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percontaion-points · 3 years

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Foxhole Court chapter 4

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Chapter 4

"I thought you had [your boyfriend] Erik," Neil said.

"I do, but Kevin's on the List," Nicky said. When Neil frowned, Nicky explained. "It's a list of celebrities we're allowed to have affairs with. Kevin is my number three."

Normally, I wouldn't even bat my eyes over such a casual mention of something like this. But in a story that's already pumped full of abuse, drug and alcohol abuse, and probably a lot more nonsense to come...

The idea of an “allowed cheating list” just rubs me the wrong way.

“Then the ERC threatened to revoke our Class I status and fire Coach if we didn't start winning more

often. Coach bribed Andrew into saving our collective asses with some really nice booze."

"Bribed?" Neil echoed.

"Andrew's good," Nicky said again, "but it doesn't really matter to him if we win or lose. You want him to care, you gotta give him incentive."

"He can't play like that and not care."

"Now you sound like Kevin. You'll find out the hard way, same as Kevin did. Kevin gave Andrew a lot of grief this spring,"

I know that this is probably difficult for these people to understand. But normal people don't make playing a sport their sole personality trait. That obsessing this much over a singular thing with no hobbies or interests outside of it isn't healthy.

"Kevin wants to know what's taking you so long. Did you get lost?"

"Nicky's scheming to rape Neil," Aaron said.

HAHAHA BECAUSE RAPE JOKES ARE JUST SO FUCKING HILARIOUS. /ALL THE GODDAMNED SARCASM

Andrew had a short knife pressed to Nicky's jersey. Where he'd pulled it from, Neil didn't know, but he refused to think Andrew wore one onto the court under his uniform. There had to be rules and regulations against that. The last thing Neil wanted was for Andrew to stab someone in the middle of a game. The Foxes would be banned from the league in an instant.

So this guy 1) is a drug addict 2) is an alcoholic 3) has to literally be bribed to even play 4) is clearly mentally unstable and ready to literally stab somebody at any given time

Tell me again why he's somehow better for the team than the risk of him going loco and costing the entire university team EVERYTHING?

"Andrew is a little bit crazy. Your lines are not his lines, so you can get all huff and puff when he tramps across yours but you'll never make him understand what he did wrong. Moreover, you'll never make him care. So just stay out of his way."

JFC, now Nicky is saying to just let this sociopath do whatever the fuck he pleases?

This overgrown child needs to be institutionalized; not allowed to play team sports for a university. This man is a danger to society.

"You be something. Kevin says you'll be a champion. Four years and you'll go pro. Five years and you'll be Court. He promised Coach. He promised the school board. He argued until they signed off on you."

"He—what?"

I don't know why Neil is surprised by this. These people pressured him so much until he agreed to sign to attend the school to play. Why the fuck is them making deals about Neil behind Neil's back somehow any different?

He hadn't even realized she'd been injured so badly after running into his father in Seattle.

Wasn't daddy dearest in prison? Why the fuck was he running around in Seattle? I'm so fucking confused.

This was why Wymack's contract, Kevin's lofty ambitions, and Andrew's words meant nothing in the end. It didn't matter what they offered or promised him. Neil wasn't like them. He was nothing and no one, and he always would be. Court wasn't for people like him.

THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU COME?!

What I'm going to tell you is an open secret. That is, we know it," he waved a finger in a circle, likely meaning the Foxes, "but no one outside our team does. It has to stay that way no matter what, do you understand? People could get hurt if this gets out. People could die."

I'm not going to deny that there are people in the world who would murder because of sportsball. But all I'm saying is that their mental state was probably not amazing to begin with, and they probably shouldn't have been in society in the first place.

"They built this complex around the same time we started construction on the Foxhole Court. Thought our team would be something and people would want to live in the area to be close to the stadium for games. Then we couldn't perform, so the apartments didn't fill. The lower floors are pretty full, and the middle floors get rented out during football season, but top two floors are pretty bare.”

Yeah, that's bullshit. People would still move into those apartments, sports team or no.

He hit full speed before he reached the street, going so fast he was nearly falling over, but he couldn't outrun his thoughts.

Chapter 4 summary: The next day, Neil tries to settle into his new life here. He goes for a jog before going to the stadium early to get changed before the others get in. They have summer practice with just those who are there (the wonder twins, Kevin, Nicky, and Neil).

After practice is over, Nicky randomly starts talking about how Andrew fucking hates the sport, which is baffling to Kevin. However, Andrew has a hard-on for Kevin. And Nicky warns Neil to stop openly staring at Kevin, or else Andrew might get jealous and attack Neil. Because that's fucking hilarious, you know.

Andrew shows up, and randomly threatens Nicky with a knife over how he was apparently flirting with Neil. Despite Neil stating that he only just wanted to play sports, not to hook up or have a relationship with anybody. Nicky relents, and after Andrew leaves, tells Neil that he isn't his type anyway. He also warns Neil to just let Andrew do whatever he wants. Because that's how you should deal with people like that... right?

They then go back to the field, where they set up a mock-game. And good grief. I thought that watching sports on TV was boring. Ain't got nothing on this tedious wall of bullshit. After a while, Kevin sends Nicky and Aaron inside, and it's just him, Andrew, and Neil. They continue to play for a bit longer, but then Andrew then starts to beat the shit out of Neil with his racquet. Which... okay.

Neil eventually goes home, where coach yells at him over having “blown out his arms”. And I get that this is college sports, and it's on another level than HS stuff. But at the same time... this is literally day two of summer practice. There is literally no reason to threaten to beat a literal child up.

We have a two-week time skip, and then Neil goes back to the stadium later at night to practice. Andrew is there, mostly sober because it's late and he apparently can't sleep with those drugs in his system? Sure, whatever. Anyway, he says that Kevin promised Neil over to some pro teams after his term at the university is over. Neil doesn't think that this is true. After Andrew leaves, and Neil tells Kevin that he came to practice, Kevin is rude about Neil's ability to play, and says that practice won't help. This goes into what Neil said: that Andrew is full of shit.

Neil then sits down in the locker room and thinks about his mother's death. I don't fucking care about any of this.

Neil sleeps in the stadium, and goes back to coach's apartment just in time to hear him getting into an argument with Kevin. The exy overseeing board (whatever they're fucking called; I don't give a shit), is like “We're forcing Kevin back to the Ravens.” and when Kevin refused, now they're going to make the foxes play against the ravens.

Coach then flat-out tells Neil that Riko smashed Kevin's hand because he was jealous of Kevin's playing. He says that he felt like the abuse had been going on for some time, but the hand breaking was the final straw, and Kevin decided to get out before something worse happened to him. He then tells Neil that the Moriyama family is part of the yakuza, or the Japanese mafia. This continues on for a long while, establishing just how shitty that this family actually is, and how the Moriyama family controls the entire sport of exy.

But despite how terrible that the foxes are, and Kevin's injury, he refuses to show any weakness to those assholes who screwed him over so badly. However, this just convinces Neil that he needs to leave, and he needs to leave ASAP.

#All For The Game #Foxhole Court #chapter 04 #Neil Josten #Nicky Hemmick #shitty people are shitty #Aaron and Andrew Minyard #WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK #What Is Happening #plot hole time!#David Wymack #HEADDESKING #do you even know how the world works?#Kevin Day #Riko Moriyama

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lo-55 · 3 years

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Shattered Chains of Fate Ch. 4

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Night has fallen on Chaldeas. Though the globe still casts its red glow across the room, the doom of humanity, it’s too late and Ichigo has been awake for too long for the grief to wash across him like so many waves right now.

He’s summoned another servant today, with the help of technology and Saint Quartz and Cu Chulainn, of course. It was maybe his fault that he now had two celtic servants. One a caster with vicious loyalty but a habit of hitting on girls, and another that avoided women like the plague and followed Ichigo like the most desperate of puppies.

So now he has four servants to keep up with, and so he’s tired .

They go off to the next singularity soon. Somewhere in England, in the late nineteenth century. He should really be resting. Getting ready for the next fight. Letting Olga Marie try an fail to teach him even the simple but powerful magecraft that she and Cu specialize in.

Instead, Ichigo finds himself standing in the doorway to the Chaldeas observation room, looking not at the ominous depiction of their future, but the man standing in front of it.

Romani Archiman. Dr. Roman. His shoulders are tense and drawn and his hair is out of its usual pony tail. He looks as tired out as Ichigo feels. When no one’s watching, right now, his green eyes are dull and his humor has faded. When had he last slept? When had any of them?

Mash kept reminding him how important it was to get proper sleep, and maybe it was easier for demi-servants than it is for humans. He doesn’t know. He never thought to ask.

Ichigo comes to a stop beside him.

It is a testament to his exhaustion that Roman doesn’t even notice Ichigo enough to react until he’s been standing there for nearly a full minute. When he does he jumps, startling and in the space between breaths Roman’s demeanor shifts. His eyes crinkle with a smile and he turns to Ichigo, a dozen times more cheerful than he’d been mere seconds before. It’s a startling contrast. From one face to another in less time than it took Ichigo to even realize he’d seen him looking so serious.

Roman was not a serious man. He had a tendency to jump around and get overly excited over seemingly nothing at all. Like cake, and slacking off and a blog he’s obsessed with that is, somehow, still posting online even though the world outside is nothing more than ash and fading memory. Ichigo personally suspects that it’s a prank put together by Da Vinci.

That artist is something of nuisance.

“Ichigo!” Roman’s smile is hard to spot as a fake, when Ichigo doesn’t know to look for it. Now that it is, it’s still hard but he can see the slant to his eyes, the tiny purse of his mouth. Ichigo is no genius, but he likes to think Roman is his friend. And so he does his best to learn to read him.

“Did you need something?” Roman asks, peering curiously at him. Something under Ichigo’s skin hums and crawls. The hiding sets his teeth on edge. Maybe it's because Ichigo himself is such a straight forward person, but he doesn’t much chair for people who hide like this.

And maybe it’s hypocritical, but at the moment he, frankly, doesn’t give a shit.

“You need to sleep,” Ichigo says, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

“Oh! Ah, I just have a little more work to do here before I can do that. See, Sonya wasn’t feeling well earlier and-”

“Roman,” Ichigo grabs his elbow and watches the man jump, like he’s been shocked. He acts like no one’s ever laid a hand on him before in his life. “Go to sleep. We’re not going to a singularity tomorrow. You can afford rest.”

Still, Roman’s smile turns, tilts, like he’s confused, and this close Ichigo realizes that he’s thrumming with anxiety.

No wonder he can’t sleep.

Ichigo is not a genius. And he’s not the best at offering comfort, especially not at times like this. This is a time when they have to step up, when there is no other choice for them than to stand together, and he can’t say he’s entirely sympathetic with the doctor.

But he pulls him, by the elbow, not giving him time to argue as he manhandles him towards the hallway that leads to the dorm rooms. Most of them are empty now, their occupants frozen in cryogenic coffins. Anyone who isn't working is frozen, in fact. All of the staff that had died during the initial explosion had been dragged out, sometimes in pieces, and laid in the snow and ice outside the facility. It would preserve them for the time being. And with Ichigo around, so too were the ghosts.

It had started with Marie, but by now most of the dead staff have started to drink in his reitsu, to supplement themselves. If they take enough, they can even interact with the world around them, though it leaves Ichigo exhausted if too many do it at once. It’s like vampires, but they're eating his soul instead of drinking his blood. And in any case, it keeps the chains in the chest from eating their way up.

Marie had explained, very vaguely because her family specialized in astronomy not ghosts, that if those chains vanished entirely they would have less ghosts and more ghouls. Which was bad.

They pass twelve of them on the way to their destination.

“Ichigo, please,” Roman tries to tug his arm out of Ichigo’s hand, but out of the two of them it’s no contest who the stronger one is. “I have work-”

“You’re no good if you work yourself to death!” Ichigo snaps. He closes the door behind them with a tap to the pad on the wall and tosses Roman bodily onto the bed.

Roman scrambles to sit, blinking at their surroundings in confusion.

It’s almost the same as the last time they’d been there, during their first meeting ever. The only difference is that there’s a pair of jeans in the corner and a picture of his sisters and his mom on the desk under the window now.

“This is…”

“My room,” Ichigo finishes for him. He runs his fingers through his hair, his customary scowl in place. This was probably stupid but-

“You said you come here to relax, right? To goof off and slack on your duties. Well, relax. Marie’s still around so it’s not like you’re the acting director anymore.”

Roman gapes at him like a fish.

“But- But-”

“Shut up,” Ichigo orders tersely. He’s already second guessing his initial reaction but he wasn’t gonna leave Roman there to stare at their doom and he doesn’t have the damn poetry of words to convince him that they’ll rise above their challenges. “And go to sleep. Chaldea will be here in the morning, and so will the past.”

Roman slowly gathered his limbs together underneath him. He looks at Ichigo, confusion written across his face and it’s all Ichigo can do not to snap at him. Roman is a doctor and grown ass man. He should know better than to neglect himself.

To be fair, Goat Face is also and doctor and grown ass man, and Ichigo doesn’t trust him to so much as feed himself.

“O-kay,” Roman says at last, drawing the words out and his face finally softens, with fondness and truth. Some of the lie slips away. “Okay. But what about you, Ichigo? You need to sleep too. You’re supporting multiple servants and multiple ghosts, now.”

Ichigo hadn’t even thought about that.

He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I dunno. I can just sleep in a chair or something.”

“No!” Roman shakes his head. “No, that’s not acceptable. As your doctor I have to advise against it.”

“ ‘as your doctor’? What the hell kinda crap are you going on about?” Ichigo scowls deeper.

“You need to sleep, in a real bed. Honestly. We can just share.”

“Excuse me?”

“Like a sleep over in a movie!”

“... You were homeschooled, weren’t you?”

“Eh?!”

“Fine, whatever,” Ichigo was too tired to deal with this. In the morning he’ll kick himself, and maybe Roman, but for now all he can think of is turning the lights off and getting some sleep, at last.

And if it’s easier to sleep when the living are next to him and not when he’s haunted only by figurative ghosts instead of literal ones, no one will even be the wiser.

It’s not so much a house as it is a room where he can simply exist.

It’s small, single story and a basement that still smells faintly like lightning and copper and a strange magecraft. One that he can’t quite place, one that he’s never encountered before.

Ichigo doesn’t ask about the old owners and Waver Velvet, who gets pissed every time Ichigo doesn’t call him something stupid like Lord Elmeloi the fifth or whatever, hadn’t volunteered any information.

Ichigo spends a few minutes looking around. There’s a fold out couch in the living room and the kitchen is stocked with none perishables and frozen meats. The bedroom has runes carved above the door and the window, offering Ichigo a modicum of protection from what might be out there. There’s a bed big enough for his whole family and then some, and the closet has a few changes of clothes. Three suits, of all things, and a familiar mystic code.

White and black, it’s a body suit he’d been given early on. His Chaldea combat uniform.

The material feels like silk but Ichigo knows better than to think it is. It’s tough enough to hold up to arrows and fire and more than he wants to think of. He’d only taken blunt force trauma when he’d worn it. There were three spells woven into the fabric, and Ichigo wonders what it will be like to wear it again before he dismisses the idea.

Ichigo wonders just what Waver had thought Ichigo was going to be doing here, that he needed this.

He goes to the basement.

It’s bigger than he would have expected, and there are weapons lined on the walls. Spears, swords, and bows, and a range setup with dummies stuffed with straw.

There are no windows, to hide him from curious eyes. Any non-mags who finds out about magic is sentenced to death, and that is part of why Ichigo hasn’t told his family about his escapades. His wars.

Kon walks past him at the foot of the stairs. Along another wall is a shelf built into the stone foundations, filled with texts and materials that Ichigo can recognize instantly.

He’d never been good at spell work on his own, but he can use the magic equivalent of chemistry just fine. And, on top of that, after Babylonia a certain goddess had magnanimously taken time out of her ever so busy schedule to teach him the graceful art of gem magic.

Or rather, a stuck up deity who Ichigo had bribed to be his friend had taught him how to shove magic energy into rocks he could throw at people to blow them the fuck up.

Combined with the runes that Cu had spent years drilling into his head, Ichigo could survive a regular mage battle fine on his own, if he had time to prepare. And war has made him paranoid, so he starts taking stock of everything that he’d been given.

Evil bones, dragon scales, eternal gears, crystals of several types and a mystic gunpowder. A few feathers, and a jar of scarabs. Chalk, too, and strong thread that’s more like fishing line.

There’s also, definitely for the best, a fire extinguisher in the corner.

“What kinda place is this, Ichigo?” Kon finally asks. He pokes at a jar of red liquid on top of the thick desk that Ichigo has been given. It’s all and all not very personalized, but for Ichigo’s purposes it’s more than enough. Especially given that Ichigo’s purpose was to sit somewhere where his dad wasn’t. Where he didn’t have to think about the spirits or the hollows or the shinigami, however briefly that might be.

“It’s just a house, Kon. A… friend of mine owns it. Think of it as our secret hide out,” Ichigo waves his hand around, idly.

“A secret hide out huh… I get it!” Kon bounced towards him, his soft paws scuffing lightly on the concrete floor. “This is a place to bring girls!”

Ichigo snorts and punts the plushie towards the stairs. “What girl is gonna hand around a creapy basement with you, huh? What are you a serial killer?”

“More like a lady killer! Or I could be, if I just had a body to call my own. Hey, you said I could borrow yours, remember!”

“I didn’t forget. Sorry, we’ve been busy,” Ichigo steps over him and climbs back up to the totally normal looking house above, with Kon on his heels. He lets out a soft breath. It feels too warm above ground, but Ichigo opens the windows and lets the sunlight pour inside upon his skin, lets the wind pull at his hair and dance through the drapes. “I’ll let you have it tonight, okay?”

“But nothing in this town ever happens at night!” Kon whines. When Ichigo sits on the couch he climbs up to flop across his lap, pouting.

“Just try to stretch your legs, and you can have some time on the weekend, deal?”

Kon considers him suspiciously before he nods, once.

“Deal.”

They sit together in the sunlight, in the foreign house, with the spring air cooling them until his phone goes off. Rukia, of course, because work doesn’t give him much of a break.

It’s alright. Sometimes a few minutes to breath is enough.

* *

Rukia Kuchiki is not the first Shinigami that Ichigo has ever encountered.

There was another, a man who had taken to following their group around North America.

They met in 1783. He was… strange. And admittedly, it was a strange situation that they had found each other in. He’s pretty sure Shinigami don’t normally hang around Alcatraz, but what does he know? The island is infested with all sorts of monsters and guarded by one of the oldest heroes of written legend.

Beowulf. Powerful and vicious, battle hungry but not necessarily cruel. He’d even let them pass into the fortress after just a ‘test’ fight against a dragon.

They, or rather Ichigo, find the Shinigami with Sita, sitting next to her in the deepest prison of Alcatraz. Florence Nightingale is somewhere above them, charging headlong after him with Rama strapped to her back. He’s in bad shape, his curse slowly consuming his body, and Sita is their only chance to save him. Even without Beowulf the prison is crawling with dangerous creatures of all types.

Ichigo finds Sita first.

But she is not unguarded and Ichigo curses himself for leaving his servants upstairs to handle the chaos there.

Ichigo is more than capable of handling celtic soldiers, who fall beneath his vicious attacks and his steadily strengthening magic. The more he uses it the stronger it gets, and his body is adapting quickly to the strain it puts upon him. It’s only been a year or so and he can already go toe to toe with most average mages. A simple soldier with a spear is well within his abilities.

This man, Ichigo can tell with a second of inspection, is not.

He doesn’t have the same energy as a servant. And he’s dressed in clothes that aren’t celtic or american. He’s dressed like he’s from japan.

A black kosado and hakama. All black, with curly brown hair that’s nearly past his shoulders and brown eyes that almost fool Ichigo into thinking that he’s harmless.

But people are more themselves when they aren’t being watched, and this man, older than Ichigo and, he realizes, most certainly dead, has no idea he’s been seen.

He looks at Sita like she’s some kind of puzzle, like some game that he doesn’t know all the rules to. Ichigo stays a moment, and watches him watch her until Sita realizes that she has a visitor.

“Oh!”

She leans forwards on the bed, and right through the stranger, who half turns to look at Ichigo over his shoulder. He’s not interested in him though, not really. He can see it.

Roman is hiding something.

Something important, and he doesn’t know what but he does know now how to recognize when someone is hiding something. Even if it wasn’t for Roman, it’s not only heroes he’s summoned. There is an assassin class, and his heroes have their flaws. Their secrets. Each singularity is it’s own mystery and they are full of liars and tricksters and more than ever before Ichigo has a bone deep appreciation for people who are plain and true.

Ichigo crosses his arms over his chest and stares right at the ghost.

“You’re Sita, right? Rama’s wife?”

“My Lord Rama? Is he here?” she rushes to her feet, all red hair and fire the flutters like an ember on the wind. Not like Rama, who burns anything in his path if he must.

Ichigo nods, once. He lets the stranger inspect him too. There’s the smallest amount of stubble around his chin, like he hasn’t shaved in a while. And he’s armed. Saber class.

“Yes. But he’s injured. We need your help to heal him.”

Ichigo finally breaks eye contact with the ghost. He steps backwards and points his fist at the lock on the door. Sita hurries to brace herself and he shoots it off with a vicious Gandr. When he uses them on living things, he’s lucky to stun them. On inanimate objects, they blow up. He doesn’t get it, but that’s his life. Becuase fuck him, obviously.

“Yes!” Sita agrees eagerly. Her smile is equal parts soft and fierce. “If I can be of use to him, then I’ll do whatever I can.”

“Okay,” Ichigo stands away from the prison door. “Stand back,” he orders, and she steps back into the cell, against the door. The ghosts watches him raise his hand, holding up his fist at the door. The mystic code hums across his skin and he feeds his own mana into it. There’s a flash of pale blue and red and the lock explodes in shards of steel, just as they’re joined by others.

Rama comes stumbling around the corner, his fine clothes stained with blood and his body frayed at the edges. He looks bad. The hold in his chest is starting to gape and glow gold at the edges.

Ichigo hears the ghost suck in a sharp breath and he takes a step towards Rama before Ichigo cuts him off, blocking him from his friends. Sita rushes to him.

“Sita!” Rama reaches out around him and Ichigo can’t understand how he’s even on his feet. How deep does his love for his wife run? “Damn it, my vision is blurry. I can’t see anything…”

“I’m here!” Sita falls to his side as Rama collapses, finally succumbing to his festering wound. Ichigo watches, his hands clenched at his sides as Mash explains about Cu Chulainn Alter, and his Gae Bolg.

Ichigo stands back, with his Cu at his side. The caster leans on his staff, watching Sita gently stroke her husbands hair. They will never meet, and it drives pain into Ichigo’s chest on their behalf.

“Well. Fuck.” Cu says bluntly.

Ichigo snorted. “Yeah. That sums it all up pretty well.”

The ghost tries to take another step, but Ichigo catches his hand.

He spins, his brown eyes wide. “You- You can see me.”

“Well yeah. No shit,” Ichigo says aloud. Caster peers at him curiously, but Ichigo just taps the corner of his eye. A ghost, and Cu nods and leans back again. Even amongst his heroic spirits he’s an oddity. Not all of them can see ghosts. Only the ones that attack them, and more than once has Ichigo had to forcibly guide them into striking true.

Cu is a bit better. He hasn’t told him explicitly but Ichigo suspects that Scathach is somehow related to the afterlife. The land of shadows sounds like it should be full of ghosts.

Ichigo let’s go when the ghost pulls at his hand, peering at Ichigo. It’s funny, watching someone pull a metaphorical mask onto their face. This one is a kind person, someone who’s harmless, but Ichigo can still see them. He is armed and his eyes betray him, as eyes so often do.

Sharp and intelligent. Like a cat watching him.

“I suppose you do have some reitsu. But to be able to see me, is still not an easy feat.”

Ichigo frowns. “I do? It feels like all of it’s being sucked out by everyone at Chaldea…”

“Excuse me?” he blinks at Ichigo a couple of times.

“Nevermind. There’s just some people who are sucking up my reitsu so they don’t disappear, you know?”

And now even the ghost was looking at him like he’s crazy. Great. Awesome.

The glittering glow of Sita’s body dissolving interrupts them, and Ichigo turns to face his servants with a hard clench of his jaw. Rama slowly sits up, sorrow over taking his features. Even in a holy grail war, he will never meet his wife again.

“We should go,” Ichigo says quietly. “We still have to go east. We have to finish what we started. Rama, are you ready?” Ichigo goes to him, and offers him his hand. Rama takes it and stands.

“Yes. My body does not falter. I renew my vows now, Master of Chaldea. I, Rama, King of Kosala, will fight at your side. I shall not be defeated again. This I swear!” He bows his head to Ichigo, this proud, powerful king.

“Yes,” Liz steps up, a noble countess with her chin lifted and her eyes defiant. “We will win, for you our master!”

“We will rip out the root of the infection,” Nightingale agrees, smacking her hands together. Her red eyes burn with a ferocity that would make lesser men tremble.

Mash nods, shortly and firmly. “I will put my faith in Master, and follow his lead.”

“You already know that I will strike down your enemies,” Medusa adds, her long hair swaying with the promise of poisons.

“Lead the way, Master,” Cu claps his shoulder and Ichigo looks each of the mover in turn. Finally, he speaks.

“I swear I told you to use my damn name. You’re all so dramatic.”

Cu laughs at him, and Ichigo starts the long walk. From Alcatraz to Washington.

Only now they have a tag along. The ghost insists on following them along, because apparently Ichigo and the singularity is dangerous enough to warrant his attention. Which is great .

“What do I call you then,” Ichigo asks, side-eying his newest companion.

He tilts his head, sending brown waves spilling across his shoulders.

“Mmmm. Kyo,” he says after a minute.

“...That is not a real name.”

* * *

“So, your friend, the Lord, how do you know him?”

Ichigo looks up at Rukia. She’s standing over his bed that night. Chad is asleep in the corner, passed out after a study session run long.

“Who, Waver? We met a while ago.”

Ichigo scoots back on the bed, until his back is to the wall and he can sit, criss cross, looking at her. Waver had come to town earlier, on business as much as to see Ichigo. They’d talked, briefly, in front of the school earlier until Ichigo had had to rush off. Not before Waver had extracted a promise to meet up with him a few days in the future. Apparently there was some weird shit going on in town that had nothing to do with Ichigo and his friends, but was now his problem because he was a mage.

A two bit one, but still.

“How?” Rukia asks, narrowing her eyes at him if only slightly.

Ichigo considers telling her everything, but it’s a bit too much to believe.

‘I time travelled for three years trying to stop the incineration of humanity and I met him as a demi servant and his old servant because he fought for a holy grail and oh yeah did I mention i punched god?’

Yeah, no. Even shinigami didn’t go time travelling. He’d checked. It didn’t help that most shinigami were so out of touch with the living world that even three hundred years ago they didn’t know much about human magics or the goings on. Before the fall of the age of gods humans and spirits had been closer, had almost lived together. Ereshkigal had told him some of how it worked, four thousand years ago, but he’s certain things have changed. For one, she is clearly not in charge of the afterlife anymore. Which begs the question of just where she had gone.

To the reverse side of the world? Or somewhere else entirely?

“After Chaldea,” he says instead, picking over his words with as much care as he can, “After the explosion of Chaldea, their patrons, the Clock Tower in London, sent someone to see what was happening. And to take stock in the situation. Waver was the one that they sent.

“Apparently he gets the ‘problem children’ a lot.” And that was what they were, really. He and Mash, they were just teenagers. Even now. Eighteen….

Eighteen is not enough years for what he’s seen, what he’s done. For the choices he’s had to make.

“No wonder they sent him for you,” Rukia snorts at him, but there’s a smile at the corner of her mouth and Ichigo fights not to return it. Instead he scowls, as he usually does.

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand dismissively at her. “I’m going to get a drink. Do you wanna come with?”

“No,” she shakes her head and he stands and leaves her in his bedroom. His dad is in the clinic. He’s been avoiding Ichigo for weeks, ever since that day in the cemetery and Ichigo is fine with that. He’s still angry.

Yuzu and Karin are up in their own room, and the lower half of the house is quiet. Ichigo pours himself some water and takes a few minutes to calm himself. Waver has him on edge, and more than that…

Something is coming. He doesn’t know what, yet, but his instincts are hissing in the back of his mind, louder and louder ever since he took Rukia’s power as his own. Something is something. Something dangerous. Something deadly. Some change he has no idea how to see or stop.

His cup is covered in a thin layer of frost.

Ichigo stares down at it.

The cold spreads across the surface, white eating over the glass. Elegant swirls of frozen leaves spread out from his finger tips.

He pours out the water and puts the cup away, trying not to think about it.

Because even with Ichigo, even with magic and ghosts and all the other shit in his life, he’s never frozen anything. He isn’t fucking Jack Frost.

He goes back upstairs, trying not to think about it, and helps Rukia rouse Chad to send him on his way home. There’s work to be done. A smarter man would ask about the ice. Would mention it to Rukia. Would wonder if the two aren’t connected.

And Ichigo is not stupid, but he’s maybe a little too used to strange things happening and learning the why at a later date.

* * * *

The acrid smell of burning flesh sears into his mind. Into his soul. Choking him, smoke curled into his lung like an ash made cat that tears claws into the soft tissue.

It’s red. Red, red, red everywhere. Fire singes along the edges of reality. The earth hovers, red and burning and doomed from the start. Doomed from babylonia, doomed from the present and the now.

Mash lays in front of him. Crushed, broken. No shield, no armor, just a dead little girl, reaching for his hand.

Yuzu and Karin are sprawled apart from eachother and they never should be, never should be, because they are twins, they were born together nothing should ever tear them apart-

Isshin. Isshin and his mother, they lie beside a river that runs with fire instead of water. Bloody, broken, staring at Ichigo.

The air shifts and the glittering shine of gold spins around him with a scream. His servants, his friends, cut down and torn apart and left only as glitter that roars their betrayal at him. At his failure. He is the master, the center of power, but he cannot fight on his own. He is powerless in the face of the hulking monster that drags itself out of the rubble to kill him.

He takes a step back, fear clogging his throat. Lahmu crawl across the broken rubble of Fuyuli, of Uruk, of Rome and London and Camelot. His foot hits something. He doesn’t look down, he doesn’t need to. Orange and green and white. White and gold and black. Romani, laid to waste.

He is helpless. Powerless. His command spells are gone and he has failed. Lost.

Fire roars at his throat and-

He’s punched in the face by the smell of perfume.

Ichigo looks up at the sky. Pale blue, a few whisps of cloud floating across it.

He drinks in air. Air that tastes like flowers instead of ashes and death.

Something soft touches his shoulder and it’s only familiarity that keeps him from lashing out.

Lavender eyes peer down at him. It’s his hand on his shoulder. His Caster.

His Merlin.

“Wha- I’m in a dream?” Ichigo sits, slowly, and Merlin helps him up. A warm hand on his shoulder and guilt in his eyes.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” Merlin shakes his head, mournfully. “I normally call you here before they can set in, but I was distracted this time…”

“Distracted,” Ichigo repeats dumbly. “Wait. So every time you’ve brought me here, it’s because I was going to have a nightmare?”

“I did tell you, once. Incubi are made of dreams. And I, as half of one, gain my sustenance out of them as well. Bad dreams are sour, so I don’t want yours to-”

“Cut the crap,” Ichigo elbows him lightly in the side. “Just tell me the truth. We’re friends and you don’t want to see me suffering.”

Merlin can only stare at him for a second. “... I always forget how brazen you are, Ichigo. You never have minced your words. You really consider me a friend, do you?”

“Of course I do! And don’t try to give me any shit about we can’t be friends because I’m human. I’m not anymore, remember. I’m a shinigami.”

“Yes, yes. And isn’t that ironic? I, unable to die, and you a creature made of death.”

“You make a bad philosopher. Stick to being a dreamer, Merlin.”

Merlin merely laughs at him, a softness in the wind, and Ichigo sits with him until the sun comes up outside his bedroom window.

* * * * *

What was with people and coming in through his window?

Ichigo stares at the man, Urahara, that is sitting on his window sill. Kon is having a minor panic attack in his arms, flailing around. Rukia has left. Vanished with only a note to tell them not to look for her and if she thinks Ichigo will listen to it, she doesn’t know him very well at all. Ichigo has never been one to abandon his friends, even if they don’t explain what’s happening or why they’re in trouble.

Ichigo will go after her, but first he needs to figure out how to turn into a shinigami again. Kon is no help, he’s too busy running around for Ichigo to dig his pill form out of his plush body. And this man…

His timing is too good. Is he some kind of clairvoyant, like Gilgamesh? Or just a man with far too many cards in his hand to play?

Whatever the case, Ichigo is strangely glad that he’s here. Without Rukia’s glove and with Kon losing his mind, Ichigo needs help to get out of his body.

“So you’ll pop me out of my body,” Ichigo says, eying his cane, “Just because Rukia is a regular customer. Is your shop really that slow?” He definitely has too much time on his hands.

“That’s right!” the man practically sings and Ichigo could swear for an instant his eyes were lavender instead of grey. He’s like a strange mix of Merlin and Da Vinci.

And isn’t that a scary thought?

“...Yeah, okay. I’d appreciate the help.”

Kisuke pushes his cane through Ichigo’s chest and he pops out the other side like a weasel.

Ichigo carefully lays his body in bed and covers it up. It’s almost two in the morning and normal humans are asleep, including his family. He picks a few small rocks out of his school bag, simple stones with straight lines carved onto them. He eyes Kisuke, still sitting in the window.

“When I get back from this, I’ve got a couple of questions for you,” he says, marching up to Kisuke, who flicks his fan out over his mouth. Only his eyes are visible and those are still hidden in shadow.

“Oh? I can’t imagine what you’d ask a simple shop keeper like me…”

“Plenty,” Ichigo says plainly. He plants his hand next to Kisuke’s head and leans over him. “But for now. Get out of my room.”

He pushes him straight out the window, and onto the lawn beneath. Ichigo figures that he’s probably tough enough to take a little tumble. He trusts Kisuke to be fine before he jumps out the window after him. He needs to get to Rukia. He can feel it. Something is happening.

His instincts hiss that he needs to move .

He follows the feeling of coolness and wind and snowflakes that he can almost see. It’s joined by another feeling, something clean and pale and just a little bit angry, thin threads that wrap together to be stronger.. Uryuu.

He needs to hurry.

Ichigo sprints across the city, pouring on his speed. Faster and faster until he swears he’s running on the wind.

He turns the corner.

Uryu on the ground, Rukia not far. Two Shinigami. Red hair and black. The red head with his sword lifted above Uryu’s head, ready to strike.

Ichigo swings his sword off his back and the streets cracks and erupts beneath the sudden force of his power. It throws the shinigami, Renji Abarai, off of his feet.

“Huh? Who are you? Who’s orders are you here on?” he barks.

Ichigo ignores him. He touches Uryu’s shoulder, making sure he’s still in one piece, and pours Mana into his human body. It should be enough to jump start his own healing process. Mana transference is about all Ichigo is good for anyhow.

“What did you…?” Uryu looks up at him, bewildered.

“Later,” Ichigo says. He blocks the blow that comes from behind, bracing himself against the ground.

“I get it,” Renji pushes down hard, his eyes wild. He feels like fire and venom and bone. “You’re the one that stole Rukia’s powers! Because of you, she’s going to be executed!”

Ichigo’s blood runs cold. Rukia. Executed? For helping him? For giving him the power to protect his friends, his family?

No. He will not allow it.

“That’s bullshit!” Ichigo throws him back, power surging through him. His own anger and the energy that Rukia has given him. Cold coursing through his veins. “Rukia was just helping, she saved us! Isn’t that what your job is?!”

“She broke the rules is what she did. What’s a few human lives to a shinigami? She should have never done that.”

A few human-

Ichigo throws himself at Renji with vicious abandon. Renji is fast but Ichigo is strong, Rukia is strong, and it’s her power that lets him swing his sword with utmost surety.

Still, it’s hard to keep up when Renji won’t shut up. Something about menos and children and then he asks Ichigo’s swords name.

He frowns and racks his brain. That feels like something he should know. On the tip of his tongue. His sword. Rukia’s sword. Does it have a name?

Renji takes his silence for ignorance and he’s not wrong.

He puts his sword in front of him and it glows faintly red. The taste of fire and bone is stronger.

“A shinigami’s zanpakuto is the true form of their soul, it’s their true power. And this is mine! Now Roar, Zabimaru!”

Ichigo watches the sword change, grow fangs and cracks. A Noble Fantasm? No, it’s much weaker. He looks at Renji, looks harder at his power. He’s strong, probably stronger than Ichigo but is he stronger than Ichigo and Rukia together? This will have to be a battle where he can’t rely on brute strength.

The sword swings and the cracks pull apart until it’s a glorified whip with teeth and Ichigo jumps back to dodge it. The stones weigh heavy in his pocket and his mind whirls. No longer a saber, no longer capable of simply attacking and slashing until he’s won.

“Give up already! You’re 2000 years too young to beat me!”

And maybe Renji would be right. Maybe he would be too much for Ichigo to handle, in another life. Maybe if he really was just a fifteen year old kid, shihakusho more green than black, he would leave him laying in a puddle of blood without breaking a sweat.

But Ichigo is not fifteen. He is eighteen and he has fought eight wars. He has ended extinction and walked the land of the dead, and demons, and stood amongst stars. He has fought and bled and killed and died, and he has done it all for his family, his friends.

And now.

Now these two are trying to take another friend. They are trying to steal Rukia, to punish her for saving him and giving him strength enough to fight.

And he will not allow it.

His temper howls, blood rushing into his ears and battle fury washes over his skin.

Beneath it, beneath that hot fire that has driven him for so much of his life there’s something else. Something cold and foreign, frost on a window pane in summertime, snow floating around a campfire.

He lunges for Renji.

Renji is forced to release his noble phantasm, his zanpakuto. It lashes out, a segmented whip that bites the pavement with terrible teeth. Ichigo takes it in stride, catches it’s glinting teeth in his own too-long blade and twirls it like spaghetti around a knife. The teeth catch and hold, Renji’s eyes go wide and Ichigo yanks him forward with his zanpakuto.

He takes one hand off his own sword and drives it into Renji’s jaw. His teeth click and blood spurts between his lips before he drops like a lead balloon.

With Renji at his feet Ichigo turns to face Rukia and the man in the white cloak. He tilts his long blade, letting Renji’s zanpakuto slide off. On the ground it glows faintly red and returns to its original form.

“Are you next then?” Ichigo asks, his voice careful and calm even as the wrold inside him rages. Plans pick up and he reads this mans strengths. He’s leagues ahead of Ichigo but even still…

Ichigo is not the type to run. He is not the type to give up. No matter that Rukia is screaming at him to. He won’t-

He twists and blocks the blow he had barely ever seen, his sword moving faster than his mind.

Surprise registers on the man’s face, muted and little more than a twist of his mouth and a twitch of his eyes. Ichigo shoves him away, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Blood seeps out of his back. The cut it shallow, it won’t slow him down but the fact remains. He got hit.

Faster, whispers a voice in the back of his head. A memory, a premonition. He blocks the next attack but only just and under the force of the drawn sword, his own begins to crack. No. No, he will not lose, not like this.

He shoves the man back and flings one of the stones at him, shooting a burst of Mana through it. The man in white has to move fast to avoid the fire that erupts in front of him.

“Ichigo?” Rukia stares at him, her mouth open. “What was that?!”

“I’m not that great at magic,” Ichigo admits, tossing another stone up and down in his hand. He never takes his eyes off of his enemy. “In fact, I wouldn’t even call myself a real mage. I’m pretty second rate at this stuff. But this much… This much I can do.”

He shoots another stone at the shinigami in front of him, who’s name he never did get, and grins when he’s forced to release his own zanpakuto. He’s glad about it, but Rukia is screaming at him.

The air fills with glittering flower petals and Ichigo tastes steel, feels the weight of ‘Duty’ and ‘Honor’ and the scent of sakura blossoms wash across his skin.

They surge at him, a tidal wave of power, danger. Each one is a blade and Ichigo cannot dodge of block them all. Even still, he will not run. He will-

Protect Rukia!

Fine.

Cold chases through his body, Rukia’s power surges. Ichigo gives his strength over to it, pours his reitsu into the sword as he once did his saber’s and the sound of bells echoes around him.

A ribbon flutters graceful in front of his face and he swings, running on instinct alone.

The wave of flower petals is stopped in its tracks. Frozen in a circle of ice that reaches towards the sky.

Ichigo is aware, from the shock on the faces of the people around him, that he’s just done something impossible. Again.

Oh well.

He turns again to the Shinigami, bringing his blade in front of him. Not his, Rukia’s. He was going to save her-

“Rikujōkōrō.”

Ichigo shouted when light, six straight rectangles of it, slammed into his stomach. He froze, unable to move. The ice shattered and the blades inside of it floated back to their master, reforming into a single sword. This time, Ichigo couldn’t block. He could do nothing as the blade pierced him twice, and the light faded.

He tried. He did. He would crawl if he had to but-

“Stay alive, for just a little longer, Ichigo. And if you follow me, I will never forgive you.”

He can recognize what she’s doing. She’s drawing the man, Byakuya, and the newly awakened Renji away from him. She is protecting him, and the helplessness is acid on his tongue.

He was left, bleeding, dying, on the streets of Karakura.

* * * * * *

#Ichigo Kurosaki #BAMF!Ichigo Kurosaki #Ichigo Kurosaki is Ritsuka Fujimaru #well sorta #romani archaman #renji abarai #byakuya kuchiki #rukia kuchiki #kyo (SCoF)#bleach #bleach fanfiction #bleach/fate grand order #Kon bleach #Merlin Fate/Grand Order

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moodysnowflake · 4 years

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Please mind the Spoiler slap that might come your way guys...

Let’ talk about Rufus Shinra.

Yes, he has been exploited better than the OG, and yes, once you get the hint the assesment is trying to throw at you, it’s easier to whack his butt.

He still beats the crap out of you.

We have to realize that Rufus is a normal human being. He’s not a Turk either. Sure, he was a prodigy and has been trained by the military, and he might have trained with the Turks too during his “extended assignment oversea” (despite being him the boss, I bet Reno would still try to zap him in the crotch, if left unsupervised). Rude would gave him a sturdy run for his money (of course pun intended) and Tseng did probably manage to wipe the floor with his gorgeous platinum-blond ass at least once when they were younger. Rufus manages to stand his ground against Cloud, a final-stretch-game Cloud. Not an early-game Cloud. You have to run, dodge, parry and dive like hell, and when he hits you, it fluffing hurts. He’s the only human enemy in the Remake who actually manages to do some serious damage using a firearm.

He’s been designed to do that, you might say. Well, yeah, duh, he’s still the only one, so that’s awesome.

Moreover, he doesn’t actually look exhausted, nor particularly beaten up when the battle ends; he just smirks his way out. We couldn’t appreciate it in the OG, but heck yes we can now.

We might argue that’s all a façade, and I think that part of it could very well be true. Cloud did roughed him up after all. Plus, that’s his character, he would never show a speck of vulnerability (”nobody has ever see him bleed or cry” - can we seriously blame him for becoming an ice prince?). And he’s not stupid; once he’s disarmed, he immediately opts for strategic retreat. He’s not a brainless goof, he recognized his huge disavantage: a true tactician indeed.

Him and Cloud's battle dialogue...is it just me, or did they sound like ex-boyfriends angrily snapping at each other?...

C: Think you got my number? [Cloud?]

R: Not at all. You’re making me sweat. Good thing I came prepared. [Rufus?]

C: That’s a new trick.

R: Like it? ‘Course you do.

[Did they actually meet in Before Crisis?!]

R: Let’s make it a night to remember.

Okay guys, seriously, tone it down a notch, would you? That’s too much gold for a single scene!

His outfit might not have us all agreeing, I can totally see why. That off-white contrast to Cloud’s pitch black tho...

Here’s the knot my brain is twisting itself over.

The question slammed my brain like a train, pretty much the same as Rufus’.

I don’t know, you tell me how the heck are you seeing the Whispers...

Tseng going:

Rufus looks at him like “Wait, what? You’re not seeing this shit? You kidding, right?” then proceeds to glare him into submission, either because he thinks Tseung might imply he’s not okay after the fight and he might be suffering some side-effects, or he’s mocking him.

[If it’s the last one, that would open another pit of thoughts, like: if he thinks Tseng is teasing him, that means that happened before. If that happened before, it means he’s not a utter cold-blooded bastard, and they interacted like functional(ish) human beings up to the point of joking. What is this? Solid character background? OG-wise, we know he’s not a saint, but we also know he’s not totally batshit cracker either. Because WRO and Avalanche. (Can’t wait for Barret’s reaction when that’ll happen. That’s gonna be spectacular XD)

Reno’s line ‘You’re sure you wanna do this by yourself, boss? (ENG)//That’s dangerous (JAP)’ could support this theory, even if we know he would talk back to Sephiroth himself.]

Untill now it’s evident that he being able to see them is “Because Plot“

But my spider senses are tingling, feeling something lurking below.

He didn’t seem to be able to see them on the platform while Cloud’s smacking his way through. That could be arguable, ‘cause spotting dark stuff in a dark background is not that easy.

But after the Edge of Creation cutscene (and that’s another thing I’ll talk about later), he’s pretty well able to do that. And he’s the first character we see...

So what happened in between?

Well, there’s Wedge scene...but that’s the only thing we’re allowed to see.

Based on what’s happening in the game, you’d be able to see the Whispers because of Aerith/Sephiroth’s intervention or because the Whispers need you to see them.

That create some interesting choices, which might combine, ‘cause they’re not mutually exclusive:

1. Rufus finds/saves Wedge, or the Whispers are bringing Wedge to him (very unlikely, but you know, overthinking is so fun). He was minding his own businnes, and Wedge suddenly appears. If this happens, I don’t think he’s gonna kill him...Because Avalanche (and because if you resist Wedge’s puppy eyes you don’t have a heart, nor a soul). Yes, he’s ruthless, I know, but there are times during the story in which he doesn’t behave like a complete dickhead. Very few times. But maybe the Whispers need for Rufus and Wedge to meet, and maybe that’s what happened in the hall.

Also, my useless rambling neuron got stuck over a very stupid, very impossible, but very cute idea why Rufus wouldn’t kill him: what if Wedge and Rufus know each other? Barret and the other knows his face, but what about Wedge? Maybe somehow they casually met in Junon, or (god forsake it, my heart) even before in Midgar he saved him from whatsoever situation and he never mention it? Chances are never really zero in FFVII, but I’m well aware that this is far-fetched...like, a lot.

How cute would it be if Wedge woke up with Rufus crouched down there, skeptically looking at him.

‘What are you doing here?’

To which he would chirp “Hey Rufus, long time no see! How’re you doing? I thought you were still in Junon.”

‘I’m the boss here, I ask the questions. What are all these creepy things flying around.’

“Well, I don’t have that much of a clear idea...Also, you’re not my boss!“

‘That’s not helping. Also, technically, yes Wedge, I am.’

”Huh?”

‘I’m Rufus Shinra. (smug smirk)’

“I know that dummy (Rufus would scrunch up his face), what I don’t understand is how that would make you my boss. Blowing up one of your reactors using your explosive can’t make me pass as construction worker.”

‘I am not your boss because of Shinra. I am your boss because I’m the boss of the boss of your boss.’

“WAIT, WHAT?!”

*Whispers taking him away*

2. Sephiroth has a brief chat with him during the moment he’s left on his own (while we’re fighting his true self in the singularity). In the OG, Rufus always had this incontrollable drive to find Sephiroth, an inespicable and obsessive draw to hunt him down, which only Cloud match (and he’s the one guarding Jenova’s remants in Advent Children...). And no, it’s not because he killed his father...we know how idyllic that relationship was. That spark could have been started here.

3. A combination of the two. Because why not.

4. Something else within him helped the trigger.

Speaking about this, I discovered some interesting info. The Remake has retconned his age from 25 to 30, flopping back his birthday from 1982 to 1977. Five years shouldn’t make that much of a difference. We can agree, artistic licence.

Too bad 1977 is also the exact same year Jenova’s remnants have been discovered...As well as the very start of the machination for Project S and Project G.

Using Dirge of Cerberus as reference, 1982/1983 should approximatly be Sephiroth’s birthyear. Which leaves 5 years of preparation.

Is this a coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe the president let Hojo start to experiment on baby Rufus as he saw fit. Nobody would convince me that the president wouldn’t have done it, those two are just too fucked up. That could explain why he was so flipping good with a shotgun since he was 10, why he managed to face a SOLDIER without turning into minced meat (he didn’t show negative repercussions because he could have been resistant to mako poisoning, like Zack; plus he is the only human enemy with some resistance to Poison and Magic), why the president didn’t kill him when he sided with the Turk’s assassination attempt. That wasn’t paternal love; that was probably Hojo interceding to not have a succesfull test subject except Sephiroth eliminated, promising to have him brainwashed.

Like Cloud, despite Jenova’s cells, he wouldn’t be able to see the Whispers by his own. But Sephiroth, or Aerith, might have flipped the switch in some way. Or even Jenova’s or n#2′s bodies, to which we still have no idea what happened.

4.1. The annoyed/angry glare This could also be another reason for the angry/annoyed glare he shoots Tseng, like he’s saying “You know what I am” or “You know taking me down is not that easy”. The first one reminds me of Cloud’s line to Jessie...the look is pretty similar.

Another interpretation of this expression could be that he actually has, from time to time, some odd quirks or weird moments, residues of the mako treatment/cells' interaction. It is very likely that if that’s true, Tseng - and maybe even Rude and Reno - witnessed them.

That wouldn't surprise me: he’s sporting some serious dark circles under his eyes in this scene.

So, he could be also saying “What? Are we doing this again? You still think I’m frail and crazy? Do I have to beat that out of you like last time?”

5. He touched Jenova’s blood; it wouldn’t be that improbable, since it was smeared all over the floor. That might have done the trick by itself, or, if connected to point 4, he could have been drawn to it by the cells within him, which could have worked as catalyst.

6. Any combination of two or more of the previous points. It’s Nomura Testuya we’re talking about, they could all be true for what we know. He’s a goddamn psycho: it’s easier to build a house with a sand-pail and a plastic shovel than understand Kingdom Hearts' series plot .

Too many questions, but the revelation that Rufus can see the Whispers is very intriguing; the whispers needs him for something. Destiny needs him for something. That makes him an even more valuable character that he already was in the OG, and I’m glad they’re doing it.

Nobody seems to be left behind (in character development sense) this time.

We can only wait and hope.

Wish you all the best, Rufie (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ ✧ﾟ･: *

#ffvii remake #ffvii remake spoilers #ffvii spoilers #ffviir #rufus shinra #ffviir spoilers #ffvii remake theories #ffvii theory

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recurring-polynya · 5 years

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You might have noticed that I am more than a little obsessed with @kaickos‘s Squad 6 Guard Dog and All-Round Good Boy Milo. She was kind enough to let me write a fluffy little story about him. It is not 100% consistent with the beautiful comic she is drawing about him, because we were working in parallel and great minds work alike, but maybe not perfectly alike. Anyway, I had a lot of fun writing this over my Thanksgiving weekend. (Seriously, BEHOLD HIM )

Shinigami’s Best Friend (AO3 | ff.net)

Squad 6 acquires a guard dog.

Rated T because apparently I can’t even write some fluff about a dog without cussing. It’s Rukia’s fault, I swear!

Captain Kuchiki Byakuya stepped over the large lump lying across the entrance to the Squad Six Captains’ Office. He smoothed his haori as he sat down at his desk. He read three memos from his inbox before he very calmly said, “Lieutenant, what is that pile of damp fur doing in the doorway?”

His adjutant, Lieutenant Abarai Renji looked up from the mission report he was writing up. “Ah, he appears to be sleepin’, sir.”

Byakuya narrowed his eyes. Eleven years of working with this lummox, and trying to get information out of Abarai was still an enormous trial. “But why, Abarai?”

“Well, he had a very exciting day, sir. ‘Spect he’s worn out.”

Byakuya squeezed his eyes shut. “Let us back up. What… what kind of animal is it? It is an animal, yes?”

“He’s a dog, sir.”

“Really ? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure, sir. I thought you knew about dogs, sir. Pretty sure you mentioned havin’ a couple once or twice.”

“I do. I own three dogs, actually.” They were champion hunting dogs, of the finest bloodlines. They were creatures of pure muscle encased in velvet coats, noble, handsome, and perfectly obedient. They looked absolutely nothing like this sentient dust mop, who was currently snoring softly and kicking one hind leg frantically. “My dogs are kept in a kennel, where a dedicated servant looks after their needs. Why is this one in my office?”

“Oh, well, sir, I’m trying to find him a home. Returning the favor, as it were.”

“The favor.”

“He saved my life, sir.”

This is the point where Byakuya should have known he had lost, because Abarai delivered this phrase exactly as he did when he told the story of how he had met Rukia. Byakuya did not ask for further detail, but he received it anyway, in typical Abarai fashion.

Abarai had been leading a sweep of one of the higher numbered districts of Rukongai -- his own home district, as it happened-- for an elusive Hollow that had been terrorizing the area. He had noticed the dog investigating a rubbish heap as he himself investigated a blind alley. Finding it to be empty, he turned to leave, when the dog let out a frantic bark of singular intensity, a bark that imported the urgency of the situation so clearly that Abarai drew his sword immediately, just in time to block the razor-sharp claws of the Hollow that was materializing from the shadows behind him.

“The thing was apparently able to travel from shadow to shadow, sir, completely untraceable,” Abarai noted. “But the old fellow sniffed him right out and let me know! Once I spotted it, the Hollow wasn’t that tough. Got his mask in one blow, but if I hadn’t seen him in time… Well, sir, you might be holding lieutenant auditions this afternoon, is what I’m saying.”

The alleged canine rolled onto its back, its legs hanging in the air.

Everything about this story sounded like, as Rukia would say, “some bullshit.” But Byakuya had put up with Abarai for long enough that he knew it was a trap to dwell on how they had ended up in this situation. It was more important to focus on how they were getting out of it.

“You said you were going to find it a new home,” Byakuya pointed out. “When is that slated to commence?”

“Well, I needed to file my report, first,” Abarai explained. “And it’s gettin’ kinda late in the day. Figured I’d probably just take him home with me, send a few texts around. See if anyone’s looking for a dog.”

Something about this struck Byakuya as a bad idea, but he did not want to get drawn any further into this nonsense. “Very good, Lieutenant. While, obviously I am grateful for his… services… to the Sixth Division… I do not wish to see him tomorrow, do you understand?”

“Oh, you won’t, sir!”

- - -

It was the next morning.

Byakuya was here.

Abarai was here.

“The dog is here, Abarai,” Byakuya observed.

“His name is Milo,” Abarai announced.

“Why is the dog-- Milo? What kind of name is Milo? Dogs are supposed to have names like Sakura Bloom Cascade. Mountainside Granite Crest.”

“Are they? I dunno. Ichika picked it. I think it’s after a character in one of her books.”

The dog was much cleaner than it had been the day before. It had clearly been bathed, the tangles teased from its coat.

Byakuya narrowed his eyes. “So it is your dog now.”

“No, sir, course not! Rukia’d be pretty pissed, I think, if I did something like that without consulting her.”

“She is still in the Living World?”

“Yeah, for a few days, yet.”

“Ichika will grow attached to it, if she has not already.”

Abarai regarded him seriously. “Me and her had a talk about how he’s just a visitor and he can only stay for a few days. She understood.”

“She is very pragmatic,” Byakuya agreed. Amazingly so, all things considered. “So tell me again why the dog is back my office?”

“Oh, well, Iba said to bring him by, see if he gets along with Gorou.”

Byakuya wracked his brain. “Is Gorou the Seventh’s adjutant?”

Abarai gave out one of his barking laughs. “That’s a good one, sir, I’ll have to tell Iba that.” He abruptly realized that Byakuya wasn’t joking. “Uh, Gorou is Iba’s dog. He used to be Captain Komamura’s. He lives at the Seventh, the whole squad is real fond of him.”

“Perfect,” Byakuya replied. “I hope it goes wonderfully.”

- - -

When Byakuya returned from his afternoon theoretical tactics exercises (which is what he wrote on his agenda when he wanted to go play shogi with Captain Hitsugaya), there was a distinct absence of canine in the office.

“The meeting with Lieutenant Iba went well?” Byakuya asked.

“Oh, yeah, those two old boys got on like a house on fire,” Abarai announced.

“Excellent,” Byakuya replied. He had just gotten settled at his desk again, when there was a rap on the office door.

“Third Seat Ohno and one good dog!”

“Come in!” Abarai called cheerfully.

The door slid open, and Milo trotted into the office, followed by an uncharacteristically smiling Third Seat Ohno. The dog sat down neatly in front of Abarai’s desk, and barked exactly once.

“Captain’s in the office, Milo, you gotta go greet him first,” Abarai informed the dog, as though he was talking to a human.

Bizarrely enough, the dog stood up, ambled over to Byakuya’s desk and repeated the procedure. “Er, at ease,” Byakuya informed the creature.

The dog looked back, questioningly, at Renji.

“Good boy,” Renji informed him.

The dog then went over to the corner, took an extremely loud and messy drink from a water bowl that had not been present yesterday, and then flopped down on a pillow that had also not been there yesterday.

“How was he?” Renji addressed the Third Seat.

“Oh, he was great! He loved chasing the ball. Fourth Seat Kuchiki wanted to throw that frisbee thing he has, but I told him, I won fair and square.”

“He just has to work harder tomorrow,” Abarai suggested.

“He can try,” Ohno replied, a competitive sneer creeping onto his face. “Anything you need, sir?”

“Get those mission reports from the unseated guys organized and filed, would you?”

“No problem, sir!”

Ohno saluted smartly and left.

Byakuya stared at this spectacle.

Their Third Seat was a prissy, waspish stickler for rules. He despised messes. He despised deviations from the usual order. Primarily, he despised Abarai.

Byakuya could feel an elongated “whaaaaaaat?” forming in his mouth, but he somehow couldn’t manage to get it out.

However, after their many years of working together, Abarai was quite adept at reading his captain’s unspoken thoughts. “The seated officers just love Milo,” he provided. “I told Ohno and Kuchiki whoever won their spar could give him his afternoon runabout. Both of ‘em went in-all in for it, I was surprised. Wouldn’t’ve pegged Ohno for a dog guy. Learn something new every day, eh?”

“I thought the dog was going to live at the Seventh!” Byakuya finally managed.

“Oh, no, sir, they’ve already got a dog.”

Byakuya squeezed his eyes shut.

- - -

Over the next few days, Milo made a grand tour of the Gotei 13.

He had pleasant visits at both the Third and the Fifth, but neither extended a permanent invitation.

Milo did not care for the Eleventh. “Too excitement much for an ol’ boy like him,” Abarai explained.

A thank you card arrived from the Coordinated Relief Station in appreciation for “cheering up the patients.”

He was promptly banned from the Ninth, something about a fundamental incompatibility between dogs and newspapers.

Captain Yadoumaru claimed to be “a cat person.”

Milo actually did find a new home at the Tenth for all of an hour, before Captain Hitsugaya, who had been in a meeting, promptly delivered the dog back to the Sixth, glaring harshly at Byakuya, as though he had anything to do with it.

Surely, something would pan out sooner or later.

Surely.

- - -

Friday brought Milo again, along with a very shamefaced Lieutenant Abarai.

“What is the excuse today, Lieutenant?” Byakuya intoned.

“Well, Rukia got home last night, sir,” Abarai explained.

“Ah. So you will now actually be seeking a home for Milo.”

“Not… exactly. Um, do you remember when I said I had a good talk with Ichika about settin’ expectations?”

“Relying on the practicality of a seven-year-old did not turn out as you hoped?”

“Ah, Ichika’s not the problem, actually… it’s just that same talk didn’t work so well on Rukia.”

Byakuya glared at his brother-in-law.

“Well, you know how she is about cute stuff! I mean, look at him, sir, he’s such a charming guy! ”

Milo, as was his usual habit, was asleep on his back, limbs splayed in all directions. Most of him had fallen off his pillow. His tongue had also fallen out of his mouth.

“Perhaps he could spend his days over at the Thirteenth, then,” Byakuya suggested dryly.

“Oh, no, sir, Lieutenant Sentarou’s allergic, you see.’

“I see. You do have a house, Lieutenant. I have been there.”

“Well, sure, sir, but now that Ichika’s in school, no one’s there during the day. He’s so social, I don’t think he’d be happy all by his lonesome.”

Social. Of course. A dog who appeared to sleep for upwards of 22 hours per day.

Byakuya folded his hands. “I have been very tolerant, Lieutenant, but the Sixth Division is a place of calm and deportment and…”

In a flail of legs, Milo suddenly rolled over and sprang to his feet. A noise was emanating from deep in his little doggie ribcage.

“What is happening?” Byakuya asked, alarmed. “What is that sound?”

“He’s growlin’,” Abarai replied curiously, brows creased. “You have a bad dream, guy?”

Milo crept over to the office door, lip curled, hackles raised.

“HEY, BYAKUYA-BOU!”

Every muscle in Byakuya’s body seized. He scrabbled for Senbonzakura.

The door was thrown open and that frightful woman, Shihouin Yoruichi, pranced in.

Or at least she started to.

“Guess who’s back in tow-- aiieee!” The Demon Cat danced backward when she noticed the ball of grey and white fur growling at her feet.

“Milo, heel!” Renji commanded, standing up.

“Milo, belay that!” Byakuya ordered, also standing.

“What the--?!” Yoruichi exclaimed. “When’d you get a dog, Renji? I know that thing doesn’t belong to Byakuya.”

“He is a member of the Sixth Division!” Byakuya roared.

Yoruichi tried to take a step forward, and Milo slunk around her, his growl rising in pitch. “I was just stopping by, can’t stay. Too busy, y’know.” She pointed an index finger at Byakuya. “I will find you later. I know where you live.”

“Ah, too bad, I am dining with the Abarais tonight!” Byakuya snapped. “At their house, where Officer Milo spends his evenings!”

“You are?” Renji asked, puzzled.

“Yes, it is the night you make that thing I like, is it not?”

“You don’t like anything I cook,” Renji pointed out.

“I have changed my mind!”

Yoruichi was growing more and more uncomfortable with the dog snarling at her heels. Finally, she leaned down, made an angry hissing noise and dashed out, slamming the door behind her. A moment passed, then the door slid back open and stuffed her head back in. “I’ll get you, Kuchiki! And your little dog, too!”

Milo barked a single bark at her.

Yoruichi shuddered and slammed the door shut again.

Milo very triumphantly trotted back to his pillow, circled once, and settled back down.

“Good boy,” announced Byakuya.

Milo was back again the next day.

When Byakuya entered the office, he and Abarai stood up in unison to greet their captain.

Byakuya strode up to the dog. “You have proven yourself useful,” he announced. “As long as you continue to do so, you may stay.” He knelt down, and affixed a handsome leather collar around Milo’s neck. From it hung a badge. On one side was etched the character for six, on the other, a camellia. “But members of the Sixth Division must be in uniform.”

#bleach fanfiction #my writing #milo dog #byakuya is a sucker #renji is full of lies #rukia isn't even in this story and yet her vibes are so powerful #just a hint of byahitsu brotp

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theloobrush · 4 years

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The Sea of Faith

In Matthew Arnold’s poem ‘Dover Beach’, one verse opines sadly::

“The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.”

Arnold’s poem is said to be about his own loss of faith and the decline of religion generally. But when he wrote this back in the 19th Century most people were, outwardly at least, very religious, except perhaps the intellectual classes*. During our current social crisis, the like of which we have not seen since World War 2, and perhaps facing my own, imminent demise, I sometimes wish I could still cling to the buoyancy aid of religion. By that I mean, a full bodied, robust faith in a real, personal objective God, a deity that is provident, benevolent and wishes the salvation of all mankind. A faith like my father had, and my mother still has. They had a very active faith and my childhood revolved around religion to an unusual degree. Their faith gave a very clear set of values and goals and moulded how you lived in a way best expressed by the Evangelical dictum: “God First, Other’s Second, Self Last”. This didn’t prevent me growing up as egoistic and self obsessed as the next person but it did thickly spread a layer of guilt, shame and existential sense of personal inadequacy into my mental make up.

Over 30 plus years the traditional religious faith into which I was birthed and, in no uncertain terms, indoctrinated (albeit lovingly, rather than harshly) has been whittled away in my mind by numerous educative and social influences and my own reasoning. There have been instances, even recently, when my faith in the Big G, has appeared to revive somewhat. Looking back I seem to follow a regular cycle over a period of a few years, to apply Matthew Arnold’s metaphor, my faith has certainly ebbed and flowed over three decades. From time to time something spurs me to build theological castle in the air that I’m momentarily intellectually satisfied with, then some idea, argument or painful newstory or circumstance causes my new fangle set of beliefs to crash into pieces again.. And after some weeks or months of dry atheism, something entices me to go all mystical again. Some song, some movie, the beauty of some flower in the garden, and I try to find ways to be spiritual without being religious. Then my intellect demands that I justify my mystical feelings with some proper propositions. The theological castles get built again. But they are always sand castles.

Currently I’m definitely in an ‘ebb’ period, with the tide having gone out as far as it goes out at Whitmore Bay, leaving a flat expanse of wet mud, some seaweed intermixed with plastic litter. For nigh on 15 years I have been pretty much convinced Christian orthodoxy is not true. Lately I feel even more convinced. Down to my bones. I’m entirely convinced that the Bible is largely mythology and reflection upon mythological stories, and only a lack of knowledge of other world traditions and literature, would make anyone think it is uniquely profound. I also believe the unbelief that Jesus, was not as portrayed in the gospels, if he existed at all. The acute issue for me at the moment is that theism doesn’t explain why there is a God rather than nothing at all. God, at least as understood by Christian tradition is too complex an entity to be a brute fact of necessary being. The theologians final answer to an endless string of ‘why?’ questions about life and the universe is extremely unsatisfying, indeed incredible. There is nil evidence of divine intervention.There is zilch evidence of divine providence. The multi-verse concept and the sheer size of the universe means even extremely improbable possible things happen, our existence is one such. These facts cut the feet from under the theist’s best modern argument - the strong anthropomorphic principle.

Despite the above, I am currently in one of my ‘mystical’ periods. To the non-mystically inclined, to those who don’t rely on intuition as much as I do, and who think the notion of personal gnosis is hookum, there is no way to convey that woo-woo mystical feeling. However I can trace the roots of my intellectual justifications. For instance I’ve been a convinced monist ever since my University Professor John Drane (an erstwhile Evangelical and New Testament scholar of some repute) introduced me, almost accidentally, to a certain Mr Plotinus of late antiquity and his theories of Neo-Platonism. But I was attracted to the more arcane, non theistic aspects of Hindu philosophy even before that, probably because I read some dodgy New Age stuff as a teenager at a time when my reading habits should have been on evangelical lock down. It would have made a far simpler life journey if I’d just given up on religion in my youth - like most people. However my mind seems to abhor the atheist vacuum. Or, if you like, spiritually seems to be my emotional crutch (along with snacking and my snack demi deity, cheese).

How to make this mystical ‘tick’ of mine intelligible? I can’t really. However, I would try to explain that despite my loss of faith, I don’t have a problem with the ‘mono’ part of monotheism. The universe is self evidently a unity, and, obviously, began in a singular singularity. Most people leave it there, and really, really don’t care to look any further. But I blur logic, and extrapolate hard scientific concepts like quantum non locality into forbidden territory. I’m one of those snake oil consumers who are prone to take basic scientific datum in a semi New Age direction. That said, I have read a lot, albeit variations on a theme. My other heavy weight intellectual influences are in historical succession Plotinus, Spinoza Schleiermacher, Hegel, and,especially, Jung. I have been marinaded in the arguments presented in Dummies Guides to Taoism, Advaita Vedanta, and followed other minds who bang on about a ‘perennial philosophy’ or versions thereof. My recent indoctrination has come from the writings of Ken Wilber and Eckhart Tolle, and recordings of Alan Watts and Jordan Peterson.

So you see, I used to play, with bucket and spade by the Sea of Faith, now I swim in an ocean of woo-woo. However is woo-woo a suitable substitute for a heavenly father we can pray to in times of trouble? A loving personal God who offers us a ticket to heaven. However incredulous the idea, however ‘deluded’, I’m talking here about the efficacy and utility of belief. For instance my woo-woo doesn’t provide a personal afterlife. I’m not woo because I fear death, but neither does dialectical monism provide any solid hope. Actually my evangelical forebears would be horrified with the whole ‘Sea of Faith’ metaphor. For them, their faith was a ‘rock’, a ‘sure foundation’, an ‘anchor’ and a port in all life’s storms. Actually the maritime metaphors were endless. I have weak tea spirituality, I embrace the nonpersonal cosmic flux, but I don’t (more’s the pity?) have faith like that.

Athlete’s Foot Note

* The cultural rot always begins with intellectuals

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brihana25 · 5 years

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In “Defense” of John Kreese

NOTE: Okay, here goes. I wrote this weeks ago, when I was still processing Season 2 (which, honestly, I’m still doing), and I wrote it in reaction to some of what I was seeing about Kreese in the wake of it. It’s long, so there’s a jump.

To say I was surprised to see the posts about Kreese would be an understatement. I meant and still mean no offense to anyone who expected more than we got, but it truly baffled me, because we got exactly what we were promised. I saw the betrayal coming from the last seconds of Mercy Part II, and I didn’t understand how other people didn’t.

So, this is me trying to explain why I felt and feel the way I do about Kreese. And for better or for worse, since I’m posting it, it’s open for discussion.

Wow. Talk about five words I never in a million years imagined I'd type.

I watched Season 2 of Cobra Kai within fifteen seconds of it dropping. Once I started, I didn't stop. I didn't pause. I was far from the only one. A little over five hours later, I'd seen the entire thing. I was devastated, of course. We all were. I intended to do an immediate rewatch, but I couldn't make myself do it. I was left reeling, numb, and completely emotionally drained for the rest of the day. Again, that's not unique to me. We all were. And even though I have rewatched it since then, more than once, that feeling hasn't really faded. I'm still having a hard time putting my thoughts and feelings into words. I know it's only a television show, but the impact it has had on me – on all of us – cannot really be explained. We're all shocked. We're all stunned. We're all feeling and dealing and still processing it.

If there is one word to sum up Season 2, it is this: brutal.

And no one was half as brutal as the man himself, the creator of Cobra Kai, the puppet master who holds everyone’s strings and pulls them to make them dance, knows every character's buttons and how to push them: John Kreese.

I know a lot of people are upset about Kreese still being bad. And not only is he bad, but he's possibly even more despicable and irredeemable than he was in the movies. I know a lot of people feel that they were lied to, or somehow misled, into believing he'd be a good guy by the end of the season.

I'm going to defend not only the pre-season interviews that may have led fans to believing that, but also the character of John Kreese himself. And those of you who know me and what I have said about this character in the past will understand what an odd thing this is for me to do. But one of the things I love most about this show, and about the movies that spawned it, are the characters and their development. That does include John Kreese, and it always has.

If you think back over what we were told about Kreese pre-season, no one ever said they were going to redeem him. The Big 3TM said they were going to make him human. They did. Martin Kove said he was "a little bit good, and a little bit bad." He is both.

First, to The Big 3TM's statements that either said or implied they were going to make him more human: they did. They made him much more human than he was in the movies; they just didn't make him a good one. Instead, he is devious, manipulative, abusive and cruel. And those are things that only humans can be.

He's always been a kind of caricature, a stock character "baddie" with memorable lines and no discernible motivations for being the way he was. The most human we saw him in the movies was at the beginning of The Karate Kid Part III. We see him walking down the street, alone, dejected. He is a broken man. He has lost everything and everyone, and he knows it. He has hit absolute rock bottom, and he does not know how to climb back up.

That doesn't last very long, of course. He walks into the dojo, glances at his bills, half-listens to his answering machine, picks up a newspaper article about Daniel's victory, and immediately, his dejection turns to anger. His desolation morphs into a singular obsession with destroying the old man who humiliated him and the child who dared to defeat him.

Terry's words to Daniel and Mr. Miyagi in the garden, about karate being Kreese's entire life, about losing his students (mostly Johnny, we now know) breaking his heart - I believe this was entirely true. It's probably one of the few honest things Terry said in the whole movie. It is also probably one of the purest descriptions of John Kreese’s motivation we have ever been given. There was a glimmer of hope at the beginning, in Kreese's conversation in the car with Terry, when it looked like maybe he wasn't wholly evil. But as we realized later, his protest to Terry that he didn't "need to do this" - didn't "need" to torture Daniel and Mr. Miyagi - was token only. He wanted it to happen. I'd go so far as to say that he played on Terry's love for and protectiveness of him to make it happen. That became obvious later in the movie, when he came up with the "brilliant" idea of making Daniel's knuckles bleed. And now that we have seen just how manipulative and calculating he can be, it fits with who and what he is.

Does he have PTSD? Certainly. He told Johnny as much when he said the psychiatrists wouldn't let him re-enlist. Does it stem from the Vietnam War? Again, there is very little doubt. Is he still fighting a war in his mind that never ended for him because he wasn't allowed to finish it? I don't question that for a second, either. Do any of those things excuse what he did - to children and adults both - after he returned? Absolutely not. Understanding his mind and seeing the world through his eyes gives us insight into why he is the way he is, but it doesn't excuse what he's done. And it doesn’t justify what he may do in the future.

Humans aren't always nice and decent. All people aren't basically good. Daniel learned that when he was sixteen years old. Johnny learned it at fifty-one. John Kreese is 100% human, and that's undeniable. They gave us exactly what they promised us.

As for Martin Kove's assertion that Kreese is "a little bit good, and a little bit bad": he is. This is where understanding his mind becomes vital. Kreese's "bad" qualities are on clear and open display for us to see. His "good" qualities aren't as obvious, and some would say they don't exist at all. That is because his definition of "good" is warped, and it doesn't fit with how we understand that word.

Also, I believe very strongly that John Kreese loves Johnny Lawrence.

No, it doesn't look anything like love to most of us. It looks like control, and domination, and manipulation. It looks like abuse. And that's because it is. It is dysfunctional, and destructive, and based on a power imbalance that Kreese cannot let shift in Johnny's favor for even a second. But in John Kreese's mind, it is love.

Make no mistake about it, Kreese abused both of these men when they were children. He abused Johnny - mentally and emotionally - for five years. Whether the karate training ever rose to the level of physical abuse is debatable, but after what we saw in Season 2, in Johnny's memory of receiving his blue belt, the rest of it is inarguable. The hardest concept to grasp, after watching just that one small memory and the impact it still has on Johnny almost 40 years later, is that Kreese honestly believed, and still does, that he was doing a good thing.

Listen to the things he says. Really listen to him. Even after everything that happens, even after Miguel and Robby, and Tory and Sam, and even after the destruction of everything and everyone Johnny loves, Kreese is still convinced that what he's doing is what's best for Johnny. He truly, honestly believes that he's helping him.

In his mind, he is making Johnny stronger. He is making him better. He is turning him into a good little soldier who will follow orders to the letter, because if he does what Kreese tells him, he will not and cannot lose. He is doing this because he doesn't want Johnny to feel the things he felt. He doesn't want Johnny to ever feel the sting of a defeat he had no choice but to accept. He sees in Johnny his chance to redeem himself for all the losses he himself has suffered, and he will use any means at his disposal to get him there.

His abuse of Daniel is strictly about punishment. He doesn't love him. He didn’t want to make him stronger. He didn’t want to turn him into a winner. His abuse of Daniel was purely for revenge. He smiled about it. He laughed about it. He wanted to see “a lot more” of it. He tortured a child, and he enjoyed it.

As much as John Kreese loves Johnny Lawrence, he hates Daniel LaRusso.

He hates him for forcing defeat on Johnny. He hates him for being a better student, or a better fighter, or a better anything than Johnny. He hates Mr. Miyagi for being a better teacher, or a better fighter, or just a better everything than him. Mr. Miyagi succeeded in turning Daniel into what Kreese failed in getting Johnny to be, and so Daniel - at the ripe old age of sixteen - gets the dubious distinction of being the living embodiment of both Johnny's and Kreese's failures. Kreese will never forgive him for any of that.

And so, Kreese (in conjunction with Terry Silver, of course) brainwashes him. They convince him to torture himself, and they torture Mr. Miyagi through him. They turn him into something he isn't and never has been. They turn him into the opposite of what Mr. Miyagi taught him to be. They send him home every night, bloody and bruised and completely oblivious to the fact that he's a nothing more than a pawn to them. He's a toy. If Johnny is Kreese's good little soldier, Daniel is his cannon fodder.

Kreese loves Johnny, and he hates Daniel, and he destroyed them both. But what has to be understood is that in his mind, everything he’s done have been "good" things.

To redeem Kreese now, to turn him into a "good guy," to have both of his victims forget and forgive him for everything he did, would not only be wholly unbelievable, it would invalidate everything they've been through. It would erase everything that turned the children they were into the men they are. It would cheapen and dismiss everything Kreese did to them.

It wouldn't just "flip the script" on their story. It would rewrite it wholesale.

At its heart, Cobra Kai is Johnny's and Daniel's story. Kreese plays a large part in that story, absolutely. But it’s not his. What they suffered at his hands shaped who and what they are, what they feel about each other, and what they believe about themselves. For better or worse, he is Cobra Kai.

He is their boogeyman.

And if the show is about Johnny and Daniel, then it has to be about them dealing with the impact Cobra Kai - and John Kreese - has had and continues to have on them and the people they love. For that to be possible, Kreese has to remain what he is and has always been.

A little bit good, and a whole lot bad.

#cobra kai #cobra kai season 2 #john kreese #daniel larusso #johnny lawrence #i essayed a thing #fangirling again #meta ahoy!

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mittensmorgul · 5 years

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Thought: Half of why John is more accepting in 14x13 than most of us would expect based on his past behavior is because John kinda thinks it's a dream. The other half is because he is just a better person when Mary is around. See the "John would have hated John" posts re 5x13.

I’m gonna use this opportunity to point out a few things about the episode that I think a lot of people may have missed, because it goes a very long way toward understanding John’s reaction here:

2003 John, who from the way he showed up in the bunker, armed and apparently mid-fight... I can’t even imagine the shock of suddenly finding oneself supposedly sixteen years in the future, you know? And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

From Donna’s cabin, where Mary was before they called her back to the bunker, it would’ve been approximately a 12 hour drive. Sam and Dean had TWELVE HOURS or so to talk with John before we rejoin them in the kitchen just before Mary shows up. Because heck, they had SIXTEEN YEARS worth of stuff to catch him up on, you know?

First off, he had to be so shaken when he arrived. He might’ve been thinking he get clobbered in the fight he’d thought he was in and was this all a hallucination or a dream? Or was he actually killed, and this was heaven or something? Who even knows what he could’ve been thinking at first, but he seemed to pretty quickly accept that it was real.

This is where one of the lessons the show has been encouraging us to learn really comes in useful. That being, STUFF HAPPENS OFFSCREEN and the show has encouraged us to accept the fact that what happens offscreen actually counts. So we have to assume that in the hours upon hours they talked with John, they laid out the vast majority of stuff that’s happened in the last decade and a half.

Some of it would probably be pretty difficult to hear, like the fact John didn’t survive to get revenge on Azazel (heck, 2003 him might not even know he was legit getting CLOSE even), but that Sam and Dean DO. How difficult would it be to tell this version of John that Dean sold his soul to save Sam, that he spent 40 years in Hell and was rescued by an angel, to tell them about how angels and demons were manipulating them all for decades to start the apocalypse?

Or that Sam let himself be possessed by Lucifer to stop the apocalypse, pulling both Lucifer and Michael into a cage in Hell to save the world? Like... this is still just the tip of the iceberg here... There’s still Raphael and the second attempt at the apocalypse, Soulless!Sam, Dean’s year in the suburbs, Purgatory, Leviathans, how they’ve befriended angels and demons and monsters oh my... oh, and God. Who also wrote a series of novels about their lives that are technically one of the gospels now... all the way up to how Dean earned a gift from God’s sister, the primordial darkness herself... that Mary has been resurrected...

Plus all that stuff about time travel and alternate universes they’ve experienced.

And for John, personally, the story of how they discovered the bunker in the first place, when the father John had always thought abandoned him as a child had actually traveled into the future, saved Sam’s life, and was killed by the demon Abaddon in the process. I mean THAT RIGHT THERE had to be a horrific shocker to learn, you know?

For JOHN, that’s possibly the most life-alteringly earth-shattering thing they could’ve told him, you know? Just to have an ANSWER to that question that had plagued him since HE was four years old and his dad disappeared off the face of the earth. Not to mention learning that he should’ve been a MoL legacy himself, and that if his father hadn’t been hunted through time by a Knight of Hell, John would’ve grown up “in the life” of monsters and magic himself... Kinda an eye opener, you know?

Oh, and learning that their family was a bloodline going all the way back to Cain and Abel (yes, that Cain and Abel, and by the way Dean killed Cain that one time), and that their family was part of a much larger cosmic plot to bring on the apocalypse in the first place, and Azazel-- John’s lifelong obsession-- was only the first step in all of that and a whole bunch of worse stuff happened after.

Oh, plus, Dean killed Hitler.

They’ve met Samuel Colt, Eliot Ness, Dean was on a sub during WW2 for a day or so, and traveled back to 1973 and 1978 and met with John both times (oh, and Dean was the dude who talked John into buying the Impala when he’d intended to buy a stupid VW van).

And this is STILL only scraping the tip of the iceberg here... They talked for TWELVE. HOURS. or so...

Sam and Dean have had some shockingly full lives, you know? It’s not even a surprise to me that after all that, after seeing the evidence of his sons’ lives laid out like that for him-- the good, the bad, the cosmic and the mundane-- (GOD! HIMSELF! MADE THEM PANCAKES! RIGHT OVER THERE!) that John’s only possible reaction would be to understand just how far his children went after his death.

In the wake of learning all of that, what they went through pre-2005 is just kinda... overshadowed, you know? Almost unreal itself.

But yeah, because of all of this ^^, and then the absolute SHOCK of seeing Mary again after all this time, after spending the majority of his adult life seeking revenge and justice for her death, and the long and painful search for the truth that kinda wrecked ALL their lives, to see her again alive and happy and whole... well, heck... everything else kinda pales to that. The literal horror show he and Sam and Dean endured (even the bits that were blatantly his fault) just... they’re suddenly worth it all, just for that moment, you know?

In a weird way, in that moment John had the burden of suffering with Mary’s death lifted off of him, and he could stand there in the perspective of that more innocent John from 1978 who’d unwittingly judged his own future actions so harshly. For one night, he got to step through to the other side of all that trauma and look back on it from a point where he and his family had finally WON. Where they’d emerged from it and built a life for themselves that he might never be able to understand, but he can appreciate it.

Even in 1.21, he told Sam that his goal was to finally be able to walk away from their mission when it was done, for Sam to be able to go back to school, for Dean to have a normal life, for him to finally be able to rest thinking he’d been able to serve Justice on Mary’s behalf. John himself didn’t even plan to continue hunting out beyond killing the demon who killed Mary, you know? I’m not sure he even had considered a future at all for himself out beyond that singular life goal. Because that’s what living for revenge does to a person.

But this also offered him the fresh perspective that of course there wasn’t really an end to hunting, and that Azazel wasn’t the Final Boss they’d needed to defeat. And he’d have some small notion of just how awful the burden he’d left Sam and Dean with all those years ago-- which THIS John is still THREE YEARS AWAY FROM DUMPING ON THEM.

Ow, time travel.

Granted, the episode didn’t try to explain or defend any of this to the audience, because it should never HAVE to... Can you even imagine how much of a mess of an episode that would’ve been if they’d even tried? Because the story of this episode was being told on multiple levels:

they didn’t try to overwhelm the GA with all of this heaviness, because the GA wouldn’t even care. The GENERAL notion of Sam and Dean’s lives to this point and their emotional states in canon during s14 would be enough of an explanation (trust me that the GA doesn’t have Strong Feelings about John the way Fandom does)

this was also the big PR push episode this season, and a lot of JDM folks likely tuned in just for him while having only a tangential knowledge of SPN canon to go on... introducing 14 seasons worth of emotional turmoil for their sake is kinda... pointless...

They assumed that people in the fandom who ARE invested in these characters emotionally would actually understand all of this already without needed to be spoon-fed all of this again

Because that’s how writing works. The writers have to trust that the audience is actually engaging with the story and possesses critical thinking skills.

I think some of the disconnect here was that we each went into this episode with our own personal baggage attached, with our own feelings about how WE might personally react if we were in Sam and Dean’s positions here. And if Sam and Dean didn’t react the way we hoped they would, whether it be via expressing anger at John over how he raised them, or just yelling about any or all of the above, then it was OUR job as the Thinking Audience to ask WHY, and to consider the past fourteen years of canon in coming to a clearer understanding of Sam and Dean themselves.

I wrote something the other day (yesterday? maybe... hang on... http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/182723615495/rosewhipped22-so-i-havent-rewatched-lebanon-yet) about Dean’s wish that the pearl granted, because he HAS been thinking about his entire life-- including the baggage he’s been trying to lay down all season exemplified in his conversation with Sasha about her father in 14.05. And I think this episode nailed that aspect of Dean’s personal growth, by bringing John back the way they did and specifically NOT making it about anger or bitterness, but about finally being accepting of HIMSELF and of the entirety of his own life, setting down all the shit he can’t change while also acknowledging that he wouldn’t change any of it if it meant it wouldn’t bring him to this current point in his life. And that is HUGE. That is GROWTH and MATURITY.

Because this episode wasn’t really about John at all, but about Sam and Dean (and even Mary) finally getting to lay John’s memory to rest so they can move forward without dragging his ghost along in their wake.

#spn 300 #spn s14 spoilers #spn 14.13 #the ghost of john winchester #Anonymous

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folerdetdufoler · 5 years

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sunday was like…a half day. i woke up for breakfast but then went back to bed. i went back through my tweets and apparently i was woken up in the middle of the night by girls being loud in the hallway, so maybe i was just trying to sleep off my grumpiness. i didn’t wake up again until housekeeping came by, and that was enough to knock me out of heaven (bed).

i went to meet haidee at KB for second breakfast. it was one of my grosser walks, because it was raining and warm out, so i was either getting wet from the outside or sweating through my layers on the inside. on top of literally dripping on my stool at the cafe, i was trying to save a seat for haidee too, and that was making me sweat double time because i always feel like no one believes me when i say “i have a friend coming.” like, i have friends? really? hmmm. anyway, she arrived and we got caught up.

and phew, i thought my saturday was rough with all of the walking? haidee’s saturday, starting late friday night, was…not good. ugh. i felt so bad that she went through so much, and that i couldn’t be there to help fix it or let her escape from it. it’s frustrating that she was subjected to a lot of very bad decisions made by other people, and doubly so that my first instinct was to try to fix it, even though none of it was my fault. i wanted to publicly rant on her behalf, shame others for their bad behavior, but that wasn’t going to fix anything either, so we just unloaded and commiserated for a few hours, and tried our best to figure out how to handle that sort of thing going forward. in the very least, it was good to talk, rather than let the disappointment fester in silence.

since i was in the neighborhood i had wanted to make a quick stop at nissen to see the bench in the light, and make haidee take another picture on the bench with me. but siv actually walked into the cafe and chatted with us briefly, explaining that the convention was still running late and the safaris hadn’t wrapped up at the school on time. i was relieved then that i hadn’t dragged haidee up there, nor gone on my own, so we stayed inside and waited for her other friend (i want to call her vee but i also know that that is wrong) to arrive. i ordered an iced mocha and cinnamon roll, which, because i’m obsessed with myself, seemed cute since it was isak’s regular order in mondays. i started drinking iced mochas when i kept seeing kaylee rave about them, so that’s what made me choose it for isak, and a cinnamon bun is a cinnamon bun. [bread pun]

at some point nadège was walking past with her tour group and she ran up to knock on the window and in that moment i understood how isak was feeling right here:

haidee’s friend showed up and we all crowded into isak’s window for a bit. then i excused myself to go meet jenn in grünerløkka. i can’t remember who told me about it first, whether it was mo back in january or haidee in june, but retrolykke came highly recommended, so we met there. on the barista’s recommendation jenn had tea and i had water, because my “caffeine headache” wasn’t going away so i was probably just dehydrated. we sat outside because it was still kind of warm and i’m glad we did because i probably would’ve spent all of my money if we were sat anywhere near a shelf in that joint. we traded stories about our saturdays and i got the run down on the movie i missed. then, unable to hide it any longer, i let loose my deep desire to ride the ferris wheel at the christmas market. maybe i played it cool, but that’s unlikely. we had a small window before we had to meet haidee for dinner, so we cleaned up and zipped over there.

cheers to the people who let you indulge in your secret wishes, who help you buy a ticket and climb into the bucket with you. cheers to the young girls in our bucket (is there a different word for it? gondola? whatever. it felt like a bucket swinging from a giant’s hand) who probably thought we were weird but weren’t too afraid to ask jenn to take their picture. cheers to oslo and its shit weather, which it still wore beautifully. this bitch looks great from any angle.

after the ride we wandered around the market because haidee reported her event was (newsflash) running late and they were still waiting outside. i was getting another low, so i had to stop to get something to eat. what i should’ve done was just stop and chomp some tablets, but my mind was foggy and i was with someone else so i was like obviously we need to get gløgg first. i stared down the candy apples by the register, which would’ve been the next smartest choice for fast-acting sugar, but i ordered a goddamn pølse instead, and we proceeded to make dick jokes for another fifteen minutes while i housed it in like, five bites.

now, i need to explain something that i think has just been rolling around in the back of my mind since february, but i’m mildly obsessed with the idea of pølse as a party food, a common snack. i don’t know why, of all the norwegian things i’ve encountered, this sticks out for me, because…it’s a hot dog. americans eat hot dogs all the time. it is not an unfamiliar concept. but after seeing marlon eating one at the club i’ve projected that onto every possible party situation in my head, from a tiny gathering in a home to a giant dance floor with lasers shooting out across a crowd. and it just makes me laugh? and i feel like i need to explain why or how, but i actually can’t. just…dick jokes aside, ordering a hot dog was funny to me, and i wanted to experience that hot-dog-in-da-club feeling, so maybe that’s why i went with protein and slow carbs instead of straight sugar. i prioritized my sense of humor over my health, and while it was dumb it made me laugh and tasted good. that doesn’t explain my obsession with pølse but i think it tells you a lot about me.

okay so after that…we took shelter in a KB because it was still raining and we were still waiting and i was still low. then i finally got smart and started eating my tablets. we made our way over to ett bord where we were picking up haidee, but they were still finishing up. jenn sat at the table outside and narrated what was going on inside because i refused to turn around. i was hoping, like a child who hadn’t learned what object permanence was, that if i didn’t see anything, then nothing was happening. or if the people inside didn’t see me, then i didn’t exist. but i don’t think it worked. ragnar came out to say hi to jenn, and that was cool to see him again. we scooped nadège and haidee and i tried to escape unseen, but fuck…like a minute later we ran into three italians and walked with them up to the intersection. that’s what the blurry photo is, nadège and rocco, federico and jenn in front of them. at that point i was ready to just give up, because like, of course i was going to intersect with these people eventually. i was literally visiting places related to the show and convention. i don’t know why i thought it was avoidable, why i had shaped my trip around trying not to see these people, while also putting myself directly in their line of fire. i’d met henrik and lisa and there were the italians and i had a goodie bag in my backpack and you probably wouldn’t actually believe me at this point if i said i didn’t attend the convention. my desire and my shame shuttled me around the city, working together, telling me you can’t have your cake and eat it too. so i took a picture of it.

i was able to relax though, through dinner with jenn and haidee at olivia. we ended up at the wrong location (tjulvhomen instead of aker brygge) because i decided to ignore jenn’s directions (nice) but they were pretty empty so we just stayed. since i had already caught up with both of them i took this opportunity to let them talk to each other, which left me free to shove every strand of linguini known to man into my face. you only get a photo of my dessert, which marks the first point in time that i stopped eating long enough to actually take a picture.

it was interesting talking to both of them about the movie because they were literally in the same room, watching the same thing, but had such different interpretations and responses to it. on top of that, being in a room filled with the skam fandom must have shaped their viewing as well. even though i didn’t experience any of it, the discussion alone was a great reminder of the variety of perspectives in the fandom and what happens when a fandom is the lens through which you view the world.

we of course talked about skam and fandom, but we also got to talk about our personal lives a bit more, and i think this was the first time i was in a completely non-skam-related place, which seemed to free us a bit from reference points that kept your subconscious attached to the show or cast (at least it did for me). i had spent my day avoiding it, and but now i was actually distanced from it without any effort, and it felt like a really positive development. especially as i’m attempting to be a better person in general, able to establish and maintain relationships that aren’t based precariously on a singular, mutual fixation. i want to be able to be friends with people because they’re good people and a joy to be around, not just because there’s this one thing we can talk about. now here’s a joke line because i always undercut my serious emotions with humor: look ma, we talked about something else!

then jenn had to get to a party, so we had another navigational ~experience~. we dropped her off there and haidee and i decided to head home. our days were short but like, emotionally very long, so we were done. that didn’t stop us from standing on the sidewalk in the rain, talking for another hour though. we kept hugging to say goodbye and then talking some more and hugging again and talking and ok for the last time now because there are puddles inside my shoes kiss kiss squeeze i’m not crying it’s the rain i swear. i’ll see you in september, okay? promise.

i finished the day as it started, with a very wet walk. the market was empty, so i let myself take the kinds of photos that i am too embarrassed to take in public, the ones where you stand wherever you’d like for optimal angles and don’t care about anyone else around you, don’t worry about being in their way, or worry that they can tell how many pictures you’re taking, or worry that they’re judging how poorly your shots are turning out. ugh, it’s amazing that i can function as a tourist full stop. please sir, would you mind emptying out the city so i may experience it without the anxiety of my human existence? tusen takk.

whatever. i got to the hotel, asked for a new room key (at some point that evening i lost my room key and my ruter card, rip), returned to heaven (bed) and promptly shit my pants again when i saw the announcement on twitter about the bloopers.

the motherfucking bloopers. the man, the myth, the legend. the rumors were true.

#for the record i have never literally shit my pants #i have a 100% success rate with using a toilet #but it's the only turn of phrase i can think of when i try to describe my very physical uncontrollable reaction to certain things #like what is this #what is happening #am i shitting my pants #or am i just so obsessed with a show that the mere hint of news causes me to lose control of my bodily functions?#kerryinoslo

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20straveling · 6 years

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9.20.18 ~ Ireland

As some of you are aware, I have achieved my singular most important life goal – and at the age of 23, what an accomplishment! I have traveled to Ireland. If you’ve been reading my blog, or if you’ve known me at all in real life, you may have the slight inkling that I have an obsession and deep wanderlust for the majesty that is Ireland. Between the exposure to all that is beautiful in the film P.S I Love You (landscape and men included) in my early teens, and the yearlong research project into the art styles and history of monastic life in my senior year of college, I am thoroughly and irrevocably obsessed with that country.

Last month (because it’s somehow half-way through September already), my family and I traveled abroad for the first time together. It was quite the experience. It had been quite some time since we had all traveled on a plane together, and I’m not quite sure how they managed it when we were kids. My father is much more familiar with flying, and I’ve done my fair share in the past few years. My mother and brother, less so. There’s a funny story involving my brother, TSA, and a giant bottle of contact solution, but we’ll leave that be, as I think we’ve over-told it in our real lives, and heaven forbid I spread his mistake online as well (no matter how funny it was, but not at the time).

One of the wise pieces of advice I gave to my family was “sleep on the plane, to confuse your body into being wide awake when we land,” because my father had inadvertently planned our flight to be overnight, which is great, that landed around 5:30AM Dublin time. My thought was “heck yea! lets go explore some stuff!” but my family’s thought was “oh no, where can we take a nap at 5AM?” because, oh dear reader, we could not get into our AirB&B until around noon. So, what do you do in a foreign city for almost 6 hours without wifi to guide you? The answer, for us at least, was to sit in a café for about an hour and use their free wifi to create a plan. So, we created a plan.

See, we were going to drop off bags and walk around Christ Church Cathedral, but plans never go, well, as planned. And we got lost-ish, asked multiple people where things were and realized they knew almost less than we did, and then decided to sit at the bag-drop tourist location until they opened at 8:30. My mom had to muscle her way into the lobby because some woman who arrived 5 minutes before they opened tried to cut in front of the rest of the people that were gathered around their front door area. So much for Irish hospitality! Joking, only joking. Other than the one rude woman, who was probably a tourist herself, every tour guide, and direction-giver, was as nice as could be.

Margret, from our Kilkenny B&B, was in a league of her own when it came to hospitality. She was more than understanding about our confusion when it came to the room arrangements, as we had booked two rooms, with one bed each. She explained that a double room was a full bed, and a twin room was a two bed room – a common misunderstanding when Americans were booking with her apparently. And because we had arrived before all her other guests, she allowed us to switch rooms and it was no hassle at all. She also served us Irish coffee before tucking in for the night, and served the best breakfast that I had during the whole trip – and Irish Breakfast with tomatoes, eggs, sausage, the whole nine. Recommendations, advice, there was nothing Margret wasn’t prepared for, maps included.

A guarantee during any of our family vacations or trips is tours, usually history oriented, and always interesting. Ireland was no different by any means. We toured castles, churches, the Ring of Kerry, and the Cliffs of Moher, as well as the towns and shops along the way. Each place was beautiful, full of stories, and perfectly old in every way. Part of what I love so much about being abroad, beyond the US, is that there is history that reaches beyond the founding of our country and further. Churches stand almost a thousand years old, castles from wars our fore-father’s grandfather’s were a part of, and practices that have stayed the same and thrived for generations. Yes, we have some of this in America, and we’ve created ourselves on the history of those countries we come from, but nothing beats a 900 year old church on a hillside, overlooking an entire valley to the mountains.

Speaking of phenomenal views, some of the best views we had were at the top of the Guinness Storehouse in the Galaxy Bar, the Ring of Kerry (no specifics, I’m obsessed with countryside and national parks, so I loved it all), and the Cliffs of Moher in all of their stunning, breathtaking beauty. One of my little goals in life is to have one of those large prints above my couch or desk, and someone asks “oh, that’s a great photo, where’d you buy it?” and I get to say “thanks, I took that!” There is something so special, so powerful, in being able capture a moment that you experienced so well that others are able to share part of its splendor. It’s one of the reasons I love taking pictures; I love to share them.

Anywho, moving on now to the silly details and things I can remember off the top of my head, as I don’t have the patience to go through all the photos right now, but would like to tell you more about our trip. One of the great joys was watching the live music being played on the streets of Galway every evening. There was a band, who’s name I cannot remember, but they had such good energy and an awesome mix of instruments and voice styles; I bought one of their CDs, which is currently in my car and played through at least once a week. Oh! The Book of Kells: amazing, very secure, and incredibly detailed (Trinity Library, I want to get married there. That is all.)

Coming home from a trip is always something that I hate to do, but also always necessary. Luckily, the weeks, and months, up-to the trip and following my return home, have been nothing but go go go (which is partially why this post is so late and also why it may seem a bit half-hazard or disorganized, my apologies). I’ve had time to remember and chat about all the good, without feeling like I’m missing out on too much because I have so much going on in my normal life. And, we all know, this won’t be the last trip I take to that majestic green island. But, until then, please ask me questions and ask for photos, because I can’t not talk about how wonderful and beautiful this trip was.

So, until next time,

<3 M

9.20.18

#20straveling #Ireland #family abroad #travel blog

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siriuspadfoot14 · 6 years

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Honey Badger-Chapter 2-Roosting

Sirius x Reader (eventually) platonic!Remus x reader

Warnings; vomit scene, blood

You don’t want to put the hat on. It’s touched hundreds of heads – no, more like thousands. Statistically, it’s horribly infested with lice by now. The headmaster gives you no choice. He presents it with a flourish and smiles grandly, plopping it on your head.

“I can assure you, I don’t have lice.” A wizened voice whispers, sounding mildly offended.

Still, you can’t believe it. How is a hat supposed to take a casual shower, or a bath? It can’t, so it must be lying to you. “Are you nearly done criticizing me?” It suddenly shouts, prompting a short apology from you. “Thank you,” sniffs the hat, and you’re not sure how a hat can sniff. “Now let’s see… You value hard work, don’t you? You like seeing everything come together, seeing the results of your efforts… Quite a loyal one too, aren’t you? Better be HUFFLEPUFF!”

Your smile doesn’t reach your face; no need to show others your emotions. You don’t even know anything about this house or its people, but you’re keen to learn and glad to belong somewhere. A relieved sigh escapes you when the hat is snatched off your head and placed back on one of the headmaster’s shelf. Looking down, you realise the trim of your robes has turned a deep honey yellow. Headmaster Dumbledore smiles at you, and you wonder if he’s using magic to make his eyes to sparkle. “______, my dear, did you make any friends that can help you navigate Hogwarts? I’m told it’s quite confusing at first.”

You suddenly have some inner conflict; you don’t want to force your presence on Remus and the others, but they are the only people you know with enough knowledge to help you… “Remus Lupin.” You throw his name out into the air reluctantly, and it is expertly caught by Dumbledore.

He closes his eyes and sighs as a smile creeps onto his face, “Very well then. Minerva, could you call up Mr. Lupin please?”

Watching Professor McGonagall’s robes swish out through the doorway and rush down the spiral stairway fills you with a creeping sense of dread. She’s left you alone with Dumbledore, who is almost certainly going to interrogate you. “Interesting choice of friends, ______. Did you sense a kindred spirit, perhaps?”

You force yourself not to scowl. If you didn’t already know Remus wasn’t human, there’s no way you wouldn’t have guessed his secret. It’s not the headmaster’s place to out people as nonhuman, you think furiously. “No actually, I sensed a lovey person who is worth my time and effort. Who also doesn’t feel the need to push others away because they aren’t the same as the average ‘human’” You make quote marks with your fingers as you say ‘human’.

Dumbledore looks you straight in the eye and he can see the fire in your heart almost as clearly as the smouldering fire in the corner of his office. You aren’t prepared to back down, even to the headmaster himself. You can practically see him begin to wonder whether you should be in Gryffindor due to your unwavering bravery. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to offend, ______.” He smiles.

It feels fake. You open your mouth, but you’re not sure what you’re going to say. In the end, you don’t say anything. Professor McGonagall returns with Remus, who smiles reassuringly at you. You smile back. Very seriously, headmaster Dumbledore explains to Remus that you need someone to show you around the school. Remus nods and smiles at all the correct places and as he shows you to the Hufflepuff Common Room, you can’t help but wonder why he likes the headmaster so much.

Walking into the Common Room is like coming home. Plants hang from every surface available, even growing out cracks in the wall. The air is earthy and fresh like your garden. Closing your eyes, you can almost imagine you’re at home. Except at home, the only heartbeat belongs to your uncle. Here, there’s hundreds of different heartbeats all in the same place. “Hi, ______, I’m Prefect Abbott. You can call me Gottfried.” A boy smiles at you warmly.

You’re a bit fed up of smiles at this point, but you nod to show you’re listening. “Here in Hufflepuff, we value hard work, so we all look after the plants ourselves without house elves. Not worth it if you sit and watch others doing all the work for you. Where would you be if you did that?” He chatters as he walks you over to a door that looks just as old as the entrance.

It opens into a warmly lit corridor with a low rounded ceiling. He motions for you to enter with him and he continues to wander along to the last door in the corridor and stops. “This is your room. You’ve got it all to yourself. No point lumping you in with the girls or boys, eh?”

The door squeaks open with a turn of the rounded rusty handle. It’s dark inside; the only light comes from the dying fireplace embedded in the wall. “I do hope that you will be comfortable. Your friend will collect you in the morning to show you to your classes. Hope you sleep well!” He smiles at you again, then shuts the door behind him as he walks away, presumably to his dorm.

You flop onto the bed, enjoying the light springiness of the mattress, and sigh. There’s no way you’re going to be able to sleep. You’re nocturnal, after all.

After a particularly frustrating night of restlessness, you rub your eyes and get up to pull back the singular patchwork curtain to reveal a small dusty rounded window. Your arm starts to itch as the sunshine makes contact. You pull back your hand and retreat to your bed. You may be a vampire, but you love to watch the sunlight spread like a bohemian rug across the old wooden floor. It’s calming in its own way, and you’re sure that you would be happy sitting here in your bed falling into a deeper sleep than ever possible at night. You need to get used to sleeping at night and being alive -awake - during the day. You have to blend in; it’s the only option. Your eyelids feel so heavy that you can’t help but close them. Just for a minute, you tell yourself. A sharp knock jerks you awake and as you whip your head round, you realise the sun has moved far too much for it to have been just a minute. “_____?” Remus’ voice calls, “It’s time to get up. We have classes.”

Sluggishly, you move to answer the door, but the sun’s bohemian rug has conquered almost all the floor and the end curtains of the bed are the only thing protecting you now. You take a deep breath and count to three. “I’m kind of stuck,” You mumble sheepishly.

“Stuck?” Remus sounds alarmed, “what do you mean?”

“I opened the curtains.” You grumble.

Gripping the duvet tightly, you pull it out of the bottom of the bed and wrap it around your shoulders. You quickly jump out of the bed and pull it tighter around you, shuffling to the door. Your hand itches as you reach out and begin to feel for the handle, unable to open your eyes in the harsh light. Finally, you catch it and let Remus in. You throw yourself onto the bed again, Remus rushes over, and closes the curtain, dulling the light. You thank him shamefacedly, and he smiles back as he comes to sit next to you on the bed. “Are you okay?” He asks.

Unintentionally, you glare. “Right, sorry. Of course, you aren’t okay.”

When you suddenly pull your shirt over your head, he gasps, falling off the bed. You drop the shirt that you were going to put on and vault over the bed to lift him off the ground. “What’s wrong?” You wonder.

“You took your shirt off!”

“Yes? That’s what people do when they get changed?”

He glues his eyes to yours and you can tell that he is trying his hardest not to look down. “In private.” He emphasises, like it’s a big deal.

Your uncle has very little concept of privacy and as a result, so do you. You just don’t get it. “You can look, you know. I’m sure you’ve seen someone get changed before.”

He looks down and back to your eyes as quickly as in-humanly possible. He smiles at you as you take his hand and hoist him to his feet. He looks down again, then turns away from you and raises his hand to scratch the back of his head. You pick up the soft cotton shirt, idly noting that it matches your skin tone almost perfectly. You slide the soft fabric over your head then pull the trousers on, tie your shoelaces and motion to Remus that you’re ready to go. “Shouldn’t you cover up a bit? Its sunny today.” He looks over his shoulder at you.

Shrugging, you grab the cardigan sitting on the end of your bed and some sunglasses, just in case. You join him and walk down the corridor together and out of the main door.

He turns to you as you walk beside him, and hands you a piece of paper. “Your timetable,” He explains, voice hushed and awkward.

Your eyebrows furrow as you read over it. Out of all the possible combinations, given how huge the year is, you seriously doubt it’s a coincidence that all your classes are shared with Gryffindor. The staff have probably pulled a few strings for you to be with Remus and his friends. You’re pleased that Dumbledore doesn’t hate you so much as you keep you apart. It doesn’t do much to warm your feelings towards him, but every little helps. You follow him into the great hall, elbows touching slightly, and end up sitting down between him and Peter. “Ugh, what’s that weirdo doing here? She’ll ruin our reputation!” James stage whispers to Sirius and smiles smugly when you frown.

Sirius lightly slaps his friend’s arm when he sees the frown on your face, probably because he feels bad for you. “I dunno, they’re cute.” He suggests, throwing his head back in laughter at James’ scandalised expression.

“She is cute, not they.” Insists James stubbornly.

“You’re actual frothing at the mouth obsessing over someone else’s bits, mate!” Sirius laughs.

Flushing in embarrassment, James drops the subject for now. Just sitting there doing nothing starts to get to you. Picking up a spoon, you help yourself to some porridge. It tastes like ash. Warm, gloopy ash. Halfway into your second spoonful, your stomach turns. You jump up from the table in a panic, hand over your mouth, and rush out of the great hall. You don’t know where you’re going though and in the middle of the hallway, you throw up. It feels horrible. You feel horrible. Disgusting and weird. Suddenly, you realise someone is petting your hair and murmuring reassurances. They don’t smell like Remus. “Who?” You gasp, body trembling.

“I’m Lily, a Gryffindor second year.” She explains, still rubbing your back. “Shoosh, you’re going to be okay.”

Remus bursts into the corridor. “Are you okay, ______?”

“Yes, Remus, I am absolutely fine.” You grind your teeth as you turn to look at him, voice made of pure venom.

Slowly, you open your eyes. Lily’s arm is still on the small of your back rubbing up and down in a rhythmic motion. You feel wrong. You feel starving. Remus looks from the floor to your eyes and watches in horror as they turn a deep, rich shade of red that mimics the blood you’re lusting for. “Lily, you need to leave.” He says, and seeing her open her mouth to protest, adds firmly, “Now.” She huffs and swishes her hair over her shoulder. As she walks past Remus, you can hear her heart beating. You scramble to your feet to take a step to follow her, but Remus quickly grabs your shoulder and spins you around. He keeps a firm hold on you, even as you thrash and try to chase after Lily.

Sucking on a bloodpop in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office, you decide you’re never sitting with the Gryffindors again.

#sirius x reader #sirius black x reader #platonic!reader #remus x reader #marauders era #marauders #marauders x reader

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viralhottopics · 7 years

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The ‘Something To Wrestle’ podcast sparks nostalgia for old-school WWE hilarity

By conventional podcast standards, Something To Wrestle with Bruce Prichard should not be a hit. The episodesoften shoot past the three-hour mark. The topics sometimes are the kind of minutiae only hardcore wrestling fans from 30 years ago would remember. And the hosts arent household names—Prichard was a memorable WWE, then known as WWF, character in the late 1980s and early 1990s, but spent most of his wrestling career behind the cameras. Co-host Conrad Thompson owns a mortgage company in Alabama.

But somehow, the two have sliced open a vein in wrestling fans conscience, and though the podcast is only eight months old, close to a million people are downloading Something To Wrestle every week.

There are no stars. There are no guests. There are no short shows. Why, then, does this podcast work so well, even when it probably shouldnt?

People arent as interested in star power as they are in content, Thompson, who owns 1st Family Mortgage Company, told the Daily Dot. Maybe its enough to start a podcast. But is it going to be enough to bring them back? Contrast that with our show. Weve involved our listeners. Its because of our inside jokes, its because of our chemistry, its because of Bruces storytelling. Its as close as anybody is going to get to being inside Vince McMahons head.

The mind of the WWE CEO is still real estate people want to explore. Pro wrestling is that way, in general, especially if you grew up watching Hulk Hogan or Andre the Giant or Stone Cold Steve Austin, the Rock, or John Cena. Prichard and Thompson have no problem feeding listeners with oodles of information—some of it arcane, some of it absolutely essential—about a variety of topics in yesterdays world of pro wrestling.

Its a world the two have been obsessed with for decades. Thompson grew up watching the WWF in Huntsville, Alabama, and he continues to be a fan. He also co-hostsWhat Happened When, a podcastthat is focused on the disbanded NWA/WCW promotion with former commentator Tony Schiavone.

Prichard is a lifer in the business. He started selling posters for the Houston Wrestling promotion when he was 10 years old, and as he says, if something in the company needed to be done, Prichard was the one to do it. By 12, he was the assistant director of the promotions local TV show. By 14, he was announcing matches. Two years later, he was a referee, and by 18 years old, I was running the place, he said.

Prichard was passionate about the business and hungry to learn as much as he could. He listened to the stories of old-time wrestlers. He asked questions. He learned something new every day. He wasnt interested in becoming a full-time in-ring performer. He wanted to stay in the shadows and have a hand in controlling the entire thing.

You can go out and be one character, or you could be behind the scenes, create many characters, and develop all of them, Prichard told the Daily Dot. I got to be everybody.

By his mid-20s, Prichard had joined the WWF, and eventually, he would become one of the most important people in the front office, helping write storylines, produce promos, engage in talent relations, and run the TV shows. Oh, and he got to perform in front of thousands of people as Brother Love, the fake televangelist with a bright red face who had a penchant for telling everybody (in his smarmy way) that he loved them.

Perhaps the main reason Something To Wrestle works so well is because Prichard has an uncanny ability to remember most everything that happened around him during his 22 years in the WWF/WWE. Thompson asks him a question about minor details from a match that happened in 1997, and most of the time, Prichard can answer him with precise description.

Still, Prichard originally wasnt sold on participating in a podcast. He didnt think people would care about the memories of an old wrestling hand, and he didnt realize the appetite fans had for nostalgia. He met Thompson through wrestling legend Ric Flaira few years back, and they became casual friends, then co-workers in Thompsons mortgage business. Prichard would tell Thompson old wrestling stories, and one day, after Prichard recounted the tale of how a group of WCW wrestlers, known as the Radicalz, jumped to the WWF in 2000, Thompson looked at Prichard and said, This is a podcast.

Prichard laughed it off—he wasnt keen on sharing his stories, because they were his stories and because he didnt think anybody would care.

I guess I was wrong, Prichard said.

The first podcast, which told the tale of Dusty Rhodes in the WWF, garnered about 60,000 downloads. Eight months later, on theWrestlemania 13 episode, it scored400,000 downloads in the first 24 hours.

Thompson thought a podcast could work, because instead of recapping the latest WWE TV shows and storylines, this would be a longform discussion on a singular topic from the past. The podcast has stayed true to that initial idea, but its also morphed into something more.

Theres an undeniable chemistry between Thompson and Prichard—they yell at each other and insult each other, though its also clear the two are great friends with a bevy of inside jokes that seem to never stop being funny—and Prichard has a talent for impersonating the wrestlers and characters with whom he worked. Those caricatures have become a highlight of every episode, especially when Prichard goes into an impression of McMahon, Rhodes, Macho Man Randy Savage, or former wrestling promoter Jerry Jarrett. (Prichards impersonation of Jarrett explaining to a waiter how to make chicken salad might be the top moment in Something To Wrestle history.)

Thompson and Prichard want to make their listeners feel like part of the family—as Thompson said, its not unlike the way Howard Stern built his enormous fanbase—and for pro wrestling fans who already are trained to love these kinds of insider gags and lingo, its a godsend.

I realized there was an appetite for it, Prichard said. That people were interested in the business. They love the business, and they wanted more. They wanted to feel more a part of it. They were longing for an opinion from someone other than somebody who had never been there and who had never done it.

And people stay and listen. Though Prichard and Thompson were told they shouldnt run over 90 minutes on each podcast episode—that the audience would lose interest and hit the stop button—the opposite has happened. If a podcast is less than three hours in length, Prichard and Thompson hear complaints. Not only that, but they said their research has shown that 86 percent of people listen to the podcast all the way through, a statistical anomaly in the podcasting world.

Said Prichard: Weve broken the rules on everything.

Theyve also introduced innovative marketing ideas. Whenever a fan buys a shirt from Prichard on Pro Wrestling Tees, Prichard makes sure to give that person a phone call to chat for a few minutes and to say thank you. But even more inclusive is the fact that the podcast listeners get to choose the topics of the next show. The show posts new episodes every Friday, and on that same day, Thompson and Prichard unveil a poll to the @PrichardShow Twitter account. Whichever topic gets the most votes wins for the next week.

Said Thompson: Its sales 101. In sales, you should ask the buyers, ‘What are you in the mood to buy?’ Rather than us playing darts in the dark.

The two also implemented a strategy to procure iTunes reviews—which has helped make them one of the highest-ranked and best-rated wrestling podcasts around. If they could get 1,000 reviews, they tell viewers theyll post a bonus show. For 1,500 reviews, theyd post another bonus show. And for 2,000 reviews, theyd post a show detailing why and how Prichardwas twice fired by the WWE. As of this writing, Something To Wrestle has nearly 2,500 reviews.

Vote Houston Wrestling @PrichardShow NOW http://pic.twitter.com/3lTsPEyQy6

— #LoveToKnow (@PrichardShow) February 12, 2017

Hearing lots of haters debate our numbers this week. Someone says we do 300k per week? Try 991k. Look at WM13 from Friday, 502k. #RollTide http://pic.twitter.com/oXrV0FUZWo

— Conrad Thompson (@HeyHeyItsConrad) March 28, 2017

But the podcast also eats up plenty of Thompsons time. One reason the show works so well is because Thompson asks such probing questions about the tiniest details. The reason Thompson knows to ask is because he spends about eight hours per episode researching the topic, which involves re-watching old pay-per-views, reading archived wrestling newsletters, and skimming through wrestler autobiographies.

There are no restrictions on what Thompson can ask, and unless the query is about the amount of money earned by specific wrestlers, Prichard answers just about everything. That kind of honesty on this kind of show has also led Prichard back to the wrestling ring. He was released by the WWE for the final time in 2008, but after seeing the impact of Something To Wrestle, Impact Wrestling (basically, the second most important wrestling promotion in the U.S. today) hired him last month as a consultant (probably in part because Prichards show attracts exponentially more listeners than Impact does for its TV shows).

On Sunday, the WWE will present Wrestlemania 33 on its biggest day of the year. Prichard and Thompson will have already completed their first live show, an event in Orlando, Florida, the night before that sold out within a few weeks of it being announced. Fans will watch the current-day wrestlers win titles and take crazy bumps and try to make themselves legends.

But next week, when the wrestling world goes back to normal, nearly a million people will download the latest episode of Something To Wrestle and journey back to a time when Hulk Hogan ruled the world and when fans chanted for Austin and the Rock all night long. Prichard and Thompson will trade insults, gags, inside jokes, and impersonations. People will listen for three hours.

Then, theyll wait hungrily for more.