll show up on his home. He probably got himself captured by someone.

A small chime sounds when another pack of data comes in. Airi huffs, starting the first scan.

“Sorry, but no. Not even one word… Can I be of any help?”, Airi asks, turning back towards Kolivan while she lets the scan run over the received transmission.

Kolivan is about to decline her offer, when he realizes that she’s one of the few agents at the HQ that must push themselves through lots of intel quintant after quintant. She might be able to help him progress with his small investigation.

“Thank you, I would appreciate it. I’m looking for our records on these quinthybrids Ulaz encountered”, Kolivan explains, accessing the terminal and logging himself in. Airi raises an eyebrow.

“I haven’t gotten anything about that in the time I’ve been stationed here. Check under Ulaz’ personal records, then. If you don’t find anything there, try the general main archive”, Airi recommends, turning back towards her station. She scoffed at the report from the program.

“Run inverse scan, same protocol”, she commands verbally, furrowing her eyebrows. Kolivan turns towards Ulaz’ files, skimming through the data. Just a moment later, when another chime indicates the scan finished, Airi hisses loudly.

Kolivan quirks an eyebrow, glancing over at the younger blade. “So, we’re playing that game, huh? Okay, it’s on! Isolate!”, Airi growls at the screen, typing in commands rapidly. So, there is something wrong with that incoming transmission.

“What is it, Airi?”, Kolivan asks, furrowing his eyebrows. The younger hybrid huffs.

“Nothing of importance, leader. I’ve just isolated a suspicious transmission. The date’s set as the next quintant, which is totally impossible”, Airi explains with a huff, resuming the scans to find out what kind of galra trickery that is.

Kolivan furrows his eyebrows, turning away from his terminal. He steps over to her, leaning over her chair and staring the transmission down, his thoughts racing. Something about the code on the screen seems awfully familiar.

That’s when Kolivan realizes why. A well-known string of numbers keeps repeating over and over, even though they make no sense. Kolivan sighs.

“Change the frequency, then invert. Then try running the decryption again”, Kolivan suggests, not taking his eyes off the screen for any tick. Airi raises her eyebrows, doubting that will work, but gives it a try anyways.

There’s a chime when the program’s done, and to Airi’s surprise, they have finally gotten the transmission decrypted. It’s an audio-file. “Huh, how’d you know this would work, leader?”, she asks Kolivan, looking at him over her shoulder.

“That was Keith’s method to decrypt data if our programs don’t work. It doesn’t often give a result, but when it does, it gives us priceless intel. Play the clip”, Kolivan states, stepping back from Airi’s chair.

Airi shakes her head. “I can’t. I’ve isolated it as it is a security risk. You can’t demand- “, she interjects, but Kolivan quickly interrupts her.

“We must take this risk. It might have crucial information. Go ahead and play it”, Kolivan insists, placing his hand on Airi’s shoulder. The hybrid hesitates, looking from Kolivan to the screen and then back. Eventually, she nods with a sigh.

“Yes, leader”, she responds, entering the command to release the file from the isolation. Upon pushing the enter button, the entire system shuts down, leaving the two in almost complete darkness.

Airi curses, trying to re-boot her systems in a haste, while Kolivan rumbles deeply in thought. He doesn’t seem concerned yet for some reason, but she can’t tell why.

That’s when a projector starts playing, and both are caught completely off-guard.

It’s Keith. He coughs. “Nora, this better work. I can’t stand leaving everyone in the dark”, he hisses towards someone outside of the view of the recording device he must have used.

“Don’t worry, they’ll get it, though it’ll probably get really messed up with your timeline… And it might mess up their systems a little. Okay, it’s recording. Go ahead, Keith”, a female voice responds from somewhere off-screen.

Keith sighs, shifting a bit to the side, before he looks back at the recording device with hesitation in his eyes.

“When you get this, it’s probably too late to stop me, but…”, Keith begins, scratching the back of his head and looking down at his feet. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m about to do something very risky and probably stupid”, he admits, sighing deeply afterwards. He raises his gaze again, and his eyes are full of regret.

< < < - > > >

Back in her own quarters, Allura changed into her marine-blue and white battle-suit, staring at her still slightly unfamiliar appearance in the mirror. Her now pink hair won’t turn back to its usual color until she could find time to wash it.

She huffed. The skin-tight suit wasn’t something she was used to wearing at all, and it had been resting in her wardrobe for quite some time and had already gathered a lot of dust. To her, it was a miracle it still fit her this perfectly. “I could have sworn that I’ve grown in all this time. How come this thing still fits? Never mind, we have a mission to carry out”, she mumbled to herself aloud, furrowing her eyebrows and forming a fist with her right hand.

“This is for our home. For our people”, she then whispered to herself, pulling open a drawer to her right and taking out a white hair-tie. She pulled her hair into a ponytail with a satisfied sigh.

“This should suffice”, she said, admiring herself in the mirror for a few more ticks before turning around and leaving her quarters.

She had expected her sister to be done already, but was surprised by the opposite. She knocked at the door opposite to her bedroom. “Priya, are you okay?”, she asked, waiting for a response. She doesn’t get one for a few ticks.

She was about to enter to check on her younger sibling, when said younger sister finally gave a response. “’Lura? I could use a little help…”, Priya responded. Her voice was slightly muffled by the door.

“I’m coming inside, okay?”, Allura informed her sister, before putting her hand on a scanner by the door.

“…Alright”, Priya responded in synch with a chime from the panel. The doors slid open.

Priyane was standing in front of her closet, tugging at her yellow and white suit, trying to reach the back and the zipper there. She was clearly frustrated at that point, tugging wildly at the fabric. Allura shook her head at that, smiling. She approached her younger sister.

“The mice tried helping me with the zipper, but it won’t budge what so ever! I think it’s stuck”, Priya explained, impatiently trying to force the suit into closing. Allura raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“…The mice?”, Allura questioned, kneeling behind her younger sister and being greeted by the sight of five mice hanging from a very stuck zipper.

“Yeah. Chuplachu and the other mice are my friends. Say Hi to my sister!”, she introduced the five colorful altean mice to her older sister Allura. The five mice greeted her with cheerful squeaks. They let go of the jammed zipper, landing on the floor with grace, right in front of Allura’s knees.

“Which one’s Chuplachu?”, Allura asked, while working to pull the yellow fabric out of the zipper. Priya didn’t have to respond that, as one of the mice climbed up into her lap. It had pastel-purple fur and blue eyes and squeaked cheerfully, doing something that Allura could only identify to be bowing. There’s a flower-shaped splotch of darker purple fur over it’s right eye.

“Well, Chuplachu, it’s an honor!”, Allura said, finally managing to pull the fabric free and closing the zipper of her sister’s suit. Allura got back up to her feet, making the purple mouse jump to the floor.

“Thanks, ‘Lura!”, the temporarily red-headed princess said, beginning to shift her skin-color to a paler color, looking again like any other altean. Allura raised her eyebrows at that, giving her sister a questioning look. Priya didn’t respond immediately, instead picking up the purple mouse from the floor and setting it down on her shoulder, before turning to her sister again.

“What? I like it this way. Looks better”, Priya defended herself, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Allura rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you want to tie your hair together, Priya?”, Allura asked, following her sister who was already leaving the room. The other princess shook her head.

“I need you to guard my bedroom. No one’s allowed in here besides mother and father. Understood?”, Priya said, turning around briefly to look at the mice. The four remaining mice nodded, giving tiny salutes at her. Priya smiled, saluting back.

“We’ll be back before you know it!”, she said, turning back towards the door and motioning for her older sister to follow her.

- - -

“So, these mice- “, Pidge realizes, pointing at the four space-mice sitting on Allura’s lap. The princess nods.

“Yeah, Platt, Plachu, Chuchule and Chulatt are the same mice as back then. I’ve only realized it recently myself”, Allura explains, pointing at each of the mice as she says their names.

“…and Chu- Chuplachu?”, Lance asks hesitantly, tilting his head with an uncertain expression. Allura’s own expression tuned somber at that. She formed her hands into fists, clutching at the fabric while trying to remain calm.

“Unfortunately, Chuplachu has been gone since before the destruction of Altea”, Coran explains, a similarly sad expression on his face.

He twirls his moustache. “The little fella died like a true hero”, he then adds with a fond sigh. The expressions of the paladins darken upon hearing that.

“Oh man”, Hunk whispers. Pidge’s glasses drop to the floor with a clattering noise, apologizing quietly and reaching down for it.

Lance stays silent. Looking at the mice, he is trying to decipher what they are thinking at that moment. He turns his gaze towards the princess, hoping to figure out what’s going on in the mice and her. Surprisingly, she has already managed to put up a mask. Lance suppresses a sigh.

The princess puts on a smile, and is about to continue her tale, when they receive an incoming transmission. The paladins jump to their feet and the princess yelps in surprise. They all head back to the bridge in a hurry, accepting the incoming call last tick. They’re greeted by the familiar face of Kolivan.

“Greetings, princess. Paladins, Coran”, he nods at each, before sighing.

“What is it, Kolivan? New intel?”, Pidge asks, sitting down in her own seat on the bridge. Lance doesn’t bother to – he has the feeling that he won’t have to.

“Yes. We’ve encountered a sudden burst of strange activity, as well as some information on Keith. We just have received a video-report from him, with… most unsettling content”, he explains, motioning for someone off-screen to do something. The image of Kolivan disappears and instead, there’s a recording of Keith. The paladins gasp in unison.

“Keith!”, Lance exclaims, his eyes widening. There their missing friend is, seeming alright and relatively unharmed aside from a few scratches.

“Nora, this better work. I can’t stand leaving everyone in the dark”, Keith hisses towards someone outside of the view of the recording device he must have used.

“Don’t worry, they’ll get it, though it’ll probably get really messed up with your timeline… And it might mess up their systems a little. Okay, it’s recording. Go ahead, Keith”, a female voice responds from somewhere off-screen.

Keith sighs, shifting a bit to the side, before he looks back at the recording device with hesitation in his eyes.

“When you get this, it’s probably too late to stop me, but…”, Keith begins, scratching the back of his head and looking down at his feet. He takes a deep breath. The paladins follow each of his small movements with their gaze.

“I’m about to do something very risky and probably stupid”, he admits, sighing deeply afterwards. He raises his gaze again, and his eyes are full of regret. Hunk yelps in surprise at that.

“What?”, he shouts in disbelief, not quite sure how he could come up with something crazy like this. Pidge shushes him.

“I can’t really tell you much besides the fact that I’m going to leave the multiverse for this, attempting to get a very old and special book away from the wrong hands”, he explains. A human-like girl steps into view from the right, though only showing her back at first.

“Retrieving the book could turn the tide for all of the multiverse. The corruption has made its way too far already. Stopping the corruption means stopping two wars”, she explains with a sigh, turning towards the camera. Pidge’s jaw drops in recognition of her features.

“What the actual Quiznak…? What the actual hell is Nora doing in space?! This- This can’t be!”, she exclaims in surprise, making the other paladins turn their heads in her direction with various levels of confusion in their expressions.

“Who is Nora?”, Hunk asks.

----------------------------------------------- (THE BEGINNING | LAST | NEXT)

[writesandramblings]

The Captain’s Secret - p.72

“All the Fears You Hold So Dear”

A/N: Takes place during episode 9, "Into the Forest I Go."

Full Chapter List Part 1 - Objects in Motion << 71 - Above and Beyond 73 - Where Once Was Light >>

With the Sarcophagus bearing down on Pahvo, Stamets' team kicked into overdrive making the necessary modifications to the spore delivery system. They were not the only ones rushing against a deadline. Dr. Culber, without even knowing or understanding the full scope of what they were about to attempt, sent his preliminary medical report to Lorca, desperate to get it on record before any more jumps could further jeopardize his husband's health.

As promised, Lorca read it, but it seemed less a clear and balanced accounting of the changes to Stamets' brain and more a general "no more jumps" missive owing to the fact Culber had no idea what was happening to Stamets. None of them did.

One person might. Lorca forwarded the report to Mischkelovitz to answer the one, crucial question it raised: could Stamets complete the jump sequence?

"You understand I'm a biomedical engineer, not a neurologist?" was her response.

"You're telling me with a brain like yours you've never been curious about that branch of medicine?"

"I didn't say that," she said, sounding a little perturbed over the comms.

"You know the spore drive. You designed that implant. You tell me, can Mr. Stamets do it?"

"Of course," said Mischkelovitz. "It's distance that makes the calculations so hard, because of the probabilistic nature of the drive. The key issue here isn't anything to do with distance. Since the micro-jumps requires very little calculation, it's just that he'll have do a bunch of small calculations in sequence, compounding the stress of each individual action. In so much as he's *doing* the calculations, because after all we're not talking about somebody thinking about a math problem so much as it is iological bintegration into the spore displacement system allowing for..."

"Lorca out." This was maybe a little unkind, but he did not have time to listen to a technical breakdown of why Stamets' integration into the spore drive system made the spore drive work. He only needed to know that it would.

The next question was who was going to beam over to install the sensors on the Klingon flagship during that brief window of time before it raised its shields. Lorca directed Tyler to prep a boarding party to carry out this task. Tyler immediately requested Burnham for it.

"Out of the question, it's too dangerous," said Lorca.

Burnham objected. She had been on the Sarcophagus before. It was where Georgiou had died. According to Burnham, only she knew how to access the ideal location for the sensor on the ship's bridge, and simply telling someone else what to do would not suffice. From the way Burnham described her knowledge of the Klingon ship, you would almost think she had been born and spent her entire life there.

"You're not going," said Lorca, and sat down in his chair.

To anyone else, this move would have indicated some finality in the discussion. Not Burnham, of course. Never Burnham. Being told no only doubled her determination to be the one to carry out this mission. Undeterred, she said firmly, "You are the captain, but you are not using the full resources to ensure the success of your mission. There is no logic to your thinking."

Lorca shook his head. She was being ridiculous. Vulcans, as Admiral Terral made quite obvious, were not nearly as stoically logical a species as they purported to be. Unfortunately, Burnham had swallowed this whole faux-logical ethos hook, line, and sinker. Now, like every Vulcan Lorca had ever met, Burnham's invocation of logic was not an application of logical thought so much as a broad justification for what she herself wanted to do.

Then she said something that threw him.

"Unless this is about me."

Lorca turned to look at Burnham. That was a rather bold assertion on her part. There was nothing he hated quite like being called out, especially when whatever he was being called out for contained some kernel of the truth.

She stated her case before the whole bridge crew because she knew it would force his hand. "I'm here on borrowed time. When you asked me to stay, it was to help you win this war. Given the time I spent on that Klingon vessel, I'm the most qualified crewmember to place those sensors. Otherwise, I have no purpose here."

Lorca looked towards Saru. He could see no disagreement in the Kelpien's face. They both knew there was no way to get Burnham to happily comply with any order she did not agree with. She remained, largely thanks to Georgiou's particular brand of command training, an impossible person to command.

"Fine," said Lorca, because fighting Burnham was hopeless. The only way to stop her doing what she wanted was to throw her in the brig, but if he did that, she would never forgive him for letting someone else do the job she felt was rightfully hers. Especially if the mission then failed. "Execute the mission as ordered and get back safely."

"Thank you, captain."

And like that, she was gone. Lorca's fingers tightened slightly on the armrests of the captain's chair. Georgiou had done them all so many disservices with the training of Burnham. Of course, Georgiou had paid the ultimate price for that mistake, and all Lorca could do now was to hope her protégé did not follow in her mentor's footsteps and suffer the same fate in the same place.

The drive modifications were ready. The away team was ready. Everything was primed and ready to go. Lorca had only to give the order. Do this, and one of two outcomes would result. Either they would crack the Klingon cloak and prove once and for all he knew better than anyone else how to win this war, or Burnham and Tyler were going to die and it would be out of his power to prevent it.

"Black alert. Let's jump back to Pahvo."

They knew the Klingons were there already. The Klingon cloak did not hide the warp signature of a ship of that size. It did, however, conceal the ship while it was in orbit, as it was right now. Discovery blipped into orbit around Pahvo and waited.

Based on the location of the Pahvan transmitter and the Klingons' incoming travel vector, Lorca had a pretty good idea where he would be if he was the Klingon flagship. When the Sarcophagus decloaked in a shimmer of green particles to greet Discovery, Lorca was gratified to see he had put Discovery smack dab in front of the massive Klingon vessel, right off its bow.

It was so much bigger than Discovery. Like a lion to a mouse. From his seat in the captain's chair, Lorca thought the Ship of the Dead and the barnacle-like infestations of corpses on its surface looked massively ugly compared to Discovery's sleek beauty.

"Sir," reported Saru, "Lieutenant Tyler and Specialist Burnham have successfully beamed aboard the Klingon vessel."

"Excellent." They had the Klingons' attention. Lorca commanded them into an evasive pattern and they drew the Sarcophagus away from the gentle pacifists of Pahvo. That was step one.

Step two depended on Tyler and Burnham. Aboard the Klingon vessel, they planted the two sensors. "Captain," reported Saru, "the second sensor is online."

"Then let's make it happen," said Lorca. "Let's give them a little taste of what the Discovery is capable of."

Discovery began to jump circles around the Klingons. Each jump, it paused just long enough to deliver a payload of torpedoes. The Klingons could not track Discovery, could not retaliate against it, so they began to cloak. Making themselves invisible was their only card to play.

"Commence jump sequence," said Lorca as the cloak engaged.

"Engaging spore drive jump in five, four, three, two, one..."

"Go!"

Discovery was nowhere and everywhere. The stars flashed across the viewscreen, there one moment and gone the next, impossibly changing in the blink of an eye from one configuration to another.

On the sixty-third jump, Culber's voice, alarmed: "Engineering to bridge! We have to abort!"

"We have seventy jumps left, doctor," said Lorca, calm because he had to be, because everyone needed that from him right now.

Culber was frantic. "Call it off, now!"

They were already headed down this path. There was no turning back. Lorca ordered Culber to do everything necessary keep Stamets alive through the jump sequence for the sake of the trillions of lives depending on them, and for Tyler and Burnham, who had beamed over to the Sarcophagus on a mission he had every intent on seeing them return from. He listened, shifting uneasily as Culber rattled off and applied medical protocols to Stamets from outside the spore chamber.

"I love you, too," he heard Culber say. Lorca cut the audio from engineering.

They kept jumping. One hundred and thirty-three jumps. As the protocol ended and they settled into a single point in space, they were momentarily sitting ducks, but nothing happened.

"Why aren't they firing?" wondered Lorca aloud, staring at the empty viewscreen. With the cloak active, it was impossible to know if the Klingons were still in the same spot they had been a minute ago. This was the Klingons' opportunity to retaliate from a completely unpredictable position. Lorca could think of only one reason they were not doing so. "They're thinking of leaving. I would. We're not going anywhere till we have Burnham and Tyler back."

No one was getting left behind. They waited with bated breath for the computer to complete the algorithm that would break the cloak. It felt like it was taking forever.

Then: "Captain, I've got it. The algorithm is ready. We have their cloaking signature. Transferring to transporter room control."

Lorca settled slightly, feeling the tenseness leave his shoulders. "Bring 'em home, number one."

They came home.

They did not come home alone.

"Sir, Lieutenant Tyler and Specialist Burnham are safely back aboard. Along with... Admiral Cornwell, who's been injured, and a Klingon prisoner who's been taken into custody."

Lorca looked straight to the viewscreen and the stars. "An extra prize," he managed, swallowing his rising discomfort as he ordered all available photon torpedoes to target the still-cloaked Klingon ship. He rose from his chair, strode towards the viewscreen, and sprayed the ocular agent into his eyes in preparation for what was about to happen.

"And fire."

The viewscreen lit with the brilliant white flash of the explosion. It bathed the whole of the bridge in light. He had succeeded where no one else in Starfleet had. The Sarcophagus was no more.

It was tremendous but unsatisfying, because even though this was a truly magnificent and decisive blow against their enemy, as he looked at it he was struck by the fact Cornwell should have been on it. He turned away, unable to finish the lightshow, and caught sight of Burnham and Tyler arriving on the bridge. Burnham's face was bloody but determined and vindicated at the sight of this small piece of vengeance for Captain Georgiou.

Lorca could manage only a grimace as he passed her and moved into his ready room. As the door slid shut behind him, he slammed both of his fists onto his desk with all the force he could muster and let out a silent scream against the glossy surface. He clenched his jaw and shook with silent fury.

This was not happening. This was supposed to be his triumph. This was supposed to be the moment that forged his legend for everyone to see, cemented his place in the minds of everyone so they would not doubt him ever again. Instead he felt sick, like he was going to vomit, because the one person who could take it all away was again in a position to do just that.

He looked up, out at the stars through the window, utter hopelessness written on every on inch of him. Those stars. He wanted them more than anything. Those tiny little lights. They suddenly seemed so far away.

O'Malley awoke to a comm signal. He had not slept well. Battles were not typically conducive to sleep, and a battle in which they took several hits while luring the Klingons away from Pahvo, executed a hundred and thirty-three spore jumps, launched every photon torpedo, and blew the largest ship in the Klingon fleet into smithereens was particularly hard to sleep through.

It was Lalana. "Admiral Cornwell has returned," she said.

There were a thousand things in O'Malley's head. He was genuinely relieved to hear Cornwell was not dead and for a moment he was even happy about it, but then he realized what this potentially meant, because Lalana was calling him, something she had never done, and also when she knew he was supposed to be sleeping, which she would not do except in the most dire of circumstances. "Where is she?"

"She is here on Discovery."

O'Malley threw his clothes on in record time and jogged down the hall, pulling on his uniform jacket as he went and running his fingers through the mess of hair on his head to little effect.

At first, the doctor said Cornwell was not well enough for visitors, but at the sight of O'Malley, Cornwell insisted. O'Malley walked briskly over and initially showed the same elation he had felt upon hearing the news of her return.

"Admiral, you're..." The elation drained from O'Malley's face as he stopped himself from saying any of the unfortunate words he might have said. She was back, but she could have been back so much sooner. Was she safe? Debatable. Was she any form of unharmed? Unlikely. She was also staring at O'Malley with a look that was entirely unforgiving.

"He's still in command," she said. "Why is he still in command?"

All O'Malley could do was stare in apology. "I'm sorry, admiral. I..." There was no apology that would suffice.

Cornwell turned away from O'Malley and looked at the nearest medical technician. "Get me a direct line to Admiral Terral."

She did not have to say the words for O'Malley to know he was dismissed, and know equally that there was nothing, absolutely nothing he could do to change her mind.

He went straight to the bridge. Lorca was in his ready room still. The look that passed between them spoke volumes. Lorca could think of only one reason O'Malley would be up here instead of sleeping, especially in light of what had just occurred, and O'Malley looked resigned to something awful.

"I thought she was dead," said O'Malley. "And I'd come to terms with that. Which is why I didn't say anything, but... The admiral I had clout with? Was Admiral Gessirin."

Admiral Gessirin had died two weeks earlier.

"I'll keep trying," promised O'Malley, but Lorca could hear it in O'Malley's voice. There was nothing O'Malley could do.

Lorca tried to speak with Cornwell, too, before she was whisked away on a medical shuttle. He managed to mouth her name at her in a silent but hopeful and encouraging plea from across the medical bay only to watch her to turn her head away.

He saw, too, the look of abject disgust from Dr. Culber at what he had forced Stamets to do. One hundred and thirty-three jumps. He left sickbay and went to his quarters. His crew looked at him with adulation as he passed them, crediting him with not just the recent victory, but the sense they all felt of victories to come.

As much as he wished he could feel what they felt, the only thing he felt now was empty.

When Terral called, Lorca took the call only as a two-dimensional video signal because at this point, it was the only crumbling vestige of control he still had over anything. Terral said, "Admiral Cornwell's emergency medical shuttle has successfully arrived at Starbase 88. She is currently undergoing surgery. I am told she should make a full recovery."

Lorca paced about the ready room as they spoke. He had to, partly because he was tense with unease, partly because he felt the need to do what he could to hide his face.

"It's excellent news," said Lorca, turning away from the viewscreen. "Make sure to send her my best. Planet of Pahvo is safe, the cloak-breaking algorithm is being refined for fleet-wide use as we speak and will be transmitted on a secure channel to you in just under eleven hours." His choice to mention these most recent achievements was entirely calculated and, unfortunately, almost as transparent.

"The sooner the better," said Terral. He knew humans well enough to know that the way Lorca was pacing indicated an elevated level of stress.

Lorca moved to the fortune cookie bowl and took one in his hand. It helped. He managed to stop pacing as he ran his fingers over the familiar shape.

"There are reports of cloaked Klingon vessels advancing on our borders and on you. The war is not won yet, but you have increased the likelihood of a victory for Starfleet despite your... unorthodox methods."

Over the preceding weeks, Lorca and Terral's every interaction had been marked by a simmering rage on the part of the Vulcan, but now, Terral was entirely calm. Too calm. Even his dismissal of Lorca's methods as "unorthodox"—a clear insult coming from a Vulcan—was marked only by the mildest note of disdain.

"I'm gonna take that as a compliment," said Lorca, managing vague indignance. His fingers closed around the cookie in his hand.

"Now it is time for Discovery to return to safety. Report to Starbase 46. You will find that your accomplishments have not gone unnoticed. Starfleet Command would like to award you with the Legion of Honor. I look forward to congratulating you in person."

Again, total stillness and calmness, and as Terral spoke the words "Legion of Honor," it felt like there was no sincerity in it. After a period of mutual silence, Terral ended the transmission.

Lorca leaned forward, sliding his forearms against the desk, still turning the cookie over in his fingers. He knew from the comm logs that Cornwell had made one call before leaving Discovery, to Terral.

It was entirely too obvious what was happening. He would be damned before he let Terral and Cornwell take Discovery away from him.

Part 73

[calliecat93]

Red vs Blue: Season 1 - The Blood Gulch Chronicles P1

 If you have been a fan of Rooster Teeth or been on the internet since 2003, chances are you may have heard of the series, Red vs Blue, at least once. Created April 1st 2003, the Halo-inspired webseries about two opposing teams in a box canyon and the stupidity hat ensues has evolved form a 3 minute show made by some nerds in a spare bedroom to not only the internet’s longest running episodic webseries, but the longest running American produced science fiction series. Originally helmed by creator Burnie Burns, the show has run for 15 seasons with a 16th upcoming and gone through various showrunners and tone shifts, but it has always maintained it’s comedy, character dynamics, and wide appeal.

I am very late to the game with RvB, having only gotten into it in early 2017. But even in that amount of time, looking back onto Season One after watching the rest of the show... felt a little jarring. There’s various reasons why. Low quality audio , below average voice performances, characters not being fully fleshed out, and outdated graphics.  When you look at this season and then look at... say Season 10, you can see how far the quality of all of these, as well as the writing, have come since the old days. However the importance of this season and it’s success cannot be ignored. Without this, Rooster Teeth most likely would not have existed. Which that would mean that Achievement Hunter, RWBY, Camp Camp, Day 5, etc would also not exist. It’s importance cannot be ignored here.

So I guess that gets the exposition out of the way, so lets go into the review.

Overview

Talking about Red vs Blue, especially the Blood Gulch Chronicles (Seasons 1-5) is honestly... not easy. The first season especially. Why? Well while RvB has always been a comedy, it later shifted into being more of a dramedy with an ongoing story. This one has the least amount of story, driven more by the characters shenanigans and dialogue.The good news though is that, despite what I thought when I began the show, you don’t have to know shit about Halo to enjoy it. There are some references, like one character referencing Master Chief and the Covenant in the first episode, but you don’t have to understand the lore at all. It may help, but its unnecessary. Which is good since I’ve never played the game and anything I know about is either from this show, Lets Plays, or looking it up.

The show’s concept is, at least in the beginning, pretty simple. So there’s this box canyon, Blood Gulch, smack dab in the middle of nowhere. In this canyon are two bases, Red Base and Blue Base. There are also two teams, the Read Team and the Blue Team. These two sides are at war because... ugh... some reason. The first episode points this out, so lets meet our cast. On the Reds, we are first introduced to Richard ‘Dick’ Simmons (voiced by Gustavo ‘Gus’ Sorola) clad in maroon and is the one pondering this to begin with (”Do you ever wonder why we’re here?). The other soldier, clad in orange, is Dexter Grif (voiced by Geoff Fink, better known today as Geoff Ramsey) and... yeah he has no idea why either, just getting strangely philosophical (”It’s one of life’s greatest mysteries, isn’t it?). The answer is because each side has a base in the canyon. Yeah, that’s the reason. Just go with it.

There’s two other Red soldiers, but we’ll get to them later. For now, lets shift over to the Blues. They only have two guys, Team Leader in colbalt Leonard Church (Burnie Burns) and Lavernius Tucker (Jason Saldana). Episode One very quickly establishes the two sides daily routine. Often, they just stand at their base on guard duty ether talking or watching the other side. Sometimes even both! It’s something that they’re used to/tired of with Church getting annoyed at Tucker pestering him about what the Reds are doing, which is the same thing they always do. Considering that these Season 1 episode are around three minutes long each, they do put that time to good used. The first two episodes alone are enough to establish the majority of the main cast and give us a feel of the two sides regular routine.

Speaking of Episode 2, Simmons and Grif have been called down by their leader, Sarge. Out of all the characters, Sarge is.. the most noticibly different in terms of voice. In the entire series he is voiced by Matt Hullum, RT’s current CEO... but the voice he uses here is DRASTICALLY different. But I’ll elaborate on that more when I get to character stuff. But speaking of voices, this is also a good time to mention one of the season’s biggest flaws, the audio work. It is very difficult to understand what the characters are saying a good chunk of the time with the filter effect not making it any easier. I had to turn up the volume various times to fully makeout what was being said. There is a reason why however. The RT guys were doing all of this out of a spare bedroom, pr in Matt and a few others cases, over the phone. The company was literally three guys (Burnie, Geoff, and Gus and at some point during BGC Gus temporarily moved to Puerto Rico, leaving only two guys) in a bedroom with an XBox and some cheap equipment. So it is very understandable why the audio was low quality, not counting the below average voice acting. But still the audio, especially compared to later seasons were they do have high quality equipment, is noticeable and annoying.

Okay, back to the series. Sarge shows the two privates their newest toy, the Warthog. An army jeep that... I gotta agree with Grif, I think Puma is a much more fitting name. We also learn that Sarge wants Grif dead. Seriously, he gets very creative with ideas in later seasons. The When You Wish Upon a Star parody in Season 8 always kills me. Lets put it this way, we learn that Grif gets shit on. A lot. The Reds are also expecting a rookie to be joining their ranks soon, much to the privates aggravation. A sentiment that the Blues can relate to as they too are expecting their own rookie. Oh, they’re also getting a tank! Cool... but can it play polka music like the Warthog? I don’t think so!

This leads us to episode 3! I’ll give the show this, it goes by quick. So while arguing over going to the Vegas Quadrant, which funnily enough was based on a true story that was later made into an RTAA, Simmons and Grif meet the rookie! Franklin Delano Donut (Dan Godwin), currently clad in the same red-colored armor that Sarge wears. Speaking of, Sarge is currently away at command and as left Simmons in charge... a memo that Grif didn’t get. No surprise there. Anyways, the privates decide to mess with Donut, tricking him into going to a non-existent a store to pick up some elbow grease and headlight fluid. Well now this RTAA suddenly makes sense. While Simmons does wonder if this was too harsh, Grif assures him that all that’s gonna happen is that the kid will run around the canyon for a few hours. What could possibly go wrong?

Meanwhile, the Blues got their tank as well as their own rookie, Michael J Caboose (Joel Heyman). They’re all admiring it with Church bringing up having a girlfriend back home. This causes Caboose to accidentally call her a... not nice word, annoying Church and setting up their relationship for the rest of the series. History in the making folks! Anyways, the two older soldiers get annoyed and send Caboose to guard the flag inside and await a general who doesn't look like them. Just as Donut arrives, and the two stupidly don’t turn around to see who they’re talking to, just assuming that it’s Caboose. So Donut goes in and since he doesn’t loo like the Blues... yeah you can both guess what Caboose does and how much Church probably wants to bang his head into the wall.

Church, believing Donut to be Sarge, wants to use a teleporter to cut him off... by making Tucker go first. Tucker refuses since it’s only been used on rocks, but Church forces him into it. And... nothing comes out of the other end. Wow, I’ve seen characters die early on, but daaaang. So Church goes on foot. Meanwhile, Grif eventually sees that Donut has the flag and he and Simmons get the Warthog. Church catches up to Donut, discovering that it’s not the sergeant... as Tucker finally comes out of the teleporter. His armor, which is normally aqua, is now completely black and he assumes that he got sent into the past. No, no Tucker, it’s two seasons too soon to bring time travel into the mix. Be patient kind sir! Anyways, the Reds show up and cause the Blues to take cover with Grif sending Donut back to Red Base. Kind of weird to see Grif doing his job tbh. Caboose, seeing that the others are in trouble, goes to get the tank.

We now meet Shelia. The tank! Yes, the tank has a name. She takes Caboose through the tutorial program... which he sucks at. Don't you just hate it when that happens? He is able to get it to the Reds, who have left the Warthog to get at the Blues, and the two plan to run back... with Grif leaving Simmons in the dust. Jerk. Well it doesn't matter, the Warthog ends up blown up when Caboose turns on the automatic firing system. Simmons yells at Grif for having the bright idea of exiting the Warthog... though if they had stayed in it, they’d be dead. But meh, whatever. In the meantime, Church realizes that Caboose is piloting the tank and comes out... causing Shelia to target on him and... 

So... yeah... Church is dead. Damn, and only eight episodes in too. But ah well, he’s dead! That’s that! It happens! No reason to care whatsoever! Moving right along now! Oh, and going back to the audio, that explosion nearly blew my ears out when I had it on 10% of the volume. SO thanks for that RT, bunch of assholes.

The Reds eventually make it back to the base as the tank continues to fire madly. Caboose is afraid to try anything to stop it since... you know, he just became a team killing fucktard and all. Fortunately, Sarge calls the team, currently on his way back to base. Grif, in rapid succession, explains what’s happening and luckily Sarge has a solution... by dropping bombs! To his credit it works as Shelia is blown up, though Caboose is able to exit in time. He mourns the loss of the lady in the tank (roll with me here) and the Reds take the first victory in what up to now was a standstill. And that ends the first half of the season!

So lets about the production a little bit. Season 1 is 19 episode long, averaging at around three minutes. This was not the plan. From what I understand, Burnie’s original plan was for RvB to be a miniseries, IDK the exact intended episode count but it wasn't supposed to be this long. I can only assume that the initial success caused him to expand on it. But the point is, there was no long term plan. As such, Burnie originally wrote the episode mere days before they were set to premiere. Unless you are South Park, that kind of production schedule is INSANE. Now since this was initially going to be a miniseries, its once more understandable, hence hwy I’m not going to go off on it like I would with any other show. I only bring this up for a historical perspective and because the next few episodes are going to contain events that will shape the series much later in the future. Events that were conceived shortly before the episode went into production. But I’ll get more into that when we get to the Recollection Trilogy. 

Now for the second half of the season. With a member dead and the tank totaled, Tucker, whose back to aqua-colored armor, calls command for backup. He’s answered by VIC. Now VIC is usually voiced by Burnie, but in this season he’s voiced by a different actor, and it shows. Anyways, the best that VIC can offer is to bring in a nearby Freelancer agent. Freelancers are neutral agents, often being employed by either side... or that’s the story Tucker gives. Oh Recollection Trilogy/Freelancer Saga, it’s gonna be FUN going over you. The agent being hired is known by Agent Texas, or Tex for short. It’s then that Tucker and Caboose receive a visitor... Church! As a ghost! Just... just go with it, okay? Anyways, Church came back to warn the two about Tex, an overly aggressive agent who murdered all of Church’s former squadmates on a snow planet known as Sidewinder. One soldier in particular, Jimmy, got beaten to death with his own skull. Man, that doesn't seem physically possible.

The point is, Tex is dangerous. Having this soldier in particular get involved may end up being more trouble than it’s worth. Church can’t elaborate too much, but he does make it clear to Tucker and Cabosoe that they, under ANY circumstances, should NOT involve Tex whatsoever. He also adds that Tex is the reason why he and his girlfriend didn’t get married, but he vanishes before he can talk further. Tucker is left confused... just as Tex arrives tot he canyon. Ho boy... so guys, do the Blues either A, heed Church’s advice and decide to not use Tex after all? Or B, disregard it completely and let Tex do whatever the Hell they want? If you guessed A, you are giving this show far too much credit, no cookie for you!

Well actually, I guess I can’t blame Tucker too much for not keeping Tex out though. I mean the first thing that they do is use Caboose for target practice. Considering what we find out later, there is another way to interpret this. But the Blues need Tex to get back their flag, and they have a very simple plan: go murder everyone and get it. Bloody... but hey, points for simplicity. Meanwhile, Grif gets the blame for the Warthog and yelled/shot at by Sarge. Donut is lamenting wanting his own armor color... before getting grenaded by Tex, who knocks Grif out and Simmons... meh, he just faints.  All as the Blues watch the carnage from the safety of their base.

Tex returns the flag to the Blues... somehow without leaving Red Base. Weird. But that’s not all that returns, so does Church! Needless to say, he’s not happy when he realizes that his teammates completely ignored what he said and let Tex get very much involved in the conflict. Speaking of Tex, Sarge is able to catch them and knock them out. Grif and Simmons get back up, the latter denying that he fainted. Donut is still down and heavily injured cause a grenade to the HEAD at POINT BLANK RANGE is totally survivable, but if they move fast, he can get treated and recover, so they go look for Sarge.

Lets go check back with the Blues, who have realized that Tex has been captured. Church is annoyed and Tucker brings up his previous comment about Tex being why he didn’t marry his girlfriend. This... isn’t the exact truth. This leads into the biggest plot twist of the season, one that Burnie came up with shortly before the episode’s release. So that girlfriend of Church’s? Turns out that is Tex. Yep, Tex is a girl. We confirm this when she gets back up and a voice filter she was using to sound masculine shorts out, revealing the voice of Kathleen Zuelch (Gynda Goodwitch in RWBY). Much to the Reds shock.

Church goes on to explain Tex’s deal. You see, she had been recruited into a secret military program and given an AI. This AI caused spikes in anger and aggression levels, turning Tex into a violent, bitchy killing machine. Still, Church does care enough that he rallies the others into mounting a rescue. How? Well Church plans on breaking into the Red Base, which with him being a ghost is the most logical option, while Tucker and Caboose play distraction. To help with this, he has the two go through the teleporter to turn their armor back. Yeah I glossed over this, but Freelancers supposedly dress in black armor. This gets majorly retconned later though.

The plan ultimately works pretty dang well. The Blues distract Grif, Church possesses Sarge (which Burnie’s impression ALWAYS kills me), who goes down and knocks Simmons out... again. Well it wasn't by fainting this time. Tex... takes this this all pretty well. The two make their escape, but Caboose is unaware of the possession and... ends up shooting Sarge. GDI Caboose. Which then leads us to, what is by far, the most confusing episode of the season. Not the show, oh Season 3 in itself is a major mindscrew, but man does this one hurt my brain.

So after being shot, Sarge wakes up in the afterlife where Church also is. Oh, Shelia’s there too and Church isn’t happy about... you know, her killing him and all. So Sarge is currently in limbo as in the real world, Grif tries to save him... with CPR... on a head wound... yeah if you wanna survive Blood Gulch Chronicles, then you are going to have to throw logic COMPLETELY out the window. Trust me, when you do it makes it more bearable. This works, again forget logic, and Sarge wakes up good as new. He still berates Grif for it though, even though he just saved his life and all. At least Church and Tex got away alive... okay Church is technically dead, but just... just go with it!

Sometime later, Donut is back and recovered. He also has his own armor color now! Pi... I-I mean, lightish-red!  Sarge also has obtained a speech unit for a Red member that I haven’t talked about yet because he has done absolutely nothing. Lopez, the group’s mechanic who as it turns out is a robot. Up until now he had zero lines and no overall relevance to the Reds antics, so I didn’t feel the need to bring him up. The speech unit works... except only in Spanish. I watched a recent RT Podcast the week before Christmas and Burnie, who also voices Lopez (yeah he does a good amount of voices, I think he did Tex’s voice filter too), got the idea from talking toys that would get stuck on the wrong language setting. When he explained that, it made SO MUCH MORE sense. So no one can understand Lopez and misinterpret everything that he says, a running gag for the entire series that’ll be better utilized in later seasons.

Over on the Blues, Tex is convinced to stick around until the Reds are taken out. as repayment for saving her. Why are the Blues keeping her around? Well Church wants to get the AI out of her head still and that would be kind of hard if she left. Plus forcing her when he can’t even fire a gun properly would not end well. They get Tex to work on repairing Shelia and Church finds that his body is still where he died. Worst, it’s rotting. Eww!! So a bit of a snag comes up. You see, when the Reds are dead, Tex will leave. Church can’t have that happen, so that means that he needs the Reds to stay alive. Since Tex almost has Shelia operational and will strike with her when done, he decides to go and warn them, leading us into the season finale.

Church leaves the Blues to update him on Tex as he goes to the Reds. He takes over Lopez and tries to warn them of the attack... but since Lopez can only speak Spanish, it goes about as well as you’d expect. Tex finishes Shelia and makes her move. Tucker allows Caboose to radio Church over this, a point that we’ll get to later. Church can’t properly convey that his warning failed and Tex proceeds to open fire on the Red Base. Well... shit. The now repaired Warthog fails to help, so what can stop Tex? As it turns out... Donut! He gets what may be some of the best karma upon someone ever, managing to throw a long-distance grenade into Shelia, causing her to explode and promptly kill Tex... for now.

Church, mortified, runs to Tex, leaving the Reds confused. In her dying breath, Tex confirms that the AI is gone and thanks Church. So that leaves the question, what happened to the AI? We find out soon enough. Tucker, realizing that things have gone to Hell, tells Caboose to fall back to Blue Base. But Caboose turns towards the camera, his voice becoming noticeably more menacing as he insists on being called O’Malley. And thus, Season One and the first part of The Blood Gulch Chronicles, comes to a close.

Review

(WARNING: POTENTIAL SPOILERS FOR LATER SEASONS)

Phew! That was a LOT of typing! For Blood Gulch, I’m going to be covering each season in their own post unless it looks necessary otherwise. Mainly because out of the current arcs, Blood Gulch is the least story heavy and the hardest to talk about due to it. But that doesn't mean that there’s nothing to say about it. But, as the warning above indicates, I’m going to bring up later seasons, but I’ll try not to give too much away. So... lets begin with...

Machinima

I couldn’t find a good place to talk about this in the overview, so we’ll do it here. For those unaware, RvB is not a traditionally animated series. It is created via use of machinima. According to Wikipedia, Machinima is “the use of real-time computer graphics engines to create a cinematic production. Most often video games are used to generate the computer animation.“  In short, it means taking an engine like say an X-Box and using a program like say Halo to create the graphics. 

Now there is some belief that RvB is the first to do this, but that isn’t true. This method has existed since at least the 90′s, although it didn’t get the name ‘machinima’ until the early 2000′s. But what can be said is that RvB took the concept and made it work on a mainstream level. No one else was using machinima on the scale that Rooster Teeth was. The only other notable works I could find before RT’s influence was some short films using a video came called Quake, which was the first machinima to be created. I think it’s safe to say that no one had tried making a full-fledged continuous series out of it, or at least no one was hugely successful. It’s also not exactly an easy process, especially in 2003. For example, if you leave a character standing too long they’ll do a default motion as programmed into the game. This can kill a scene and therefore the machinimators will be forced to start all over again. If you have three or so characters all in the same scene and just one does this or you make even a minor mistake with the controls, you have to start from scratch. How Burnie and Geoff did this and lived I’ll never know. Just imagine how it is in later seasons when more characters are brought in, ugh...

The guys used the original Halo for Season 1 and years later would make a remaster. So as far as the machinima goes, it’s done pretty good. They’re limited in what they can do n some shots looked weird, like how when Tex’ filter shorts out she’s facing the Reds, then in the next shot is faced away form them. So that can be kind of jarring, but nothing that really throws off anything.  About the only thing I hated looking at was VIC, who is more uncanny here than in any other season. But meh, his scenes are brief so I can live.

The graphics... have not aged well. This is not RT’s fault, the original Halo is nearly 15 years old and was part of the first generation of XBox. It’s not going to like Final Fantasy, is all I’m saying. Blood Gulch nowadays looks... IDK how to describe it. The settings look more realistic and less bulky and cheap in later seasons, though granted we get more than one location in later seasons. We’re limited to only the box canyon here. But again, I’m not expecting Pixar-quality CGI, so it doesn’t really take away form anything.

Writing

Like I said earlier, episodes were written shortly before they were set to be released. There was also no long-term plan, so Burnie was pretty much making things up as he went along. I mentioned Tex’s gender reveal, but things like Church being killed and in turn the ghost thing were not planned. They were conceived essentially on the spot. Normally, this kind of production style would murder a production. But... I’m not gonna lie, the writing is not bad. Yeah there’s stuff that breaks my brain like the ghost thing and Sarge in the afterlife, but there do get explained in later seasons and humor is subjective, so it might just be me.

Because of machinima’s limitation, the script and writing was probably the most vital thing. If people didn’t find it funny or engaging, then they weren’t going to watch it. This is a very dialogue heavy show where the lines and interactions are what tells you about a character and what they are feeling. Since the character models... you know, have a helmet covering the face and body language is near impossible, you can get why. And the dialogue is pretty good. Tucker’s en about women hooking up like Voltron cracked me up. Oh that’s one thing, the series relies heavily on black humor that wouldn't be out of place in South Park, so... be prepared for that.

BGC is very comedic focused. There is a plot and there are elements that later seasons will heavily rely heavily on. But the comedy is ultimately what comes first. There's a lot of jarring things as I mentioned, but I can say this. They do put many of these things to good use. For example, the teleporter turning armor black. I guess that may be a joke about Halo that I don’t get, but Church later utilizes this to create a distraction. Church is a ghost, and he uses this twice ti limited success. Church mentioning a girlfriend was done to have Caboose make a slut joke, and then it turns out that Tex is that girlfriend. Considering how the writing schedule was, it’s impressive that Burnie was able to take so many little things that were jokes and utilize them for the plot later. Looking back, it’s like a precursor to the decisions he makes for the Recollection trilogy, but that’s for there and not here. Still, kudos for taking those elements and making something out of them. That’s the kind of writing I like to see!

But as I said, the plot is secondary. Season One relies heavily on it’s character and the shenanigans they get into. The plot is kicked off by Donut mistaking Blue Base for a store when Caboose was conveniently told that the make-believe general didn’t look like a Blue. Pretty contrived when you think about it. The biggest plot twists were Church’s death and Tex being a girl, which again were split second decisions. It helped keep things interesting, but it shows that not a whole lot of thought went into the story. Ultimately while the show is genuinely funny, knew how to use certain bits to it’s advantage, and had those two twists, I don’t thin that the writing is exactly what got the show to succeed.

Audio/Voice Acting

We already went into the audio, and how it’s not very good. But the voice acting... is not much better. Aside from Joel and to a degree Matt, none of these guys are actors. So it is not at all a surprise that the voice acting is below average at best. I can tell that they’re trying, but... it comes off as empty and unmotivated a lot of the time. The best of the bunch are Burnie, Kathleen, and the aforementioned Matt and Joel. And even then, it’s weak compared to later on. I’m not saying that the others are bad, it’s just obvious that they were new to this at the time. I mean here’s a video of Gus and Geoff’s first recording session. 

If you’re not distracted by how young they are  (seriously, QUIT GETTING OLD), Geoff missing about 90% of his tattoos, and Gus’ lack of hair, you can tell that they have zero idea what they are doing. I can’t blame them though, this is the very first session after all and again they are trying. Matt, Joel, and Kathleen were also working out of California so I can only imagine how tough getting the proper direction for them was. All of them do improve MASSIVELY though as the series goes on, Heck Season 2 is noticeably better but more on that then. I think another big reason on why it was lacking is because aside from Matt, they aren’t really playing a character so much as exaggerated versions of themselves, so they don’t have as much to work with. Hence why it’s good that Burnie fleshed them out in Season 2.

The show’s music is... actually pretty good! There’s not a lot, mainly just guitar rifts used during season transitions, but they’re work. They have a folk music feel to them (or in the Warthog theme’s case polka) and I’m not normally a huge fan of that genre, but here it works. The shows intro, Blood Gulch Blues, it itself is really catchy and fun to listen to. The music was done by a group called Trocadero, who would do several other seasons. Now do I consider this to be the best music in the series? Well... it’s good, but no. Later seasons have a lot of really good tracks. But still, the soundtrack is nice to listen to and I really enjoy it!

Characters

To me, what makes or breaks a show is the use of it’s characters. A cliched story can be good if it’s both told well and if it’s character are utilized well. The cast here have a range of personalities and no two are the same. That said... they’re definitely not that fleshed out yet. There’s a few tiny things here and there. Simmons is a kissass to Sarge, Tucker makes the comment about using the tank to pick up women, Caboose is... not the brightest crayon in the box, but it’s not what defines them initially. Grif might be the biggest example of this I can think of. Later seasons establishes him as a fat, lazy slob who proudly shrinks his responsibilities, steals rations, and will eat expired food if he feels the need. Here? He... actually is trying to do his job with minimal complaint. I mean one of his lines in Episode 1 has him refer to joining the army to kick alien ass. He would NEVER say that nowadays.

Since I’m already talking about Grif, we’ll start the deeper looks with him. Grif is my favorite character in the show, albeit it took until Season 15 to set that in stone. So going back to now helps put things into perspective for me. As I said, the characters aren’t all that fleshed out yet. Grif is definitely the most laid back of the Reds, but again he’s willingly doing his job. He doesn't really display much of his more lazy characterization that we’re used to. The worst thing he does is leave Simmons to be killed by the tank to save his own skin, which yeah is a pretty shitty thing to do. None of these characters are exactly the most moral, to put it lightly. Back on topic, Grif’s the one who has them go get Donut, makes him go back to base, actually tries to get at the Blues before Shelia came, and even tried to save Sarge, I honestly believe that after Sarge got after him for using CPR, he decided ‘fuck this, I’m gonna get shit on no matter what the fuck I do, so I’m gonna do whatever the hell I want. It’ll make Sarge and Simmons pissy either way, so why even care? I’m just gonna do whatever the fuck I want and they can suck it up!” If that’s true, I can totally buy that and I’m sticking to that. But otherwise, Grif doesn't o very much aside from being the Red’s punching bag. Poor guy.

Simmons also does not do a whole lot. We do establish very quickly that he’s a kissass to Sarge’s command and he and Grif have this weird love-hate relationship. I can't think of too many nerdy moments for Simmons this season, IDT that really comes out until next season. Maybe even Season 3 when he’s fiddling with the portals. I could easily just be forgetting though. He’s kind of an arrogant dick, but he doesn't do anything that really makes him unlikeable. Maybe yelling at Grif about the Warthog, but Grif left him to die... yeah I guess I can’t blame him there... sort of. But otherwise, Simmons isn’t given a whole lot to do aside from arguing wit Grif and siding with Sarge. What I can say that him and Grif’s interactions were probably one of my favorite things in the season. The banter and chemistry between them felt really natural and I snickered at a lot of their bits, like arguing over Simmons fainting. This is probably because Gus and Geoff IRL are best friends, so I can imagine that their dialogue just wrote itself. But it’ works really well and helps make these two likebale despite both being assholes.

Sarge is still the leader and the one most determined to kill the Blues, but it���s definitely not as insane as later. The voice very much reflects this. Sarge has a very exaggerated southern accented voice in the show... except here and the start of Season 2. The southern accent is still there, but it’s mroe... .subdued? Laidback? Normal? IDK the right word, it’s definitely less exaggerated though. It was so jarringly different that I wasn’t sure if it was Matt still doing the voice at first. Sure enough it was still him. I can only assume that when they made Sarge’ murderous tendencies more exaggerated starting next season, Matt felt the need to do the same with his performance to reflect the character, And thank God for it. It felt so wrong here. Matt was probably the best actor, but that’s because he’s the only one given a character. As I said, Burnie essentially write exaggerated versions of his co-workers. Matt, as far as I know since I don’t work for him, isn’t a southern-accented drill Sargent. Anyone who works at RT reading this, please feel free to correct me. But anyways, Sarge is the leader, hates Grif, and is probably the most competent fighter among them, though not by much. Not much else to say otherwise except kudos for getting the most confusing scene in the season Sarge!

There’s even less to say about Donut and Lopez. Lope.... does nothing except fix the Warthog and shoot at Grif once. He eventually gets a speech module that only works in Spanish, and that only serves to make Church fail to warn the Reds. That’s it. Donut is the rookie who has no idea what is happening. He, next to Grif, is also the most different form later. he’s... normal here. I don’t recall him spouting even one innuendo an Dan’s voice is a lot less high pitched than later. He kicks off the plot by accidentally stealing the flag and is ultimately the one to defeat Tex. Which I will admit, was awesome and it was very fitting. But otherwise, Donut doesn’t get much to do here... or for much of the series infact. And don’t get me wrong, I like these characters and find them fun, but from a story perspective... yeah these two in particular aren't given much. But we’ll focus on that in later seasons.

As you may have noticed, the Reds don’t have much story going on.. and don’t for the majority of the series, sadly. They’re just the opposing force/comedic relief essentially. The Blues are the ones who move the story... well most of them. Tucker moves it the least, so we’ll start with him. He’s essentially there to be someone that Church can bicker with when not pissed at Caboose. In this season, this makes him the least interesting compared to Church with his ghost development and relationship with Tex, the badass Tex, and the dim-witted Caboose. His defining trait of being into women isn’t even really here aside from the earlier stuff with the tank. He will have more time to shine and show his competence, but that’s really not going to be until he gets the sword. We’re going to be waiting a while. But as with Grif and Simmons, the banter between Tucker and Church was really good and it worked. I can say the same for Tucker and Caboose as well.

Speaking of Caboose, he’s still an idiot... but not as badly. I mean Joel’s not even using the 'act like I’m taking to tiny animals’ voice that we’re familiar with. He’s using his regular voice. While Caboose is still obsessed with Church being his ‘best friend’and a dimwit, such as shooting Church when possessing Sarge, it’s not even close to what we’re used to. he has common sense and some train of thought for one, such as getting the idea to use the tank. It backfired horribly, but he recognized the danger. Now there is a potential in-universe reason on why Caboose became dumber, but we’ll cover that next season. For now, Caboose is at worst dimwitted and frustrating to Church, but hilarious for us. He’s still the character that I laughed at the most.

Tex comes in later, but she’s drastically different form the others. Not just because she’s the only girl either. She’s the most violent and willing to kill. I mean even Sarge hasn’t exactly done anything as brutal as hit a Blue with a grenade at point blank yet. Part of this can be blame on the AI making Tex more vicious than she would otherwise be. Personality wise, she’s no-nonsense and serious minded, there to get her job done as quickly and effectively as possible. She’s easily able to take on the Reds and only loses due to Sarge getting the jump on her... and even then she got the flag back tot he Blues so she didn’t exactly fail. She’s a tough person and doesn't have the best attitude in the world, even without the AI. She;s awesome and her arrival is ultimately the biggest story element. Her and Church's relationship is funny and really interesting, which helps both characters. Whether her feelings for Church are genuine or not, or even existent, isn’t expanded on here. But I do interpret her shooting Caboose as ‘practice’ as her getting revenge for killing him to begin with. Add that to her dying wors to him and... yeah I’m sure she does in her own way.

Finally that brings us to Church himself. Church is ultimately the character who pushes the story along and actually gets the Blues to do something. He’s a snarky asshole, easily frustrated and annoyed. He’s the straight man to Tucker pestering him and Caboose being... Caboose. His death is one of the biggest things to happen in the season and even in death, he pushes things forward. His relationship with Tex, he’s the one who plans her rescue, he’s the one who carries it out, and he’s the one most motivated to get rid of the AI. Lets face it, Church is the most proactive character and the one who ultimately keeps the plot moving forward, It’s why he was my favorite character in the beginning... that and Burnie being the only person I really recognized aside form Joel due to RWBY. Church is definitely who’d I consider the most well-written and relevant character, especially with what happens later and the closest thing that we have to a lead character.

Final Thoughts

Man, I did NOT expect this review ot get so long. I mean it took up 18 pages in my notebook, but still...

Ultimately, I don’t thin that Red vs Blue succeeded due to it’s writing or vocal performances. No, I think what made this work was both luck and being innovative. As I said, machinima existed, but not tot he scale that RT was putting it out. I think them choosing Halo, a popular game that was new at the time, really helped them. It also helped that they had somewhat of a fanbase due to their previous work on the sadly dysfunctional drunkgamers.com.  Which, as the title says, has a bunch of drunkards reviewing games. Think of it as a sort of precursor to Achievement Hunter. They also released a parody video of the then new Apple Switch, as seen here:

Sheesh, and I thought Gus looked young in the recording session video... but my point here is the show was a success for several reasons. They took an obscure media form and did something different with it, took advantage of the open opportunities (Halo’s popularity, their previous fanbase.) They were also very lucky when it came to copyright. Yes even then, when Youtube didn’t exist, they could have gotten into legal trouble for making this show. Fortunately, Microsoft and Bungie liked it and allowed them to continue without paying a fee. How the deal works nowadays IDK, but I’m assuming that things are good since it’s still being made and all.

Season One proved to be a major success. It drew in Halo fans and fans of their previous drunkgamers efforts. Now IDK how things worked in 2003, I was only 10 and had no idea how to use the web was was too young to watch RvB anyways. However they counted views or whatever, it worked. It launched machinima to a more mainstream market and they even got interviewed by CNN and other news groups. Rooster Teeth very quickly became a spearhead in the world of web content, and they’d only grow form here. Season Two was a guarantee, especially with a cliffhanger that would keep viewers interested. But we’ll discuss all of that in the next review.

[avidbeader]

More of the Sheith soulmates AU

Here’s the next part of the story that I posted here. Still trying to figure out a title and concrit/feedback is welcome.

Voltron fandom, Sheith story that acknowledges their age difference and will probably stay T-rated or below.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Keith was in the middle of writing his study guide for the upcoming Interstellar Navigations exam when it hit him. The sudden clash of excitement-nerves-joy-fear-hesitation-disbelief made him drop his tablet.

Shiro. It had to be the Kerberos mission. Shiro must have gotten the pilot’s position.

He took a deep breath. He could handle this. They had talked about this.

“And you’re sure you don’t have a problem with it? Being alone for fourteen months or more if I’m chosen?”

“The only problem I’ll have is if some nutjob researcher finds out we’re soulmates and tries to keep me in a lab and monitor our bond while you’re gone.”

That made Shiro pause. Previous research showed that soulmates still felt the bond between Terra and Mars, but the chance to test it as far as the edge of the solar system would be very tempting to some scientist somewhere.

“I’ll bring it up with Commander Holt. I don’t think there’s a chance in hell of you coming with us, but he might have some ideas on how to protect you.”

“I was mostly joking, Shiro. I’m not sure anyone around here remembers that we’re soulmates other than Matt.”

“True. And I’m going to wake up Matt every morning on this mission and thank him for bringing us together.”

“Sap.”

“Of course.” Shiro pulled Keith into his arms. “Seriously, this is going to be hard.”

“I know. But I’ll put my time to good use. I’m already almost halfway through the second-year requirements. What do you think about coming back from Kerberos to find that your soulmate is a junior officer at seventeen?”

“I think that’s one of the best ideas ever. But don’t kill yourself trying to get it.”

They had a plan.

<> <> <> <> <>

Keith accompanied Shiro’s parents to the reception before Shiro and the Holts would move to quarantine prior to leaving. Shiro’s mother doted on Keith, promising to stay in touch and send care packages. His father was a little standoffish and Keith began to worry that he had done something wrong.

Shiro sensed his anxiety and pulled him aside. “What’s the matter?”

“Your dad…I don’t think he likes me.”

“He does, I promise.”

“No, Shiro, he really seems uncomfortable with me. Maybe he’s just been saying he was fine with you having another guy for a soulmate and now he can’t deal with it face to face.”

Shiro put a hand to either side of Keith’s face, tilting it up. “It isn’t that, I promise you. He’s worried because of his own experience. He found his soulmate when he was twelve and she was ten.”

Keith frowned in confusion. “But, your mom said—”

“She was killed in a car accident when she was fourteen. Dad needed a lot of time and support to get through it. He met Mom at college and they hit it off. Her family never bought much into the entire soulmates concept in the first place—they were very ‘whatever will be will be’. She decided falling in love was just as good. Anyway, after I told him about us, Dad gave me a long lecture about what it felt like to lose your soulmate, getting used to that hole in your mind and heart that never really goes away. I bet he wanted to give you the same warning, but Mom put her foot down.”

Keith chuckled a little at that, having seen Shiro’s mother in action. “Thanks for telling me. I was getting worried.”

Shiro planted a quick kiss on his forehead. “You’re welcome. Come on, let’s get back to the party.”

<> <> <> <> <>

Keith was grateful that he could isolate himself in his room as the launch happened. He sat on his bed, his tablet streaming the live audio broadcast, and focused on Shiro’s presence, savoring every shift in emotion as they lifted off.

Once the ship was safely out of the atmosphere and Shiro’s triumph poured into him, Keith concentrated on sending back his pride and love.

I’ll see you in fourteen months.

<> <> <> <> <>

Shiro did indeed thank Matt daily for being the reason he and Keith came together. He tried to find a different phrase each day, resorting to multiple languages or bursting into song when he was feeling a lack of inspiration. Commander Holt found it hilarious, but would often share stories of his own soul-bonded grandparents, giving Shiro a good picture of the ups and downs of being permanently mentally linked with another person for the rest of your life.

During the voyage out, Keith was a steady presence in Shiro’s mind. His soulmate was indeed driving himself hard, working to achieve his early graduation goals. There were occasions that Shiro knew Keith had been injured, likely in physical training, and twice something happened to trigger Keith’s temper in spectacular fashion. But generally they shifted back and forth in an easy, contented existence, patiently waiting to be reunited.

<> <> <> <> <>

Commander Holt had devised an excellent compromise for Keith’s worries about being turned into someone’s lab rat. He found a scientist that was indeed eager for the chance to expand the study of distance effects on the bond. Holt then negotiated fiercely and arranged a contract dictating that in return for exclusive access to Keith during the mission she would limit her examinations to three times a week and give Keith a generous stipend out of the resulting grant money.

Keith stashed away half of the first installment in a bank account but did allow himself one large indulgence and bought himself a late-model used hoverbike. He spent many Sundays taking it out into the desert around the Garrison, learning its every quirk and coming the closest he could get to actual unsupervised flight until he finished his training.

By sheer coincidence he was in Dr. Hooper’s lab, electrodes already on his forehead, temples, and chest, when everything spiked. Hooper ran around, shutting off all the alarms, and looked at Keith frantically. “What’s going on?”

Keith’s smile threatened to split his face. “They made it! They’re on Kerberos!”

The doctor clapped her hands. “That’s wonderful! When do you think they’ll announce the success?”

“Probably in a few days. I expect Commander Holt will confirm landing, then confirm when they’ve started collecting the ice samples they’re after. The Garrison will probably announce both at once, make a bigger media splash that way.”

His grin never left his face as Hooper recorded the readings in excitement.

<> <> <> <> <>

Two nights later, Keith woke up screaming from a nightmare of a ship looming over him and his crew, of being hauled in by some irresistible force. Large figures with glowing eyes and purple skin towered over him and dragged him through a long hallway, throwing him into a small cell.

Shiro! Something’s happened to Shiro!

He rose and threw on clothes, shoving his bare feet into sneakers and grabbing his jacket, and took off for the monitoring center. His security clearance as a cadet would get him into the front lobby. Then he needed to find someone who was stationed with the Kerberos mission and warn them.

Entering the building, he saw Commander Iverson, deep in conversation with Lieutenant General Franke. They both looked up, startled, as Keith burst through the door.

The eyebrow above Iverson’s bad eye quirked up, throwing his face off balance. “Kogane? What the hell are you doing here?”

Franke focused sharply on Keith and muttered, “The soulmate?” He put the tablet in his hand to sleep and stepped forward. “What can you tell us, Kogane? All we know is we lost radio contact a few hours ago.”

“I think…I think they’ve been taken by a hostile force! Shiro’s trapped, scared…I think the Holts are alive, but I can’t be sure!”

Iverson reached out and took Keith by the shoulders. “Deep breaths, Keith. Hold your focus. It’s a good thing you can confirm that he’s still alive. Now, I need you to keep this information completely to yourself.”

“Y-yes. Yes, sir?” Keith found the request odd. He struggled to concentrate through Shiro’s and his own fear coursing through him.

“We need to sort out what to tell the press. It is vital that you do not tell anyone else what you know. Can you do that?”

Keith swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “Yes, sir.”

“I’ll arrange with your instructors to give you the next few days off. We’ll say it’s flu. Stick to your room as much as possible.”

“Could I…stay at Shiro’s apartment?” The possibility of being among Shiro’s things, in his bed, immediately made Keith feel calmer.

The two men looked at one another for a moment, then Iverson nodded. “Get your things. I’ll let the building supervisor know to expect you.”

<> <> <> <> <>

The guards never acknowledged his words. Every time someone would bring the tray of slop that served as food, every time one of those weird hooded figures stopped to look in, Shiro would plead for himself and his crew. But the helms and hoods hid their eyes and he had no sense at all whether they even heard him, much less understood him.

That changed after one of the hooded things reached through the bars in the door with an odd device. The alien activated it and a bright purple light swept over him from head to toe. Pain spiked in his head and receded.

The thing withdrew and Shiro heard it speak words he could understand, in an odd hissing voice. “That should take care of it. Their brains are primitive, but similar enough for the translators.” And just like that, Shiro could understand everything being said around him. It brought no comfort.

Keith’s fear for him was constant in the back of his mind. Shiro tried to keep his own emotions steady for Keith’s sake, but the best he could manage was perpetual dread over the situation and worry over the Holts.

And then, three or four days later, they came and pulled him out of his cell.

The guards ruthlessly stripped him of his spacesuit and threw a set of dark clothing at him. The bodysuit material seemed made to stretch out and fit its wearer perfectly, with the gray tunic added for warmth. The boots were made of an odd fabric that was flexible but strong, with rubber-like soles for traction.

Once he was dressed, the guards grabbed him and practically dragged him down a long corridor. Others dressed similarly were being brought as well. Shiro’s heart leaped when he recognized a shock of brown hair sticking up in all directions.

“Matt!”

The head turned to reveal Matt’s face with an ugly bruise spreading from one temple. He peered around a tall gray alien and called back, “Shiro?”

“Yes! I’m here!” One of Shiro’s guards drove a fist into his ribs.

One by one, all the prisoners were thrown into a holding area in a shuttle, then the door closed, shrouding them all in a faint purple light. Shiro immediately moved to Matt’s side as they felt the shuttle leave the ship.

“Do you know where your father is?”

Matt shook his head. “No. They kept us together for a day or so, then pulled us out and did some kind of physical exam.”

Shiro nodded, remembering the point where he had been dragged from his cell to a room and one of those purple aliens, with a white face and white stripes on its head, drew blood and poked and prodded at him for a short time.

“The day after that they came and took Dad away. One of them said Dad was too old and only fit for a camp.”

Matt’s comment made Shiro’s heart rate spike. “Too old? Too old for what?”

Another of the aliens, with majestic red horns curving from his head, spoke up. “Too old for the arena.”

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

Part 3

[entropic-introspection]

Don’t let me on kinkmemes, I steal the prompts, strip them down and rebuild them like the weirdest looking revved up hot-rods that only vaguely resemble their original purpose and kind of decidedly unsexy unless you’re into that sort of thing

In this our first installment: Jailbreaks, basic premise building, the Magnus Hammer, fighting, a sad lack of banter, more fighting, and Decepticon sedatives

“Decepticons! Transform and rise! UP!” Megatron roared, slamming one of his swords against his heavily plated forearm. He was met by answering screams and clangs, an unholy cacophony to rupture the usual foreboding silence over Trypticon prison. The pathetic Autobots swarming the area panicked like the ant-droids they were, looking for a leader and finding none. General Strika was quite thorough in that regard.

“Time estimate,” he barked into his comms, freshly restored to him.

“We require five breems to reroute the power to necessary areas,” Oil Slick reported, speaking over what sounded like a great deal of cursing in the background. “Possibly more. Why do the Autobots build so small?”

“Understood,” Megatron said. “Strika, status?”

“Holding,” she said. “All of their anti-aerial measures have been disabled, so we have far less to fear. Ground troops are scaring out any Autobots that remain within our perimeter while our fliers keep it clear.”

“Good,” Megatron said. “Is there anywhere you need me?”

Strika snorted. “Keep flying in plain sight and be a pretty figurehead. The troops have missed you, my lord, and if you get hit by a sniper it will be an excellent reminder to keep a look out.”

Megatron grinned. “So dismissive of Autobot warriors, still?”

“More that I am almost entirely certain that you are too stubborn to go offline any time soon,” Strika said. “You disappear for fifty solar cycles and return with the location of the Allspark, nearly take Omega Supreme for the Decepticon cause, and if nothing else you finally offlined Starscream. If you were to take a sniper shot to the cranium, I am convinced that you would come back with the ability to see the future, or talking to Unicron or some such nonsense, if it didn’t just bounce off that thick helmet of yours.”

Megatron barked out a laugh, although he kept a wary eye on the buildings that cut through the horizon. Since Trypticon was a fortress refurbished into a prison, it was surrounded largely by empty land, but you never knew. It was crawling itch in his plating to not know, but he was so familiar with the feeling that he was able to dismiss it with ease. Besides, he was finally free, out from his cramped cell and the ridiculous Autobot demands, back at his rightful place as leader of the Decepticons.

Back in control. Anything else was secondary.

“Movement! Airborne enemy mech, incoming!”

Well, nearly anything else.

A neat turn brought him to face the mech marked on his radar, distinctive red and blue not quite zipping through the skies, but moving at a good clip for being someone never designed for flight.

“General Strika,” Megatron purred, swinging his swords through a quick kata in warm up, “I do believe this one is mine.”

“Do not engage!” Strika snarled. “Our goal is extraction, not a rematch! You cannot-”

“Cannot what, General?” Megatron asked, speeding forward to meet the young Autobot. He heard Strika take a sharp invent and let it out with a hiss. She wouldn’t get the full effect of the dominant coding he was leaking everywhere like a new-sparked idiot over comms, but she would certainly know it was there.

“I ask,” she said carefully, “That you remember that we must return you home safely. Engage the puny Auto-scum if you must, but please pull back when we are ready to warp. Else I will shoot you out of the sky myself and drag you along the ground.”

He considered her proposal. It was tactically sound, after all, and submissive enough to please his frazzled coding. He could forgive the last line, as Strika herself had more highly dominant code than submissive, and he was no doubt putting her through a good deal of stress.

“Understood,” he said. “I will withdraw on your mark, General.”

Megatron spun through the sky, for no purpose other than the joy of flight and to revel in his new found freedom. It was also a semi-impressive looking maneuver that the Autobot in front of him wouldn’t be able to replicate without sending himself into an ungainly downwards spiral. He was only mildly disappointed that his opponent didn’t try to mimic him, instead keeping his approach simple and level.

“Optimus Prime,” Megatron said pleasantly once they were within audio range. “So glad you could join us for such a momentous occasion.”

The young Prime didn’t respond, choosing instead to glare over his battlemask, as if that were more intimidating than his attempts at banter. His grip on the Magnus Hammer shifted in preparation.

“Still depending on your toys?” Megatron asked with an indulgent smile. “Face it, Autobot,” he sneered, “Could you even defeat me on your own?”

Optimus’ expression didn’t change, nor did his posture.

“Very well then,” Megatron said. “Our actions will speak for us.” He raised his swords in preparation.

Optimus’s eyes flicked towards them, and he held up a hand, one finger extended.

Megatron stopped, nonplussed by the universal signal for ‘please wait, I am doing something right now’.

“Sentinel,” Optimus said, enunciating clearly, “I am here already. I am going to mute your comm channel now, so if you need to contact me, please do so through official channels. Give my regards to-” he paused, looking at Megatron. “Well. You know. Optimus, out.”

Optimus resettled himself in the air uncomfortably, wobbling slightly as he miscalculated his balance. “You were saying something, Megatron?” he said in the exact same neutral tone.

*

A too-small prison and officious Autobots leering at him for cycles had not been kind to Megatron. This was his moment of triumph and control, of proving that no puny Autobots could contain him, and to have this one in particular practically ignore him was simply the last strand to the fraying wire.

To the Pit with presentation. He roared in challenge as he ascended, and the heavens answered with thunder and lightning in return, crashing into Trypticon below. Strika’s plan must have been nearing completion, then, to elicit such a dramatic atmospheric reaction. Sparks danced across the ground below as his troops flinched, some trying to hide before correcting themselves, others almost gearing up for a fight they knew they wouldn’t win.

Anyone with dominant coding could issue a challenge as he just did; few could ever hope to match the sheer intensity and presence behind his. After all, most Cybertronians would never encounter a pure dominant code type in their very long day-to-day lives. Blitzwing’s Random face had laughingly described it as running into a steel wall when they were expecting clouds, and mechs reacted accordingly.

Except for Optimus Prime. He remained hovering, what little expression that was visible above his battlemask unchanged. Or, wait. There was a small twitch to his optics, one Megatron found himself sporting when Lugnut was feeling particularly obsequious.

Megatron dove at Optimus, awaiting an answering scream of challenge or defeat. Instead, the Autobot looped the Magnus Hammer in a long, crackling circle. His mask dropped to show his snarl, complete with pathetically blunt dentae.

“Slag off,” he growled, and threw back his head and howled. The Magnus Hammer sang with him in a hymn of thunderclaps as it practically pulled him through the air, encasing them both in a  corona of electricity. It was a sight to behold, but what held Megatron frozen was the compulsion behind it.

If pure dominant coding was rare, then it’s only match, indeed what possibly surpassed it in rarity, was a pure coded submissive.

This was not Optimus answering his challenge as an equal; this was Optimus denying his challenge any ground, unable to answer and not needing to as he flew through the storm, untouched, the Hammer itself serving as his leading partner, an avenging angel uncaring of such mortal squabbles.

It was beautiful.

It also hurt like the Pit, as the Magnus Hammer connected with Megatron’s side, crumpling plating and frying circuits. Megatron pinwheeled through the air like some sort of novice, trying to digest the last few kliks.

“My lord, we must go now!” Strika yelled over the comms as thunder crashed. “Before the build-up fries us!”

“Understood,” Megatron croaked, sparks crackling between his lips as they parted. “I may need some assistance disengaging.”

“It is already there,” Strika said, and Cyclonus dropped abruptly from the clouds, no engines running to give him away, and his foot slammed into the wings of Optimus’ jetpack. Yielding to physics, one snapped off entirely, and Optimus was sent spinning away, only barely retaining his grip on the Hammer.

“My lord,” Cyclonus said shortly, pulling up to hover beside Megatron. “Can you fly closer to the fortress unaided?”

“Yes,” Megatron snapped. “But I cannot transform at the moment.”

Cyclonus nodded. “Then I am sure the medical team will wish to see you,” he said neutrally. “Let us hurry.”

Megatron descended, thoughts whirring furiously. Cyclonus remained several feet back, field tucked below his plating, a nearly invisible presence even now. Megatron was uncertain how the mech even presented; it had never come up before, and he hadn’t seen the other’s reaction to his challenge or Optimus’ response. In calmer days, it wasn’t a problem. Today, it made him bristle.

He tucked those feelings away and stood straight as he landed, pain ignored for now. Strika looked him over critically, unfooled, but nodded approvingly anyways.

“My lord,” she said, field restrained and projecting as much submission as she was capable of. “As you command.”

“Decepticons,” Megatron said over comms, voice rough, “Let us return to our brethren with this piece of our home.”

Thunder boomed, rattling struts and shaking windows and so much lightning crashed into Trypticon that even those with specialized optics couldn’t see past the blinding light. When it all faded, Trypticon was simply gone, and the Decepticons with it.

Two flier remained, though. They drifted through a grid search pattern until they spotted what they were looking for, at which point the spiralled in to land practically on top of Optimus Prime in his crash crater.

“Optimus Prime, sir!” Jetfire said cheerfully. “Is good to be seeing you!”

“Less good to be seeing Decepticons are all gone,” Jetstorm said just as happily, leaning over to help Optimus stand.

“But is good, because Ultra Magnus is awake!” Jetfire said, looping one of Optimus’ arms over his shoulder.

“But is tricky, because we cannot be telling him about all of problems at once without relapse,” Jetstorm said as they started walking towards the city proper, dragging the Hammer behind them.

“We is thinking he maybe be mad at Commander ours, but not all problems his! Now some are yours,” Jetfire said.

“I’m glad I could help,” Optimus said flatly, faceplates stuck in a mullish expression.

“We be glad too!” the twins said together. “Happy times all around!”

“So very happy,” Optimus agreed dully as they made it past the cleared land around Trypticon and back into the Autobot friendly expanses of the planet-wide city, as marked by numerous posters reminding everyone to do their part with energon rationing, war-time production, constant vigilance for spies, and of course, to know your place in The Great Autobot Machine.

“Sir is not happy,” Jetstorm confided to Optimus.

“Sir thinks you are being disrespectful and forgetting own code,” Jetfire confirmed.

“Submissive glitch should not be making decisions like this!” Jetstorm said in a very bad impression of Sentinel’s voice.

“Cannot be thinking straight, not fit for duty!” Jetfire said with a slightly worse impression.

Optimus groaned. “I can walk, you know,” he told the two of them. “I’ll comm and Ratchet and-”

The twins shook their heads vigorously. “Who you think be sending us?” Jetfire demanded.

“Said he would be telling Sentinel we be goofing off at work if we did not come back with you and all pieces!” Jetstorm added indignantly.

“I’m missing a wing to my jetpack,” Optimus tried.

They gave him a pitying look and kept walking, and Optimus let himself be dragged along. Well. At least he had a medical excuse for why he couldn’t go see Sentinel Acting Magnus and Ultra Probably the Actual Magnus. His processor was already aching from Megatron’s over-the-top pompous ass dominant challenge, and he didn’t want to deal with more inane dominant posturing for the next stellar cycle.

--

“Optimus Prime,” Megatron began in a thoughtful tone, sitting on an examination chair in the med-bay, “is a pure submissive.”

General Strika, recognizing the tone, immediately turned and administered a Class F Decepticon Emergency Sedative by punching him the face and into unconsciousness.

“I am not dealing with him until I have had time to reunite with my consort and gotten our people back into some form of order,” she said, glaring at Scalpel, the doctor on duty. “See to it.”

Scalpel cackled and saluted. Dominant coding and command structure meant nothing in a Decepticon medbay if you got to the sedatives first.

~+~+~+~

An authorial aside note from my editing process that I liked way too much to delete entirely, goes where the asterisk (*) is

[The disrespect is fucking real, Megatron realized. He supposed his saving grace was that General Strika wasn’t here to point and laugh. Well fuck that.]

[drycerealthief]

6 Months and 1550 Miles

Written (partly!) for @phanfichallenge​ “Week of Fics” Challenge Day 5.

AO3 Link Fic Masterlist - Similar events feel very different, depending on whether you can edit stuff out before the audience sees it...

Chapter 1 - London, December 2017. “-JOB SIMULATORRRRR” he finishes, exaggerating the end of the words somewhat dramatically, before Phil quips something about “being on the naughty step down here” He rolls with it, turning at least partway towards him, hoping he’s brandishing the controller in the right direction as he plays along, telling Phil and their audience “You’ve been very bad, you’re getting nothing but coal next week!” He’s already pressed START and figures he may as well make something of the warning displayed inside the headset, so he reads it out for their audience’s benefit, swinging his arms as he does so to demonstrate the point.“Are you clear of things you might bump into?” He can’t hear Phil clearly, but he thinks he’s jokingly drawing attention to the fact he’s sitting within reach, but Dan’s aware of his general location, just behind him to his right, and he might swing his arms around to get a reaction, just to be a bit dramatic, but it’ll be funny - Phil won’t let anything happen - “Please don’t punch me in the- “ “ALL CLEAR!”   SMACK “OHH! FUCK!!” It takes a moment for what’s just happened to register. He stands frozen, arms and elbows drawn in tight, before yanking the headset up from over his eyes, to see Phil hunched over turned away from him, both hands covering his mouth and jaw. “Are you okay?” Silence. “Phil… Phil, look at me please” This isn’t funny. The camera is still recording, but this isn’t going to be uploaded. His hand stings where he’s just hit Phil, but he’s certain being backhanded square in the face will have hurt a damn sight more, especially if he also caught him with the controller too.He drops to his knees in front of Phil, and gently tries to pry his hands away from his face, in order to see what he’s done, what he’s caused to happen in all his stupid put-on exuberance. He’s expecting bruising, maybe some blood, but he’s just hoping there’s no missing teeth, because it’s late at night and he doesn’t know where to find an emergency dentist and- Phil turns towards him and makes eye contact, after what seems like an eternity to Dan, caught in a spiral of worry and self-recrimination. There’s tears in his eyes, but he shies away from Dan when he goes to wipe them away, instead blinking them away as he lifts his head. Slowly, oh-so slowly, he lowers one hand, then the other, allowing Dan to see, finally. And it’s nowhere near as bad as he’d feared, especially as Phil quips, albeit shakily “So, what’s the damage? Do I have an excuse for all that plastic surgery to turn me into- “ “Shush a minute” Dan interrupts, noticing a small smear of blood on Phil’s lip, leaning in close to try and see where it’s coming from before directing Phil: “open your mouth for a sec?” Phil obliges, wincing slightly as Dan carefully rolls his top lip away from his teeth just enough to see a tiny cut on the inside of his lip. It’s already stopped bleeding, probably thanks to the pressure Phil’s hands on his face put on it, and it seems to be the only damage, but he keeps checking, keeps examining Phil’s face closely until Phil seizes his hands, removing them from his face and trapping them together between his own gently. “Dan, it’s ok. I’m fine. I’m alright, really.”He inhales shakily, avoiding making eye contact. Despite the words, he still expects Phil to be angry, he’d deserve it if he was, after what he’s just done, he could so easily have really hurt Phil, what would he have done then, and- “Hey. Dan. Stop. Look at me.” Without him realising, suddenly their positions are reversed and it’s his own face being cradled in Phil’s hands, and a couple of previously unnoticed tears being wiped gently from his cheeks. The words, and the gentle tone of that voice he knows so well, along with the careful physical contact abruptly shut down the negative thought spiral he’d trapped himself in, and frees him enough to follow the simple command Phil’s given him. He opens his eyes, barely having known up until that point that he’d shut them, and makes eye contact. “There you are. Love, stop worrying, Please. I’m fine, you’re fine, it was just an accident, you couldn’t see me- “ “Phil. I’m sorry. I-I- “ “Shhh love, I know. You didn’t mean it. It’s ok. Deep breaths now, come on.” He’s so relieved that Phil really isn’t mad, and seems instead to be worried about him all of a sudden that he can’t help but barrel into Phil’s midsection, worming his arms tightly between Phil and the back of his chair, eliciting a surprised “oof!” from his partner at the impact, before he feels his arms come up and wrap around him securely. Suddenly everything really is ok. He hadn’t realised how upset he’d gotten, how worried, until he starts to relax, feeling the tension gradually ebb from his body, and his mind quieten. “’m sorry I’m an idiot” he mutters into Phil’s shirt. He’s not sure if he’d be able to hear it, but he feels the need to say it anyway. Phil chuckles softly, before shifting, and moving one hand upwards, stroking up his back, tickling the back of his neck just a little before starting to gently play with Dan’s hair, picking a single curl at random, and pulling slightly, before letting it ping back towards his scalp. “You know we can film this another day if you want?” he suggests, quietly, obviously not wanting to disturb the moment but it serves to remind them that the camera is still presumably recording, has been the entire time, so if they do want to keep recording, they need to get on with it at some point. Dan releases his grip on the back of Phil’s shirt, and sits back on his heels, looking up at Phil with a bashful smile, taking the opportunity as Phil looks down at him to- “Stop staring at me like my face is in danger of falling off you spoon! I’m fine.” They both burst out laughing, and it takes a while for Dan to ask if Phil wants to keep what they had recorded, or if he wants to start fresh. “I don’t know. It was pretty funny, to be honest, and it’s nice to have not been the clumsy one for once. What do you think?” he asks in return, frowning slightly, clearly unsure if Dan is comfortable with sharing even part of what’s just happened. And to be honest, he is mulling it over carefully, before replying as he gets to his feet and stretching: “OK, let’s carry on with me apologising. We can always cut it out and re-film the intro if it’s- if we- ” “Sounds good” Phil cuts him off, smiling comfortingly up at him. And it is good when the video is finally finished. With an added slow-mo of the impact that still makes them both flinch whenever they see it, even after editing the video carefully, it’s easy to disguise what would be a blatant jump-cut, followed by their slightly shaky, slightly over-emphasised interactions as they restart filming. It's okay.

Chapter 2 - Moscow, June 2018. Dan stretches his arms up above his head, relaxing on the freshly made hotel bed he’s been lying across ever since they got back to the hotel. It’s late, and they’re tired, but it’s been a good few days, busy, but everything thus far has gone better and more straightforwardly than they’d perhaps expected. Phil had headed straight for the shower once they’d ordered room service dinner, promising to be quick enough that Dan can have a quick rinse at the least before the food arrives. Dan suspects, based on years of experience however, that he won’t actually get to shower until he goes back to his own hotel room later. Alone, because they promised to adhere to all the advice they’d had drummed into them on the run-up to this section of the tour. All of it. It feels especially jarring, given the reactions of their fans who came to the shows, and the Meet and Greet sessions, so whilst they felt more relaxed during tonight’s performance, they’re still on full “best platonic behaviour” mode, and he’s 99% certain just his presence here in Phil’s room would give some members of their team an aneurysm if they knew. Also odd is the fact they handed over all their devices before flying into the country, as advised, and since then have been using old handsets they packed specifically for these few days, carefully reset to factory settings with burner SIM cards and iCloud accounts, and virtually no apps installed. They’ve also avoided signing into any of their online accounts, so have effectively shut themselves off completely from social media, something they’ve literally never done. Not completely. It’s been weird, but they’ve spoken about how they can both see the appeal, if they weren’t so reliant on it for their career. It’s for this reason that instead of just checking his mentions, he is reduced to searching a few different terms in order to gauge their audiences’ (both in person and online) reaction to tonight’s show, along with their continued absence online, but what he finds initially confuses, then horrifies him. Not least because it’s something he doesn’t even remember having happened. Yet there it is, full video evidence with muffled audio. In silent gifs that play over and over as he scrolls past. All over Twitter and Tumblr both, complete with joking captions and comments, crowding out any reviews, spoilers or comments about the actual show. And he doesn’t remember it. But what if Phil does? What if Phil was expecting an apology? What if he was expecting them to talk about it, if not right there and then, but maybe in their dressing room after the meetup but before the show, during the interval, or afterwards. Any point up until when he shut the door to the bathroom behind him. What if Phil’s angry? And he hasn’t noticed that either. Not that it’d be the first time Phil had kept quiet, let it fester under the surface with Dan oblivious, gotten and stayed angry about that too, then suddenly exploded, leaving Dan temporarily blindsided, then feeling like a complete shit? He can’t let that happen. Not now, not here, and not during the tour. They can’t get away with doing this show if they’re not on good terms, it’s not scripted enough, and the last thing they’d need is if it were obvious to their audience that something was wrong between them. This is bad enough, they don’t need that as well. He needs to sort this, have it out with Phil now, but he’s in the shower, and his mood won’t be improved if Dan interrupts or drags him out of there now, but the food’s on its way, it’ll be arriving soon and he doesn’t want to sit eating in stony silence if Phil really is mad, but what if- “Dan..? You okay love?” His thoughts come to a shuddering stop, and he freezes, not that he was moving anyway, instead lying curled in on himself, caught, as if he was being attacked by some external force, not from within his own mind. “Hey...” Phil says quietly, sitting down on the edge next to his feet, shrugging off the towel draped round his shoulders and reaching out to lay a hand gently on Dan’s thigh; “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Dan can feel himself cringing as the silence stretches, hating himself for not having the nerve to sit up and speak to Phil, instead hiding himself away and no doubt worrying his boyfriend, but he just can’t. Which makes him feel worse, Phil will have yet another reason to be mad, as if there weren’t enough already, but what if he decides he’s too much trouble, what if he decides enough is en- “Dan. What’s got you upset love? Please tell me. I-I don’t know what’s wrong but- “It’s the worry clearly audible in his voice that frees some of Dan’s muscles up enough so he can nudge the phone, lying face-down on the bed. It’s less the vicious kick that he wants to give it, send it smashing into the wall or onto the floor, but he manages to nudge it with his knee, pushing it away from him slightly - enough for Phil to take the hint and snatch it up with shaking hands. There’s a long pause, whilst Phil unlocks the phone, then scrolls through what Dan had last been looking at. Dan’s curiosity gets the better of him quickly, and he sneaks a glance up at Phil, still concentrating, absorbed on the phone screen. Or so the thinks, right up until Phil looks down at him, making eye contact that Dan immediately shies away from. “Oh no you don’t...” Phil starts, standing up briefly, just enough to flop down back onto the bed on the other side of Dan, before rolling onto his side so he can face him on his level - if only he wasn’t still avoiding eye contact, or even looking at him, Phil’s choice of words having done nothing to soothe his fears that they’re heading towards a massive row. “Hi.” Phil begins, reaching over and poking Dan gently right between the eyebrows. “I hope you’re listening to me, cos I’m about to start listing in reverse order every stupid, daft, clumsy, utterly unimportant thing I’ve done that you’ve ignored or forgiven me for starting with the fact I just dropped the conditioner in the shower and wasted half the bottle…” Dan frowns, listening as Phil continues; “…fairly sure I left my tour hoodie at the venue yesterday, so that makes five…” This… It doesn’t make sense. He hit Phil in the face. He could have really hurt him, because he wasn’t being careful and- “Oi.” Phil interrupts, and it’s enough to derail his thoughts, stop them hurtling again. “You’re supposed to be listening to how terrible I am…” “‘m sorr- “ “Nope.” Phil immediately interrupts. “Nothing to be sorry for. We’re two lanky uncoordinated giants stuck in a tiny screened-off bit of a crowded room with loads of other people and I know however annoying I might get on a daily basis that you’d never actually try and hit me. So, no apologies, and no beating yourself up about it either. Else I will get annoyed, hear me?” “But-“ He tries to argue the point, because- “Yeah, I know, they know. And we know they know. But the only one taking this seriously that we need to take seriously is you.” “Phil. They- “ “Will have found something else to keyboard smash over by tomorrow.” he responds firmly, before his voice softens as he continues. “Dan… I’m not angry. I promise. And they’re… well, most of them are joking. I mean - it does look quite funny. Did you see my face when it happened?” He can’t help but chuckle quietly as he finishes, smiling at his boyfriend, reaching across to take his hand when he sees the aborted movement it makes. He’s relieved to see a smile, however tentative, appear on Dan’s face almost immediately. It’s at that point that there’s a knock at the door. Dan’s up in a flash, Phil barely has time to sit up before he’s yanking the door open. It takes him a little longer to reappear from the door of the room, but Phil assumes that’s due to the fact he’s carrying a large tray with their food balanced carefully when he does return. They sit next to each other on the bed, leaning against the headboard as they eat.  Phil thinks nothing of the silence that descends on the room, until he looks up when he’s about three-quarters done with his food, no longer ravenous, to find Dan has barely eaten anything, and instead of eating, he’s frowning down at his plate as he swirls his fork through the food. Phil places his plate back on the tray, and gently takes Dan’s out of his hands. When he turns back to his boyfriend, he finds him frowning at him, instead. That doesn’t change, even when Phil reaches out, gets his arms round his shoulders, and pulls Dan down with him as he shuffles down the bed. He’s lying somewhat comfortably, with Dan’s head resting on his shoulder, but he’s almost painfully aware of how stiffly Dan is lying, immobile, obviously still replaying the events of earlier in the day and punishing himself over it. This won’t do. He squeezes Dan in his arms tightly, and presses a line of kisses in his hair, to his temple, across his forehead and finishes on the end of his nose, huffing amusedly at Dan, frowning and cross-eyed as he watches him pull away to rest his head back on the pillow. Seizing his chance, he mouths “I. Love. You.” and as Dan raises his own head to press a kiss against his jaw, he smiles contentedly. “I love you too” he replies, lying back down, immediately curling into Phil’s body and tucking his face into his neck as he gets comfortable, before he finally, relaxes. Phil feels like cheering, like it’s a victory, but he’ll settle for the quiet moment and enjoy the intimacy whilst they can have it, as Dan’s arm creeps across his chest and gently tugs them that bit closer together. “I wanna stay…” he whispers, so quiet Phil feels it almost more than he hears it. He doesn’t blame him. He wants Dan to stay too – for them to spend the night curled together like this, rather than them separate in different rooms, and for Dan to be alone with his thoughts tonight. “So stay.” He replies, just as quietly, refusing to loosen his hold on Dan when he goes to move, to force himself to sit up; “Dan… just… please. Just a bit longer.” “Phil… I’m going to fall asleep and then-” “Shhh. Just a bit longer love.” He’s got a plan. And he’s determined to make it work. Sure enough, after another quiet period, Dan makes another two failed attempts to get up and leave, before he relaxes fully and Phil waits until his breathing evens out completely before he slowly and carefully slides out from under Dan’s body, then gently wraps the duvet around him, smiling as Dan immediately rolls himself over before settling. He retrieves Dan’s phone, plugging it into the charger and putting his own in his pocket, and finally brushes a kiss on Dan’s forehead before grabbing a change of clothes, his hotel room key and his trainers, before making for the door, closing it gently behind him. He’ll bring down a change of clothes for Dan in the morning.