#Damas is about to have his hands full with these three

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Thursday PART TWO!

Surprise, now you get Baby Croc stuff that needs no trigger warnings! Still borrowing Star Wars "swears", still not sorry.

Part One Here:

The Slam Dozer rolled to a stop in the midst of the Strider Range. Three Wastelanders stepped out, looking around them for what should have been a missing warrior. There was nothing. No vehicle, no sign of the Wastelander who had activated their beacon.

"Eyes open," their leader grunted, "Could be a trap."

Something moved among the boulders, and the men raised their rifles instantly. In response the pale something shrieked and dropped out of sight. Long ears were still visible from the sides of the rock it had chosen as its hiding place, trembling. Then, as if gathering its courage, it raised its head above the boulder.

The men recoiled.

It looked almost like a human child, but...but not quite. A leathery hide the color of a bloodless corpse, pupils so dilated that no sclera were even visible, horns poking out of wiry gray hair. This was not a human. But it didn't look like an animal, either.

"What the kriff!"

The largest of their number raised his gun, sighting down the barrel onto the creature's forehead.

The leader grabbed the barrel and forced it down.

"Hold your fire!" he snapped.

"But sire, look! The rottin' thing's gotta be a metalhead!"

The third man wrinkled his nose incredulously. "You see any gems on that thing? Strewth, man, I think that's a bloody spirit!"

Their leader eased closer to the rocks, noting with some disquiet that the beacon they'd picked up was in the same direction.

"Who are you?" he demanded, as if the creature could understand him, "Are you friend or foe?"

To the surprise of all three, the creature responded.

In the broken SparSign of an extremely young child, it signed, "I Croc! Help Croc? Help big brother! Help! Help!"

On legs shaped more like a Leaper's than a human's, "Croc" bounded away to crouch over a crumpled form in the sand. This time, it was clearly human.

"Eeeeg. Ep!" The spirit thing made a pitiful squeal and patted the boy’s face.

"Big brothers not get up! Too tired! You help? No hurt!" Suddenly he bared sharp fangs, revealing how he'd gotten his name. "No hurt my brothers! You not Red Armor Crunchies? I eat Red Armor Crunchies."

The men wondered whether they really wanted to find out what a "red armor crunchy" was. Slowly, one hand out in a placating gesture, the leader of the band began to move closer. He kept his eyes on the spirit-child and its human "sibling", ready to halt if they made any sudden moves.

"We will not attack you if you do not attack us," he said to the creature. "Where are your people, little traveler? How have you come to this place?"

The spirit-child nestled closer to the motionless boy and uttered a distressed chittering. "I no know. Fancy bad man say us are monsters and taked us here so us would get dead. I no wanna get dead!"

"Exiles?" The big man murmured to the man with the eyepatch.

"Haven's really gone to the crocadogs," Eyepatch muttered back. "I thought their nature spirits had already abandoned them. Didn't think they were killin' em."

"It ain't a spirit, Drake. Nature spirits don't wear clothes."

"Then what is it? Sure ain't a metalhead, tell you that much."

"Enough," their leader interrupted sternly.

He continued to approach the exiles, one foot in front of the other, and pointed his staff behind him.

"There are others here. Animals. At least one is a species capable of speech -- they may shed some light on this. Drake, get the animals and give them some water. Kleiver, put the boy in the truck. He's still breathing."

The child brightened, losing all trace of his former ferocity as if a switch had been flipped off. "You help? You good guys?"

"We try to be," the man with the staff answered, a little dryly.

As he came to a stop by the bodies, he knelt. The human "big brother" was painfully thin, cheekbones sharp against a face that looked younger than anticipated. He had the same matted hair "Croc" did, as if no one took care of him at all. The refuse of Haven: it was not an uncommon condition for exiles to be found in. But most were older, and either coherent or already dead. This boy was somewhere in between.

"He an' Daxter no answerin' me!" Croc fretted. "Not Bad Guy, you wake him up, okay?"

"Damas. Not "not bad guy"," the man grunted as he took a waterskin from his belt. It was half empty, but it would have to suffice. "If I'm to call you by your name, I request that you do me the same courtesy."

"I no can curtsy, Damas man," Croc answered solemnly, "Tail too heavy."

"I said courtesy, not- nevermind." Damas lifted the human boy's head and poured water into his mouth. "Where did you learn our sign language, little traveler?"

Immediately, the child pointed to the unconscious boy.

More mysteries.

🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊

"Yrrp!"

Jak was rudely reintroduced to consciousness by the full weight of his half-brother...clone...person...slamming into his stomach. His eyes flew open as the breath was driven from him in a pained wheeze. Instinctively, he shoved the scaly child off and rolled to his side, gasping for air. The kid was no lightweight.

"Jak!" Daxter's worried voice cut in over his wheezing, "Are- are you okay?! I tried to keep the menace distracted, but he was going crazy while they took the IV out!"

The what?

Jak slowly opened his eyes and blinked until his vision cleared. They were in a room made of metal and some kind of reddish brown stone, radiating a comforting heat -- nothing like the murderous sun in the desert. Jak made a face.

"Wh- rr?" he rasped, unable to say much more until he'd swallowed several times.

"Off. You could have hurt him," a new voice interrupted, deeper and sterner. It wasn't anyone Jak knew.

Croc chirped indignantly, and then the surface Jak lay on rose slightly as if a weight had been removed. Was he on a mattress? Oh. Yes, he was on a remarkably clean mattress. And for that matter, he seemed to be remarkably clean.

That was...a little disturbing. A lot disturbing, actually. Because Jak knew he hadn't washed himself.

"Cr-oc?" he croaked, and finally rolled back onto his back.

An unnecessarily spiky man stood at the end of the bed holding Croc, bundled up in his arms like a particularly naughty puppy. Croc didn't seem to be too upset about it, which was unusual, seeing as Croc bit anyone who wasn't Jak or Daxter. Even Tess had gotten nipped once.

Jak stared at the weathered warrior at the foot of the bed, and the warrior stared back.

"If this is another mirage, I'm going back to sleep," Jak muttered in a creaking voice.

The man laughed.

It was a crackling, raspy sound, as if he were unused to it.

"If this were a mirage, I wouldn't have to make sure the young goblin here did not undo the monks' hard work to repair your ribs."

"My ribs?"*Jak’s face twisted in confusion. "Nothing was wrong with my ribs."

The stranger fixed him with a measured stare that left him feeling oddly defensive.

"Young man, you had two cracked ribs and three that had healed improperly from past breaks. Surely you noticed that kind of pain!"

The boy's blank stare was dismally telling.

"Nobody cares about cracked ribs as long as you can still fight," Jak grumbled. "I've had worse."

Daxter cringed beside Jak. "He's not wrong. Jak here's been through stuff that would give a metalhead nightmares. Don't uh, don't take it personal, y'know? Him and me, we got raised to think pain only mattered when it happened to someone else."

"Why isn't Croc biting you?" Jak interrupted. "He hates strangers."

"Because biting one's host is not an acceptable way to treat the laws of hospitality," the man answered, then bounced Croc a little higher in his arms. "Is that not so, little one?"

"I not bite the Damas man, that's rude," Croc confirmed. "But I maybe bite the stinky man a little bit."

"No, we don't bite Kleiver either," the man -- Damas? -- corrected firmly. "You don't know where he's been."

"I bite only a little bit!"

"No."

"A just a little bit!"

The man adjusted his hold on Croc, shifting him to his hip as though a half-metalhead baby was a perfectly normal thing to encounter.

"You are not biting Kleiver and that is final."

Then he turned his attention back to Jak.

"This one led me to you and your friend in the desert. I brought you to my city. In return, I expect you to be honest when I ask you some questions."

Jak pushed himself up into a sitting position and grimaced at a faint wave of dizziness. "That's it? Just answer some questions? I don't buy it."

Damas looked annoyed. His lips flattened into a thin line for a moment, and his eyes grew calculating. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

"Answer questions for now. Should you choose to remain in my city, you will be expected to prove that you will contribute to the good of the community and not sit idly while others do the lion's share of the work. It is so for all newcomers, although dispensation can be made for your age."

Jak bristled. "What about my age?"

Their rescuer -- and host, apparently -- raised an eyebrow and Jak found himself quieting unexpectedly.

"Exiles as young as the three of you are rarely found alive. Most of our laws apply to older survivors."

Daxter blinked. "Huh. Well. Nice of someone to notice for once."

Damas barely nodded. "The monks will inform me when you are considered recovered enough to be moved. In the meantime-"

He bent and set Croc down on the floor.

"Go, amuse yourself, little one. No biting."

Then he reached into an open bag sitting on the table at the foot of the bed and held up the beacon.

"Let's discuss this."

[sonicasura]

This thought has been going through my head for a bit since my Legend of Zelda hyperfixation kicked once more.

Jak and Daxter meeting Link specifically Post OoT but before Majora's Mask. Like the duo somehow end up near the Lost Woods instead of Haven City after breaking Jak outta prison. Our Eco Channeler gets his own bizarreness with a nameless fatherly doting voice in his head (Fierce Deity, I love the Fierce Dadity trope).

Anyway, they end up running into a recently cursed Link and Tatl. We know how Jak feels about children being shoved into a dangerous death trap situation so... Jak, Link and Daxter having a sibling dynamic cause let's face it. These three need hugs and help.

The Demolition Duo being the ones to beam someone or tell them to 'Fuck off' when they think about sending Link into a death trap on his own. (Glares specifically at the soldier from OoT requesting Link to go into a well full of ReDeads and fucking Dead Hand.)

If for some reason Link ends up in Haven City with the duo, he ain't letting people dickishly boss around nor be rude to his big brothers neither would the Fierce Deity. The Kid be far away from that Precursor Tomb and he is going to be reunited with his father in Spargus. Let those say otherwise meet the steel of a Gilded Sword and Double Helix Sword.

Also Hyrule Warriors with Mask being accompanied by Jak, Daxter, Sig and Damas. I love chaos with protective sibling dynamic and furiously righteous father/uncle figures, k?

[augusberkeley]

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[beck-a-leck]

I had some fun last night imagining how insanely uncomfortable and revolting the sensation of rapid healing via Green Eco had to be. It’s just not natural at all.

Poor Sig has a very convenient large hole in his arm that needs fixing.

For reference, this is part of my fic Carve Yourself From Sandstone. Sixteen year old Sig is very new to the Wasteland, and very freshly half-bled to death via said hole in his arm.

Content warning for the following: Mild body horror and medical gore, forceful restraint, mild swearing.

Master Boh drew up some of the eco into a large syringe. She muttered something, words that Sig didn’t understand, but he swore the eco glowed a bit brighter in the syringe. She stuck the syringe in his wound and continued chanting as she injected the eco slowly.

It was the strangest sensation Sig had ever felt. Feeling came back to his arm in an instant, he felt something hot deep in the wound, and… movement. That was enough to make him squirm. It wasn’t just the uncomfortable squish of the eco where nothing should ever go and squish. It was also the sensation of his body knitting itself back together, muscle fibers growing back and rejoining with the other side. If he focused on the sensation hard enough, he could almost feel individual fibers growing and joining together – and it was all he could focus on!

It hurt, differently than the burn of the open wound, but even deeper and sharper. It got worse the longer it went. It was disgusting, and weird, and wrong. This wasn’t healing, it was torture!

Sig shuddered when the monk withdrew the syringe and went for a reload. His hands clenched into tight fists, and an unbidden growl of revulsion crawled from his throat. He couldn’t go on with this. He’d take the half-useless arm over another second of this!

“Sit still!” Master Boh snapped.

Sturdy hands clasped Sig’s shoulders and pushed him back into the middle of the bed. He hadn’t even noticed that he had edged so far to the other side of the bed he was nearly falling off. Doctor Tyber was behind him, holding him quite still. He was trapped. Except for his legs. Sig might be weak from blood loss, but if he could get his legs underneath him, he could get away from this torture.

Strong hands clapped over his ankles, holding his legs firmly in place. Damas must have read his mind.

Master Boh held the syringe ready, and at least she sounded sympathetic now, “Only two more and that should be enough. It’s a deep wound, I’m sorry.”

Sig shook his head. “I think I’d rather just have stitches, thanks.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Master Boh reasoned, moving the syringe into position. “This is the only way you get full function of your arm back. The sensation will pass quickly.”

Sig leaned as far back as possible. “I really don’t care if my arm works.”

Boh sighed and her tone sharpened. “We can’t stop now. Would it help if you counted to three?”

Sig thought about it and agreed. Counting was better than nothing. He gritted his teeth and looked unwaveringly at the corner of the room. “One… two – Ah! You bitch!”

Master Boh had started injecting more eco when he got to two.

[xadoheandterra]

Series: Semblance Title: Patriciate Fandom: Jak and Daxter Chapters: I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X | XI | XII | XIII | XIV | XV | XVI | XVII Characters: Jak, Daxter, Samos, Keira, Kid!Jak, Ashelin, Torn, Tess Tags: Worldbuilding, Accidentally King of Haven!Jak, hurt/comfort, things go wrong, things get better, things get worse again, slow build, slow burn, slow to update, cross posted, fantasy racism, canon divergence, been meaning to share this here Summary: “It’s yours,” Jak said softly. “Keep it…remember where you come from. At least one of us should remember….”

If Jak knew the consequences of that one, selfish choice…well, he’d probably have made the same decision either way.

Jak forgot something kind of important. At least it gave Torn time enough to get him presentable.

Daxter ducked between legs and strangers alike, scurrying along the ground on all four paws. He dashed quick from the port and used all of the little known side alleys that only three years in Haven could teach an ottsel. Two of those three years he’d worked hard to unearth and learn the layout by himself despite Haven’s insane size. It’d taken him the better part of the first year to just learn how to traverse the city at barely two feet tall; after all the distance Jak could travel at a dead run in an hour Daxter could barely achieve in three.

And he wants this damn thing pronto, Daxter grimaced to himself. Really buddy? It ain’t easy getting’ around by myself and it ain’t like I could ask anyone! I can’t even jack a damn zoomer, sheesh.

Sometimes Daxter felt like Jak could be so inconsiderate, taking his willingness to help a pal out for granted. Still Daxter persevered, and yeah maybe he realized after he’d finally reached the beginning of Main Town that he could’ve asked Tess for a ride but damn if Daxter weren’t determined to do this one his own by that point. Even still Daxter had a limit, and one that rapidly began to approach given how much his chest burned and his legs and arms hurt.

Jak’s just gonna hafta deal with me bein’ a bit late, Daxter reasoned to himself. I’ll make it up t’him later. He skittered to a halt over by the nearest bridge. His chest heaved as he flopped down against one of the rails supports, the small backpack that Tess had scrounged up for him to carry the key in thunked heavily against the ground. Exhaustedly Daxter brushed along the fringe of what would have once been his bangs to wipe away the sweat that had gathered. He grimaced at the feel of slick fur and resisted the urge to growl out of annoyance.

Sometimes he really hated being an Ottsel. The fur and two feet tall were prime reasons to resent the transformation, no matter how used to it he’d gotten. Daxter puffed out a breath and pressed his head back against the rail and closed his eyes.

“Ugh, why s’it gotta be so far?” Daxter grumbled to himself bitterly. He didn’t see the glances from the others who meandered around Main Town, going about their business, but he knew they were there. He’d gotten stares like that all the time, although the ones that he and Jak got together where by far the most hilarious of the lot.

“I think I found him.”

“Really? That small thing?”

“Well Commander Torn did say an orange rat, right?”

“I thought he was joking.”

Daxter opened one eye to look for the voices the minute he heard ‘Torn,’ a snarl on his lips. He wasn’t a rat Precursors damn it all! His gaze found a small trio of slightly armored teens that he vaguely recognized from the few times he and Jak spent more than a night at the Underground barracks.

“Oi!” Daxter yelled. He jumped to his feet, quite suddenly energized, hands on his hips. “It’s ottsel. O! T! T! S! E! L! Get it right, ya jerks!”

The three teens turned and shared a look before they seemed to nod in agreement. One of them approached and Daxter noted he wore some sort of half-KG mask. He vaguely remembered Tess had mentioned something about the Underground’s members were now forced to be recognizable since the metal head invasion.

“You Daxter?” the one on the left said. Her voice rang with the tinny quality that Daxter associated with the KG.

“Ya work for the Tattooed Wonder?” Daxter shot back, eyes narrowed and lips pulled down.

“Yeah it’s definitely him,” the one on the right said. He shot a side glance to the girl. The one in the middle, closest to Daxter, snorted disdainfully.

“This job sucks,” the middle one grumbled and turned his gaze away from Daxter to look instead at his companions. The one on the right’s eyes crinkled in the amused way and the one on the left looked like she was hiding a smile under that mask.

“What job? Searchin’ out the good ol’ Orange Lightning?” Daxter didn’t quite leer, but he did drawl out the words. At least two of them seemed decent.

The girl on the left laughed. “Definitely him. Come on, orange lightning. Commander Torn’s asked us to pick you up.”

“Said something about it taking too long,” the one on the right said.

“I still don’t get why we’re stuck with carrying this pet,” the middle one huffed.

“You can carry me anytime you like, gorgeous,” Daxter winked to the girl, who laughed good naturedly with the guy on the left while the middle one growled. “I’ve been lookin’ for a cute ride like you. I got one mean delivery I gotta get over pronto, y’know?”

“I might have heard,” she replied as she reached out a hand for Daxter. He quickly scurried over and then up her arm and onto her shoulder. “Damn is this what it feels like to be him?” she said almost reverently.

“All th’ time, babe,” Daxter nodded. “Now c’mon! I’ve wasted enough time huffin’ it by myself. Ol’ gravelly shoulda sent someone sooner.”

“We should just shoot it,” the middle one hissed.

“Aw, I like you too grumpy!” Daxter cooed back, face twisted into a sickly sweet grin.

“I’m gonna shoot it,” ‘grumpy’ snapped and reached for his gun.

The one on the right grasped his wrist before he could do anything and hissed, “Do you want to get on Commander Torn’s bad side?”

“But it’s annoying.”

“It,” Daxter said sharply, “is a he, and he happens to be the one who saved all your asses with his trusty sidekick Jak who just happens to be his best fuckin’ friend and can, y’know, get growly.”

Grumpy swallowed heavily and backed off at the look he received from his two partners.

“Told you,” the one on the right mumbled. “Bad idea, man.”

“Yeah,” Daxter agreed. “Listen to your conscience over here.”

“Fuck you,” grumpy spat.

‘Conscience,’ snorted a laugh in response.

“Funny,” Daxter’s current shoulder seat laughed softly. “Come on, we best hurry. We’re gathering a crowd.”

Grumpy and conscience exchanged glances, paled, and quickly began ushering their female compatriot onwards.

“Weren’t we supposed to not draw a crowd?” conscience uttered.

“Your fault,” grumpy spat.

“Oh hush,” Daxter interrupted, “and get movin’!”

All three started to run at that. Daxter relaxed against the gentle lull of a shoulder at full run, a wide grin across his face. Now he’d get there in a decent amount of time. He’d have to thank the Tattooed Wonder for giving him such a lovely ride, too. Daxter paused, then frowned, then wanted to cry at the realization he actually had to thank the asshole who called him a rat.

Torn stared at his communicator in faint horror, although Jak figured a good majority of that actually was for show. Torn had to be acutely aware of how uncomfortable this entire situation made the teen, give that Jak practically gouged his legs throughout a good chunk of the process. The act did serve to put Jak into a more comfortable mindset, comfortable enough that his eyes were black with dark eco—just tinged purple instead. His skin looked a bit paler than normal, but that could be associated to nerves rather than eco.

“Why is your rat insisting on riding one of my men up the elevator?” Torn’s voice practically squeaked at the end he wheezed so hard.

Jak scrubbed a hand through his now groomed, wrapped, and braided hair. It hung in twisted, braided dreadlocks that suited the young teen and at the same time felt like a punch to the gut. If Torn didn’t know that Jak happened to be the young kid he’d once looked after—and thus had to be related to the late King Damas—then the resemblance sure as hell would have told him as much. Granted Damas never did quite wear the locks as well as Jak could.

“Mar you have to have some Wastlander in you,” Torn muttered as he flopped onto the couch.

“What does that mean?” Jak blinked at the sudden non-sequitor.

“Your hair,” Torn waved a hand. “No Havenite can wear it like that so easily. You see it more on Wastelander’s than anything.”

Jak’s brow furrowed in confusion, but before he could get a word in about it Torn shifted and spoke up again.

“Seriously though what does that rodent think he’s doing anyway? He could put her at risk!”

“His name is Daxter,” Jak pointed out, “and he’s probably exhausted. I forgot how far Main Town is from the bar.” Jak leaned forward from his spot on the bed and scrubbed at his face. “He’s probably pissed about that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Do you like him nagging you or something?” Torn quarried. When Jak didn’t answer at first the commander shifted to stare at the teen, concerned.

Jak sighed. “…sort of.” He licked his lips. “It’s…I didn’t speak for a long time, Torn. Dax talking…it’s normal.” He smiled fondly. “He spoke for the both of us.”

“He still does,” Torn grumbled.

“Yeah.”

Despite being an ottsel Daxter at his core didn’t change. Jak relished in that, relished in how much his friend still remained his friend because damn if he didn’t regret that accident so much. He opened his mouth to speak some more when a sharp rap at the door sounded throughout the room. Torn got to his feet and Jak likewise pulled himself up.

They shared a glance—looks like it was showtime. Jak got to his feet, Torn shortly behind him. Jak wanted to get the door, but Torn motioned for him to stay—they’d gone over, repeatedly, in the wait for Daxter to show up and in the time that Torn worked on his hair, how the people around Jak were expected to act. How Jak would be expected to act. While it sat wrong with him to hang back, he still let Torn take the lead and open the door.

This whole insane plane hinged on Jak, after all, and if he didn’t show the right response at the right time then any credibility as being the last heir to the House of Mar wouldn’t matter. It grated to act like some damned nobleman when first and foremost Jak was anything but; still he waited, anxiously as evidenced by the slight shift from foot to foot. Torn slipped the door open, took one look out into the hallway, and sighed in relief.

“Ashelin,” Torn greeted sharply, and stepped back.

“Commander,” Ashelin responded in kind. She stepped into the room first, behind her followed an Underground fighter with Daxter perched precariously on her shoulder. Jak zeroed in on his best friend, and a small nervous smile flittered across his face.

No one said anything at first, or at least no one but Daxter and Jak. Jak’s little twitches—almost completely unnoticeable—clued Daxter into the bigger picture within a minute. The conversation went on much longer than that though, with an ever growing darker expression on Daxter’s face. The ottsel glanced between Jak, Torn, and Ashelin with a scowl until Ashelin couldn’t take it anymore.

“What!?” the young Praxis heiress snapped out. She looked to Torn for back up, but Torn refused to respond. He’d seen the silent communication in action too much to even attempt to counteract it.

“Nothin’,” Daxter said eventually after a pleading look from Jak and a slightly pulled face. “We’ve got a show to get on the road, right?”

“What do you mean we?” Ashelin demanded. “You were just delivery—”

“I ain’t leavin’ Jak to deal with just you,” Daxter shot back, “and my ride here ain’t either. We’re both goin’ an’ you’ll just hafta deal there princess. You roped Jak into this thing and ya better handle the consequences. We’re a pair an’ that is that.”

Jak smiled.

“Dax’s always had my back, Ashelin,” he said softly. “Besides, as I understand it if I just walk in with the Ruby Key they’re going to demand how a priceless artifact integral to this city’s history just so happened to disappear and then reappear with the House of Mar.”

Torn smiled, and nodded once in approval when Jak glanced his way. He spoke up to catch Ashelin’s attention. “Look at that Ashe, the kid has a knack for this,” he teased for a second before he added seriously, “He has a point and you know it. Especially when you know it was this very council that ousted the last King we had.”

“That was my father—” Ashelin counteracted, only to be cut off with a look.

“It might have been your father,” Torn said carefully, “but even your father can’t intimidate the other sage lines. At least three quarters of them had to be in agreement. Not to mention the other minor noble houses.”

Ashelin bit her lip, frustrated, but she had to admit Torn was right. Although neither of them had been there for the original banishment of the House of Mar, they both knew the aftermath intimately enough. Still—Ashelin turned toward Daxter and with a sharp look assessed the situation.

“You can’t just waltz in with the Ruby Key, either,” Ashelin pointed out. “You’re too involved with Jak.”

“Ah, but I’m involved officially as of this past year,” Daxter pointed out slyly. Jak didn’t bother to fight down his smile as Ashelin blinked in slight surprise and Daxter continued barreling on, head held high. “In fact I was quite the respected bug hunter up until the business went up in smoke; I merely stumbled across this here puppy,” Daxter patted his bag, “without knowin’ what it was. I’m just a poor ottsel—we’re not taught Haven’s history.”

“If anything Dax only realized what the Ruby Key was after he and I got involved,” Jak added softly, and completely convincingly. Any protest left Ashelin.

Torn glanced at them, then asked, “How will you explain your closeness?”

“How do you explain a soul brother?” Daxter shot back full of complete self-confidence.

“We click,” Jak shrugged, and it was the honest truth—he and Daxter had always just clicked like that.

Torn appraised them for a second more—and almost let out an amused snort when he realized the soldier before him was still star-struck and drooling; kids these days—before he nodded sharply. He turned to Ashelin and said, “They’re good.”

Ashelin looked ready to protest, so Torn stepped up to her and grabbed her shoulders. “They’re good, Ashe,” he said sharply. “Trust me.” It took a second longer before Ashelin let out an explosive breath. They’d wasted enough time already on this whole mess, and so with a sharp turn she motioned for the group to follow.

“Look alive soldier,” Torn said under his breath to the young girl. She jerked, flushed, and then straightened her back and fell into step just behind Jak.

[thedyingtimelady]

Do you really love me?

Part 3 Second Doctor x The dying Timelady (OC) x Ramón Salamander

A Memory flowed his mind. The Doctor closed his eyes, blinding out his environmental. All went silent, but the beautiful kind of silent. He founded himself in a forest. He looked around, following the path what was Infront of him. The sun leaked between the leafs of the trees, in the far he heard flowing water. He arrived at a small creek, seeing someone dipping their feet in the water, sitting on a big rock. He remembers. This was the first encounter with Catherin with this incarnation, who was relaxing on a Forest planet. Jamie stayed in the near of the TARDIS, Ben and Polly took a walk. The Doctor took a nice walk too, wanting to look around this place, as he found this beautiful woman at the creek. She turned around, looking at him softly. Then Smile full of love. She recognizes him immediately. She didn’t change a bit. Naturally she couldn’t change. This was her curse. He remembers how much they talked, until the sunset. She was holding his hand, leaning against his shoulder, laughs at his stories and his jokes. This was the moment, he felt in love with her without even knowing. It wasn’t emotions of the last incarnation. It was his Emotions. Love at the first sight. All sounds hitting the Doctor as he opens his eyes again. He saw Salamander on his knees, screaming at the ground. It must be a shock for him. More of it. He doesn’t know, that Catherin will regenerate now. The Doctors shivers. Her Regenerations are so painful and tiring every time. Her screams always hunt his minds, when he is thinking about them. Jamie hunched up next to Catherin, holding her body close to his. He was crying.

“Catherin…Catherin...”, he whined in her hair. Jamie never saw Catherin regenerate before. It will be a traumatizing moment for him. The Doctor walked past Salamander, who whimper on the ground. He ignored him and touched Jamie´s shoulder.

“Let her go. She will regenerate now. She will be okay, but… you have to let her go.”

“No! I will not let her go again! No! NO! NO!”, Jamie shook the Doctors hand away, holding Catherin even tighter at his body.

“You know what regeneration is, Jamie. But Catherin´s are different. It will be painful for her. You shouldn’t be close, when she starts… to scream… We can´t do anything against it.”, the Doctor whisper.

Jamie looked up at him, his eyes red because of the tears.

“Painful? Why?”, he whispers.

The Doctors looked hurtful at his friend. “You know why…”

Jamie shook his head, looking at Catherin´s face. Her eyes were closed. She looked like she would just be sleeping.

Jamie caress her cheek. “Mother…”, he whispers and kissed her cheek. “I´m sorry, that I always fight against it. Sometimes I was rude to you, because I was embarrassed. But you never stopped caring, you never stopped loving me. And now… I can´t even help you against the pain you will feel. I´m so sorry…”, he whimpers, holding her again his chest.

“Just this one time, should the love of a child erase your pain”, a voice whispered through the Hall.

Soft green light, mixed with stars covered Catherin´s whole body. The Doctor stared in disbelieve. The glowing disappeared; the wound closed itself. Slowly the dying Timelady opened her eyes, without screaming in pain.

“Jamie?”, she looked at the young Highlander. “Did… You just call me mother?”, she softly smiling, tears filling her eyes once more.

“Catherin… Mother…”, he whispers, hugging her again.

“You are okay! You are fine! You are alive!”, he shouted happy, almost laughing.

The Doctor looked around. What was this voice? A mystery he would never solve. This was sure. But that wasn’t important right now. He turned back to Catherin, who was staring at him.

“Doctor!”, she smiled at his sight.

Ramón Salamander couldn’t believe what he just saw. The love of his life was surrounded from green light, full healed and alive.

He always knew, that she was special, that she wasn’t from this world. But he never thought, that she would being a… stranger. An Alien.

But if that matters? No. He loved her. With all of his heart.

Salamander got up, whipped his tears away, ready to rip his Amor out of this traitors’ arms, as he watched, how Caterina got up herself and running in the Doctors arms.

“Doctor!”, she smiled at him. She hugged him tight.

“You are fine! Oh by Rassilon sake, you are alive. I´m so happy!”, she looked at his face.

“You are hurt!”

“Only a scratch.”, The Doctor smiled softly. He bowed down, kissing the surprised lady. But instead of pushing him away, she kissed him softly back. A small breeze blows through the halls Window, bringing flower pedals in, what surrounded both in a magical moment.  

“Caterina. Mi amor”, he whispers, watching in disbelieve. His heart was broken. She chooses him. He was the one, who made her sad, but she is going back to him.

He, Salamander, was just a toy for her. A replacement.

“YOU LITTLE PUTA! YOU PLAYED WITH ME!”, his Anger busted out of his chest. He took his gun and shot again, but missed, because his hand was shaking. Salamander couldn’t believe it. Was this his punishment? Should he pay this price for all what he did?

“Doctor, watch out!”, Catherin screamed and pulling the Doctor away with her.

“Victoria! Jamie! Run!”, the Doctor shouted. All four were running out the hall.

“STOP, YOU ALL!”, Salamander following them as fast he could.

Outside of the mansion, he was searching them, still fighting against his sadness. How could she just have played with him? He really loved her. Still loving her.

Blind of Anger, Salamander was running through the fields, before the stopped. He saw a blue police box, just standing there.

Salamander heard about the old boxes, but something was different about this one.

He walked to her. The door was open. He heard voices inside of it.

“We have to fly away now Doctor. When he found us, he will kill us all”, Victoria voice was filled with fear.

Salamander walked inside the TARDIS, didn’t really looking around or being confused that the Box was bigger on the inside as the outside. He pointed with the gun at the Doctor.

“Finally. I found you. You will die for everything you did to me. You not only destroyed my Plans, no, you took my dama away!”

Salamander angrily staring at Catherin, who took a step closer to him.

“No Salamander. No. He didn’t took me away from you. No, Let me ex-“

“I DON’T CARE! YOU ALL WILL PAY FOR IT!”, he throws his gun away and runs towards to the Doctor, punishing him in the Face.

The Doctor fight back.

Salamander pushed the Doctor on the TARDIS consule, pressing him on it.

“Now, I will kill you.”, he grinned mad. He saw a button, what was glowing in the corner of his eyes. He pushed it.

The TARDIS dematerialising in the same moment, shaking the whole consul room.

Salamander slipped and let go of the Doctor, who was grabbing Victoria, before she was sliding to the open doors.

Salamander screamed, trying to hold to something.

Just before his hands could grab the corner of the TARDIS, a hand grabbed his.

Catherin was half hanging out of the TARDIS, trying to pull him back into it.

“Why are you doing this? Why? Why did you played with me?”, he shouted at her.

“I didn’t! I never played with you!”, she shouted back, still holding his hand tight. Salamander looking directly in her deep green eyes and felt in such a dangerous moment one thing: Peace.

Now he realizes, that she was in danger. His voice was calm.

“Let go, Mi amor. Its okay, I forgive you. Let go.”

“NO!”, she screamed, shivering. His hand slowly slipping out of her.

“I love you, Mi amor”, Salamander said, before falling into the Time Vortex.

The Doctor staring at his love, while she was trying to help this monster back inside of the TARDIS. She was kind, even in the worst situations.

After Salamander had fallen into the Time Vortex, Catherin looked back to the Doctor.

“I going to save him.”, she got up, standing tight on the ground. Her look was serious, her voice was calm.

“You can´t! Nobody can!”

The dying Timelady was smiling mysterious at him. Now she looked so…

old and wise

.

“You still and will have secrets kept behind me, Doctor. So do I.

We will meet again. You have to make a soul bond with me, Honey.”, she smiled and jumped out of the TARDIS, inside into the Time Vortex. The Door closed from itself and the three were saved.

Salamander was falling and falling, surrounded of Lights and Thunder. Was he going to die like that? His mind was filled with his love. Her Smile, her touch, her Voice. He felt a Hand on his arm. He stopped falling, floating over the lights what was around him. He looked up, seeing Catherin smiling at him. But something was different. Her Body looked like, she was made out of emeralds, softly glowing. “I am dead? Is this Heaven? Or does Hell tease me with your beauty?” She giggles softly. “You are not dead, Ramón Salamander. You are in the Time Vortex, between Space and Time. I will bring you back home.” He blinked, holding her close to himself. “I can’t and won’t go back. There is nothing left for me. People will kill me, what isn’t the worst.”

The worst thing is, that I have to live without you.

He shook his head from this thought. Salamander watching Catherin carefully, strokes her cheek. It was soft, even it looked like emeralds. “I didn’t lie to you, as I said, I didn’t play with you.”, she whispers softly. “I was really in love with you. A part of me still loving you. You were the best, loving and caring about me, while I had such a hard time. But the Doctor is the one I love at most, through Space and Time, to all eternity.” Salamander face had a sad expression. He turned his head away from her, but she stopped him gentle. “But I want to give you a chance. A new start. You will not remember me; you will forget me. But you will never be alone anymore. You can change Ramón. You already did change.” Before he could protest, she kissed his lips softly. He felt, how his eyes slowly closing itself. Darkness swallowed him, but he never felt saver as in this moment. A soft voice quietly calling him, but he couldn’t recognize it. He couldn’t remember.

I was standing on the creek, watching the beautiful sunset, as I heard steps behind me. I softly smiled, knowing who it was.

“You took your time.”

“Sorry, we had some adventure, before I could find my way back to you.”, The Doctor said softly.

He took my hand and turned me to him. His black hair looking messy, but his smile was perfectly. His eyes met mine and his hand was placed where my heart was. I put my hands on his chest, where his hearts are and kissed him softly.

Our mind connected each other and after we broke the kiss, we had our soul bond. I felt how much stronger it was now, almost overwhelming. The Doctor took my hand and kissed it, smiling at me. Then suddenly, he goes on his knees, pulling out the Ring I gave him back then, when I was… not me.

“Catherin White. Or better to say

the dying Timelady.

Would you do me the honour, to become my Wife?”

While saying it, he looked nervous and humbled.

I smiled softly, nodding. His Face lighted up, he put the ring back on my finger and got up quickly.

He kissed me softly, while we drowning in the colour of the sunset.

Finally. I was closer to my Doctor. My true Love. And I finally had my answer.

Yes. He does really love me.

{A Happy End. But there is something. An Epilogue is waiting.}

[alexsmitposts]

Negroes or racism on the contrary | Over the past 500 years, the concept of racism has become a nuisance and is understood exclusively in the spirit of oppression by whites, all others. The Anglo-Saxons exterminated the Indians, the French and Spanish-Africans, the Russians - the natives of Siberia, the Dutch-the inhabitants of Africa and Indonesia, and all together tried to bring China to its knees, at the end of the 19th century. And all this goes back to the time of the invasion of Indo-Europeans in Europe, who slaughtered all the indigenous population there, not suspecting that this is considered a bad act, and in India put the locals on the level of servants and laborers.

However, racism is more multifaceted and occurs in relation to completely different peoples, as well as in the "opposite direction", when the colored population oppresses white people!

The Negro-the philosophical doctrine of the superiority of the black race, was developed by three Africans: Leopold cedar Senghor, aimé Sezer and Leon-Gontran Damas became the fathers of this trend. By the middle of the 19th century, the first sprouts of African racism appeared, proclaiming the "special soul of the black population", its not trivial way of thinking, intuition and sensitivity surpassing the crude primitiveness of the white man. What is funny, A. Pushkin was proclaimed one of the typical representatives of the black genius, who proved their total superiority!

The difference of the black man was also indicated by his sensuality, proximity to nature, which is a more subtle and high level of knowledge of the world than the rough logic of whites. Therefore, ancestral worship, dancing, and animalism (animal worship) are not just traditions, but a way of knowing the world that is not available to whites.

Until the 60s, the Negro was the property of a handful of African intellectuals, who rejected European values and although they were educated in Europe, often returned to their traditional beliefs and orders. Having received a European education, living in Europe, these children of the African elite became sad about their roots and traditional values, in contrast to the "white" racial theory, created their own counter-flow.

White violent individualists They do not feel nature and the world around them They are aggressors and rationalists, evil children strayed from mother nature World history, of course, began with the black race, and the whites have already removed this moment from it. So the Nubians and the inhabitants of Libya became the origin of Ancient Egypt-the mother of all world civilizations. They gave the world all the great achievements that the whites had appropriated! Yes, and Christ himself appeared to the whites, and they killed him...what else can we say! African majors from European universities, married to European women, in the 30s began publishing the magazine "Black student", where they presented their ideas to Negroes. The concept was picked up by Communists and Trotskyists, who considered it a great way to shake the capstan from the inside. The Negro stepped into the left-wing masses of the whole world: for some as a banner of struggle against the oppressors, for others as a revolutionary struggle.

Since then, the idea of black racism has been developing, especially in the United States, where traditionally relations between races have been very strained. In the 60s, the black population of America is balanced between the ideas of Martin Luther king with his moderate claims to whites and the Nation of Islam or gangs of "Black Panthers" who openly organized persecution of whites.

The black Panthers robbed exclusively white people, and not only were the police's responses harshly suppressed by them, but even they arranged a kind of surveillance of the cops! When whole cars full of blacks, armed to the teeth but without ammunition, followed police patrols for days at a time. Technically, it didn't violate the law, it wasn't illegal to drive, and it wasn't illegal to carry a weapon without ammunition, but it made the police very nervous. In many ways, the ideas of Negroes merged into the mass of the black population and led to a belief in a "sense of guilt" for whites, for centuries of oppression that should be compensated for the descendants of black slaves. What has now led to significant changes: benefits for people of color in universities, a de facto monopoly on violence in the ghetto, the non-repudiation of blacks in racial disputes, etc. - measures that help blacks have equal and even preferential access to social benefits. However, there are still 13% of the black population of the United States, who commit 54% of robberies in the country...

Modern America is built in such a way that now to say anything offensive to the Negro is racism. But a black man can call you a snowball, and that's all right. At the same time, if a COP stops you and doesn't see your hands on the steering wheel of the car, they will try to convince you to show your hands. But the black guy gets shot right away. From America, this practice came to Africa, where it took monstrous forms: white genocide became common in South Africa, as well as during the rule of Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe, where an entire class of white farmers - the basis of the country's economy-was physically exterminated.

"to the absurd vanity of the white man, the Negro contrasts the concentrated authenticity of his suffering, and because he had the terrible privilege of drinking the whole Cup to the dregs, the black people are the chosen people." South African freedom fighters widely practiced and practice "execution with a necklace". A white man caught by them is put on a car tire and set on fire. Among the people killed in this way are several women.

Now the ideas of the Negroes from the aesthetic philosophy of the ruling class of Africa have been marginalized into a Frank " beat the whites!"or the position of constantly demanding special treatment. Nevertheless, black racism, although it has passed to the ideological plan, quite develops "in breadth" conquering not only the black population, but also a significant part of whites, especially among Communists and feminists. And the original intellectual base of the Negro has long been forgotten...

The blow to the Negroes was struck in the late 60s by the black founders themselves. Senghor - the President of Senegal, who was the husband of exclusively white women, brutally suppressed the student revolt, which caused a departure from his ideas in Africa itself, as a result, he reformulated his ideas not as a fight against white influence, but as a requirement to take into account the identity of the black race in the other dialogue of the races of the world. In several countries of the world, the white population is experiencing harassment and outright attacks: South Africa, Haiti, poor areas of many US States, Zimbabwe, and many countries in tropical Africa.

[dynowrites]

based off of AU list: you are sonny’s nieces baby sitter and you fall in love with sonny

This is like 1300 words I’m sorry I got carried away

You were happy when Bella called you to watch her kids. Bella has told you her brother would be coming over to grab something but you didn’t mind. You thought Sonny was adorable. He was so nice and always offered to cook you food or bring you something to eat. You heard a knock on your door after an hour of babysitting and smiled brightly when you saw Sonny through the peephole.

“Hey, Sonny.” You smiled and allowed him in. He had two bags in his hands as he placed them on the kitchen table before removing his jacket.

“Uncle Sonny!” Sonny niece shouted. She rain to her uncle who instantly hugged her.

“Hey there, sweetie.” Sonny kissed her head as he held her on his hip. He heard some noise coming from the rocker beside the couch and smiled down at his nephew.

“He’s been asleep and then you came over.” You teased as you went over to the rocker to pick up the six month old. He clung to you and smiled brightly between you Sonny.

“Bella has a box for me. Our mom’s birthday is coming up and she has all the family photos for some reason.” Sonny laughed. You nodded as you walked Sonny towards Bella’s room.

“She sat the box on the dresser. Are you making her a scrapbook? A cute little photo album?” You asked before heading to the kitchen to began making a bottle for Matteo who was getting fussy in your arms.

“Little family album. Really hope she likes it. It’s gonna be a ton of pictures of my sister and I when we were little she thought she lost.” Sonny smiled brightly. You nodded and pointed towards the bags on the table after making the bottle.

“What’s in the bags?” You asked as Sonny set his niece down and took his nephew from you.

“I know Anastasia already ate so I thought I’d bring you dinner. Plus I know it’s almost bedtime for the two.” Sonny said as he noticed the clock on the wall said 8. Anastasia began to whine as she looked at you.

“But (Y/N) let’s me stay up!” Anastasia said. You gently rolled your eyes at the little girl.

“I let you stay up once to watch a movie. Now go get your pajamas on. Uncle Sonny will read you a story.” Anastasia was extremely happy as she ran off to her room. You laughed and watched as Sonny was burping his nephew.

“She plays that card on me all the time. That you let her stay up when she’s at my place.” Sonny said and held Matteo close. “I’ll take him to his room and put him to sleep then Anastasia. Go ahead and start eating.” Sonny said as he went towards the bedrooms.

You went to the kitchen and opened up the bags to remove the Tupperware containers. It was an array of food that Sonny had made before coming over. Chicken parm, spaghetti, homemade breadsticks, some cookies, cannolis and zeppole. You looked over everything and instantly grabbed two plates up to make yourself a plate and set them at the kitchen table. After a few minutes, Sonny returned and smiled at you.

“I got off work early today and decided to cook you something since Bella said you were here.” Sonny smiled as he got two drinks and sat down at the table with you. You instantly began to eat and moaned at the delicious tastes.

“Damn, you know how to cook. It’s better than any Italian place I’ve gone to.” You said and watched Sonny blush. You smiled some as you saw him blushing before going back to the food. As the two of you finished dinner, Sonny set out the three containers of desserts.

“I made chocolate dipped cannolis, zeppole with some chocolate sauce and also some anginetti and baci di dama. My nonna’s special recipes.” Sonny said as he grabbed a cannoli and bit into it. You groaned and looked over the desserts.

“I can’t.. I’m so full. I shouldn’t have eaten so much spaghetti.” You laughed as you reached for an anginetti. You took a bite and smiled to Sonny.

“You like?” He asked. You nodded before he began covering the containers and stacking them.

“I loooove.” You said as you smiled at Sonny. He looked at his watch and then towards the living room.

“Wanna watch a movie? Bella and Tommy shouldn’t be home for another few hours.” Sonny said. You nodded the two of you went to the living room. Turning on the TV and Netflix, Sonny searched for a movie and quickly began to play it.

You and Sonny sat on opposite ends of the couch but slowly got closer to each other. You were cuddled up to his side, his arm wrapped around you holding you close and tightly against him. You would be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy this. You had a huge crush on Sonny but you never thought he’d like you back. You swore that he was only allowing you to cuddle him since you were watching a movie.

Sonny glanced down at you as the movie ended. You were still curled up against him, watching the credits roll before slowly looking up at him. You didn’t want to pull away from him but did and moved back to the side of the couch you started on. Sonny watched you and smiled and just watched you.

“I should get going. Don’t need Bella thinkin’ there’s something going on between us.” Sonny said as he turned the TV off. You nodded with a small frown.

“Thanks for dinner. Really. It was amazing. Can I keep some cookies?” You asked as Sonny nodded and put things in one of the containers for you.

“Anytime, doll. Just let me know and you can come over for dinner at my place.” Sonny said with a large smile. You blushed and looked at the container of cookies and desserts he made you.

“I’d like that, a lot actually. You’re a really good cook.” You said as you watched Sonny. It was his turn to blush.

“Thanks. How does next Friday sound?” Sonny asked as he thought about his work schedule. You nodded quickly.

“I’m free Friday after six. I’m babysitting for my neighbor. If that’s okay with you.” You watched Sonny eyes light up.

“I usually don’t get home until six anyways. You can come over whenever you want. You like salad?” You nodded at Sonny as you took a few steps towards him.

“Yeah. Thanks for making me dinner tonight a-and Friday. I can’t wait.” You said. Sonny quickly closed the space between the two of you and chuckled.

“Me either.” Sonny whispered as he smiled at you. He slowly leaned down and you two were about to touch lips as the front door flung open.

“Oh, Sonny! You’re still here? Did you read Ana to bed?” Bella asked. You two awkwardly moved apart from each other.

“Yeah. She really loves her uncle Sonny. Thanks for the pictures.” Sonny said as he grabbed the box and handed to the door he smiled at you before leaving.

“Were you two about to…?”

“What? Nooo.” You avoided eye contact. Bella smirked as Tommy handed you some money.

“You so were about to kiss my brother! Oh my God! You like my brother!” Bella began as you blushed and began packing up your stuff.

“Call me the next time you need me. Extra next Friday. I’m busy all day.” You simply said as you gathered up the dessert box. Bella smirked and watched you leave. You smiled to yourself as you thought about the date but wished the kiss between you and Sonny would have happened.

[nevereasynevernothing]

An Open Letter to You

Dear you, 

I’m sure you know who you are. 

You know that this was written for you, I mean who else would it be addressed to, right? It’s been you for the last four years or so. The thing is I’m not really sure where this letter is going, I might just end up rolling on a tangent so you have to bear with me, okay? Please have enough patience to read this through to the end. I may not be certain of what I’ll be writing here but along the way, there’s bound to be something important. 

See? I’m already rambling. It’s often hard for me to go straight to the point, particularly when it comes to you. So let me dilly dally for a bit and talk about how things all began. 

There are more or less 7 billion people in this world, and don’t even get me started on the numerous extraterrestrials dwelling within the cosmos. In the universe we share, there are about one hundred billion galaxies, and in the one that we’re in, there are around 2,500 stars other than the sun with planets orbiting them. 

Now I am in no way an expert in astronomy and neither am I good with numbers, but humor me for a bit as I estimate the probability of me specifically meeting someone that makes me want to yank out my heart, throw it against the wall, and gently put it back in place; Someone who values the little things that no one else really notices, while also understanding the importance of the grand and vast world in front of them. There’s about a 0.001% chance. And yet I was able to cross paths with you. 

For me, you are and always will be the living proof that miracles exist in some manner. Either that or the universe just really loves playing tricks on our poor helpless souls. 

November 2015. I was in the middle of growing up when I met you. 18. Such a tender age, full of radical ideas and a need to create an impact and leave a mark on the world. We shared that value. I believe we still do, just in varying degrees. 

Up to this day, I’m still impressed by how instantly we clicked all those years ago, no awkward hi-hello-my-name-is-ganito-ganyan. A conversation on trauma and abuse isn’t necessarily the greatest topic to talk about with a complete stranger on the internet, but somehow it worked for us. Sometimes I wish I could go back and read that chat, just to see how far we’ve grown or if our opinions evolved in a significant way. Too bad I got locked out of that tumblr account. I suppose the universe is telling me to quit reminiscing and get on with my life. I’ll be able to do that eventually, just not right now. 

Anyway, I’m rambling again. So let’s go back. 

January 2016. I got drunk and realized that I may possibly like you in a romantic sort of way. I was supposed to tell you, so I drank a bit more for added liquid courage. What ended up happening is I fell asleep on a field and woke up surrounded by goats. You were rather amused when I told you about it, so I’d count that as a win. Regardless, I took that as a sign that it may not be the best time to tell you something important this early on—add the fact that I was also doubting myself. “Crush lang yan. Tuwa ka lang sa kaniya.” 

So I ignored my feelings, swept them aside, and thought, “I’ll come back to it some other time.” But you were just so caring, so full of love and light that I couldn’t help but be drawn toward you. Moth to a flame analogy is well intended. Even the darkest parts of your personality were not enough to quell my fascination. While in your saddest moments you still manage to think about how to further improve the rest of the world, how to help those in a position either similar or worse than yours. 

Don’t think I’m putting you in a pedestal though, because I recognize that you have a lot of negative traits as well. A lot, believe me. But I choose to marvel at you in spite of those, because you always strive to be better. So I watched you. I watched you grow, and struggle, and be the best version of yourself you can be in that moment.

Without knowing how, or why, or when, my feelings for you just grew deeper. This wasn’t unwarranted though, as you were lowkey flirting with me anyway. 

January 2018. Enough years have passed. We both got through the difficulties that 2017, a piece of shit year, has thrown at us. So I poured you my heart in the most sarcastic and nonchalant way. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. All I wanted was to put it out there. Sort of like an FYI. 

You said you needed space, you said you needed time. “Let’s fix ourselves first.” So it wasn’t a total period, it was more of a comma, an ellipses—a long pause that leads to a million different possibilities. And somehow this is the conclusion we ended up in. 

The universe really does love playing tricks on our poor helpless souls. 

Honestly it would have been fine if that’s how we ended everything. I confessed, you said you weren’t ready, I gave up. Done. A clean cut. But we prolonged the inevitable, or a more accurate take is that I held on longer than what was necessary. I was stuck in the realm of what-ifs.

November 2018. “Sawang-sawa na kong nauunahan sa’yo.” It’s funny how I attributed us not being together to the fact that I moved too slow, but never to the fact that you may simply just not be interested. I was quick to point fingers at other people, our personal struggles, our distance, but never at me and most especially, never at you. Deny, deny, deny. 

We had six months. Six months to actually give it a shot. Despite your apparent lack of concern, I still pushed forward. I badly wanted to make it work. But as each month passed it was getting clearer and clearer that we both have different goals ahead of us—I could arrange mine, though. Make it fit perfectly with yours, I am nothing if not persistent. I’m not sure if you appreciated that part of me or not. You never really told me anything—never really showed interest or disinterest; Friendly at best and rather indifferent most of the time. 

I reasoned with myself that it’s because we don’t really see each other often, but even when I’m near you, the unease never really fades away. 

The line “Sa’yong tabi damang-damang dama ang distansya.” resonates in this situation. 

Maybe I romanticized our distance too much. Maybe I unreasonably believed with every fragment of my being that we belong together. I got stuck on the notion that we were still 18, discovering each other for the first time, equal parts flirty and cautious, but also beaming with excitement for what could be. It escaped my mind that in those four years of growing together, we have turned into different people, with different dreams and ambitions and outlooks thus, growing apart.

I don’t really know what the purpose of this letter is. I know we said we’ll remain friends but I’m guessing that that will be counterproductive, and I’ll just find myself circling this cycle all over again. 

We don’t talk as often as we used to and that’s partly my fault. But as much as I hate to admit it, I’m slowly getting used to not having you there.

For now, I’ll keep burying myself in work and other interests until I’m ready to permanently place you at the very back of my mind. Someday you’ll just be an afterthought—a fond memory, spoken of during drunken lamentations, and nostalgic conversations. The thing is, this might feel like an apocalyptic event right now but in two, three years—maybe even months—I might have already forgotten all about it.

I can already picture it in my head: Coming out onto the terrace, cigarette in hand, I close my eyes and whisper to the stars and pray to the trees to help me remember you. I’ll beg them to help me remember your name, your laugh, the strange noises that you make, and all your other habits. I feel a pang of sadness when I think about that happening and I dread the day when that moment comes, but also, I think I’ll be relieved—I won’t feel like I’m stuck anymore. 

So I guess this is me officially signing out and saying goodbye. Forever? Well, maybe just for now. For a while. For a really long time. 

Go and save the world, love. Keep shining your light on other people. I’ll be watching you as you progress every step of the way. I know you’ll do great things and I can’t wait to see what you become. 

Thank you for being the best part of my life for the past four years. Who knows? Maybe in another lifetime I deserve you.

Sincerely yours,

Management

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Snippet Thursday

Following up from last week's poll, this week we have Prisoner Exchange AU: Jak gets in trouble (we all knew it had to happen sooner or later)

The second his boots hit the sand, Jak knew he'd screwed up. He could see Damas waiting in the vehicle pit, having what looked to be an extremely intense conversation with Sig. And Jak knew it was his fault. The idea of facing the wrath of the king was far from appealing, but he disliked the idea of Sig taking the blame for his stupidity.

"So do we face the music, or fake our deaths and flee the country?" Daxter asked morosely from behind him.

The question was answered for him when Damas looked over at them. Oh, he looked calm at first glance, but his eyes radiated fury. He pointed at them, and then to the ground beside him, and his meaning was clear:

Get your you-know-what over here. Now.

"Dun-da-dun: we're dead," Daxter announced.

"Extremely dead," Jak agreed.

Nevertheless, he ignored the way his stomach churned and twisted around his ribs, and picked his way across the sand.

Being in trouble was nothing new for Jak. In fact, most of his memories involved getting punished for one escapade or another. But this was the first time in recent memory that he could remember being anxious about getting in trouble. He'd seen Damas angry a few times before, but it had never been directed at him. In spite of everything they'd gone through, and everything they'd worked to build, Jak felt his pulse racing, and the old familiar instinct to fight for his life.

When he'd reached the men, Jak opened his mouth, intending to defend Sig. Damas beat him to it.

"What were you thinking?" he demanded.

Jak had thought that would have been obvious.

"That...I...was gonna clear out the metalpede nest?"

The glare he got in return warned him to try a different tack.

"Look, don't blame Sig. If he hadn't gone with me, I would've gone without him."

Damas did not appear to like that any more than the last statement. A muscle in his jaw twitched, and he narrowed his eyes at Jak.

"I told you not to enter the canyons until you had all three amulets."

"I'm sorry, okay? But we lost seven people to that nest!" Jak defended, flinging out an arm to gesture to the walls. "Egil's goons are already pushing past the river and winter's on the way. We can't afford to lose any more scouts!"

"I cannot afford to lose you!" Damas snapped.

Jak flinched away from his harsh tone. A mixture of confusion, nerves, and wounded pride compelled him to retort, "I'm trying to help! I live here now, remember?"

Damas closed his eyes and took a deliberately slow breath. Sig, Jak, and Daxter exchanged nervous glances. They knew full well this didn't herald anything good.

"Sig," Damas said through gritted teeth, "take the boys to their room, then wait for me in the aviary."

Sig nodded, but didn't verbally respond. He seemed to be feeling much more guilt than Jak did. He stepped to the left and put a hand on Jak’s shoulder. Before they could leave, Damas turned and cleared his throat.

"Wait. Give me your gate passes- both of you. You're all confined to the city until I decide what to do with you."

Privately, Jak thought that being deprived of his gate pass was a heavy punishment already. But Damas seemed mad enough that mentioning it might cause him to prove Jak wrong. He kept his mouth shut -- somewhat belatedly, so much for Damas’s attempts at teaching him negotiation -- and let his father take his gate pass away.

Well, this sucks, he thought, but knew better than to voice it.

When they'd walked far enough to be mostly out of earshot, Daxter remarked, "Well, that could've gone worse."

"Might still get worse," Sig sighed. He ran a hand over his head. "...Damas is right. I almost got us killed out there, cherries. He's got every right to be mad."

Jak tugged at his amulet restlessly. "You didn't want me to go along," he argued, "Doesn't that count for something? He's acting like I didn't take on a Swarm King with just Daxter and a gun!"

Sig ducked into the archway leading to the tower entrance and grimaced.

"No, he's acting like a man who lost his only son for years, and then had to deal with him recklessly risking his life on something that takes an entire team to accomplish. He-"

The big warrior stopped and blew out a frustrated breath. "You scared him, cherry. We scared him. And if anything had happened to you today, it would've been on me."

He shook his head and stomped into the lift.

"Two years I spent tearing Haven apart to find you, and then I let you waltz right back into danger. Unbelievable."

Jak settled into the corner of the lift and waited a few seconds until the silence became uncomfortable.

"Sig," he said, "You knew us before he did. In Haven, I mean. You know what we can do! You wouldn't have been able to stop me from joining the mission."

Guilt plucked at his lungs until he added, "I never meant for you to get in trouble, Sig. Usually we're the only ones who get blamed."

Sig's prosthetic eye whirred as its focus narrowed onto Jak’s face.

"Whatever was "usual" in Haven," he warned, "you're better off forgetting it. Things are different in the Wastelands, you know that!"

"I'm trying to help!" Jak argued. Why didn't anyone get that?! If he was capable of helping, he was obligated to help, wasn't he?

The lift locked into place and Sig pushed him out into the empty throne room. "You want to help?" he muttered, more to himself than to Jak or Daxter, "Maybe quit acting like it doesn't matter what happens to you as long as a job gets done."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sig shook his head and pointed down the side corridor. "Just...go on back to your room, cherry. Precursors willing, Damas will have calmed down by the time he makes it up here. But I wouldn't be expecting that gate pass back anytime soon."

"You can't be serious," Jak groaned.

He was.

______________________________________

The room had seemed impractically large the first night the boys had been "quarantined" in the tower. Now it felt like the walls were closing in as Jak paced the circumference of the chamber for the fifth time. It had already been an hour, and there had been no sign of Damas. Somehow, that was worse than him being mad. When you knew it was coming, but they made you wait-

That was one of the most terrifying parts of the Baron’s prison.

As Jak started his sixth circuit, tracing his fingers along the wall, he passed Daxter lying on the bed.

"Huh," Daxter said aloud, wrinkling his nose.

"What?" Jak paused mid-step to look down at him.

Daxter sat up suddenly with a furrowed brow. "Say uh...you don't think Spikes was- nah, he doesn't seem that touchy-feely."

Jak thought of Damas holding him, the night he'd finally understood who he was. He thought of fierce embraces and quiet tears and kept them to himself.

"What do you mean, Dax?"

The ottsel fidgeted, and Jak recognized the emotion coloring his eyes as regret.

"It's just..."

Daxter's ears drooped.

"When you go off without me, I know you don't need my help. And I know you can take any monster that comes your way. But I worry anyway -- I can't help it! I lost ya for two years, and sometimes I get scared! Osmo, back in Haven, he called that traumatic stress."

Jak felt a pit in his stomach as he sank back down to sit beside Daxter on the bed.

"Oh," he said quietly.

He'd known, of course. Daxter always wore his heart on his sleeve. But he never talked about it.

"Do- do you think Spike Dad feels like that?" asked Daxter, gnawing on his lip, "cos if he does, I'm gonna feel like a heel."

Jak was silent as he contemplated that. Traumatic stress, huh? What would've set off-

Oh. He'd snuck out. Damas probably found his room empty. Did he have a flashback, like Jak did when doors were locked? Had Jak caused him to panic?

With a groan, Jak put his face in his hands.

"I suck at being a son," he grumbled.

"In our defense, only one of us has been actively parented before this," Daxter suggested, but it was half-hearted.

His ears twitched, first up, then back down again.

"Do...do you think he's gonna yell?"

"If he yells, I'll yell back," Jak answered hesitantly. "But I don't- I don't think he's going to be like Samos. I just...haven't decided if that's a good thing yet."

_________________________________________

Damas entered the chamber well over two hours later to find his son pacing like a caged caracal. By the slightly disturbed furniture, pushed away from walls here and there, it looked as if Jak had been at this for a while now. From all that Sig had told him, he could guess he was in for a fight. Considering what he'd been put through before returning to Spargus, the boy understandably did not take well to any perceived threat to his autonomy. But the moment Jak spotted him, his shoulders slumped.

"So-" Damas began, trying not to read too much into how resigned Jak looked.

"Look-" Jak interrupted, then winced slightly.

"I- We're...sorry," he said haltingly. "I...just wanted- I just wanted to help you."

He looked so earnest. Damas didn’t doubt he and Daxter had managed to talk Sig into letting them turn his scouting mission into a search-and-destroy. It was hard to argue with a face like that. Did the boy even understand what he'd done wrong?

"Oh Jak," Damas sighed.

He lowered himself to the small couch by the window and beckoned him over.

"Come. Sit with me."

Jak hesitated, but complied. The couch was small, but he tried to give Damas as much space as possible. He picked at a scar on his thumb and didn't look up.

"Why you?" Damas asked. When Jak didn't immediately answer, he prodded his shoulder. "Hmm? Why did you, specifically, have to go kill those metalpedes?"

Jak shrugged. "Because I could. Because I'm harder to kill than other people. Why risk them if I don't need to?"

From any other Spargan, those words would've been commendable. Coming from his only child, they burned Damas like brands pressed into his skin. Jak should never have been taught to see himself as expendable. He should never have suffered as he had. And yet Damas had failed to protect him.

"And you gave no thought at all to Sig’s warnings that this was a task too dangerous for one person?"

He watched his son's brows quirk as if something about the question puzzled him.

"Wh- when, um, when we were kids," Jak mumbled, "Nobody actually...cared...if we were doing something dangerous. Not unless it inconvenienced them. They expected us to do these things. To...to earn our keep."

When he looked up at last, Damas was frowning thoughtfully.

"Hmm. I...think I understand."

Damas turned that thought over in his mind. It would do no good to get angry now: Jak would just think it was directed at him. Still, it was for the best that the people of that tiny village were far, far beyond his reach.

"My son," he said, gently but firmly, "You must unlearn what your captors drilled into you. You are home now- you are free now. Those expectations do not apply."

For a moment, Jak said nothing. Then he whispered, "I don't know who I am without them."

Daxter peeked over the arm of the couch with an endearingly miserable look.

"Jak didn't mean to scare ya, and- and Sig just came along to watch our backs! Don't be mad at Sig, er, sir."

An honorific out of Daxter? Hell must have frozen over. It was this, more than anything, that told Damas that the boys truly were sorry.

"Sig didn't do wrong by going with you," he allowed, and dropped a hand over the couch arm to rest over Daxter's head. "But he did not inform me of what was happening, or give me time to form a larger team. That is what he did wrong- and what you did wrong. But we are not here to discuss Sig. We are here to decide what consequences I need to set to ensure that this does not happen again."

Both boys winced, and Damas noticed Daxter curl in on himself as though shielding himself before a blow. Jak schooled his face into an emotionless mask.

Damas regretted his promise to spare Haven for Jak's sake.

"You will be confined to the tower for six days," Damas announced, forcing himself to ignore the boys' reactions. "If you want your gate pass back, you'll have to earn it. Show me that I can trust you to make better decisions."

"And...after the week is up?" asked Daxter tentatively.

The king shifted his weight and ran a hand over his face. Alright, Sig. I'm choosing my battles.

"Before I came in here, I was going to ban you from the Arena trials until midwinter," he admitted.

Jak stiffened beside him, the protest already on his lips.

"But," Damas continued, "as you seem to have a better understanding of the gravity of the situation than I had initially thought, I offer a compromise."

Jak flexed his fingers and glanced over nervously. "O...kay?"

Damas offered a small smile in response. "You will only be barred from the Arena until you can escape me in a sparring match. How long that lasts will be up to you."

Jak sagged with relief -- and Daxter suddenly got a lot more anxious. Sure, Jak could fight metalheads the size of buildings and come out on top. But Damas had something the metalheads didn't: opposable thumbs.

This probably wasn't going to be as easy as Jak was thinking.

"Thanks. For...for not yelling," Jak said unexpectedly. "Daxter doesn't like yelling."

Damas dropped his other hand across the back of Jak's neck and squeezed affectionately, just the barest hint of pressure.

"If you have to shout to make your point, you've already lost control of the situation," he advised.

He caught the incredulous expression passing between the two boys and chose to let it go. They were still learning what it was to have a childhood. Lessons in leadership could come later.

"I know you're still getting to know me," he said hesitantly, "Perhaps the restrictions I place do not make sense to you. But they exist because I care about your safety. I fought to make this city one in which you could choose your own path. So you wouldn't have to fight for your life."

Daxter stretched up on tip-paws. "But that's why Jak fights!" he protested, "Cause he can't stand the idea of anybody goin' through what he did!"

Damas flinched, ever so slightly, and Daxter regretted bringing it up. It was fairly obvious that Damas had the same kind of survivor's guilt that he did.

"I...don't know a whole lot about dads, sure, but he's just doin' what you do, doesn't that count for somethin?"

Damas shook his head, but he didn't appear to be disagreeing. He only whispered, "I should have been there."

Daxter knew what he meant.

After a moment's hesitation, he climbed up onto the arm of the couch and tentatively patted Damas’s shoulder.

"Aw, look. Jak, uh...Jak has always been pretty fearless about runnin' into danger. Even before things went sideways! He used to wade out to the sandbar to save stranded Lurker Hounds, even though he knew they were gonna try and bite him! He uh, he had to learn that from somewhere, right?"

Jak raised his head and blinked. He'd sort of figured he'd learned it from his own elder self in an eternal loop. But...could Daxter be right? Was that wild, fearless, reckless little kid simply acting like a normal Wastelander?

"Maybe you fought so he wouldn't have to," Daxter suggested, merely thinking out loud, "But maybe he decided to be just like you? I mean have you met him? The kid's got a head like a rock!"

"Dude, really?" Jak glared at him.

Damas’s smile was bittersweet at best. "It is...a nice thought, Daxter," he admitted, "Admittedly, Jak...was quite stubborn when he was Mar."

Impulsively, he swung his arms close, dragging both boys into an impromptu embrace.

"However, you are still grounded."

"Darnit!" Daxter fumed.

[i-rove-rock-n-roll]

Perdix (alternative title related to moi: I’M BACK babyyyy)

(or is it babies? babiez? idk) 

Anyway, long time, no writing. I’ve been flooded with homework (end of term+ classes full of essays) and graced with a broken computer, so finally I got a new laptop to actually post stuff again.

This is dedicated to the one of a kind @couchwriting *airhorn noises* who has the patience of ten thousand saints for putting up with the suuuuuper long wait (it’s been what, a millennium since I got this request And I just now got around to it?? I feel like I owe u a lot more than this.. and I hope you enjoy cause of how long its been coming...) 

ANyway, (I certainly say anyway a lot don’t I?) this bit may or may not actually find its way into my novel (though it’ll be revamped and expanded and stuff). and idk where yet, but its definitely a part of the backstory for my dudes Icarus and Daedalus in my wip. 

Thus far I’ve done Icarus, Dionysus/Bacchus, Hades and Persephone, and Helen (of sparta/troy), Atalanta  and Morrigan

Under the cut cause this is borderline an entire chapter right here. Will also post interested peeps and other writing links at the end. :D Enjoyyyyy (this reaaaaally long post, though I feel it could be longer and definitely better, I didn’t want to keep you waiting..Plz forgive the rushed bits, cause there probably are some...)

“Take Perdix,” his mother had said wearily, pushing stray hair away from her face. “He’s too smart to stay with me Daedalus. He needs a teacher.”

“I—" His uncle stammered, unsure.

“He can’t be a farmer.” Mother shook her head. “He just—he has to be something. He deserves to be something.”

         “Peigi, I just started taking care of my own child, I don’t know how to take care of another.”

“You’re a genius, Daedalus. You’ll think of something.”

Perdix stared at the baby, who blew a raspberry back at him, giggling.

“I see you’re having fun.” Daedalus said, dropping an armful of tools onto the table.

“Da!” The baby grinned, lifting his arms. “Up! Up!” Daedalus scooped him up, bouncing him on his hip.

“Do you like playing with your cousin, Icarus?” Icarus responding by shoving his chubby fist in his mouth and drooling.

“What do you have?”

“Uh—"

“Ma?” Icarus chirped, interrupting.

“No, no Ma. Ma’s not here.” Daedalus pulled his hand away from his mouth. “Continue, Perdix.” Perdix rubbed his arm nervously.

“I separated the metal into prongs and adhered them—"

Icarus tugged on Daedalus’ hair. “What, Icarus?”

         “Da-ma?”

         “No Da-ma.” He placed Icarus on the ground, giving him a soft pat. Icarus toddled for a moment, then fell. Perdix continued his explanation, tugging Daedalus over to the workstation to show what precisely he had accomplished.

         “This is a good start.” Perdix beamed at Daedalus’ words. “But it needs some adjustments.” His uncle pulled his hair back, then pointed. “Do you see your flaw with how you melted—”

“Da-Ma?”

CRASH!

         Daedalus whirled around. The baby was surrounded by the various tools he had knocked over, all heavy or sharp, and by some miracle, all had missed hitting him.

“Icarus!”

         Icarus gave a small sniff. Then he began to cry.

“Daedalus,” Perdix hesitated. “What does Dama mean?”

“It’s his way of saying Da and Ma. Da-Ma.” Daedalus blew out a breath. He scooped Icarus up, who squirmed to get away, his face scrunched up as he continued to wail. “I shouldn’t have brought him in here. He—I—”

“He’s chewing on his foot.” Perdix told him. Daedalus swore.

“I’m not cut out to be a father.”

         Perdix hesitated. “You’re better than mine. At least you’re trying.”  He said with some small note of bitterness. “I’m sure Mother thought the same when Father left. He just—He never came back and yet she managed to raise me, somehow.”

         “Naucrate’s not gone, she—” Daedalus stopped. “It doesn’t matter.” He stood. “Let’s clean up this mess and grab some lunch. Our next project will be for Icarus.”

         “Making him a toy?”

They finished building in the late afternoon. Made of a wood, the box-like structure stood at about three feet and was placed out of the way of any falling tools or shrapnel. Perdix wiped his brow as Daedalus set Icarus inside. At first, Perdix thought his little cousin was going to cry again, but once he realized he could still see Daedalus through the bars, he settled down. Daedalus placed a small, roughly stitched stuffed toy next to him, and Icarus began to suck on the soft fabric.

         “Now maybe we can get some work done.” A loud rapping sound came from the door. Standing within the frame was a large man, wringing his equally large hands together.

         “I—I heard about you from Alexios, the baker. He had nothing but nice things to say about you, Daedalus, and ah—”

         “You’d like me to fix something for you?” Daedalus asked, amused when a red flush crept across the man’s face.

         “Yes, my tools, they’re at my station…” The man trailed off. Daedalus smiled.

         “So long as you don’t mind babysitting for a while, Perdix and I will fix everything. It’ll; be better than new.”

         “Babysitting?” The man blinked owlishly. But neither inventor nor apprentice heard him, Perdix rushing to gather anything they might need before sprinting out the door after his uncle’s longer strides.

         The cobbler stared at the baby, who stared back, his dark eyebrows drawn together. Then Icarus began to cry.

         “Oh, no, no, no, baby, don’t cry!” The man picked him up, swaddling the screaming with his large arms. “You just want someone to hold you, don’t you?”

         “Hold this.” Daedalus said to Perdix, who took the tool awkwardly. “What is it?”

         “Er—A burnishing tool?” Perdix’ brow furrowed. “Why is it half melted?”

         “My guess is that he left it too close to the flames while doing something else. Now how do we fix it?”

“We can’t. It’d be too fragile if we tried to re—what about bone?”

   “What?” Daedalus asked, baffled.

   “Bone.” Perdix repeated, feeling more confident. “We used to use it on the farm when we worked with leather. Does a better job than metal doesn’t melt, and—”

    “Perdix.” Perdix stopped. “That’s a great idea.”

   The cobbler was sitting in front of the playpen when the two returned to the workshop. He glanced up, surprised, as they stared.

   “What are you doing?”

   “Making faces.” The cobbler responded. The staring continued.

   “What is he doing?” Daedalus pointed at the playpen.

   “Chewing on the bars. I don’t think he likes being confined.”

   “Is that safe?” Daedalus asked, alarmed.

   The cobbler shrugged. “He’s teething.” He stood and stretched, sighing as his back gave a couple audible pops. “He was no problem though. I miss when my youngest was that age.” He patted Daedalus’ shoulder. “I’m incredibly grateful to you and your oldest though for helping me on such last minute notice.”

“Perdix isn’t my son.” Daedalus swallowed tightly. “He’s my—my apprentice.” He placed a hand on Perdix’s shoulder. Perdix beamed at him, though his chest, previously swelling with pride, began to ache.

The cobbler gave Perdix the same farewell as Daedalus, a bonecruhing hug, before disappearing. Perdix unthinking, picked Icarus up, bouncing him absently as his cousin’s large, dark eyes stared at him.

Word spread quickly of the inventor and his apprentice over the following months. People would drop by, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of their creations. One invention, in particular, caught the eye some nobles.

A saw.

“What is this?” One of the nobles asked, amusedly prodding at the strange, jagged shape. The others snickered as he recoiled, yanking his fingers back and placing them in his mouth.

“That,” Perdix said. “Is a saw. Sharpened to cut through anything. It’ll do wonders for lumber workers.”

The man’s eyes sharpened at Perdix’s casual smile. “What do you want for it?”

Perdix thought of what Daedalus might say if he was there, how disapproving he’d be of these men as customers. Their disdain for the working class, the shine in their eyes as they bartered. Then he thought of his mother, and how little money she had to support the farm. She’d written to him just the week before, telling him she had to let go of their farm hand. After fifteen years of service and the current drought, his mother only thought of the effect on the farmhand and his family. She didn’t seem to care that she was starving.

But Perdix did.

Perdix leaned forward, his previously serene smile morphing into that of a shark’s.

   Daedalus returned to the small house where he, Perdix, and Icarus were staying. He cooed at the baby, who grabbed at his father’s nose.

   “Did you enjoy your bath, Icarus.” He tossed the giggling Icarus in the air lightly, catching him, then peppered his face with kisses.

   When they entered the room Perdix was sitting at the table in a daze.

   “Perdix?” Daedalus was getting concerned as Pedix failed to respond. Icarus poked Perdix in the cheek. He didn’t even flinch. “Perdix? Are you alright?” His body snapped into motion, standing.

   “I’m fine.” Perdix said, carding a hand through his hair. “Can I—Can I talk to you outside?”

   The sea brushed against the cliffside, pushing and pulling a cool wind alongside it, buffering their hair. Daedalus simply waited, watching for his nephew to speak.

Then Perdix burst, unable to hold it in any longer.

“I got a job!”

“You—you got a job?” Every feature of his uncle fell slack in shock, looking as though he’d faint. “But what about your apprenticeship?”

“Don’t need it anymore.” Perdix shrugged, swinging his legs as he plopped down at the edge of the cliff. “I can make my own name now. I need—” Perdix stopped himself. “I can’t work for you for forever, uncle.”

Daedalus was quiet for a moment, then blew out a long sigh. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“They—Aegeus wants me to report to the palace court tomorrow morning.”

“As in—” Daedalus choked. “As in the king, Aegeus?”

Perdix’ head bobbed rapidly, a surge of excitement running through his veins at the thought. “Just think, a job working for the king at my age!”

Daedalus swallowed, his expression tightening. “What does he want you to do?” Perdix watched as a bird dove towards the water, droplets of water dripping from feathers and talons as it continued to maneuver. Just watching was starting to give him ideas…

“He wants me to start work on some new weapons.” Perdix rolled his shoulders absently. “Work on outfitting his army.” He missed the flash of horror spreading across his uncle’s face, his roaming fingers intent on finding a stray pebble to throw into the water.

“You don’t know how to make weapons! You—you’ll kill someone, sending soldiers out without proper equipment!” Perdix stood, disappointment etched into his features.

“Are you jealous, Daedalus? I thought you’d be happy for me.” He had to pack.  

“Perdix! Perdix wait—”

   Daedalus didn’t see Perdix for months. He heard the whispers of the young genius inhabiting the palace, the splendor of things he had made in demand by every citizen of Athens. At first the loss of business was slow, people trickling into the palace and away from Daedalus’ small workroom. Then came the time when people stopped coming in altogether.

   One of the few faithful customers that remained was the cobbler, who came knocking every few days to watch Icarus while the inventor was busy trying to make something—anything to sell.

   Peigi has sent him a message about a month ago, asking for him to come visit.

   “Icarus will be in good hands, Daedalus.” The cobbler said, waiting for Icarus, now almost a toddler, to return to a normal volume and skin color after an hour of screaming.

   Daedalus’ head throbbed, and he knew it wouldn’t end anytime soon, his nerves frayed.

   It took a little over a day before he arrived at Peigi’s farm.

   She had aged, strands of her hair now a dull gray, her eyes and cheeks lined with worry and tears.

   Her chair scraped backwards as she stood, embracing him tightly. He could feel her frailty beneath her chiton, and he hugged her bac, afraid he’d break her if he squeezed too hard.

   “Perdix told me of your argument months ago.” She handed him a cup, more water than wine. He thanked her and took a sip, hoping for the knots in his stomach to disappear. Or at least for her accusations to start and end quickly. “He always saw you as a father figure, not just an inspiration.” Daedalus went to speak but his sister stopped him. “I don’t care what happened.” Peigi said, sitting down with her own wine. “I just want to make sure he’s okay.”

   “What do you mean?”

   “He was sending me money months ago when the drought began. We—I couldn’t keep the farm going, and—” Peigi broke down, her cheeks streaming.

   “Why didn’t you tell me?” Daedalus asked gently, wiping her tears away.

“I thought—the farm was doing better at first, but then—” She broke off. “I wasn’t going to put your family in trouble. I know you were saving—”

   “For Naucrate.” Daedalus tried not to think of her, and tried to focus as Peigi, his strong, rock of a sister, began to crumble. “You need me right now, Peigi. Naucrate would understand. Let me help.” Daedalus couldn’t bring himself to be mad.

That was until Peigi continued.

“Perdix hasn’t sent me anything for weeks now. I don’t care about the money now, but—we always talk—” Peigi began to babble uncontrollably. To stop her from crying again, Daedalus kissed her each of her cheeks in turn.

   “I will take care of you, Peigi.”

   Perdix sat in his room, watching as his latest clients were sent running. Instead, a small group of nobles entered the room, having pushed past the throng and threatened the peasantry with force.

His original buyers.

   “Do you have anything for us?” Perdix rolled his eyes. They only wanted to show off their wealth, and have the latest one of a kind object before the masses did. Just as they wanted his saw, they wanted the next object once the novelty wore off. They cycle never stopped.

   “Not yet,” Perdix stretched, letting his limbs settle loosely in his chair. “I just finished the weapons shipment for the army, but now Aegeus wants me to tend to the army in person.” He frowned. “Minos is stirring up trouble apparently.”

One of the nobles rolled their eyes with a snort. The others simply made themselves comfortable, pouring themselves some wine and swiping his untouched lunch.  

   “The king of that tiny island? Please, what can he do?”

   “You’d be surprised.” One of his companions chimed in. “He’s got a decent navy, though his men can’t compare to Athens’ army. Not when our man Perdix is supplying, right?” He smiled at Perdix, who smiled back.

   “Right…”

   At least he hoped it was a smile.

   Perdix spent the night going over his designs, over the old armor and his planned modifications. He was still wide awake when the king sent him to be shipped out, to fit the men with their new gear.

   The first few days sped by, and Perdix was as thrilled as he was exhausted. He joked with the men, who clapped each other on the back and admired their new armor. They examined their swords by the firelight, almost excited to go to war, some for the first time in their lives.

   It felt like a blow to the chest when they lost.

   Perdix sat on the clifftop, his back to the temple of Athena. Praying had done nothing, had given him no ideas or closure. He bought and sacrificed the best animals he could find, but still, nothing helped.

   The wind blew as dusk approached, stinging his eyes. Perdix didn’t even turn as Daedalus sat next to him, as silent and watchful as ever. It reminded him of Icarus, and the lump in Perdix throat grew.

    “Athens army is not doing very well, uncle.

“Why? Daedalus’ voice was bitter. “They have your weapons do they not?”

“Yes but—” Perdix stopped. “At first I thought it was just the older men, the veterans being tetchy about their new gear. Angry at change, you know?” He swallowed. “Then—then when battle came—It was like we couldn’t fight back.

“Then fix it.”

“I can’t.” Perdix’s eyes burned with tears, his head filled with images of the men he had grown to call friends strewn across the ground— “I need your help, uncle.” He whispered. “Please?”

Daedalus sighed. “Very well.”

Perdix watched his uncle, whirling about like hurricane, melting and scrapping and molding, fitting each man in turn, not letting them go until they, and he, was happy with the result.

It took only four days for him to finish what had taken Perdix weeks.

The next battle came and Athens won.

Perdix took to fetching supplies and helping the medical tent, unable to look Daedalus in the eye. He told a small group of men, previously his assistants, to attend to his uncle and help in any way they could.

As they won the next battle down the coast, and the following managing to drive then Minoans from the city, Perdix gathered his courage, and returned to his tent to apologize.

He entered to find the assistants in a panic and Daedalus on the floor and covered in blood. A heavy container pinned his leg, twisting it as Daedalus, gasping and sweaty, barely conscious, tried feebly to free himself.

Perdix waited in the medical tent, wringing his hands, waiting for news. The healer, with a wan expression, approached. Perdix tried not to look down as the man wiped his hands, still covered in Daedalus’ blood.

“Is he—Is he going to be okay?”

“If you’re asking if he will live, the answer is yes.” The healer scrubbed at his eyes, sighing. “But his leg is damaged. You can’t see it now, but a few years ago, I treated Daedalus for a battle injury during his time as a soldier. It left a deep scar, and somehow, despite our belief, he bounced back, walking almost perfectly after a few months of bed rest and practice.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know.” Said the healer. “Miracles don’t often happen twice. It���s likely that he won’t regain mobility in that leg ever again.”

Perdix left the field early the next day. He had to prepare a place for Daedalu to stay, and as the inventor staunchly refused to stay in the palace (in between murmurs about Naucrate), the only place left was Daedalus’ small house.  

Perdix arrives, arms full of bedding he had gathered from his rooms in the palace. He was greeted by Icarus, now about the age of four, who stared at him distrustfully, eyes devoid of recognition. Perdix didn’t want to admit how much his heart hurt when he opened his arms for a hug and his cousin ran, hiding. Arms falling, Perdix sighed, and began to prepare the house for Daedalus’ arrival.

The cobbler, Perdix was surprised to find, had offered Daedalus a place in his home, but there was little more room there than the other house. He and his wife at least promised to help with cooking, so that was one less burden.

    The only thing left to do was clean the workshop.

    The small space was crammed with half completed ideas, frustrated bits of metal thrown this way and that. Any sketches to be found were ash, burned by Daedalus as the ideas refused to cooperate. As Perdix worked to open the room up with air, he knew he missed this. He missed his uncle, the maniac genius. He missed ideas for inventions spinning in their heads as they stayed awake through the night. He missed playing with Icarus, chasing his little cousin through the market as he learned how to walk first, then run. Perdix missed his mother. He hadn’t sent a message to her in months, too busy and too scattered with the king’s demands to remember. He promised himself, once Daedalus could walk again, that he would go see her, and bring her the finest objects he had ever made, just for her.

Daedalus wasn’t healing. Not as fast as Perdix had hoped. His uncle refused to speak, refused to meet his eyes, refused to eat.

Refused to do anything.

Perdix stared at Athena’s temple, then turned towards the sea. Sitting by the cliffside, he hugged his knees, exhausted from trying to keep everything together. He could barely hold himself together. He buried his face, sniffling as the sky darkened.

How did everything go so wrong?

Perdix heard a grunt behind him and turned. Daedalus, straining his one good leg to move, fell to the ground. Perdix tried to help him up but Daedalus slapped his hands away leaving the inventor, breathing heavily, to struggle to his knees.

“I’m sorry, Daedalus.” Perdix bit back a flinch as Daedalus glared through the hair in his eyes.

“Sorry doesn’t fix my leg.”

    “If the assistants—”

“That’s just the thing, Perdix.” Daedalus interrupted, heaving himself into a sitting position. “They were assistants. What happens when an assistant doesn’t do their job properly?”

“They get hurt.” Perdix was confused at the sudden question. “But why—?”

“Does this matter?” Daedalus gave a bark of humorless laughter. “Well, nephew mine, you were my apprentice, my assistant. You killed those soldiers and my leg damaged beyond repair.”

“But I—"

“You didn’t mean to?” Daedalus voice was deceptively soft. “Oh, Perdix, how many times can you cry?”

         “Daedalus—”

         “Over and over you cry for me to help you, to fix your mistakes. You cry for attention, for respect you have not earned—”

“Daedalus be reasonable.” Perdix had to hold himself back from touching his uncle, from comforting him. “You are not well, you—you have a fever—”

“Your mother wanted the best for you. She wanted you to make her proud.” Daedalus’ voice was cold now, uncaring of the steady, hot tears streaming down Perdix’s face. Perdix almost wished he would scream or shout, anything to stop the awful feeling swelling in his chest. “She died not long before you sent those men to their deaths. She died before you could bring her shame.”

Perdix’s could have swore he felt his heart stop.

His mother—the world spun, even as he dug his fingers into the earth, hoping for solidity.

He couldn’t remember the last words he said to her.

Daedalus’ face swam in and out of view, as pale as the moon glittering across the sea.

    “You may be my sister’s son, but you are not mine.”

    Perdix broke. He could feel nothing, inside or out, until Daedalus’ cold hands reached for his throat.

“Uncle,” Perdix rasped, a last effort to live, to find something. “Please—”

    His uncle, his idol, his father, with each muscle straining, pushed Perdix, limp, off the cliff.

    Perdix could see no bottom, could see nothing but the darkness and the moon. He didn’t know when he would hit the sea, or if he would be alive to feel the waves hit him back. Eyes clenched shut, he waited.

He never touched the water. Any screams he may have had died in his throat, replaced with constricted shrieks. His arms, helpless against the wind as he fell, began to lift him as each hair on his arm elongated into broad, brown feathers.

    Gliding across the sea, he made his way to the beach.

    And Perdix, now the Partridge, blinked up at the temple, high up on the cliffside. He did not see how the eyes of Athena within, as cold as the marble she was carved from, glinted in the dark.

    Daedalus lay at the cliffside for a long while, his body shaking with pain. It took him a while, slipping through the grass, to brace himself enough to crawl back home. The sky had just started to lighten when he made it back to the house, leaning against the doorframe as he tried to catch his breath.

Once he managed to get inside he found Icarus, awake and waiting. Trembling, crusted with dirt, Daedalus pulled the child into a hug.  

“What’s wrong?

Icarus’ eyes burned into him, so very bright and questioning. Just as Perdix’s had been.

Daedalus cried.

Alrighty! I do hope you all enjoyed this, and as always, if You’d like to request a retelling written and dedicated to you, send me a message. A word, an emoji, an idea, is all I need! 

Peeps that have shown interest in the past in being tagged (lemme know if you wanna be added/removed! Or if I forgot to add someone, cause that could happen...)

@ahotpeaceofshit @the-real-rg @luckydragonnerd @ashesconstellation @couchwriting @ashes-of-chironides @tokyoghoulua @writingmyselfintoanearlygrave @lmorasey @rmorada @xanthus-the-headless-stand-user @splotch-of-spice @cometworks @thecadmiuminkwell @mkaiww @pheita @demonfairyprincess @tatodapato @talesofhemlock @aquaroseas 

I think I remembered everybody? I actually haven’t been on tumblr for like an actual month (I queued stuff a while ago cause I actually figured out how the queue worked)

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[christcrofts]

When I popped it up I thought, 'oh no, I'm gonna get yelled at.

"When I popped it up I thought, 'oh no, I'm gonna get yelled at.'"But in an instant, the emotions of Fillebrown and the rest of the Bernardians spun 180 degrees. 22 when two flight attendants got into a fist fight and the captain decided to land in Salt Lake City. And changed the name to Gopher Gone. They

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[andrewjaaeremy]

They need to see you plain, a long-faced lad in an old black cloak.

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