#Are you telling me there wouldn’t be a subset of people who were lonely kids for whom Station was probably their only friend

[clefairytea]

A thing I don’t buy about what Breq says in Imperial Radch is the implication that people largely don’t care about what their ship/station thinks of them or assume it doesn’t have opinions. I would be so desperate to get a good grade in Station. I would be throwing you all under the bus if I thought it would win me some points with the station AI.

[peppersonironi]

Duke Thomas VS The "Good Child" Stereotype Chapter Four

For my @dukethomasbigbang fic, we have the third prank, and fourth chapter! I hope y'all like it! Yet again a huge thanks to betas @queerbutstillhere & @theycallme-ook

Summary:

Everyone was suddenly shaken out of their stunned staring when the Cave’s sound system flared up, blasting dramatic choral music. It was the perfect track for the perfect moment, building up tension to an uproar as the lights dimmed slightly, and all attention was brought on the crackling of lightning arcing across a new figure, who was rounding the bend.

Duke grinned at his crowning achievement.

Read on Ao3

Ah, Cheerios, the best kind of breakfast cereal. Duke just didn’t get why people seemed to hate them so much. They weren’t bland, they just had a nice even subtle oat flavor which was refreshing compared to all the intensely sweet sugary crap that Dick kept attempting to sneak in past Alfred. And they were so delicious with milk! Of course, they were also fantastic when you added things to them as well, like a light drizzle of honey, or a small handful of granola. If you were feeling especially adventurous - or if Damian was the one to go shopping with Alfred and therefore got the choice in what was bought that week - you could even have it with some unsweetened vanilla oat milk.

“But does that count as a subset of cannibalism?” Duke wondered aloud between bites of cereal.

He took another bite thoughtfully and hopped down from the island in the middle of the kitchen to make his way out the door and down the hall. Alfred was away for the weekend (Tim had mentioned something about regaining his honor in a pie baking duel with Ma Kent? Duke wasn’t sure.) so he wouldn’t get in trouble.

Not that he ever got in trouble. For some reason.

Duke angrily crunched down on another spoonful when a sudden banging around came from the ceiling above him. Duke froze, suddenly terrified. What was it? Aliens? Did Alfred (The Cat) finally figure out how to phase through walls? Were some of the skeletons (which Jason had warned Duke he stored in the drywall) finally reanimate and were slowly crawling out, in a slow determined quest for revenge?

As the opening to the air vent just a few feet ahead banged open, releasing a lone figure, Duke was dismayed to find it was not, in fact, some fantastical being or occurrence.

It was just Steph.

Duke quickly finished eating the spoonful of Cheerios and chewed as he waved a greeting with his spoon.

Stephanie, who was completely covered in glitter and carrying a feather duster, glared daggers at Duke and slowly, methodically, drew the duster across her throat.

Duke swallowed heavily and cringed. Ah, it probably would be in his best interest to avoid blaming the purple clothed bandit for any of his pranks in the future.

*****

For the second time that day, Duke found himself in the kitchen of Wayne Manor. Though this time, instead of pondering the moral and psychological repercussions of eating his cereal with oat milk, the teen was having a pre workout snack with his younger brother.

“Add more whipped cream, Thomas,” Damian advised, passing Duke the can. “Dairy is protein, and protein is essential to proper nutrition.”

Duke took the can with a grin, and added a more generous than necessary squirt to the top.

“Alright Dami,” Duke said as he set aside the can, “But you need to be sure to add more than one cherry. Fruit is good for you, you know.”

Damian sniffed superiorly and delicately pulled out three maraschino cherries from the fancy jar than Alfred kept in the pantry. He then placed them precariously on top of the summet of his ice cream sundae mountain.

Duke held up his spoon in front of Damian. “Shall we dig in?”

Damian grinned - a rare occurrence which took the years off of his face, allowing him to truly look like a child. Duke quietly celebrated, ever since he first saw Damian smile at him, he had made it his mission to make his younger brother happier more often.

They clinked their spoons together, and dug into their huge deserts. It was a good thing that Alfred wasn’t home at the moment, or the old Butler would have an aneurysm at the amount of sugar they were putting into their bodies. But oh well, they deserved it for the training session that they’d be taking part in later that afternoon.

It wasn’t often that Bruce had enough time to do a full workout session with any of his kids, let alone something smaller like a one on one thing, or him and a few others. Duke had only gotten this privilege during his first year of staying with the Waynes, and at the time, when he was futilely trying to kick down trees in the yard, he hadn’t understood why such a thing was coveted by his siblings.

But now he did, so he completely understood Damian’s excitement when the thirteen year old had animatedly informed him that because all the others were gone from the city that day, only he and Duke would be present for the training session. So of course Duke suggested making a special treat in preparation.

They were at the very bottom of their large bowls of ice cream when Bruce walked into the kitchen carrying his large jug of water.

“Are you boys ready for today?” Bruce asked, and Duke and Damian grinned.

“Of course, Father. We have been preparing extensively for the past half hour.”

Bruce eyed the empty bowls in front of each of his sons, and grunted. “And sprinkles helped you do that?”

Duke scoffed. “Of course, B. Didn't you know that?”

Bruce looked skeptical, so Damian butted in. “Father, Pennyworth is always informing you to eat your colors. You americans eat such bland food, all tans and grays. Surely compact fluorescent bites are the best way to remedy such a problem.”

Bruce squinted, but didn’t seem in the mood to argue, so he turned around and began to leave the kitchen. “Just be in my study in twenty minutes.”

Behind him, Duke offered a fist bump to his partner in crime. Damian accepted with a smirk.

*****

“Please tell me I’m not late!” Duke exclaimed as he rushed into Bruce’s study.

Bruce and Damian were over by the clock, looking as if they were about to input the time. Duke heaved a sigh of relief at that. Being late to a training session was a mortal sin in the Manor. Or at least, that’s what Jason told him. He said it was the reason he had died (something about Bruce kicking him out, which made him go to Ethiopia for some money an old rich uncle of his had left him, and then the Joker catching wind and tried to rob him, which somehow ended in with him, a warehouse, and a crow bar).

Suffice it to say, Duke made it his mission to never be late to a training session. Ever.

“Tt, Thomas,” Damian remarked, turning back to the clock. “You were cutting it close.”

Bruce sighed. “You’re fine Duke.”

Duke nodded and took his place right behind Damian. The boy huffed in a satisfied manner and crossed his arms.

“Any day now, Father. Unlike you, my time is precious.”

Translation: Damian was excited, and tired of waiting.

Bruce frowned as he spun the arms of the clock again. “The clock is broken.”

Duke raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that it’s really just a door, right?”

Bruce frowned back at the face of the grandfather clock, not bothered by Duke’s incredibly funny remark.

A few seconds later, Duke tried again. “Bruce, what’s wrong?”

Bruce’s eyes were narrowed to slits by now, and his brow furrowed in concentration. “The entrance is malfunctioning. I want you boys to go around and check the others. Including Stephanie’s smuggling tunnel.”

Duke blinked. “Stephanie’s what now?”

Bruce made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Yes, I know about that. Now go.”

Duke and Damian looked at each other, shrugged, then left the room. Might as well do what Bruce says. The sooner they got this over with, the sooner they could work out. Plus they were sort of curious to know what was going on. Neither of them knew, they were innocent! Especially Duke.

Fifteen minutes later, and the trio reconvened in the study once more. Bruce looked angry, Duke looked confused, and Damian was positively fuming.

“This is outrageous!” He cried, as soon as he entered after Duke. “None of the entrances are working! I even attempted to use imaginative means to enter, and nothing worked!”

Bruce’s grim look receded for just a moment. “I’ll let Barbara know she did a wonderful job shoring up the security if even my children can’t get in.”

Damian scowled. “What’s the point of making security that we can’t get into?”

Bruce closed his eyes for three long, tired seconds.

“Anyway!” Duke said, “They aren’t allowing access. Any theories? Or should we just get Tim?”

Damian looked appalled at the idea. “Father!” he cried, “you can’t call Timothy! He will be unable to operate at maximum capacity if he does not complete the weekend of so-called relaxation with the clone at the Kents’ farm.”

“So second best option?” Duke asked.

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I hope you don’t let Barbara hear that when she gets here.”

*****

“Hhmmmm.”

Duke, Bruce, and Damian cringed in unison at Barbara’s contemplative noise. The young woman was typing on a laptop plugged into some kind of control panel in Bruce’s office. She hadn’t spoken to them more than first greetings  when she had arrived, so they were left in the dark while she rifled through the Cave’s security system.

Finally, Babs closed the computer and set it to the side. Duke and the others held their collective breath.

“The Cave is registering you as already present inside,” Barbara explained, “Actually, it says that everyone is in the Cave right now.”

Bruce was still and silent, considering Barbara’s words. Damian, on the other hand, seemed to be an inch away from having a meltdown.

“This is preposterous!” He blustered, whipping about and glaring, not having any particular target. “The system is trash, I said we should have fixed it ages ago! And now look at the outcome! I must remain at peak physical capacity, and I am not able to if I miss even a single session! Father, I demand you fix this!”

“Woah, dude, chill,” Duke soothed, resting a hand on Damian’s shoulder. Thankfully, the kid didn’t bite him. “I know you're frustrated, but we work more effectively when calm, right?”

Damian blinked, and glared at Duke for a long moment. “You are not incorrect, Thomas.” Damian finally allowed, turning away.

Barbara smiled. “Well, good news: I can get you in. It’s probably a good idea to call for back-up and wait till you have the forces to-”

“That won’t be necessary,” Bruce interrupted, his eye twitching at the glare Babs threw his way. “We can handle it - right, boys?”

Damian sniffed proudly and produced some knives from who knows where. Duke nodded confidently.

Bruce grunted, and motioned for them to fall in line behind him. Barbara watched with her precise gaze as Bruce, Duke, and Damian made their way down the stairs. They didn’t turn the lights on, going for optimal stealth as were, and moved slowly downward.

“Don’t be suspicious, don’t be suspicious,” Duke sang under his breath a little ways after the halfway point down the stairs.

“Making noise is very suspicious, Thomas.” Damian muttered.

“Quiet, Boys,” Bruce snapped before Duke could make a comeback, “We’re almost there.”

As soon as the doors to the Cave opened, they scattered and melted into the shadows. Duke just managed to see Damian crawl up the side of the cave wall, but didn’t see where Bruce went. He didn’t have much time to worry about that, though, as he was hiding himself among equipment that lined the sides of the space.

The path he had chosen gave him an easy pass to circle the main platform, and gage the situation. And boy was it a situation. Because, you see, like Barbara said, they were not the only ones in the cave. They were just the only sentient ones.

The elevator dinged, and Barbara rolled out and into the light. “Are those Manikins?” She asked, incredulous.

*****

Duke smirked proudly at the sight before him, the same sight that left the others outraged and confused

Someone, somehow (It was Duke, and through much hard labour during some time while the bats were actually asleep - he got someone to cover his patrol, this bright young girl called Maps to do it. She said she was a friend of Damian’s, and quite skilled with a grappling hook. Tim had mentioned her before, so Duke wasn’t surprised.) managed to get dozens of manikins - those hyper mobile ones that you can personalise their positions - and spread them out across the cave.  And not just that, they had managed to stylize them after each member of the family.

The manikins also seemed to be moving around at preset speeds, through some mysterious robotic means (Duke mentally thanked the stars that Bruce didn’t bat an eye at someone purchasing thirty roombas with his credit card.).

The first manikin, the one that caught everyone’s eye, was clearly meant to represent Stephanie. It was doused in complete purple, the exact shade of her suit and automated to throw the glitter bombs stored in a sack by its side at seemingly everything - though apparently mainly at the nearest authority figure.

Said authority figure was obviously Bruce, who was moving slowly in wide arcs around the chaos. It was wearing one of those ghost costumes, (you know the ones with just a sheet and cut out holes? Yeah, that’s Bruce.) except with a black sheet. And two plastic forks taped to either side of the head to imitate Bat ears. Though by this point it was also covered in purple glitter, thanks to Steph.

Somehow, the figure right next to Bruce was completely untouched by the purple sparkles, despite wearing the exact same outfit as Bruce’s manikin, plastic forks and all. (Although to be fair, this one was significantly shorter.) Though this mystery could easily be solved by the fact that it was Cass. Well, that explains pretty much everything, actually.

Nearest to Bruce and his mini-me at that point in the rotation was a toddler sized, bright green manikin that represented none other than the current Robin. And if that weren’t enough, think of Edward Scissor Hands. Now imagine those knives and blades and such taped over the whole body. Now you have an accurate picture of Damian Wayne in Manikin form. Honestly, it wasn’t that far off.

Humans weren’t the only things replaced in the Cave, as just by Damian were little dog, cat, and cow statues. And a giant bat stuffie colored red.

Bruce’s manikin had to stop it’s wide arc and jerk suddenly to the side to avoid the next member of the family. Tim Drake’s stand-in was barely visible underneath the six foot tall pile of bulk coffee bean bags stacked around it.

Right behind Tim was a large manikin painted blood red, wearing a faux pink leather jacket with sparkles and rhinestones glued it. It looked like it was meant for a six year old girl. What didn’t look like it was meant for a child, though, were the strips of ammunition draped across its shoulders like a fancy scarf. The look was completed by a large red bucket dumped haphazardly over the head of the manikin.

To the side of the Cave, just barely out of the war path that was The Red Bucket, was something different. Instead of a manikin like you would find in the clothing store, a halloween decoration was set up. And not just any decoration: A life-sized recreation of Dracula that looked so cheap, it was probably bought at Party City for ten bucks. (Hey, it was on sale! Duke wasn’t one to ignore such a spectacular bargain!). The only thing customized about it was the cheap, long, cherry red wig perched precariously on its head. Hey, everyone always said Kate looked an awful lot like a vampire!

The simplest manikin was somehow one of the most recognizable. Painted plain white, it was mostly unadorned with the exception of “007” painted across the chest in big, black, block letters. Now who could that be? It wasn’t like the Bats casually knew a british spy.

But all of that is fairly sane, compared to the … others.

In one corner of the room, a manikin was on fire. Completely on fire. The blaze was huge. Somehow, the manikin itself wasn’t on fire, though. One got the impression that it was supposed to be reminiscent of the burning bush story, or perhaps a phoenix. Ha, phoenix. Flamebird. Duke hoped he wasn’t the only one who found that funny.

Dick’s was on a complicated zip line pulley type system thingy. It was upside down and twisted into a pretzel for a bit, then it reached a checkpoint and was replaced by a new “Dick” in a different position. It looks like Dick’s doing mid air acrobatics. Oh, and he’s wearing a crop top that said “I’m A Dick.”

There was yet another all-green manikin seated on a hover chair that looked suspiciously like alien tech taken from the Watchtower. There was a face drawn on, and it was emulating the Oracle Symbol.

Hidden amongst the shadows in the corner was another manikin, barely within sight. It was resting luxuriously in a clawfoot bathtub, which was filled with jewels of all kinds. Upon its shoulders were multiple cat stuffed animals.

Everyone was suddenly shaken out of their stunned staring when the Cave’s sound system flared up, blasting dramatic choral music. It was the perfect track for the perfect moment, building up tension to an uproar as the lights dimmed slightly, and all attention was brought on the crackling of lightning arcing across a new figure, who was rounding the bend.

Duke grinned at his crowning achievement, the one that is easily the most terrifying. The one that is undoubtedly the Taser Girl herself: Harper Row.

What made this one different? Well, that’s because Harper was not, in fact, a manikin. Instead, the figure was not unlike a stick figure made completely out of metal pipes. The bottom was attached to an encased roomba which was currently going in wide, swooping arcs. The arms are raised triumphantly overhead. (Duke may or may not have spent three hours in front of the Hellmo meme, making sure that it was perfect). And, of course, it was conducting bright blue crackling electricity. (Duke had gotten the idea from one of those science experiment things that is made of lightning, and will every so often shoot a bolt and light something on fire. Minus the fire part. He didn’t have a death wish .)

It was just then that some lightning arced out and set an extra manikin that had been lying about on fire.

Duke cringed internally, but his mood wasn’t dampened for long. He took one look at the other Bats present, and muffled a snort of amusement. They were positively shocked - even Babs! That in and of itself was an utter victory for Duke. It got even better when they slowly separated and began to wander the Cave in wonder and horror. Duke split off as well, and hid behind the Dinosaur.

He almost tripped, however, on one of the babies. Yeah, Babies. Around the legs of the dinosaur, on their own roombas, were inflatable versions of the giant T-Rex. Somehow (maaaaybe with a touch of fiddling with controls), they were even faster than the moving people. They were zipping around and crashing into each other. When Duke hit one, though, it activated a system he had put in place which suddenly unleashed a gigantic roar throughout the Cave via the soundsystem.

The Dinosaurs weren’t the only extra addition to the native wildlife, though. Bats, hundreds of them, were replaced with stuffed animal versions of themselves, and painstakingly hung from string to the stalactites at the top of the cave, like a giant mobile.

Duke peaked out from the side of the wide space where he had been inspecting his own work to gage the situation with the other members of his family. The shock seemed to have worn off by that point, replaced with mixed reactions. Bruce was growing increasingly frustrated, Babs was trying not to laugh, and Damian was secretly pleased, enjoying the look on his father’s face.

Duke chuckled to himself as he went back to looking around in the nooks and crannies where smaller details - like the glow sticks representing glow worms - are set up. He had to admit, when he had set all of this up in two-days-without-sleep haze, he hadn’t actually been sure if it actually looked good. Two minutes later, and Duke was absolutely sure that this was in the top fifteen best Bat-Pranks, He’d have to petition for it to be added at the next meeting.

A sudden clamor came from the Batcomputer, and Duke grinned before practically skipping over to see what was the matter. This will be fun, he thought.

Upon his arrival, he knew it was true.

“Holy shit!” He crowed joyfully upon catching sight of the one manikin that had been missing earlier: his own.

Duke’s manikin was draped in gold curtains - clearly from the South Wing’s Music Room - to look like a toga, and sitting on a throne. Literally. (Bruce just had one lying about in the Attic) The throne rested on a huge platform covered in jewels (also taken from the treasure chest in the Attic). A light setup in the crannies of the Cave’s ceiling shot out beams of ‘disco’ light. Thin black vales hang from the ceiling to give the ominous feel of shadows. And, in case there was any confusion, a golden plaque rests at the base, and is engraved with the words “The Duke of Gotham. Bow Before Your Ruler.”

It’s beautiful, Duke thought ecstatically, so much better than I could have ever dreamed!

He promptly burst into laughter.

Bruce growled in frustration. “This is not funny, Duke.”

“I dunno, B,” Duke shrugged, “I sure think it is!”

“It is not. This is a defacement of the cave, plain and simple. And a poor use of resources to boot. This space is supposed to be efficient, a place that aids in the mission - and are those my Great Aunt Matilda’s emeralds?”

Duke shrugged again as Bruce was set off onto an even longer rant about wasting everyone’s time and abilities since they were going to have to clean it all up. Duke was mostly tuning Bruce out by that point.

“-if you are being flattered by the prankster, that is a clear sign of them trying to get you on their side.”

Duke froze and did a double take. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I didn’t train you to be so easily manipulated.”

Duke coughed. “Uh, I think you got this mixed up, B. See that? That’s me on the throne. Clearly this whole prank was organized by me.”

Bruce stared at Duke for a solid three seconds. Babs was covering her mouth to avoid a giggling fit, or maybe just out of shock. Damian was frowning at Duke.

Bruce’s right eye twitched. “Duke, no need to be sarcastic.”

Duke opened his mouth to argue some more, to explain just how wrong Bruce was, when said Dark Knight whipped around and stalked towards the elevator. He froze, though, when he stepped in front of Damian.

There wasn’t even a moment's pause before Bruce was glaring down at his youngest son with resigned, tired eyes. “Damian, how many times have I told you that more knives are not better? You gave yourself away.”

Damian screeched in indignation, and raced to follow Bruce out, demanding for Bruce to see reason.

“Father, you are being ridiculous!”

But his cries were quickly silenced by the closing of the elevator doors, leaving just Duke and Barbara in the Bat Cave.

Babs pivoted to look to Duke and shrugged. “Sorry kid, but he’s just stubborn.”

Duke blinked in confusion as she wheeled away. Had she always known? Scratch that - she was Oracle. Of course Barbara knew.

Duke collapsed at the foot of his throne, and put his head in his hands. Next time, he promised himself, no one else is gonna be there. No one else can take the credit.

*****

“He’s really trying, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this will be fun to watch.”

“Yes.”

“Should we just tell Bruce and be over with it?”

“…”

“Yes, you’re right Cass. We wait and watch.”

[notafeeling]

Shadows

A/N Based off of @art-blog-of-faceless‘ Anxiety art here. “The shadows” speech is in bold where Anx’s thoughts are in italics.

Pairing: neutral/hint of analogical (Anxiety/Logic)

Genre: angst

Word Count: 950

Warnings: death implication, self-deprecation

Summary:

Anxiety has a fight with Logan and the shadows take advantage of this.

Usually, Logan was there to help him. He’d meet Anxiety’s existential questions with calm and reasoned logic. But not this time. This time, Anxiety wouldn’t bother him with his problems. Logan deserved a break from constantly being his protector. Logan deserved… better.

Anxiety wished he had controlled himself the last time he saw Logic. He wished that he wasn’t so clingy. He wished he didn’t feel the need to snap and hurt those around him. But he did. He always did. That was what he was designed to do. That was the only thing he knew how to do.

Becoming closer with Logan was probably the best (and worst) decision of his life. The times when they could just lie next to each other, gaze up at the stars and talk about life’s big mysteries gave Anxiety something other than his failures to focus on. It gave him a sense of serenity. His moments with Logic were the only times he could feel at peace and dare he say, content.

He was content with feel of Logan’s shirt as he rested his head against the material. Content with the way the stars reflected on his glasses oh so beautifully. Content with their conversations, their fingers brushing together, their inside jokes that slowly formed and… them. Anxiety had grown used to being content around him.

But nothing lasted. Nothing ever lasted. Not when it came to Anxiety. Not when it came to the shadows.

The shadows were a whole other subset of problems that Anxiety had and caused. They were the source of nightmares. They were poison. There was no denying that. If they touched you, they’d hold tight, almost impossible to get rid of. They’d plague your mind with horrible thoughts and sap any happy feeling out of you until there was simply nothing left.

Anxiety didn’t notice at first when the lights in his room dimmed, nor when a black mass seeped from the ceiling and crawled down the wall behind him. He couldn’t tell the shadows’ whisperings from his own miserable thoughts.

I always mess up. I drove the one good thing in my life away. I argued with Logan and I was purposefully cruel. I told him that he was an idiot if he thought I was his personal fix-it-up project. Why did I say that? Why? He was only trying to help.

Stay away from him.

I should do that. I should remove myself from his life. He was doing just fine before I inserted myself into it and fucked it up. But… he said to come to him if I was feeling like this. Maybe I should. What else do I have to lose? Cognitive distortions are a nightmare. Maybe this is just one of them?

Don’t bother him with this.

By now, the shadows had risen from the walls and floor and were snaking their way up Anxiety’s hoodie, nestled into the folds. The boy still didn’t notice, too engaged in his own self-loathing. If he didn’t know that there was a battle to win, then how could he possibly attempt to ward the shadows off?

Who am I kidding? He wouldn’t care. He doesn’t need to know about my problems. He doesn’t need to know how much I hate myself. He doesn’t care. He never cared. It was just my own delusions fuelling my dumb, misplaced hope. Logic probably thinks I’m a waste of his time. Because isn’t that all I’ve done – waste his time? But I still want to see him. I want him to tell me it’ll be alright. Maybe-

Stop causing him pain.

The black mass creeped its way across Anxiety’s skin, encircling it and holding on. Now it completely surrounded him, making him unable to see anything else. Of course, he realised what was happening now. He just… couldn’t bring himself to care.

I should. I should stop bothering him entirely. My problems aren’t his. The only reason he’s kept me around this long is because he pities me. He pities my miserable existence and knows that I’m lonely. I am designed to cause pain. No wonder he hates me. I drive people away.

You always do.

Isn’t that the truth? All I do is force them all to hate me. I am negativity in its purest form. No wonder they can’t stand me. No wonder they want me gone.

Surrender to me.

I… I should. No one would notice if I was gone. No one would care. It’d be better if I let the shadows overtake me. It’s not like I’m doing anything good as myself, anyway.

The darkness was so thick now that he couldn’t possibly hear the panicked shouts from outside his bubble of shadow. He missed Logan summoning Prince and Morality, and the three of them desperately trying to fight their way through to Anxiety.

Let go.

I… but Logan. And Roman and Patton. I don’t want to leave them.

They don’t care. Especially Logic. He hates you. He told me.

He… he did? But he said-

He was lying. Now stop fighting me. You’re weak, you can’t possibly fight off the inevitable. Why try?

Because I- I don’t know… I… Tell them I’m sorry.

And just like that, the shadows fell away completely, draining into the crevices of the room, revealing Prince holding his sword and the others surrounding the place where the shadows once were. The night had been a long one, but it seemed morning had come just in time, for the rays burned the remaining black goop.

Now that that was over, Anxiety was safe.

“Where is he?!” Logan yelled.

Instead of the side, there was a black hoodie on the ground, empty as can be.

Tag List:

@@imin-loveanon @art3misisblogging @black-flower-crowns @otpislife2002 @prinxiety-logality-sanders-sides @meginoi @killerfangirl3 @tahneetalks @sanderscribbles @princeyandanxiety @321angst @andy-the-anon @taki-random @gravitygallifreyfalls @idk-and-idc-and-idr @obviouslyelementary @inalandofmythandtimeofmagic @justaweirdowithspooks @mira-jadeamethyst @cosmic-melodies @i-am-me-i-am-sam

(reblog/reply this post if you want to be tagged (link on italics))

[argonautsrpg-blog]

out of character information:

name: Christine age: 24 pronouns: they/them timezone: BST (GMT+1) activity level: fairly high -- I’m around on the dash every day, and do replies most days triggers: [redacted] past roleplay blogs: x, x, x, x

in character information:

skeleton name: -Murray full name: Flight Lieutenant Serra Isobel Murray faceclaim:  Dominique Tipper gender and pronouns: nonbinary, she/her  age and date of birth: December 26, 1999; 29 years old education: BSc in Physics with Astrophysics from Exeter University; Doctorate in Applied Mathematics and Theoretical Physics from Cambridge University (Newnham College) any requested changes to the current skeleton: none

personality:

+ creative: Serra Murray never met a problem she couldn’t solve, either through stubborn force or through working her way around the problem. she’s always been an adept thinker, quick to change directions and try something new rather than get stuck on an approach that wasn’t working. between that and her ability to grasp difficult and abstract concepts with ease, she’s always felt her best asset was her problem-solving. + patient/disciplined: once she sets her mind to something, she’ll see it through to its end, no matter how long it takes. her single-minded focus on a task is helpful for long nights spend calculating problems and long days staring at computer  screens to make sure everything is going the way it should be going. - stubborn/contrary: she doesn’t like to be told what to do, or to be questioned, and it can often impair her judgement. if someone tells her she can’t, it means, to her, that she must, no matter what the consequences, and that impulse has gotten her into trouble more times than she can count. - closed off: she’s never been the most open or the most personable person in her social circle, never had much in the way of close friends. and while the crew of the Argo have come to feel like family to her, she still has trouble expressing her emotions around them, sometimes, or fully opening up. x sarcastic: Serra’s usually fairly quiet, business-like, and too the point, but she has a wicked sense of humor that often goes unnoticed. sharp sarcasm used to be her best defense mechanism, and she often finds herself unable to help herself from it. x practical/realistic: Serra never expects anything to go perfectly. she’s good at rolling with punches but even better at looking things with a practical eye, not letting unrealistic hopes get in the way of her work.

biography:

Serra Murray was 17 the day Astronaut Helen Markey boarded the International Space Station. She watched with rapt attention the launch, the news coverage, and the woman’s first broadcast online from the station.  She was meant to be revising for her A-levels, and a hefty pile of notes say on the table in front of her as she curled up between her fathers on the couch and watched, feeling like a child again with the awe and excitement that filled her.

She hadn’t realized, until that moment, what she wanted. She wanted to represent her country like that, some day, to do something amazing on behalf of all of England. And even more than that, she wanted to be adored, the way Helen Markey was, loved enough to be chosen for something like that, the idol of thousands of little girls all over the country, the best of the best, respected by her coworkers and admired by everyone else.

See: Serra didn’t really have friends. She was a weird kid, more interested in maths and school than her peers, a quiet kid with a persistent stammer that left her feeling isolated and anxious. A litany of differences separated her from the majority of her peers – her stammer, her fathers, her skin color in a primarily white city, her gender identity. It didn’t bother her, per se, to be different, to not quite fit in. She didn’t care for fitting in, especially when it meant trying to change something about herself. She built up defenses of apathy and pride to stop the barrage of childhood bullying and teenage loneliness and she threw herself into her schoolwork.

And Helen Markey – though Serra knew nothing about her, personally, like whether or not she had friends, if she had a husband she’d be leaving behind for her work on the ISS – was proof. Proof that being good at what you did could be enough to earn you love. Or, if not love, than something like it.

She moved through school quickly, straight from three years of university to a three year doctorate at Cambridge, and by the time she was 25 she had an offer for a job that was something like a dream

As a subset of the Royal Air Force, the Queen’s Royal Space Agency offered here a twelve year contract and the title Flight Lieutenant, along with a crisply pressed uniform and a decent starting salary. A mostly interesting job in aeronautical cartography and flight planning.  But more than that, the Queen’s Royal offered her something else: it gave her a community, in a way she’d never had before. Sure, she wasn’t friends with all of her coworkers, wasn’t the type to go out to the pub after work with them. But people listened to her. People looked at her with something other than contempt or confusion.

It was one step closer.

And when she heard the Alpha Message – passed around the scientists of the Queen’s Royal like a juicy piece of gossip or maybe like a prayer – she knew that this was her chance. Her chance to do something, her chance for people to know her name and associate it with something good, her chance to work with like-minded people that she might at least be able to relate to, if not to hopefully come to care for. To find a home, if not exactly a family.

It felt like this was what she’d been meant for all along.

psych eval:

2. Which do you fear more, being liked but not respected, or being respected but not liked? Why?

    “Being liked but not respected.”

    She said it simply, a matter of fact statement, like she hadn’t even needed to think of the answer before giving it. Which, in a way, she didn’t. If you spend enough time being disliked for things completely beyond your control, being liked stops seeming like a priority and starts seeming more like a trap.

    “You don’t care about being liked?” the woman pressed, looking up at her from her clipboard. Despite the question, though, she didn’t seem surprised that Serra hadn’t had to think too hard about it.

    “I don’t not care? But I can’t help whether or not people like me. There’s nothing I can do once someone’s decided they don’t like something about me, and there’s no point in changing a part of me that I like just because someone else doesn’t. It’s not so much that I care about being respected as knowing that there’s no point in making myself any less just so people like me.”

4. What do you consider the most overrated virtue? What about the most justifiable or forgivable vice?

    “Realistically?” she asked, after a second. “I mean, like, Catholic, seven heavenly virtues kind of thing? Because chastity seems kind of pointless, in this day and age.”

She sat back, smiling a little to show that it wasn’t her real answer, just a bit of a joke, the kind she couldn’t resist.

    “No,” she started again. “In all seriousness. I think the whole… like: humility, right? You can’t go your whole life refusing to acknowledge the things you’re best at for the sake of seeming like you aren’t bragging about it. You’ll never get anything done. You might miss out on the things you could’ve accomplished. I guess that’s not overrated, but it’s kind of a shame, isn’t it?”

   “And the most justifiable vice?” the woman asked, a slight smile on her face. Serra nodded back, picking a thread off her trousers and brushing it onto the floor before looking back up.

    “I think anger can be more useful than people give it credit for. I’m not, like– I’m n-not an angry person,” she amended herself, tripping over her words in the haste. “I don’t get angry much or anything. But, I think there are lots of things that it’s okay to be angry about? Injustice and all that. Anger can be productive, if you let it. Just like frustration can, if you lean into it and don’t let it beat you. I think people who never get angry probably don’t care about very much at all.”

5. What is the most convincing lie you’ve ever told yourself?

    “I try not to lie to myself,” she answered on an exhale – that wasn’t the answer, or at least, not the full answer, but she felt for some reason like it was a necessary precursor to the answer she was about to give. “I don’t mean that in a, like, oh, I never lie kind of way, it’s the opposite, really, I lie to myself every day, I just mean– I guess lying to yourself isn’t the word thing in the world, is it?”

She looked up, suddenly feeling, for a second, uncharacteristically insecure, a little bashful at the idea.

    “When I was a kid, I used to tell myself it didn’t matter what anyone else thought. And that was a good thing, yeah? I learned how to be independent, not to conform to what others wanted, all that. That was a good thing, right? Even when I didn’t believe it. When you wake up feeling like shite, but you tell yourself it’s going to be a good day, that you’re going to make it through even though you have to do that thing you don’t want to– that’s good. So I don’t think I have one that’s more convincing than all the rest. I just have one that’s more frequent.”

    “And that is?”

    “That I’m not lonely, I suppose.”

extras:

inspo tag– (includes any graphics, playlists, etc)

headcanons:

1. Serra never met her biological parents.

   She knew she was adopted from a young age, but if there was one thing Serra was more than anything it was contrary, and so when a young boy in her reception class asked her where her real parents were after her fathers picked her up from school one day, she staunchly refused to ever ask the question of them. They were her real parents – they’d raised her for as long as she could remember – and she wouldn’t hear a word otherwise.

   Contrary and stubborn, that’s what her da always said she was, in his strong Irish brogue. Something to be proud of, that fiery independent streak. Her da was a big man, dark dark skin and upright Catholic morals, a loud, kind man and a staunch pacifist; he always said the world should watch out for Serra Murray, because she’d get whatever she set her mind to. Her dad, smaller than her da in every way, with a shock of ginger hair, a wealth of freckles, and a quietly Scottish parlance, only shook his head from behind the morning paper and laughed. She always thought that even if she was adopted, it was as if the two of them had gone out of their way to find the child who would best emulate the child they would have had biologically if they could have.

    Even when she didn’t have friends, she always had her fathers, more supportive and loving than she ever could have asked for. Both university professors at the University of Sheffield, they always encouraged her academic pursuits. She misses them desperately, sometimes, but she knows they’re proud of her, and she knows they wouldn’t have wanted her to stay on Earth when she had a chance at this.

2. Despite its prevalence on the ship, Serra actually hates coffee. Oh, she’ll drink it, when she needs it, when she’s tired and needs the boost, but she won’t be happy about it, always reminding those around her just how unpleasant she finds the taste. In fact, she brought a few bags of tea in her box of personal effects – a small box, not enough to drink it regularly but enough to have a cup when she gets homesick. Barry’s Irish Breakfast, just like her da used to drink every morning back home.

3. Serra’s favorite constellation has always been Orion – in fact, she has a tattoo of it on her arm. While she isn’t overly attached to its mythological significance, she loves the idea of Orion being a hunter, loves the feeling of strength she derives from that thought, and from the sight of it in the winter sky at home.

4. While her stammer got better with time, practice, and patience – almost negligible by the time she got to university, and nearly non-existent by the time she defended her doctorate research – it still crops up when she gets stressed out, overly tired, or is under a lot of pressure. It’s not debilitating, but it does make her difficult to understand, and it frustrates the hell out of her to not be understood.

5. There is an ease, to life on the Argo, that suits Serra Murray just fine. A pattern to the routine that she’s grown used to just right, a casual and cooperative atmosphere that makes her feel more comfortable here than she ever believed she could. She might not have the brightest smile in the morning, might not be the type to indulge in small talk in the mess hall, but it’s better, so much better, than what she was used to at home. The way she can joke around with Narváez when she passes him in the tunnels, can trust Father Estrada with everything that worries her, can talk shop with Abdullah when things in the control room get slow. She doesn’t worry, so much, about people on the ship not liking her, or thinking she’s weird. No, instead she worries about how hard it will be to adjust again if they ever get home.