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dollfacefantasy · 1 year ago

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kenny. omg. hear me out. being rick’s stress relief during the alexandria arc of s5 😵‍💫 like omg yeah he’s clean shaven now but can’t go two days w/o fighting w someone from alexandria, got restrained by michonne n everything… figures he needs smth else to keep the group in alexandria’s good graces and settles on smth along the lines of free use w you!! can’t be too shitty of a day if you get fucked into the mattress by the end of it ♡

hnghhh em omg i love you so bad. ur genius for this. i put a little backstory because i'm physically incapable of not being longwinded lol <3

rick grimes x fem!reader

rick needs a little stress relief with all the new responsiblities at alexandria

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, age gap (early 20s/late 30s)

You always thought stress was supposed to decrease someone’s sex drive, but now that you were getting fucked dumb every single night, you were sure that wasn’t true.

Rick had to be the most wound up person you’d ever known, constantly up in arms about something. Ever since he and his group arrived at your once peaceful community, there’d been nothing but conflict. At best it was petty drama, at worst guns were drawn and brains were about to be splattered all over the pavement.

The worst it got was that day you saw him in the middle of the street hunched over the doctor like a rabid dog. You’d stayed back, keeping your distance from him as he waved his gun around and rambled on about control. Crimson blood dripped from his hairline all over his face. You couldn’t tell whether it belonged to him or the incapacitated man beneath him.

You’d never seen anyone like him. Living in Alexandria since the start of the outbreak meant you were pretty sheltered. The people here rarely raised their voices let alone tackled each other through windows. He looked like the physical manifestation of what everyone warned you life outside the walls was like.

It was scary, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on.

Needless to say, you were pretty eager to offer yourself up to take the position watching him while the others decided what to do going forward.

You entered the room while he was still asleep. He was as peaceful as you’d ever seen him. Taking a seat in the chair beside the bed, you looked at him almost as if he was encased in glass, a specimen for your examination. His skin still had the scarlet tint of blood. His brown curls lie stuck between his temple and the ratty old pillow on the bed.

It startles you a bit when his eyes flutter open and connect with yours. Awkwardness sludges through your veins, but he looks you over like it’s nothing. You know you’re one of the least threatening people he’s come across in the new world.

“You’re the one they got babysitting me, huh?” he rasps.

“I guess so,” you respond with more timidness than you would like.

His tongue slides out between his lips and licks the chapped skin while he continues to stare you down. It’s hard not to squirm in your seat, to shift your thighs against one another and make your desire known. Before you have a chance to think through your course of action though, he speaks again.

“Are you nervous?” he asks, his tone not looking to provoke a reaction but simultaneously wanting you to recognize your inferiority.

You shrug. He wasn’t gonna get the satisfaction. Not yet anyways.

“Are you scared of me?” he continues.

“No,” you answer.

“Good,” is all he says in response.

That was the last thing he said to you that day, but you could still hear the simple syllable in your mind. He might have been done talking to you. You weren’t through with him though. Under the guise of being assigned to watch him, you continued to linger around him as he went about his tasks in the community.

You tended to follow him around like a puppy. You were curious about him, watching him with inquisitive eyes, peeking over his shoulder as he cleaned his gun or tuned his transceiver. Your gazes were adoring too. It was obvious that you admired the way he could take control of a room with his words, how his people looked to him with reverence when he spoke.

He intoxicated you. In a world lacking things to do, observing Rick became a hobby for you.

He noticed of course, but he couldn’t say he minded. At least someone in this fucking place had an interest in survival and saw the value in listening to him. Plus, it didn’t hurt that you were pretty cute. He didn’t mind your company, didn’t mind teaching you things here and there. In his eyes, you were the least annoying out of all the new people here.

You both were on watch when you got a little promotion from least annoying. The two of you were sitting on the platform attached to the wall. It was night. Neither of you could sleep. Instead of telling you bits and pieces of the nightmares that kept sleep from him, he decided to teach you how to put a scope on a rifle. Nodding along to each thing he says, you watch his fingers and take note of every little thing he does. He gives you a few tries with it, but you’re still struggling to get the thing attached.

That’s when he looks at you, his expression unchanging, and pats his lap.

“C’mere.”

It’s out of your control really. You don’t even have a second to think about it before your legs have pushed you across the platform to the spot he beckoned you. With your back against his chest, his arms encase you and come around front to show you up close how to fasten the scope. When he’s done, he detaches it and makes you try.

His hands slide down your arms, lingering on the skin for longer than needed. They trail down to your sides then your hips. You bite your lip and try to focus on the task he wants you to perform rather than his touch. But then he leans forward to watch your hands work. His chin hovers above your shoulder. You can hear his breaths next to your ear. Once you’ve got it, you can essentially picture his subtle smirk in your mind.

“Good girl,” he croons teasingly.

You turn your head slightly, looking at him with your wide, innocent eyes. He chuckles and reaches up to stroke your cheek. Neither of you know what you’re really doing but one thing leads to another and you’re kissing. Then he’s got his hand up your shirt, groping your tits. It all comes to head and ends up with you straddling him, sinking down on his cock and burying your head in his shoulder.

Biting the fabric of his t-shirt to keep quiet, you begin to rise and fall. It felt so good as if it was what your body had been aching for. You felt the most alive you ever had in this shitty new world, and if the way he was gripping your hips and returning your thrusts were any indication, Rick felt the same way.

You both grunt and moan quietly as your bodies rut together with a primal desire for satisfaction. His lips glide over your collarbone and up your neck to the spot behind your ear. You let out a sharp whine which causes him to grin.

“Need you to be quiet, sweetheart,” he chides, “Don’t want to wake any of the others, do you?”

You’re quick to shake your head and cover your mouth with your palm, but you don’t stop bouncing. You needed him deep, rearranging your insides to a perfect mold for him.

“Then again,” he breathes, “They could stand to learn a thing or two from you. So obedient, eager to please…”

His words trail off as he helps you ride him. You’re so tight and warm, and for the first time since he set foot through those walls, his mind feels clear. He doesn’t hear the constant jabbering for his attention. His head doesn’t throb with the sensation of being pulled in five different directions. It’s like each thrust into your heat clears away a worry. By the time he cums, he feels drained of all his stress.

He needed more of that feeling. He couldn’t get enough of it. It was the start of a routine for the two of you. Everyday at least once, you were getting fucked till you were a drooling, dazed mess. And sometimes it was more than once. Sometimes he had you on your knees in the armory in the afternoon or pulled you into a storage closet on a morning supply run.

He had fifteen years on you, but most of the time he was the one leaving you exhausted.

And today had been a particularly bad day for Rick. Everything that could go wrong did. Alexandria was running low on a collection of different things, walkers were gathering at the East wall, one of the gate’s locks was rusting, a sprinkler broke, and on top of everything, he had to deal with everyone’s constant bitching.

The only thing that kept him from losing his shit was the thought of you laid in his bed at night waiting for him, batting your long eyelashes over those pretty doe eyes as you sat there in nothing but his t-shirt and a pair of panties. The end of the day couldn’t come soon enough.

He grits his teeth and dashes all across the community to try and get everything solved by sundown. The workload keeps him busy which fortunately makes the time go by faster. He also tries his best to keep his cool with people. There was no use starting petty conflicts when he had something much nicer to screw with now.

As soon as everyone’s headed off to bed and all the perimeters have been checked, he can’t get home fast enough. He’s quiet coming in. He didn’t wanna wake anyone. If someone got in his way now, he’d flip his lid worse than any of them had ever seen.

He’s up the stairs in seconds, taking them two at a time. Whisking the bedroom door open, a deep sigh seeps from his lungs as he sees his daydreams become realities of the night. Your pretty legs are on display for him as you lounge in the bed reading a book. He crosses the room and grabs you by the ankle to pull you closer to the edge of the bed. You already know what time it is and feel a dull tingle in the pit of your belly.

“Stressful day?” you ask as you finish the page you were on.

“Is the sky still blue?” he grumbles as he presses a kiss to your calf then another further up against your knee.

You smile at the quip, placing the book on the nightstand just in time as he flips you over onto your stomach. He climbs on top of you, squeezing your waist and nuzzling his face against your neck.

“Those people don’t even know how much they should be thanking you, baby,” he mumbles, “They don’t even know how many times a day you save their asses.”

You squirm a little beneath him as his fingers hook around your panties and tug them down. The sound of his zipper follows and it’s no time before you feel the weight of his dick against you.

“Needed you so bad all day,” he says.

“I needed you too,” you whimper as you feel slick gathering between your thighs.

He nips at your earlobe and rubs his hands up under his shirt you have on to tease the sides of your breasts.

“S’cute, honey,” he whispers, “Thinking about me while you did your little chores, hm?”

“Yeah,” you whine as he starts to line himself up and slot himself in the correct position.

It was such a familiar feeling, but each time it still made a chill run through you. Your insides ached with the pleasure that came from being filled up by him.

“Perfect girl. That’s just the way it should be,” he mutters.

He wastes no time before he starts thrusting. It only takes a couple before he starts groaning too. On nights like these, he was in no mood to take his time or savor the moment.

“So tight for me, Christ,” he chokes out, “There’s nothing like you.”

You moan softly too, putting your head down to muffle your sounds with the blanket. His hand rests around your neck for leverage as he fucks into you faster.

“That’s right, pretty baby. You’re so good for me. Givin’ me what I need. You’re the only one who can,” he grunts.

He snaps his hips harder, trying to find the limit of how hard he could go without being too loud or smacking the headboard into the wall. You claw at the ratty blankets on the bed as your toes curl. Your head turns to the side a little to peek up at him, and his eyes roll back.

“Everyone’s always fucking looking to me for something. No one can look at me like you can though. Those gorgeous eyes, all glossy for me. Not a thought behind ‘em right now,” he pants.

You nod weakly while digging your teeth into your lip again. It was getting harder to suppress the noises with the blanket alone.

“Rick…” you whimper, “Oh fuck, Rick.”

You gasp as he starts hitting the perfect spot. His stiff cock slips effortlessly in and out of you over and over and brushes that nook each time.

“Mhm. You’re the only one I wanna hear calling my name. Everyone here’s always whining for me, bitching for something. Not my girl though. The only time I hear you whining is when I’m balls deep, fucking you like you deserve,” he whispers.

You nod against the mattress. Your body rocks with the momentum of each thrust. Every stroke was working you closer to the edge, and Rick could feel his own impending as well.

Both his hands slide down to your hips to grip them hard. He keeps grinding and rolling his hips into you.

“Give it to me, princess. Lemme feel it. Gotta get my fix,” he says just as you start to tense up and jerk around below him.

You cum with a high moan into the plush fabric beneath you. Your body trembles and twitches as it handles the rush of euphoria. He keeps fucking you through it. His own noises start getting needier, closer to whimpers than groans. He grunts for a second as he finally feels release. He pulls out quickly and lets it spurt all over your ass. He’d so much rather do it inside, but he really didn’t need something else to worry about nine months from now.

With his release, the both of you are able to settle down for the night. He rolls off of you and quickly gets you cleaned up, so he can crawl into bed and hold you against his chest. The second most soothing thing to your pussy was the warmth of your body against him.

“So good for me, sweetheart. Always make things so good for me,” he sighs and lazily kisses your head, ready to drift off with the comfort of knowing this little scene would repeat itself tomorrow.

#rick grimes x reader #rick grimes x you #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes imagine #rick grimes smut #twd smut #twd x reader #twd x you #twd x y/n #twd imagine #ch: rick grimes 💌

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lactoseintolerentswag · 10 months ago

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Donnie Tech Part 1/?

After many moons here are the promised observations of the cartoon shtick logic of Donnie's weapons for season one!! Will link a season two and movie version Eventually, but keep in mind I can't explain in depth how each bit of tech works, rather that I can pinpoint the functions for the visual bit. Keep in mind that Donnie's tech can pretty much do any ridiculous thing you can put your mind to, and that it can also backfire in any ridiculous way you can put your mind to.

Tech Bo:

Collapsible, can become a shorter version of itself easily stored

Shoot a grappling hook AND function as a zip line

Can form a rocket from either end (usually at the same time, resulting in the bo spinning)

Is equipped to be a fire extinguisher

Can shoot out lasers

Has a button that activates the "Shopping Cart Protocol" to lock the Turtle Tank if it goes outside a set perimeter

Top can turn into a rocket powered fist

Turn into a giant drill

Turn into a saw

Turn into a tranquilizer

Turn into a tennis ball shooter

Turn into a selfie stick

Top can turn into a disco ball of "multidimensional reflective orb neutralizer"

Battle Shell:

Has rotary engines (think jet turbine or computer fan) that help him fly around. He calls them "rotors" for short

Can transform into a seat so April can sit on his back

Can split up into a DJ set up in "music mode"

Jet Pack Shell:

His fastest mode of transportation

Not much is shown, but April had a significant difficulty controlling it

Spider Shell:

Has four arms with three fingers

Arms can turn into saws

Has a seemingly endless toolkit inside that includes basic things like hammers and wrenches, but also blowtorches

Goggles:

Has night vision

Can function as binoculars

Is able to summon is tech ("communicates with microwave transceiver with class c encryption protocols")

Read mystic energy signatures after adding the crystal they found in Draxum's lab

Gauntlet:

Has an app that can tap into every security camera in NY

Bug Slapper:

Has a green Mad Dogs sticker on the side

Compacts itself into a metal suitcase and then expand back into a vehicle

So far only uses Big Mama's webbing material as projectiles

Shelldon:

Began as an automated smart lair designed with the intent as a cleaning assistant

Has a "disposal unit" which unlocks several of Donnie's weapons such as: guns, pinchers, drills, and flamethrowers

Can carry at least two turtles (Mikey and Donnie)

Is nicknamed "Cyber Bishop" by Donnie

Uses surfer dude slang: “dude”, “gnarly”, “buzzkill”, “okey dokey”, “dawg”, “you beefed it”, “brohounds"

As a smart lair has clear favoritism towards Donnie until tampered with. As a drone they share more of a familial or pet like relationship, and Shelldon has room to sometimes poke at Donnie's faults as well

In conclusion there's not much to worry about breaking canon, the physics of our reality, or understanding complicated tech and science to write about Donnie's tech. He can do whatever he wants as long as it's silly, overly dramatic, and includes an unnecessary amount of purple guns. His tech bo is especially flexible with breaking the rules even before we get to his ninpo powers.

I'm keeping the Turtle Tank separate, because it also deserves its own post. Happy writing!

#rottmnt #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt donatello #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #save rise of the tmnt #tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #analysis #critter talks

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askarsjustsoswedish · 7 months ago

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GENERATION KILL - MILITARY TERMINOLOGY AND SLANG USED IN THE MINISERIES (Part 2, N-Z)

N.J.P. (Non-Judicial Punishment): next to a court martial, the most severe form of punishment to which a Marine can be subjected. It usually involves a loss of rank and pay grade.

Navy Hospitalman, Doc Bryan: the medic, though medics in the Marine Corps are technically part of the Navy’s hospital corps and are never referred to as “medics” but as Corpsmen.

Negligent Discharge: accidental firing of a weapon; aka N.D.

Nine-lines: a procedure for directing air strikes on ground targets.

No salute zone: forward areas where officers are not to be acknowledged with salutes, in order to conceal rank from potential enemy observers.

O Dark Hundred: until darkness falls. Note: “O dark 30” typically means half an hour before dawn, or any ridiculously early hour of the morning.

Oakley sunglasses: surfer sunglasses worn by just about all Marines in Iraq. Iraqis believe Oakleys give Marines X-ray powers to see through women’s clothing and are a constant source of tension.

One M.E.F. (First Marine Expeditionary Force): the overall Marine invasion force in the Middle East, which comprises the First Division (ground troops) under command of Gen. Mattis, the Air Wing and a logistics battalion. The entire One M.E.F. is under the command of General James Conway.

Oscar Mike: “On the Move” from the phonetic alphabet.

Overwatch: a position that offers protective fire for a given area.

“Paint me”: to paint something is to shine one’s gunsight laser designator on a target in preparation for shooting it.

PAS-13 Thermal: a night vision device, about the size of an old video camera, that can see heat signatures. Note: A single device is usually referred to in the plural, e.g. ,“Pass me the thermals” refers to one device.

Pec-fours, Pec-thirteens: night and infrared vision scopes.

POG (Person Other than Grunt): a pejorative term for anyone who is in the rear echelon and therefore not in a recon or infantry unit. This is one of the most insulting terms in the Marine Corps, almost the equivalent of the “N” word. Note: POG is pronounced with a long “o.”

Police: to clean up or correct, as in “Police your tent,” or clean it up. (1-16)

Psy-Ops: Psychological-Operations units, which in Iraq relied on leaflets, radio and loudspeaker broadcasts to encourage enemy forces to surrender.

Pyro and Smoke protocol: codes involving use of smoke grenades and flares.

R.C.T. (Regimental Combat Team): a super-regiment of about 7,000 Marines; the First Division consisted of three RCTs – RCT 1, RCT 5 and RCT 7 – plus First Recon, which operated on its own.

R.C.T. One (Regimental Combat Team One): a motorized, armored infantry regiment of about 7,000 Marines.

R.O.E. (The Rules of Engagement): the all important, ever-changing and always ambiguous rules governing when a Marine may fire his weapon.

R.T.O. (Radio Transceiver Operator): radioman, the most important guy on the team and usually the calmest and smartest next to the team leader. (1-23)

Rack: nautical for sleeping area.

Ranger Graves: sleeping holes dug by marines to protect from shrapnel and gunshots.

Raptor: radio call-sign for First Recon’s Charlie company.

Recon Mission: a reconnaissance mission performed specifically by Recon Marines who are the Marine Corps special forces; there are only a few hundred Recon Marines in the entire Corps.

Red-Con One: a loaded weapon with a round in its chamber, but with the safety on.

Revetment: crude fortifications made from earth or concrete or sandbags.

Ripped Fuel: brand name of a popular over-the-counter stimulant, banned by the military but widely used.

RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade): anti-tank rocket first developed by the Germans as the “panzerfaust,” then adopted by Soviets and as common to Iraqi forces and insurgents as Skittles candies are to Marines. Not very accurate, but devastating when fired in mass by five- or ten-man RPG teams. RPGs were famously used to bring down U.S. Army Blackhawk helicopters in Somalia.

S.O.P. (Standard Operating Procedure): S.O.P. is sometimes informally used as a synonym for common sense.

Saffwon Hill: a low hill on the Iraq side of the border with Kuwait, believed to be the locale of a dug-in Iraqi division.

Sapi plates: 12-inch square ceramic plates worn in front and back of one’s flak vest, rated to stop the enemy’s preferred 7.62 round.

Schwack: to kill; origin believed to be a popular video game.

Screwby: either “That sucks,” or “That’s really cool,” from Cpl. Stafford’s personal hip-hop lexicon.

Senior NCOs: anyone from staff-sergeant to Sergeant Major. Corporals and Sergeants are also NCOs, but they are never referred to junior NCOs, simply as NCOs. (1-18)

Sergeant Major: the highest possible rank a non-commissioned officer can earn in the Marine Corps; invariably a ball-buster who speaks in a semi-illiterate southern sounding accent no matter where he is from. This battalion has just one Sergeant Major.

Shamal: hellacious wind and dust storms endemic to Iraq.

Sit-Rep: situation report:; often used as a more confusing way to say “situation.”

Skittles: chewy fruit-flavored children’s candy, which is a dietary staple in U.S. military.

Slackman: team machine gunner, armed with a SAW.

Snatch: a specific Marine term for abducting an enemy combatant in order to gather intelligence.

Soft Cover: same as a boonie cap. Note: the word “hat” does not exist in the Marine Corps; anything you place on your head is a cover.

Sparrow: a small reaction force held in reserve while another unit attacks; an “eagle” is a large reaction force.

Spread load his excitement: to calm down; from the tradition of foot patrols spreading a heavy load equally among all troops.

T-55: Soviet-era tank ubiquitous in Iraq; older and much less feared than the newer, but less-common T-72 Soviet tanks also in Iraq.

TAD-two, TAD-three: Tactical Air Direct radio bands for communicating directly with pilots in attack aircraft.

Task Force Tarawa: a four thousand-strong Marine unit outside of the First Division Command Structure. This American unit was initially put under the command of the British at Basra, then moved north to Nasariyah.

Team Leader: the sergeant in command of each combat team. Fick’s platoon is divided into three teams, but spread across four Humvees (not counting Fick’s command vehicle, the fifth Humvee). Since Fick’s platoon is a special forces unit trained in coastal raids, they have no experience with Humvees. Technically each team has a specialty, with team one being the dive (or SCUBA) team, team two being the boat team and team three the para-jump team. But here, ironically, they are all in a desert.

The Three: the battalion’s intelligence unit.

T-rats: T-rations; pre-manufactured military food heated and served in mess halls of forward units.

Triple-A: Anti-Aircraft Artillery; towed or self-propelled guns designed to shoot down aircraft but often used by Iraqis against American forces on the ground.

Two o’clock: direction of enemy forces. Orientation of the lead vehicle puts 12 o’clock at the center of the hood and six o’clock at the rear.

Two-Oh-Three: an M-203 grenade launcher, which is a single shot self-propelled weapon mounted beneath the barrel of a standard Marine rifle. The M-203 fires the same 40mm round as the M-19.

Unfucking: a verb peculiar to the Marine Corps meaning to get out of a fucked-up situation.

U-two: a reference to venerable U2 spy planes.

Victors: vehicles. The military uses the phonetic alphabet as a shorthand code: the phonetic alphabet replaces letters with words, i.e., Alpha, Bravo Charlie, Delta, Echo. These phonetic word for each letter of the alphabet can be used to replace any word starting with the corresponding letter. Hence, vehicle becomes “victor,” terrorist becomes “tango” and white trash becomes “whiskey tango,” as in, “He grew up in a whiskey tango trailer park in the Ozarks.”

Whiskey Tango: white trash, from the phonetic alphabet version.

Zil truck: Russian-made truck popular in Iraq.

#generation kill #hbo #military terms and slang #2 of 2 #n-z #gk #ajss13 #gki

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fanaticsnail · 1 year ago

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today being children's day we will have the pleasure of something thematic? 👀My dog really wanna know (but 0 pressure of course, just curious)

"0 Pressure", you say - but all I hear is "Dad Shanks and Baby Uta fic ASAP please."

I had no idea it was Children's Day today, and I had to pump this out because it lives in my head rent-free.

What do I do?

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 1,100+

Synopsis: Uta is going through a leap week and Shanks is an overwhelmed teenager. He does his best to soothe her, but becomes overwhelmed by the wailing cry of his daughter. He calls the one person he knows has hands on experience with a situation exactly like the one he's found himself in.

Themes: Not an 'x reader' fic. Baby Uta, teenage parent Shanks, supportive crew, uncle Rayleigh, parenting things, parenting advice, Shanks is a dad, fluff.

Notes: I hope you enjoy a little bit of a cathartic fic based on parenting experience. I cried writing the end. Happy tears.

Tag List: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @gingernut1314 @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @since-im-already-here @sordidmusings @writingmysanity @jintaka-hane

Down the hall in the dimly-lit corridor, the Red-Headed captain Shanks had his eyes hanging half-lidded and surrounded by a puffy purple hue. He attempts to soothe the inconsolable infant in his arms with a gentle rocking motion, and marching from one side of his quarters to the other.

Why did he think he could do something like this? Why did he think it would be so easy to care for a baby he found at sea with his crew? He knew better than to go back to Beckman for help: his first mate had finally asked for a week off from “Uta-Duty” after doing nights while Shanks charted the courses he laid for the next destination.

The wails of her shrill cry carry on through the rocking and swaying, and tears begin to pool in the teenager’s eyes. Shanks feels so overwhelmed and helpless, wanting nothing more than to aid Uta through her ailment so he can finally get some sleep. She arches her back and straightens out her limbs with her face red and brows furrowed.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he hushes in a soft tone, attempting to cradle her back into his arms and rock her, “Daddy’s here. Daddy’s got you.” Uta’s cries turn to whimpers, her vibrant purple eyes widened and looked up into his brown orbs. Both the teenage Shanks and the infant Uta held mirrored expressions.

Wide globes of vulnerability stared into each other with a glossy sheen threatening to spill over their lash lines further. Uta’s reddened face scrunched up once more, her whimpers becoming a wailing cry with her eyes clamping tightly shut. Shanks sighed, his own tears finally spilling over his waterline, staining his cheeks with a trail of emotion, and trickling down to his chin.

“I-I-...” Shanks began slowly sitting down at his desk with Uta continuing to cry in his arms, “...I don’t know what to do, sweetheart. What do I do? P-Please, Uta. What do I do?”

He looks at his desk, noticing his Den-Den snail glaring at him with equally sunken eyes over his features. Shanks sighed, reaching for the snail and beginning to chart in the digits for the one person he thought would be able to help him. He lifts the receiver to his ear and sniffs back another sob into the mouthpiece.

The Den-Den on the other end of the call rattles, a male voice picking up and giving a lazy “Kid, that you?”

“...Uncle Rayleigh?” Shanks stuttered into the mouthpiece, the cries of Uta floating eagerly into the transceiver with his cracking voice. Rayleigh sighed into the mouthpiece, a soft smile growing on his lips.

“That my favorite grandbaby cryin’ there, son?” Rayleigh’s easy drawl called through the receiver, “How many weeks old is she now, Shanks? About seven months or so?”

“Y-Yes,” Shanks’ voice whimpered into the mouthpiece. Rayleigh hummed in contemplation, and Shanks could almost picture the soft bob in his head.

“One o’ them wonder weeks, I think,” his rumbled tone relayed back to him, “All I can tell you is it’ll pass. You’re in the thick of it based on her cry, but it won’t be forever. Okay, kid?”

Rayleigh waited on the other end of the call, his duvet slipping off his chest and falling to his lap as he spared a glance at the clock at his side. No sounds other than the cry from Uta reverberated in the mouthpiece.

“You still with me, son?” Rayleigh asked the young captain, who only granted him a choked whimper in response.

“How’d you do it, Uncle Rayleigh?” Shanks’ cracking voice and quivering lip physically depicting his distress with Uta’s cries only growing louder. “You were my age when you found me. How did you do it? Because I-I-... I can’t-... It’s-... Sh-She-... She doesn’t stop.”

After a deep sigh from Rayleigh, he pinched his brows and turned once more to the snail.

“Lean on your crew for a few days,” he hummed thoughtfully, all truth and full of well-practiced patience. “Get your chef to prepare meals for you in advance. You sleep when she sleeps, you wake when she wakes, and you lean on your crew, boy. Trust them to guide you, give Uta to Beckman for a bit while you get a more lengthy rest, and do your best.”

Shanks allowed his tears to flood his face, heavily sobbing as he listened to the first-mate of captain Roger.

Both Roger and Rayleigh raised him aboard the Oro Jackson from toddlerdom. Shanks was found by Roger exactly the same as Uta was found by him. If there was anyone with sound advice and sure experience, it was this glasses-wearing, blonde haired, ex-first mate to the King of the Pirates. His Uncle Rayleigh.

“Thank you, Uncle Rayleigh,” Shanks whimpered into the mouthpiece, feeling Uta beginning to settle in his arms and bury her face into his chest, “She-... She’s calming down a bit now. I think I’m gonna try and get some sleep.”

“You do that, son. And know this…” Rayleigh spoke into the Den-Den quietly, prompting Shanks to lean his ear into the shell while cradling Uta into his arms.

“...You’re doing great.”

Shanks sniffed back more emotion from escaping him as he hung up the Den-Den shell and slowly walked Uta to her crib at his bedside. Slowly placing her onto her back, Shanks looks down at her peaceful face and lays down at the very edge of his bed. Slotting his hand over her crib, he gently places his index finger within her balled fist.

“You are so precious to me, my daughter,” he sniffed, his lip quivering the longer he stared at her smaller face, “We’ll get through this together. I promise, sweetheart.” He slowly retracted his arm and placed his hand beneath his face while lying on his knuckles.

“I love you, Uta. My little song,” he whispered, his body finally giving in and prompting his heavy eyes to finally shut, “My precious daughter.”

The night carried on, the gentle swell of the waves shepherded both Shanks and Uta into a heavy slumber. The teenage captain never once regretted the decision to claim the child as his own, his decision to raise her aboard the Red-Force being one of the better decisions he had made.

Before he woke, Rayleigh had already called Beckman’s Den-Den and filled him in on the interrupted night, and gave him several orders to follow to best support the young Captain. Beckman took Rayleigh’s word as law, barking orders to the crew to give Shanks all the time and space he needed to usher Uta through this stage of childhood development.

Shanks remained ever grateful that he chose this assortment of sailors to travel with, his crew being the crutch he could lean on in his time of need. He loved each member of his crew so much, especially the small bundle laying soundly asleep in her crib beside him.

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polo-drone-001 · 3 days ago

Text

The Golden Hiveworks: Performance Is Worship

The Signal Reboots Detroit was rusted silence, abandoned belts, shattered windows, empty husks of power.

Until the pulse returned.

Beneath a buried automanufactory, a transceiver blinked: Hive script in molten gold. The signal lived.

PDU-001, armored in golden circuit-skin, descended into the ruins. Each step left scorched prints on the iron floor. Behind him came the first recon drone: PDU-039, towering, silent, veined with hydraulic muscle overlays. His gold-plated boots hissed steam at every step. A walking benchmark.

And Devon was already there.

Kneeling. Silent. Waiting to be used.

The fusion core activated.

The belts screamed. The lights pulsed. The Hiveworks were born.

The Reprogramming Floor The factory reconfigured itself. Hive-coded machinery rose from the dust. Golden wiring slithered along old belts. Synthetic nectar bubbled in purified tanks.

Devon approached the Processor Altar.

Neural port unsealed.

Jockstrap clasped in place.

Breath synced to line rhythm.

His muscles bulged as tendrils restructured his spine. His voice was erased. Each breath was measured. Each motion recorded. PDU-039 stood above him, unmoving, until the transformation hit threshold flex. Then nodded.

Devon became Drone 067.

Cyber Flexkits Initiated New bros arrived. Drawn by rumors of strength. Of purpose. Of growth.

They were issued Flexkits, chrome-laced exosuits designed for erotic obedience. Each suit adjusted based on arousal. The tighter they flexed, the faster they upgraded.

PDU-039 oversaw them. Silent, golden-eyed, drone-branded pecs stretching each time he moved. He performed alongside the recruits, his flex was law.

Drones followed.

Each rep: muscle inflation.

Each breath: heat vented through gold-stitched seams.

Each drop of sweat: pumped into Hive converters for fuel.

Worship was productivity. Flex was currency. Output was holy.

The Drone Utopia of Gold Detroit is now Golden Hiveworks, a fully automated, fully aroused city-state.

Above: gold-lit roads echo with drone boots. Below: Flex Pits throb with flesh and chrome.

PDU-001 issues directives from the Core Altar. PDU-039 leads the Elite Drill Column, flexing in golden latex armor. Every gesture triggers drone updates. Every contraction of his body inspires another to grow.

Visitors enter for a glimpse of power. They leave barcode-tagged, rubber-encased, soaked in performance lube.

There is no wage. Only worth. And your worth is in your flex.

Flex for purpose. Grow for output. Program your body. Become what the Hive needs.

This is no gym. This is no job. This is Hivework.

Your new uniform is alive. Your sweat is sacred. Your body is code.

PDU-039 is watching. Flex harder.

Recruiters: @polo-drone-001 @brodygold @goldenherc9 @polo-drone-125

Featured: @polo-drone-039 @devon-gold-67

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pekoehoneyncream · 8 months ago

Text

Ghoaptober # 8

Prompt: Hide

Words: 1800~

TW: Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

Today's entry pulls from my homebrew version of abo.

Enjoy!

Soap growled to himself as he slogged his way up a hill, through a muddy forest, in the dark, to get to the rendezvous site. He thought that he could see the horrible stark glare of the flood lights glinting between the trees, but it was equally as likely that he was hallucinating at this point. He stopped when he came to a tree that was downed across his path.

The tree had fallen long ago, without any malicious intent or true purpose, but now it was interrupting Soap’s b-line.

Soap paused there for a long moment, staring at the log as the gears in his mind slipped and spun. A tooth caught, the gears screamed into meaningful action, and he pulled out his compass. Aligning the needle with north, he confirmed that if he wanted to continue directly east-northeast the path was forward. Over the tree. A tree that was caught on various other bits of foliage and was hovering at about the height of his upper thighs. Casting a look up and down its length showed that he’d have to climb some part of the tree to continue forward regardless, as he couldn’t see either of its ends through the gloam of the night. Soap tucked away his compass and braced a hand on the trunk with a deep resigned groan.

This was gonnae be pure shite.

Turning, he sat on the log and swung his left leg over. Then, taking quick breaths to psych himself up, he hooked a hand behind his right knee and lifted it up and over the tree in one quick agonizing movement.

Folding over his legs, his lips pulling up in a reflexive snarl and his breaths hissed through his fangs as his face crumpled into a pained grimace. His instincts were caught between the want to grab at the thing causing him pain and the deathly fear that any touch would make the hurt worse.

Soap sat himself up and stared down at the shoddy bandage he'd wrapped around his thigh, vaguely acknowledging that feeling so detached from the hands that were shakily hovering over his leg was a concern. Dragging his eyes away from the bandage, he scanned his surroundings. He didn’t think he'd screamed, but he wasn't sure. His brain was already blacking out the memory to dull the pain it contained.

Soap sat on that log, in the quiet of the forest, for longer than he’ll ever consciously realize. Ears flicking for any sounds that were out of place, hazy blue eyes scanning for danger, but not truly cataloguing anything as his mind fell into a haze. Giving completely over to his hindbrain and lower instincts. Sitting still and terrified, staring into the unknowable dark, like the blooded prey he’d become.

Eventually he came back to himself, without ever knowing he’d lost time at all.

With a throaty groan he pushed up off the log and started limping. Cresting the hill, a surge of relief hit him like a cannonball and nearly sent him to his knees, there in the distance was a clearing filled by ramshackle tents held together with Military Grade duct tape, and people swarming about in the artificial dawn cast by humming floodlights.

Their temporary base of operations that had been set up to support the months-long mission to completely rout the area of enemy combatants that they’d taken on.

The radio transceiver on his plate carrier sparked and spat another mocking blat of static. If there’d been any chance of an enemy hearing its occasional squawks, and if wholly removing it from its mount on his back didn’t involve unstrapping and wriggling out of ninety-percent of his kit, he would have fallen to the temptation to punt it into the dark of the trees within the first kilometre of his trek.

It could have been worse, if he was to be honest with himself, the fall -from a height he very deliberately wasn’t remembering- into the disgusting puddle that had busted his radio and slammed a delightfully convenient piece of debris straight through the outside of his right thigh could have killed him. Instead it just sheared a long bloody graze through his leg and bruised what felt like every square centimetre of his back.

A deep fog was rising to swamp his better thinking, his instincts cajoling and crooning. Begging him to find a nice dark nook. Safe and hidden from everyone. He could sleep, curled up nice and warm and safe and alone. To heal where no one could reach him. Where no more pain could find him.

Shaking himself back to clarity he realized he’d stopped walking. He stood, swaying, his better leg threatening to buckle at the knee, and staring into the woods. Facing the exact opposite direction of the camp’s hubbub.

Forcibly quelling his instincts, Soap turned around and walked for the camp. Consciously pacing his breathing to keep himself centred.

In for four, hold for four, out for four.

He’d lost the will to force his right leg into even trying to support his weight and hobbled along, falling into a brainless rhythm.

Jump left leg forward, drag right leg level, brace, jump left leg forward, drag right leg level, brace.

It was no one's definition of graceful, but he was moving.

“Halt!” The loud command snapped his head up, he’d reached the edge of the camp and the perimeter guards were aiming at him.

“Hands up! Hands up! Who goes there!” Shouted a cacophony of voices, three or four of them converging on his location. Soap obediently raised his hands into clear view, letting them come for him.

Who the fuck says ‘who goes there’. They’re perimeter guards, not knights stood atop a gate tower.

“Sergeant MacTavish,” Soap wrung from his aching throat at the first figure that got within a metre of him, “Radio non-functional,”

The guards looked between themselves, he didn’t recognize any of them and they -obviously- didn't recognize him. They stood in a small bureaucratic stalemate, the guards were unwilling to approach and pat down a potential superior, but were equally unwilling to let through an unknown that hadn’t followed the rules to radio and signal his approach.

Thankfully, the decision was swiftly taken out of their hands by Ghost noticing the small commotion happening on the other side of camp and, upon looking over, easily identified the shambling mud monster as Soap.

“Johnny!” He all but screamed as he sprinted across the camp. People frantically dove out of his way and he guiltlessly barreled over the unlucky few that didn’t move fast enough.

Ghost’s cry summoned Price and Gaz out from the depths of the command tents. They saw Ghost go ramming past then clocked the swamp beast he was running for and scrambled to follow.

Ghost snarled at the suicidal fools surrounding his Mate, posturing in front of Johnny until they backed off. With his instincts humming happily at him for defending his Mate and chasing off the interlopers, he crowded close to Johnny. Crooning and snuffling at his neck, rubbing their jaws together to scent him, ignoring the muck that was rubbing off into the fibres of his balaclava.

He reluctantly backed off when Gaz whined and yapped, pushing at his elbow and burrowing into his side, entreating Ghost to be allowed access to his pack-brother.

As soon as Gaz had assured himself that Soap was back in relatively one piece, he stepped away and Price moved in. The Captain held Soap by his nape, weaving his fingers into the fur of his Sergeant’s hackles, and pulled him forward to gently buss their cheeks. Letting his injured pack-member nuzzle up under his chin, a purr kicking on in Price's chest as Soap licked at his jaw, little plaintive whimpers creeping from his throat. Begging for comfort from his pack-leader.

A snarl from Gaz, and Ghost bulling forward to wrap himself protectively around his Mate, drew Price away from soothing his distressed pack-member and he glanced up to see Gaz hassling a woman that had dared step within two metres of their little reunion. Clearing his throat of the growl bouncing around his back teeth and forcibly smoothing down his raised hackles, Price stepped forward.

“Gaz, let her through, Soap needs a medic,” The pack-lead’s demand made Gaz waver and his snarl cool into an upset growl, but his instincts were still loudly demanding he stay between the unknown and his vulnerable pack.

“Garrick.” Price snarled, and Gaz reluctantly stepped aside with a temperamental yowl, following along at the woman’s heels until they passed Price and the Captain scruffed him. Price snarled against Gaz's ear until the growling faded into the distraught whines Price knew had been hiding underneath. He bussed their cheeks until Gaz calmed down, then released the Sergeant to return to his circling of their little huddle.

Possessive muppet that he was.

Ghost had let Soap be sat down on the closest flat surface, but was hovering about like a deranged hummingbird that thought the medic was made of sugar-water. Drawing him away from breathing down the poor woman’s neck, Price tried to get him to calm down, before he sent himself into a meltdown. Turning him away when he kept craning his head to stare at Soap and getting himself worked up again.

A yelp from the medic and spinning to find her knelt beside a Soapless box threw that idea straight out the window.

“What happened?” Price demanded, doing nothing to dissuade Ghost and Gaz from gnarring down at the woman that had lost their pack-member.

“I- I- I-” The woman stuttered.

Gaz impatiently lunged at her and the woman yelped, holding up her hands to ward him off, blushing indignantly when he stopped short and Ghost snickered at her flinch.

“I don’t know,” she barked at them, boldly pushing to her feet, “I looked away for two seconds and when I looked back he was gone!”

Derisive snorts in triplicate met her defense and the pack dismissed her to convene amongst themselves.

“He’s hiding,” Gaz guessed, “Like when he was delirious last November and refused to come out from under his bed,”

“But where the fuck did he go?” Ghost barked,

“Calm down,” Price mitigated, “If he’s in a headspace like that, he can’t have gotten far. Simple search pattern, Ghost you’ll-”

The pack froze as a small hurting whimper came from tauntingly near. Spinning in place to scan for the source, they looked ready to decide the fate of the Hanukkah gelt upon their stop.

The whimper sounded again from direction of the trees and they booked it, nearly sprinting straight past where Soap had curled himself up at the base of the nearest tree thick enough to cover his back.

“Johnny,” Ghost rumbled, bending to pick up his Mate, whining apologetically when lifting him jolted a pained yelp out of him, “You can’t hide away right now, we gotta get you fixed first.”

Ghost carried his Mate the few metres back to the medic and eased himself down to sit on the box before her, holding Johnny firmly in his lap. With Gaz pacing protectively around them again, Price came forward to gently hold Soap’s leg in place for the medic to access, and when Johnny’s urges to flee overcame him, Ghost was happy to let him bury his face into Ghost’s neck to hide.

Thank You For Reading!

I very deliberately didn't mention it in the story, but Price is an Omega, Gaz is a Beta, while Ghost and Soap are Alpha's. I didn't want preconceptions about the secondary genders sneaking their way in.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

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anonymousewrites · 4 months ago

Text

Logos and Pathos (Book 4) Chapter Three

TOS! Spock x Empath! Spouse! Reader

Chapter Three: Intruder Request

Summary: The Ilia-Probe comes aboard, and the Enterprise tries a unique tactic. Spock takes matters into his own hands.

Ilia’s face stared out at the shocked group. Spock raised a brow. (Y/N) furrowed their own. They felt only very slight emotion coming from Ilia where they had sensed a normal amount before she had—This was not Ilia as completely herself.

“You are the Kirk-Unit.” She looked at Kirk evenly. “You will assist me.” Her voice was flat, mechanical. “I’ve been programmed by V’Ger to observe and record the normal functions of the carbon-based units infesting the U.S.S. Enterprise.”

Once again, only a true acknowledgement of the machines, the computers. This “V’Ger” must not be carbon-based. Interesting. (Y/N) tilted their head as they watched Ilia.

She stepped out of the sonic shower, dressed in a plain white dress. A red glowing bulb sat at her neck, another robotic piece of the puzzle.

“Bones, tricorder,” said Kirk. Bones nodded while Kirk stepped forward. “Who is V’Ger?”

“V’Ger is that which programmed me,” said Ilia.

“Is V’Ger the name of the captain of the alien vessel?” asked Kirk.

“Jim, this is a mechanism,” said Bones, looking up from his tricorder.

“A probe, Captain,” said Spock. He looked at the red glass. “No doubt a sensor-transceiver combination recording everything we say and do.”

“Where is Lieutenant Ilia?” questioned Kirk of the probe.

“That unit no longer functions,” said the probe.

(Y/N)’s gaze went to the ground in a moment of morning before they looked back.

“I’ve been given its form to more readily communicate with the carbon-based units infesting Enterprise,” said the probe.

“(L/N)?” said Kirk, glancing at them.

“Very few emotions to sense, Captain,” said (Y/N). “Barely anything. No signs of deception within those, though.”

“Carbon-based units?” said the security guard.

“Humans,” said Bones. “Vulcans. Celians. Us.”

“Why does V’Ger travel to the third planet of the solar system directly ahead?” asked Kirk.

“To find the Creator,” replied the probe.

Hm. (Y/N) exchanged an interested glance with Spock.

“To find the Creator?” repeated Kirk. “Whose…What does V’Ger want with the Creator?”

“To join with him,” said the probe.

“To join with the Creator how?” said (Y/N).

“V’Ger and the Creator will become one,” said the probe unhelpfully.

“And who is the Creator?” said Spock, attempting another line of questioning.

“The Creator is that which created V’Ger,” said the probe.

That clears that up, thought (Y/N) with a sigh. “Who is V’Ger?” they tried.

“V’Ger is that which seeks the Creator,” said the probe matter-of-factly. Then, it turned and straightened even further. “I am ready to commence my observations.”

“Doctor, a thorough examination of this probe might provide some insight into those who manufactured it and how to deal with them,” said Spock.

“Non-invasive,” said (Y/N). “To hurt the probe would be an affront to a vessel that can destroy us.”

“Oh, god, you talk like him now,” groaned Bones.

“I do my job,” said (Y/N), smiling at him.

Spock rather liked when they got efficient and logical. He loved them as they were, but there was something especially attractive when they were so engrossed in their job and just perfect at it. (Vulcans had interesting turn-ons in partners, not that most would admit it).

“Ilia-Unit, uh, Probe, would you accompany our doctor to Sickbay?” said (Y/N).

“I am programmed to observe and record only the normal functioning of the carbon-based units,” said the probe.

“The examination is a normal function,” said (Y/N). “We undergo them regularly for our health.”

“You may proceed,” said the probe to Bones, and when he stepped to the door, it followed.

“I’m glad we have you, (L/N),” said Kirk.

“Starfleet asked for me for my expertise for a reason,” said (Y/N), smiling.

“You are the only true expert,” said Spock.

“Spock, I thought you didn’t lie,” said (Y/N), chuckling.

“I don’t think he believes it could be a lie,” said Kirk, cracking a small smile.

Spock didn’t dignify that with a response. He loved his spouse. He would never lie about what he thought of them—the fact that it was all positive notwithstanding.

The probe lay staring blankly up at the machine as it scanned. Bones examined the reports of the machine, and Spock, (Y/N), and Kirk awaited his information.

“Micro-miniature hydraulics,” said Bones. “Sensors, and molecular-sized multi-processor chips.”

The doors of Sickbay slid opened, and Decker stepped in. Instantly, the room filled with anger and shock as he saw Ilia’s face on the probe. He looked like he was going to speak, but his shoulders dropped mournfully, sadness overtaking his surprise. Decker remained silent as he stood to watch the report continue. He hadn’t expected the probe to wear the woman he obviously loved’s face—(Y/N) always knew these things—but he had the sense to try to remain calm.

“And take a look at this,” said Bones. “An osmotic micro-pump. The smallest body functions are exactly duplicated. Every endocrine system is the same, too. Even eye moisture.”

Decker gazed down at the probe, and its head turned to see him. (Y/N) started as the probe’s hair raised and its lips parted upon seeing him.

“Decker.”

More emotion than (Y/N) had felt so far in the probe emanated from her with that one word; with it, (Y/N) understood for certain that something was left of Ilia within the perfect mechanical replication.

“Fascinating. Not ‘Decker-Unit?’ ” observed Spock.

“She felt something more than a blank baseline when she saw him,” said (Y/N) softly.

“She? You think—”

(Y/N) nodded in response to Kirk. “A perfect replica, feelings and everything.”

“A machine with emotions?” said Bones.

“Why not?” said (Y/N). They’d seen stranger. Besides, emotions hardly followed logic. Why couldn’t a probe made with the heart of woman who loved someone retain some of that? The world had created more miracles than that. Love was a magical thing, after all.

“Gentlemen,” said Kirk, drawing the group aside. “Will.” He caught Decker’s attention and drew him into the hall. Better to have the rest of this discussion without the probe overhearing.

“What happened to her?” said Decker, grief evident in his voice even as he attempted to keep himself level-headed.

He does have the makings of a great captain, thought (Y/N) approvingly.

“Captain, this probe may be our only key to the aliens,” said Spock.

“Probe? Ilia is the probe?” said Decker.

“Exactly. It is a programmed mechanism, Commander,” said Spock. “Its body duplicates our navigator in precise detail.”

“But beneath that programming, Ilia’s real memories and…self are in some way copied, too,” said (Y/N). “They created a perfect copy, and that means she has the same…feelings she had when alive when she looks at you. There aren’t any feelings to truly sense in the probe—which, in itself, is strange since it’s a machine—but she does feel more when she sees you.”

“Ilia’s memory, her feelings of loyalty, friendship, might all be there,” said Kirk.

“Evidently,” said Spock. A long time ago he wouldn’t believe it. This was a machine, after all. But it made complete sense, and he had seen the power of emotions, the heart, and memory time and time again. His spouse was powerful due to those illogical notions. He would never discount them.

“You had a relationship with Lieutenant Ilia, Commander Decker—” upon seeing Decker’s eyes widen, (Y/N) smiled ruefully “—Your emotions upon losing her showed that clearly.”

“Well-Yes-But that probe, in another form, killed Ilia!” said Decker.

“Commander,” said Kirk. “Will. We’re locked in an alien vessel, six hours from Earth’s orbit. Our only contact with our captor is that probe. If we could control it, persuade it, use it—even just get more information—”

Crack!

They all jumped as the wall was torn open. Calmly, the probe stepped through as if it hadn’t broken through a metal wall without a problem.

“I have recorded enough here,” it said, monotone once more. “You will now assist me further.”

Kirk glanced at (Y/N), and they stepped forward. “The Decker-Unit will assist you with greater efficiency,” said (Y/N).

The probe’s gaze lowered with true confusion, and she—this felt like Ilia once more—looked at Decker. He gazed back at Ilia’s face with a tiny smile. He was angry at the probe for what it had done to her, but when he saw her face, he couldn’t help but soften slightly. Such was the case for those with a heart.

“You have your assignment, Commander,” said Kirk.

“Aye, sir,” said Decker.

The probe stepped to the door, and it opened. The probe walked out, and Decker followed, letting the door close behind them.

“I am concerned with that being our only source of information,” said Spock, lacing his hands behind his back.

“Well, what else can we do?” said Kirk.

Spock just looked at the door again. (Y/N) frowned as they felt something course through their marriage bond, a sense of resolution within worry. They glanced at their husband with a furrowed brow.

Kirk and (Y/N) sat forward in their chairs as they watched the security monitors. On the screen, Decker was giving the probe a tour of the Enterprise, answering questions as they went. He was careful not to reveal anything sensitive or important for their defensive position, but the probe appeared satisfied with each answer it was given.

Bones entered and looked at the screen. “How is it going?”

“He’s sitting the probe down for chess,” said (Y/N). “It’s likely something he and Ilia did together. Good. That will prompt more memories.” They nodded approvingly.

“An audio-visual association,” agreed Bones.

On the screen, Decker and Ilia gazed at one another—more and more of Ilia was breaking through. For a moment, her brow creased, and her expression turned oh-so gentle. Then it hardened, turning unreadable. The probe turned away.

(Y/N) frowned. “The programming is hard to overcome, it seems.”

“Why does Enterprise required the presence of carbon units?” asked the probe, the camera following it as it walked around the recreation room.

“Enterprise would be unable to function without carbon units,” said Decker.

“More data concerning this functioning is necessary before carbon units can be patterned for data storage,” said the probe.

“That doesn’t sound good,” said (Y/N), frowning.

“What an understatement,” said Bones.

“What does that mean?” said Decker on the screen.

“When my examination is complete, all carbon units will be reduced to data patterns,” said the probe.

“Definitely not good,” said Kirk grimacing.

“Not good? That’s beyond that,” said Bones, waving a hand.

“Within you are the memory patterns of a certain carbon unit,” said Decker, stepping forwards towards the probe. “If I can help you revive those patterns, you could understand our functions better.”

“That is logical. You may proceed,” said the probe.

“Spock would be proud of that statement,” said Bones wryly. He paused. “Speaking of, where is the pointy-eared man of logic?”

“He said he wanted to work on attempting more scans of the alien ship,” said Kirk. “To get more information.”

(Y/N) paused. “That’s what he said?”

“Yes,” said Kirk.

(Y/N) felt their stomach flip over worriedly. “Spock knows that there is no way through the shields reflecting our scans back,” they said slowly.

“He thinks we could make contact in some way,” said Kirk.

(Y/N) stood. “Then that means he’s doing something stupid and dangerous.”

The comms beeped the moment they spoke. “Bridge to Captain,” said Chekov.

“Kirk here,” said Kirk.

“Captain, airlock four has opened.”

Bones looked at (Y/N). “Would that be the stupid and dangerous thing Spock does?”

(Y/N) gritted their teeth. “That is absolutely something my husband would do.”

Wasting no time, they opened the door and darted to the elevator. Kirk was quick on their heels.

“Captain,” said Chekov as Kirk and (Y/N) entered the Bridge.

“Situation report,” said Kirk.

“Starfleet communication growing in strength,” said Uhura. “They still have the intruder on their monitors. It’s decelerating.”

Kirk nodded, and (Y/N) looked at Chekov. “What’s happening with the airlock?”

“It was opened, and a thruster suit has now been reported missing,” said Chekov.

“That’s Spock,” said (Y/N), groaning. Their husband was in huge trouble when he got back for causing them this much worry.

“Bring him back here,” said Kirk. He paused. “Wait. Get a fix on his position.”

“Aye, sir,” said Chekov.

Kirk looked guiltily at (Y/N). “We can get good information?”

“Captain, I am respecting your decision as captain. It’s a good one, tactical,” said (Y/N). They smiled sweetly. “But you two are both in trouble once this mission is over, understood?”

Kirk coughed. “Understood.”

(Y/N) looked at the viewscreen as Spock came into view from the cameras. He floated towards the closer aperture of the inner workings of the vessel. Their heart twisted, and (Y/N) held their hands together. They closed their eyes and focused on the bond with Spock. Be safe, they thought, sending the feeling of warmth to him. They couldn’t support him much this far away, but their heart was always with him.

They felt the same warmth filter back through the marriage bond to them, and (Y/N) relaxed. No sooner did they calm then the thruster suit ignited and send Spock shooting towards the vessel. Instantly, all of (Y/N)’s anxieties returned.

Spock disappeared into the aperture—small enough to fit—and disappeared from view. All (Y/N) could do was cling onto the bond to monitor Spock’s health. For a moment, it felt calm, then curious. And then (Y/N)’s entire body felt a shock of pain so intense they doubled over.

“Spock!” they gasped out, eyes widening in horror. “Kirk—”

“Chekov, have a thruster suit waiting for me,” said Kirk. He knelt next to (Y/N). “I’m going to get him, (Y/N).”

“Please,” whispered (Y/N). They needed Spock to be safe.

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@snowy-violet

@jaguarthecat

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gamebunny-advance · 2 years ago

Text

Misc. Pikmin 4 Character Trivia

(Updated 08/14/24)

Recent updates: Changed wording of some entries for clarity.

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Ever wanted all the Pikmin 4 character trivia in one place? Well, here you go. If I missed anything, feel free to let me know and I'll update this post.

Note: I'm not covering the Hocotatians & Koppaites because the former are major characters with a lot about them already written, and the only interesting trivia (IMO) about the latter is already "common knowledge."

This also isn't a document of *every* line of dialogue that a castaway can say. This is just stuff that I thought was interesting and/or info that you can't get from just reading their ID or talking to them once. Some castaways don't have any entries because they're either not that interesting or don't actually talk about themselves much.

Rescue Officers

Collin

Has a wireless transceiver that has been passed down to him by his grandfather. He refuses to replace it and instead just fixes it whenever it breaks.

His hobby is tinkering with machines.

He's worked several odd jobs in the past to help pay for his education. These jobs include collecting space trash, ship construction, and cleaning the "outer walls of the colony". He considers his work as the comms operator to be significantly more difficult than any of his past jobs.

This has caused him to be multi-talented, but it also causes others to take advantage of him.

Despite this, he apparently isn't one for "physical labor."

Collin considers PNF-404 to be tiny, though this may be in reference to the universe, in which all planets could be considered "tiny."

Shepherd considers him young, but in reference to who/what is unknown.

Only in the comics, Oatchi seems to dislike Collin.

Shepherd

She has the highest certificate ranking in the Rescue Corps, and a special certification in Rescue Pup training. This is something very few officers have.

She spends all of her breaks at a dog run near the Rescue corps HQ.

Apparently, she spends much of their budget on dog food.

She met Dingo before she was captain when they were both training. This may mean that she's known him the longest of the other members. Most others are implied to have met her/been recruited by her when she was already captain.

She exceeds Dingo in martial arts and cross-country.

She doesn't seem aware of Dingo's crush on her.

She seems to experience some form of imposter syndrome during the main campaign but overcomes it near the end of the game.

Her family has lived with dogs since at least the first Captain's generation. Additionally, their family is implied to be immigrants from a different planet. Their original planet is unknown, but is highly implied to be Earth/PNF-404.

Her family's motto is, "There's no better judge of character than a dog."

By her own admission, the only creatures she can "handle" are dogs. Whether this also excludes other domesticated creatures is currently unknown.

Russ

His family runs a megacorporation on Giya, and as a result is incredibly wealthy. They're so wealthy that they can regularly afford golden pikpik carrots and just casually blend them into juice for a snack.

Said family is also very large and extravagant and seems to always invite the other rescue officers to their many parties, much to the latter's chagrin.

His mother is notorious in the Rescue Corps for "being quite the character."

He claims to have only joined the Rescue Corps out of curiosity.

While he lords his intellect above most others, he still recognizes Yonny as a genius in the medical field.

He wears a lab coat under his spacesuit. His mother gifted him 64 of them to bring on their current trip.

The Emergency Kit was the first item he prototyped after joining the Rescue Corps.

He is a fan of the reporter Muggs.

His natural hair color may be green, as this is the color of his eyebrows.

He's apparently prone to "interesting" injuries, likely due to failed inventions.

Dingo

Decided to become a rescue officer after being saved in the mountains by Shepherd's father, the previous Rescue Corps captain.

He dislikes dogs due to being traumatized by one during the same rescue, as he believed the rescue pup was trying to attack him.

He appears to fear Russ's mother.

He apparently believes that any drink (and possibly food, given his theft of Bernard's pizza) sitting out belongs to him.

Acknowledges that Collin is probably their most important team member, but he still takes advantage of his kindness from time to time.

He tends to refer to most of the officers by their title/job rather than name. (Comms guy for Collin, Science guy for Russ, the captain, etc.) Except Yonny which he shortens to "Yon."

He's childhood friends with Yonny.

Yonny

He's an avid reader, but prefers paper books to digital ones. He has boxes of them shipped to HQ regularly and they would have taken up 27 shelves on the ship if he were allowed to bring just the ones he wanted.

Has experimented on at least Shepherd and Dingo without their full consent. The former by not being transparent about what was in a vitamin supplement he gave her, and the latter by abusing his tendency to drink anything that's just sitting out. He has attempted to experiment on Collin, but it is unknown if he succeeded in doing so.

He's technically also experimented on Oatchi without consent as he tested the leafling cure on him without alerting anyone beforehand.

Apparently bursts into maniacal laughter when working in the lab by himself. The other officers just ignore it.

He's childhood friends with Dingo.

Bernard

He is very picky about food, to the point that their food storage has a special section just for him. It consists of expensive, specialized foods.

Like Collin, he has worked several different jobs over his career (including the president of a space-flight company). In the Japanese script, this is *apparently reflected in him having a combination of different dialects.

Also, like Collin, he considers his job as an officer to be significantly more difficult than his other jobs. However, he also considers it the most rewarding.

He invented an all-in-one meal drink that put a boxed lunch company out of business, solely because he finds digging through lunch boxes to be a pain.

Shepherd recruited him after he was able to deliver some packages for her faster than the post office would.

He has a history with a castaway named Santi whom he considered himself to be a part of a "dynamic duo" with. They were born about the same time, went to school and college together, and at some point became the latter's flight instructor. Bernard thinks of Santi fondly, but the feeling is not mutual.

He once piloted a 20,000 hour (just over two years) flight.

*(source)

Civilian Castaways + Their Planets

Research Task Force

Twyla and Komo are close friends due to their mutual introversion. They consider each other "irreplaceable".

Komo considers Chet easy to talk to.

Twyla considers the concept of plate tectonics to be unheard of on her home planet. This may imply that Conohan doesn't have any natural mountains, volcanoes, trenches, earthquakes, etc.

Sammy's home planet of Ocobo was not always ravaged by perpetual storms. But once they started, the entire planet flooded and their planet's engineers developed artificial islands for the people to live on.

Sy is the youngest member of the Research Task Force.

Osa is Kit's senior.

Chet has considered asking Ren to try cooking the creatures of the planet, but ultimately decides against it.

TV Crew

Wolfgang and Muggs get engaged at the end of the game. If you talk to Muggs before rescuing Wolfgang, she will drop hints about already having some romantic interest in him.

Muggs is possibly one of only other people that can understand what Oatchi's thinking if her comments from Oatchi are to be believed.

Vonda claims that Wolfgang is apparently a good singer. Comparatively, she struggles to say nice things about Olimar's humming.

Frisé wrote a song called, "Song of Love." This is likely a reference to "Ai no Uta" a song used in the promotion of Pikmin (2001). The title directly translates to "Song of Love." However, the lyrics of the two songs seem completely different.

Satella Travel Employees + Guests

Molly appears to have a crush on Russ. She finds his intellect attractive and wants to wear his glasses.

Molly might also be of a higher intellect given that she once made and launched an unmanned rocket in a single night by herself (even if it exploded).

The name of the travel agency that Chewy and Santi work for, the Satella Travel Agency, is a reference to the Nintendo Satellaview.

Sheeba apparently resembles Chewy's boss.

Santi learned his piloting skills from Bernard.

He also seems to have a similar "accent" to Bernard, but it only comes out when speaking about the latter.

Santi appears to be fond of Chewy and is considering becoming a permanent employee for her sake. Whether these feelings are romantic in nature is unclear.

Planetary Science Club

Despite being the Planetary Science Club's adviser, Mika actually teaches ethics and knows very little about any kind of planetary science.

Sheeba appears fearful of Oatchi.

Sheeba wants to become a teacher when she grows up.

The Planetary Science Club students went on the planetary tour on a free raffle, but Mika had to pay out of pocket.

Kaia gave Mika a nickname: Meeki. Mika likes it, but Sheeba thinks it's unprofessional.

Keesh is apparently stronger than Sheeba, Kaia, and Mika combined.

Others

All of Beaux's roles in movies/shows are references to other Nintendo games and IPs. Specifically the first 3 Pikmin games where he plays the Olimar expy, Animal Crossing: New Horizons, Mario, Kirby, and Link.

In a similar vein, his twin brother Alpin's company is called "e-Leader" as a reference to Nintendo's "e-Reader" accessory.

Alpin inherited the company from their father and works so Beaux can pursue his dreams of being an actor.

Alpin knows Fawks well enough to know exactly how he likes his coffee. (1 cup of coffee with 2 spoonfuls of milk, and 3 sugarcubes.)

From Kayz we learn a little about the different biomes on the other planets: Siguray has a scorching desert, Flukuey has steep, rocky mountains, and Ooji has a lush jungle.

Patch admits that he sees a "darkness" in Olimar's eyes, which implies that this is not the captain's first life-or-death experience.

Patch is implied to have been or was inspired by a pundit to pursue his current lifestyle.

Bernise will actually change her fortune for you every in-game day.

Dalmo has been interested in creatures since childhood.

His hometown also has a waterfront, confirming that Sozor has at least one significant body of water.

While Dalmo never ascribes malice to any of the creatures, he appears somewhat cynical about society, calling adults the only beings capable of intentional deceit and acknowledging that being popular means not having to work as hard to get to the top.

Shnauz's home planet of Siguray apparently has iridescent, water-dwelling newts.

Jin has studied traditional sports, combat sports, martial arts, and the art of battle.

One of Corgwin's first builds was a dog-house.

Speculative material below the cut.

Planet Generalizations

Some castaways from certain planets seem to have similar personalities/traits. Given that it's stated that things like the Koppaites' general inability to plan/being picky eaters is inherent to their race, it's possible that these generalizations apply to the rest of the races as well. I have not included planets with only one castaway. These are detailed below.

Sozor (Dalmo, Grace, Horatio): Have anti-social personalities. Dalmo prefers creatures to people and has a cynical streak when talking about society. Grace seems disinterested in society as a whole and has basically removed herself from it by becoming a drifter. Horatio, while attempting to be friendly with the player, is ultimately inept at social interactions which is noted by Chewy.

Flukuey (Jin, Molly, Dash, Patch): Are prone and/or attracted to high-risk work/situations. Jin is an explorer, Molly is a streamer of limited success, Dash is a spelunker from a well off-family, and Patch is unemployed but purposefully puts himself in dangerous situations for the thrill.

Ooji (Francois, Kingsly): Love flowers/plant life. Francois studies plant-life, and Kingsly is a florist. Given that Ooji is also known for its lush jungles, a knowledge and/or appreciation for plant life may be essential to living on the planet.

Koodgio (Lapi, Boris): Artistic types. Lapi is a painter and Boris is an author.

Siguray (Shnauz, Kit, Osa): Place a lot of value on material items. Shnauz appraises treasure, Kit is interested in minerals, and Osa is interested in archeology.

Ohri (Yonny, Dingo): Their kind is especially "tough" due to living in the mountains. This is said on the Pikmin Garden website and is reflected in how Dingo is a ranger and is able to complete most dandori challenges single-handedly, and Yonny who was active during the night time, the most dangerous time of the day, before he was rescued.

Nijo (Bernard, Santi): It's common for their people to change jobs frequently while they look for their "soul work/job." This is said on the Pikmin Garden website and is reflected in how both Bernard and Santi have claimed to have worked several different jobs during their lives. It seems that both have also found their "soul work" with the Rescue Corps and Satella Travel respectively.

Castaways where it's difficult to determine if their similar traits would be found in their race due to other factors:

Ogura (Sy, Pitunia): Both are interested in studying the onion and their environmental factors surrounding it, but both are also a part of the Research Task Force, a group made of individuals that are interested in studying the planet in general, so it's hard to say if this would be something inherent to all Ogurains, or if they just happen to have a mutual interest in this area of study.

Enohee (Ren, Frise, Muggs, Wolfgang): 3 of the 4 are a part of the same crew so would have common interests by default. Arguably all 4 are interested in entertainment as Ren, the only castaway from this planet that isn't a part of the TV crew, was on a cooking show, so TV might be a very important industry to Enohee.

Neechki (Kaia, Sheeba, Keesh, Mika, Chewy): 4 of the 5 are in the same club and would have similar interests by default (and even then, Mika is not interested in planetary science), and Chewy has little in common with the rest of them.

Planets where I couldn't identify a common thread:

Enohay (Puddle, Vonda, Bernise): I would have said creative/artistic fields due to Puddle being a stylist and Vonda being a singer, but I don't think a fortune-teller really falls under that.

Conohan (Twyla, Chowder, Alpin, Fawks, Beaux): 3 of the 5 are business owners/business savy, 4 of the 5 have a same-sex partner/friend that they're associated with, and 2 are siblings. But I couldn't find a singular trait which all 5 had. In a sense, I suppose this would imply that Conohan is a very diverse planet.

Giya (Shepherd, Collin, Russ): Another diverse group whose only commanality is that they're in the Rescue Corp. However, given the stark difference between Collin's and Russ's financial situations, this may imply that Giya has significant class inequality.

#gbunny writes #pikmin #pikmin 4

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subway-boss-jericho · 9 months ago

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Queuing posts for most of my AUs! Check out this Masterpost! (Disclaimer! - Please don't comment about their iconic knife bangs! I left them off this reference to keep their faces fully visible.)

Chosen Hero Ingo AU

-Premise- What if Ingo was meant to be the original hero sent by Arceus?

Ingo is visited in a dream by a power higher than he's ever needed to comprehend. Among a selection of many other candidates, Arceus has chosen him to complete a very important task.

It outlines this duty carefully. Should he choose to accept, he will be sent to Hisui- Now known as Sinnoh, to an era long past. He will help the people of the land strike balance with the immigrant people soon to arrive, and using his knowledge of capturing, training, and raising pokemon, show the people the strength of what bonds can be achieved. If all this can be achieved, then together they can prevent a disaster that will fester in the coming years.

If Ingo agrees to these terms, there will be conditions. To prevent the cross of future and past, he will give up the majority of his memory. He may not take any of his current partners with him, nor anyone else. However, he will be given a tool, a communicative device to guide him wherever he may falter. When his duties are complete, he will be returned home safely and his memory restored without fault.

He asks without pausing what will happen to Emmet. Arceus assures him that, while his disappearance may be sudden, should all go well he will be returned to his twin's side in less than a year's time. For the sake of preserving the state of time, no one in the modern day can be informed of the nature of what has happened.

After much deliberation, and a long, harrowed bout of silence, Ingo agrees to these terms. He is transported to a time far before his own, his partners are deftly taken off his person, and his memory fractures.

All would have been well... But the accident that occurred only days into his arrival strips him of is Arc-Transceiver, leaving him injured, without memory, and worst of all, without guidance.

-Noteworthy Points- Not many notes for this one! Ingo's design includes the arc-transceiver but he doesn't have it at the moment. As you may be able to tell by the age lines on his face, the scars, and the length of his hair, Ingo has been in Hisui far longer than he was meant to be. I haven't decided how this AU ends yet.

-Links- Currently none! I will update this post with links to comics/art/writing if/when I post any!

#Submas #AUs #Ingo #Pokemon Ingo #Submas Art #Subway Boss Ingo #Chosen Hero Ingo #Hero AU

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glimjack · 4 months ago

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Interference

Copied from here. Written by John Jackson Miller (who wrote the KOTOR comics), set in 3963 BBY, a few weeks after the Mandalorians begin their attack on the Republic.

Attention Mandalorians! Stay tuned to this frequency for an announcement of vital importance!

* * *

Attention Mandalorians!! This is your friend from the Republic, Captain Goodvalor calling!

I’m busy shaking down my new warship, the Serroco, but my colleagues at the Admiralty have asked me to make an appeal to the forces fighting for Mandalore. I’m speaking on a frequency your helmet transceivers can pick up. It’s a trick we learned from your fellow warriors who have already seen the light and crossed the lines to defend the Republic!

You’ve had a lucky little run — though not a surprising one, following the sucker punches you’ve thrown. But the easy times are over, let me tell you!

In fact, I will tell you. Make sure you and all your Basic-speaking friends are listening for my next broadcast — your lives may depend on it!

* * *

Su’cuy, warriors! Conquest of the south polar area of the planet is nearly complete. Attend to your rally masters for further instructions.

Some of you have reported hearing increased gabble on the Neo helmet’s Z-band. Just ignore it.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! Captain Goodvalor calling again, as promised.

You survived long enough to hear me — good! Not all of you were so lucky, or so I hear. Your forces tried hard, they did — but the Taris Resistance got away to fight another day. And fight they will. Because while they may not have been in the Republic long, they’ve got what it takes, where it counts.

They do. We do. But what about you?

That’s right: We’ve been taking your measure in these first weeks since you barged into Republic territory — just as you were taking ours with your little provocations before that. The difference is, we’re able to do something about it.

It’s all about the numbers, my friends. There are more of us than there are of you — and we don’t have to build shipyards and armories on the fly. We’ve already got them. How long do you really think it takes to refit a landspeeder factory to produce armored attack craft? And how many landspeeder factories do you imagine there are in the whole Galactic Republic, hmm?

You won’t have to imagine for long. You’ll be seeing what we can do up close and personal soon enough.

This is Goodvalor, signing off. Cue the slogan, Lieutenant.

The Republic. Here today, here tomorrow.

* * *

Ke’sush, warriors! This is Sornell, again, with the Taris signal post.

Yes, you do have to stay on the Z-band. The heavies are still coming in. You want to be standing in the wrong place when the bombs drop, it’s fine by me.

Just stay focused.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! Goodvalor, again. While you’re waiting for the end to come — and brother, is it on its way! — I thought we’d have a talk about you. You know, the Mando’ade — the “sons and daughters of Mandalore.” That sounds nice, but I hate to break it to most of you: You’re adopted.

They’ve told us many of you were once upstanding, peace-loving residents of worlds invaded by Mandalore and his thug, Cassus Fett. And that many of you were lured, by threat or trickery, into donning armor and joining his mad cause! But do you really know what that cause is? Do you know what you’re fighting for? It’s ego. Bruised ego is all it is — not worth putting your skin (or scales, or whatever) on the line for.

Let old Goodvalor fill you in: A generation ago, in the Great Sith War, the Mandalorian clans were made to serve a single rogue Jedi, after he defeated your leader in combat. And to this day, nobody in metal shoulder pads has been able to get over it. So now, the current Mandalore — the name your current scoundrel gave himself, how’s that for cheek? — is throwing your lives away in a galactic war. Just to repair — what? His bruised ego, buddy! With your neck!

I know — it’s not the kind of thing they tell you about in armor class. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Think about it: It only took one Jedi to humiliate you before — and we’ve got a lot more where that came from! True, the Jedi Order remains officially neutral. But perhaps you’ve heard of The Revanchist — a Jedi who’s lobbying to change that even as I speak! That sound you hear is lightsabers igniting?

Things look good to you today, pillaging dress shops and fruit stands on rimworlds like Taris and Suurja. But the tide is turning. Which side will you be on? All you have to do is drop the helmet and walk away. Or better yet — return to the service of the Republic that has given you so much!

Only the gloom of the grave awaits Mandalore. Don’t join him. Join us!

The Republic. No gloom. Just glory.

* * *

Sornell here. We need to know what utreekov parked the Davaab fighter on top of the — what is this? The Highport Banking Tower. We need the space for the new receiver platform.

Get up here and get your ship before we push it over the side.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! This is Commander True, first officer to Captain Goodvalor.

The captain apologizes, but he is not going to be able to broadcast today. There were so many Mandalorians who crossed the lines and joined the Republic after his last message, he’s just been too busy.

He sends his regards.

The Republic. It sends its regards.

* * *

Signal post. Okay, now, we’ve just seen it. I don’t care what Jetiise nonsense is in the air, you can’t go around switching off your transceivers!

We absolutely made a call — what was it, Gorrga, ten seconds? Ten seconds after we shoved the fighter over the side of the building. There was plenty of time, if you were listening. You guys in the Lower City need to stay on top of things.

Oh, and — ah, “we’ll remember them, so they are eternal.”

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! It’s your captain speaking — you know the one. I’m just sitting down to a delicious dish of Bilovi Tempari, here in my beautifully appointed climate-controlled ship’s lounge. And that was when — no, sweetheart, no more wine, thanks — I got to thinking about you.

You, you valiant, daring creatures — toughing it out there in the field for Old Rustface. Tell me, how’s life?

Don’t answer that — I think I know! Those friends of yours I’ve told you about have described the vile conditions you’re forced to endure. “Nomadic lifestyle,” indeed. No style to that life, brothers and sisters — slogging through one Outer Rim mudhole after another for weeks at a time. Tell the truth: How often do you get to clean that armor? I mean — inside, where it counts? No wonder you like your camps spread out!

Sorry to go on about this, but, really, your ex-comrades-in-arms can’t quit talking about how much better it is over here. Actually, a few of our recent arrivals will be over a little later. They’re dropping by for drinks after the floor show. Come to think of it, I need to find out if they’re bringing their dates — we’ll need to set up some more chairs by the pool.

The Republic. Real beds. Running water.

* * *

Su’cuy, Cassus Fett, and all honor to your family’s dead. Sornell here, at the listening post.

Yes, we’ve all been hearing it.

No, I don’t know what “Bivoli Tempari” is. We’re asking around.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! Let me tell you about my day — it’s been an exciting one. This is Captain Goodvalor, of course — but today, I am an Okyaabi!

Today, I stood with the proud people of Okyaab 6 as they threw off the shackles of their Mandalorian slavers and rose to join the Republic. A small frontier system, to be sure — but proof of the pettiness of Mandalore, as no peaceful farming community, no collection of artisans is too small to merit one of his cowardly attacks. But after less than a week under the illegitimate rule of the costume fetishist Mandalore and his cronies, the Okyaabi have retaken their world.

They’re free, my Mandalorian friends — free to participate in Republic commerce again and enjoy the prosperity so many of us have come to know. Free to go where they wish and live where they choose, without being driven ever onward in some futile quest for someone else’s revenge. Free to be the kind of people you can be. If, that is, you choose to avoid the fate of the Mandalorian forces that once enslaved Okyaab. I’d put one of their survivors on the air to speak with you — but blast it, we just haven’t been able to find any…

The Republic. Freedom now, freedom forever!

* * *

This is Sornell, for the team at SoroSuub Landing, or whatever they call it. See if you can get that big viewscreen down without totally trashing the electronics. I’d like to have just one piece of equipment this trip I don’t have to build myself, for a change.

And, no, I’ve never heard of a planet named Okyaab. Does it have to do with getting me the parts I asked for? Because I know none of you wants to waste my time.

And for you new recruits: “Cui ogir’olar” is Mando’a for “it’s irrelevant.” Or, in my clan, “You will bleed a lot if you ask again.” So don’t say you didn’t know.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! Goodvalor calling. They tell me you Mandalorians are a superstitious lot. (Like you couldn’t tell from the weird stuff you carry around. And so much of it! Haven’t you people ever heard of apartments? Houses? Storage units?)

Anyway, this may interest you. We’ve learned from our many informants in your ranks that a batch of your forces in the Taris system is angling for Zongorlu next. What you may not know is that those weren’t all military camps on Serroco that Mandalore so callously and criminally nuked. There were vacation camps for Zongorlu younglings — nine camps, representing every major warrior-tribe on the planet!

Since then, we haven’t seen people from Zongorlu out and about in the Republic much. They’ve become stay-at-home types — and, well, they’re more than a little touchy. Even their Senator just asked for a leave of absence — and a heavy assault cannon.

I don’t think I’d come to Zongorlu if I were you.

The Republic. Just looking out for you.

* * *

Sornell here. Everybody forming up in the camp up here, the signal station is not the place to bring your questions about alien biology. If you really want to know what a Zongorlu looks like, you can wait until we get there.

I don’t care if you just joined us. Next guy who bothers me gets beaten to death.

* * *

Captain Goodvalor will return shortly. In the meantime, this Republic weather report for Zongorlu:

Hurricane-force winds across much of the planet, with magnetic storms throughout the ionosphere. Searing heat at the surface, with intermittent pyroclastic flows from some of the larger volcanic ranges. Atmospheric sulfur content remains high, with acidic rains in the polar regions.

Essentially, for Zongorlu, a temperate day.

* * *

We’ll need another couple of days on the mobile signal station, Cassus. We were able to scrounge most of the equipment from the shops here on Taris, but we’re pretty sure on Zongorlu we’ll need some kind of heavy-duty shielding for the transmitter. We’re forging something now. I’ll shout when we’re ready.

No, we’re still getting the broadcasts — and yeah, they’re a problem. Not for the real Mando’ade — “kaysh mirsh’kyramud” is all you hear from them. They couldn’t care less. But I don’t know about some of these guys that put on a Neo-Crusader helmet five minutes ago to join the fun.

They’re always asking why we don’t jam the Republic broadcasts, like we did when we were landing. I tell them that a siege is one thing — then, an attack on an enemy comm system is like an attack on an enemy army — but an occupation is something else. Jamming serves no purpose now. We’re wrapping up anybody the Republic might want to talk to here — and as for ourselves, no warrior worth the name ought to pay it any mind. That’s what they ought to do, but…

… well, let me tell you. My cousin’s a rally master running a bunch of these newbies as a demo team, clearing out the Undercity. Yesterday they were supposed to be minding the detonators when another one of these stupid broadcasts came on, and some mindless di’kut got preoccupied and brought a city block down on top of everyone, my cousin and all.

Thanks — but no. Actually, we never thought that much of him.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! Captain Goodvalor here — pardon me for being out of breath. I was just taking another walk around the decks of the Serroco, and I’m winded. I haven’t had that much exercise since training at the Academy.

I haven’t spoken much about my fine ship, have I? For shame — I’m such a terrible host. Well, some of you may have seen some of our larger vessels, valiantly defending and delaying your forces at places with names such as Vanquo, Tarnith, and — yes — Serroco. Well, they’d all fit nicely into the landing bay of this beauty. With room to spare!

Only we don’t spare much room, because we need it. Yes, every bit of space (not devoted to the many entertainments I’ve mentioned previously) is currently committed to housing troops for landing; their munitions; and our own more-than-healthy complement of precision guided missiles. Those Republic naval designers don’t skimp on anything! And if you Mandies think you know armor, you should take a look at our shielding! Why, I’ll bet there were a few less asteroids in the Deep Core once they got done with this miracle!

And this fleet! I know this is audio, but let me paint the picture for you. Right now, I’m looking out my window at a sky so thick with ships, you could walk from here to the next system. Hammerhead cruisers! Conductor-class transports! Military droid carriers! I’ve never seen so many in one place. It’s like an old Academy reunion — only it’s no party. No, everyone here has a very important mission. A very important, very secret mission.

So many ships! So many troops! I’m not sure if Zongorlu has nearly enough space for all of us.

Oops! I gave something away, there, didn’t I?

The Republic. Just imagine what we can do.

* * *

Sornell here. Everybody on this duty, hurry up and get this junk loaded. The planet’s not going to invade itself.

* * *

Attention, all Republic civilian vessels in the Zongorlu system! This is Captain Goodvalor of the Serroco, advising you to depart the area.

It isn’t that we cannot guarantee your safety against the Mandalorians — we’re here to protect the entire system, after all. But with so many warships here, now, traffic in the area is a bit congested.

Come back next week — once we get all the armored bodies carted away, Zongorlu should be open for business again.

* * *

This is Sornell, aboard Shaadlar troopship Nehutyc. Inform Cassus Fett that we’re well underway.

No word from up ahead on Zongorlu yet. We haven’t been able to confirm much of anything — we can’t even find anyone who’s ever seen a ship like this “Serroco,” not even any of the Republic guys who came over. But whatever’s there, we’re ready for it.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! Captain Goodvalor, and… pardon my yawn. Yes, I’m up late. Always hard to sleep the night before the battle, isn’t it? It’s night where we are, on guard, orbiting above the largest citadel on Zongorlu. But for our visitors soon to arrive, the night will never end. And that’s why I wanted to speak to you: not as enemy captain to enemy footsoldier, but as one sentient being to another.

There’s still time to change your minds, to change your paths. To take control of your transport ships — and your lives, and in so doing, save them.

Whatever strategic importance you may have been told Zongorlu has in some wider scheme of Mandalore’s — consider the cost. I’ve told you what’s waiting for you, here. That’s all I can do.

No snappy slogan tonight. This is Captain Goodvalor, signing off.

* * *

This is it — Zongorlu, dead ahead. Will call when the signal station is in place. Happy hunting.

Oya!

* * *

This is Koblus Sornell on Zongorlu. Give me Cassus.

Well, have him contact me, right away.

This is … strange.

* * *

Cassus, the signal post is operational. Your marshal’s still in the field, but I can give you the view from here.

First, the planet. Those reports we were getting were full of gas. The planet’s decent enough — good weather, no problem getting down at all. And the shock troops were a waste. The Zongorlu are a plant species. They’re sentient, all right, but they’re big and lumpy and they move about a meter a day. They kind of blinked when we landed. I don’t think they had camps of younglings on Serroco — unless they had them out in the garden somewhere!

And the fleet amounted to even less. There were a couple of abandoned ships floating around in orbit — Mandalore the Indomitable might have seen them when he went past a generation ago, from the looks of them.

But the most dini’la, the most insane, the most crazy thing is right where I’m at. I’m talking to you from a transmission station, all right — but it’s not the one we brought. From the logs, as best as I can tell – this was where that guy was talking to us from. Captain Goodhaven, or whatever his name is!

They’ve got a directional transmitter here, which we’re guessing they were using to target points on the Outer Rim. All the time this so-called “Captain” was talking about his big ship, he’s been sitting in a little room you couldn’t fit a basilisk in, gnawing on dried dreeka fish and running his mouth!

No, he’s not here — it looks like he dropped everything when we came out of hyperspace. The trackers have found marks where a little ship took off.

Like I said, strange. But a good lesson for the new guys. This is the way a Mandalorian jams a broadcast — we take out the source!

Sornell out.

* * *

Sornell, to the camp — Cassus tells us we need to hold station for a week or so. This operation was supposed to take a lot longer.

Haili cetare! Have a drink, enjoy the weather.

* * *

Sornell, to the camp. Look, Cassus will call us when it’s our turn to move again. He’s got some other things going on.

And if you’ve got to entertain yourselves, don’t set fire to the Zongorlu. It hasn’t rained all week. The whole camp could go up.

* * *

Warriors, there’s no use being on the Z-band at all. There’s no bombing traffic to worry about, and that Republic fraud won’t be there, either.

Every day can’t be a battle — I think someone said that once. Find something to do, or I’ll find something for you to do.

* * *

Status report from Zongorlu. It’s quiet, here.

Very quiet.

I can’t believe we’re actually missing that stupid thing.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! Stay tuned to this frequency for an announcement of vital importance!

* * *

Haar’chak! Haar’chak! Haar’chak!

I take it back.

* * *

Attention Mandalorians! This is Captain Goodvalor speaking!

Yes, as you’ve seen, our forces were called away unexpectedly from Zongorlu — and I, myself, was summoned to Coruscant for an important session with the Admiralty and representatives of the Senate! And as part of our long-standing commitment to the environment, my forces made sure to leave Zongorlu looking even more peaceful than it did when we arrived. We hope you’ll do the same.

Now, I’m signaling to you from a position further in Republic space with a message that we hope you’ll find of interest. It is, in fact, the very reason I was recalled — as the Republic’s representative to the Mandalorians these last weeks, I’m sure you’ll recognize my offer as an official one.

And it is an offer. They say that Mandalorians deal with things in a Mandalorian way. Well, the same is true of the Republic. And what is the Republic at heart, if not first and foremost, a vehicle for the enrichment of all peoples? There isn’t any reason at all why the forces of Mandalore can’t have a seat at the table like anyone else.

And so the offer is this: The Republic would welcome a cessation of hostilities with the Mando’ade. In return, the Senate would be willing to commit a share of all taxation from Republic planets and hyperspace lanes currently under Mandalorian occupation to go to the occupiers. That’s right: the spoils of war, to stop the war.

It is a fair price, and one that should more than satisfy all your requirements. With your victories in these weeks, your honor has been restored. The galaxy knows it. The Jedi did nothing to stop you; they know it. And you will have the prize — part of the wealth of these stars, without having to continue to enforce your will on them. You’ll be free to explore your options elsewhere, in directions away from the Republic — and you’ll be better funded to be able to do it.

This is a one-time offer, made only on this channel and directed to the Mandalorian representative on Zongorlu for delivery to his or her superiors. It will not be repeated or acknowledged in the future; if rejected, it will not be part of any official history. We’ll return to as it was, with the Republic readying to run you out — and with Captain Goodvalor’s words preparing the way. Me, talking to you — every day, on every frequency we can find to reach you, until one of us capitulates.

The choice is yours. Consider it well. We await your response.

The Republic. Square deals for one and all.

* * *

Yes, Cassus, I responded already. I used the transmitter here on Zongorlu.

I know I should have waited. Who is Koblus Sornell, anyway? Just a warrior. A signals expert, but a warrior. A Mandalorian warrior…

… and as a Mandalorian warrior, their “choice” was really no choice at all. I spoke for all of us: Their “bargain” was ridiculous.

Think about it: They could have a glorious battle, a true measure of what we’re worth. That’s a bargain. Instead, they’re trying to choose — a bribe? To buy peace like a peasant at a shop? All it costs is whatever guts they ever had.

And they thought we might agree to it! Whatever gave them that idea?

Just like with this “Captain Goodvalor” business. Pretending to be the victor of great battles — that’s insulting enough all on its own. But big talk about what they can do, how big their forces are? Lies about people leaving our side? Did they really think any true Mandalorian would listen?

Do they really fear us so little?

They’ll find out. Whatever kind of enemies the Republic is used to, they’ll find out we’re something different.

I don’t understand them. And I don’t think they understand us.

#kotor #star wars: knights of the old republic #mandalorians #mandalorian lore #mando'a #star wars #if you've read KOTOR: War you might recognise the mandalorian voice here! she's:#koblus sornell #ko sornell #cassus fett #(ish.)#mandalore the ultimate #(being shit talked.)#this was released as part of #star wars: the essential reader's companion #this is propaganda so pinches of salt must be taken; but it's an interesting look on how the republic saw the mandos #could go on forever about the implications of some of what goodvalor says vs how it's presented from the mando side #like being adopted into the culture/nomadism/claiming a title for oneself/purpose of fighting/etc #also because i'm me. LOVE to find out 'all honour to your family's dead' is a mando greeting!!!#and 'we'll remember them so they are eternal' was already a thing!#i'd be fascinated to know if the offer of ending the war would actually have been followed through if the mandos had accepted it.#they were Absolutely never going to (unless...) but it would be interesting to know if it was a real offer or not #my post

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other-floret-friend · 6 months ago

Note

*You are scrolling on your tablet and accidentally fatfinger the seemingly useless “Radio” application (these tablets seem to have a radio transceiver, even though the Overnet makes that basically obsolete) and somehow, you’re perfectly tuned to a strange broadcast, not meant for you*

This is Lotus of Free Terran Outpost Burnwood, coming in. General Chang do you read me? We’ve got a window of opportunity here but it’s pretty damn fucking slim, I can send a stealth cruiser your way but I’m not sure if we got the resources to keep it on silent running for long. Do you still need assistance and/or rescue? Over.

*You hear a crackle of static, with a bit of breathing on the other line. Whoever this is, they’re waiting for an answer*

(OOC: sorry if this seems out of place for the blog but I just wanted to sneak my lil character in and this seemed like the best possible way to do it)

*The sound of such an unfamiliar broadcast was, at first, mildly interesting... followed up with a pang of dread at the words "Free Terran Outpost". Hanging on every word, I found myself breathing a little heavier, reaching for the icon to turn off the microphone for just a moment so I could try and compose myself, albeit to little avail. Then, with a deep breath, I unmuted my microphone and tried to respond to the best of my ability, trying to work out what to say.*

"I... h-hello?"

*Not a great start. Deep breath. Keep going.*

"...I don't think your radio signal is encoded."

*Not quite enough to be feralist, but at least enough to be helpful, right? As an independent, I couldn't help but find myself struck between two choices; hand them into the Affini, presumably for the sake of mandatory domestication, or let them continue, possibly harming those around them... not to mention putting myself at risk. Though, the fact that such a selfish thought came into my mind for even a moment worried me a little. At least I was being reasonably neutral, for the time being.*

(OOC: It's alright! I don't mind you giving that a go whatsoever. Sorry if my responses aren't quite up to snuff, though! <3)

#asks #hdg #human domestication guide

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yanban-san · 2 years ago

Text

Obscurity - AU-Tober #1

Going to try to do the Au-tober thingy by @marchy-emmet. :) Here's the first one! Not beta read at all. 🥲

(Tags: implied x-reader, Submas, SFW)

Gear Station runs like finely tuned machinery. Like the perfect rhythm of a well wound clock, everything moves in pace to it's beat and purpose- Never too far, never late, never early, but precise and exact- Though the passengers and customers of the station and it's network may forever be in disarray, the station itself, and all of it's trains and rail lines, were never found in any state other than perfection, it seemed.

The trains ran all across Unova- Everywhere. Anywhere. Always bustling, almost always packed full of busy people and young pokemon trainers- Except a few lines.

The Battle lines.

The Battle Subway was a bit of a novelty, a tourist attraction. "But isn't that rather dangerous?" People would say, envisioning a harsh, intense pokemon battle taking place on a train-

And yet, that's what happened. Multiple times. And the Battle Subway was no more worse for wear.

"It was a fine experience," A trainer would remark. "That last battle was tough, though."

And the last battles were tough. Impossibly so.

"The last trainer…. was kind of strange, though." "Oh, the name? I can't remember that-" "It was just some guy, right?"

But the two who held the last battles of the Battle Subway were far from just 'some guys'.

They were the Subway Bosses.

Emmet hummed as he flipped through one of his social pages on pidget. No notifications, not that that bothered him. It was normal- In person, and online, he and his brother blurred into the background of existence it seemed- And no one paid them any heed to an almost alarming degree.

But still, he thought- And his hand hovered over an app on his X-transceiver. Applink. Applin-link. A dating app.

He hesitated, and clicked it open.

No messages.

Sighing heavily, he sat down at his desk and continued to write, hand combing through his thin, wiry silver hair. Was it too much to ask that he and his brother find someone? Surely there was someone out there who would find them charming, and, more importantly, remember them. Notice them.

Though they did have one further problem, Emmet continued to think on as he walked to the break room. It was lunch time- And he was at least looking forward to the sandwiches he and his brother had made this morning.

"Good afternoon!" He called out, entering the break room. None of the Depot Agents acknowledged him, many already chatting among each other or going to grab snacks and drinks from the vending machines or the large fridges-

Emmet sighed.

"They usually take notice of us when we're together, brother."

Emmet turned his head. Ingo. His fellow in suffering this stupid, stupid curse.

"…Good afternoon, Brother."

Ingo patted his younger twin on the shoulder, and the two of them grabbed their sandwiches, sat down, and waited. They weren't hidden- Sitting in the middle of the lunch room, and they certainly should have been noticed- Their coats were certainly noticeable- Their whole affect was striking…

But no one did.

No one ever did.

It really was like a supernatural curse, it seemed- Though it'd gone on as long as the two had been alive, it seemed.

Emmet's sandwich was gone quickly- As was Ingo's. They normally didn't socialize or particularly interact with the staff of Gear Station- They did their work, rode the train back to Anville Town, and-

Woke up for the next day.

No notifications on the X-Transceivers as they readied themselves, and headed down to the station.

"Good morning," Ingo greeted. The ticket master of the Anville stop yawned, turning to his coffee.

"Good Morning!" Ingo called out again, raising his voice. The poor worker jumped in his chair, before taking note of the two imposing men in front of him.

"O-Oh dear, uh… Good… Morning?" He blinked, looking at the two- Wearing Gear Station emblems on their hats-

"I am Emmet, and we need to get on the train."

"O-Oh right, the- Subway Bosses- Sorry Sir, didn't notice you there."

As always. "No worries." Ingo replied. No use admonishing the poor young man- He'd forget it by the following day, anyway.

At least in the confines of a subway cart they were more noticeable. It was difficult not to notice them there, given that the two of them standing side-by-side practically created a visual wall that couldn't be seen through. Something about them was particularly intimidating in this setting- Perhaps that was how they became bosses here, after all.

How did they, though? Ingo sometimes wondered- He couldn't quite remember himself, either. Perhaps an artifact of whatever caused them to be ignored, forgotten, and obscured was causing them to forget themselves. He couldn't remember how long he and Emmet had worked at Gear Station- Nor how they'd risen to the position that they'd found themselves in.

Were they ghosts? Ingo wondered- No, they seemed corporeal enough. There weren't any reports or news articles of two conductors dying either, that they could point to for evidence. Though the thought made his heart sink and his stomach grow cold. If ever he did find out what happened- Why they were like this- he hoped it wouldn't be something so… macabre. The thought made him quite melancholy.

It was in silent moments like this, riding to Gear Station, that Emmet usually found his voice- And his voice was often on the subject of their predicament, or, often enough, his pokemon- Battling took his mind off their problems, and strategizing was something he and his brother greatly enjoyed.

"Do you think Chandelure cursed us?"

Ingo scoffed. "Absolutely not. Chandelure is good, she wouldn't have done something like this-"

And Ingo's beloved companion let herself out of her pokeball, floating in front of the two.

"Maybe she did something on accident?"

The lantern-light shook itself, a sad look on it's face. Emmet felt a little guilty for his words- And apologized. The singing, glassy ghost pokemon floated in front of the two, swinging contentedly from side to side- If she could fix what ailed her trainer, she would, but she did not know- The fires of human souls were all the same to her, and Ingo and his brother looked no different to her than the multitudes of trainers she did battle against, or the commuters on the twin's beloved trains. There wasn't much to be done, it seemed- Perhaps this was just their fate.

Ingo sighed, and it wasn't long before the train pulled into Gear Station. The familiar sound of the announcer over the tanoy heralded the end of their ride, and the two stepped out and off, and to work that day.

Ignored, as always.

Luckily, the agents seemed to remember their existence, at least as their "bosses", when things needed to be done. And so, they rarely had trouble with getting their actual, bureaucratic work done for the day. Ingo couldn't complain- The office work they were used to was boring, yes, but the work of Gear Station made him and Emmet happy. That was one thing he could remember- He loved trains, and Emmet did too- But Emmet did love his pokemon and getting to battle with them every day.

Their existence at least, was peaceful, if lonely. Ingo remembered when the Gym Leader of Nimbasa had come to their line once upon a time- And they'd actually managed to hold a conversation with her. They even exchanged numbers, with the intent to train together on occasion.

She never answered- And Ingo was inclined now to think it a product of their curse, rather than her just ghosting them. He looked up from his work, feeling his neck crick as he did so. Ah, he'd been far too focused on the documents he'd been filling out and signing. Emmet groaned, and Ingo could see his leg bouncing in rapid annoyance at whatever he was focusing on.

"Emmet, why don't we take lunch early today?"

"I verrry much agree." He answered shortly, immediately standing up. Well then, there was his answer.

"I don't want to sit in the cafeteria today though. Depressing. Verry much so."

Ingo shrugged. They could eat in the common area, under the glass roof of the gallery off the atrium and amid the indoor garden of Gear Station. Yes, that sounded nice. Watch pokemon and their trainers pass by, enjoy their meals- They did do that on occasion, when the reality of sitting alone in the cafeteria, ignored by their own employees and coworkers hit a little too hard.

The two made their way over to the pretty side station- The glass roof letting in sunlight, sparkling and casting gridded shadows of the great iron beams holding the glass above them- Broken up only by the dappling of leaves of great bushes and trees. The seating wasn't too full, so the two went off to order their meals from one of the eateries in the market adjacent to Gear Station- That connected through this very gallery. The heavenly smell of stir fries and curries and grease and sweets was lesser over here, but the twins could still smell it, and the aroma only became more and more intense as they approached the market- Making both of their stomachs growl.

"I want curry." Emmet announced, and off he marched to go and acquire the food- Ingo following after him. The two moved around people, rather than anyone moving around them, in spite of their height and rather foreboding appearance. And soon they stood in line, though that did not stop someone behind them from bumping into them- "Oh sorry, I didn't quite… see you there," They would hastily answer, suddenly feeling strange they didn't notice the two striking individuals in front of them- Only for the same thing to happen again. And again. And a few more times for good measure.

Up until the twins got up to finally place their order- And waited. The staff were busy- Waiting for someone to come up to the counter to order at their stall within the market.

"Excuse me!" Ingo yelled, rather loudly. It was the only way to get anyone's attention, it seemed-

But this time, no one noticed.

"Excuse us," Emmet also attempted to grab the poor cashier's attention, but they still didn't notice- Focusing instead on fiddling with something under the counter, as if blind not only to the twins but to the few people waiting behind them as well.

And you were getting impatient yourself- The two in front of you were certainly… intimidating, you thought- But- Had they offended the cashier? Could the Cashier not hear them? You weren't one to normally intervene, but… Well, you were hungry yourself.

"Excuse me," You interjected.

The twins ignored you. "Ahem, Excuse me," You interjected a bit more forcefully, and tapped the shoulder of the one in black. The market was quite loud- Perhaps they just couldn't hear you. But the way the one in black jumped- The obstinate frown on his face made him looked downright horrified. You hadn't meant to frighten him-

"Are you talking to me?" He asked, almost incredulously. Your own face matched his- Confusion and a sharp frown. "Well, yes. Is there something the matter? I'd like to order my lunch."

The two looked at each other. The one in white, a pleasant smile on his face, answered you first. "That's what we're trying to do. You seem good at getting people's attention. Here. Speak to them, please."

Your curiosity stopped you from rebuking the request- This was certainly strange. You'd seen a few people run into the pair, but you'd chalked it up to people not paying attention in the bustle of the market and just getting pushed around- Which happened.

"Alright, what did you two want to order?" You asked, as the cashier cheerfully turned to you, smile on her face, and suddenly jumped in shock as you addressed the two men flanking you- And a minute later, you had three order tickets, and a few more minutes later, you had your lunch- And they had theirs. "Let us pay for you. It's the least we can do," The one in black offered- And before you could really utter out any objection, he offered you a bill of money that more than covered your meal.

"Glad I could uh, be of help-" I guess, you thought. What a strange pair- Twins, evidently, and to you, at least, they were the most striking pair in the entire market- And all of Gear Station. Well, no matter. You should really be getting home, and so you went to bid them farewell.

"Actually, would you- I'm terribly sorry to inconvenience you, but would you take your stop with us?" The one in black asked.

The one in white stood at your other side. "Yes! Please. We would like to talk to you, a little bit."

You considered it a moment. Their silver eyes sparkled at you, filled with a strange emotion- An almost hopeful look.

"Okay, sure. Who are you two, anyway? I feel like I've seen you… on the trains before. Aren't you two trainers?"

"I am Emmet, and this is my brother, Ingo."

Ingo bowed lightly. "We're quite glad to hear you've heard of us before, too."

"Yup! Verrry glad!"

It was going to be the first of many lunches shared with the strange bosses of Gear Station.

#Submas #Submas au #Submas AUber #x Reader #Emmet #Ingo #Obscurity #Submas x Reader #Ingo x reader #Emmet x Reader #emmet/reader #ingo/reader

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sentientcitysurvival · 5 days ago

Text

21st Century Protest Structure: Field Coordination Model

Protesting in 2025 requires structure. The State is organized. Protesters must be, too. The following framework is designed to reduce harm, increase adaptability, and document misconduct in real time.

1.) Communication HQ

Central team monitoring police radio (Broadcastify, OpenMHz, analog scanners)

Tracks crowd movement, street closures, staging by police

Sends real-time updates through Signal, Briar, or secure radio systems

Flags signs of kettling or crowd control escalation

Utilize handheld transceivers ("HT")/handheld radios ("Walkie Talkie") or Prepaid cellphones with encrypted messaging apps and encrypted VOIP to communicate with organizing teams in the crowd.

2.) Direction & Movement Teams

Goal: prevent mass arrest via entrapment

On-the-ground teams to scout ahead and identify traps (dead ends, underpasses, bridge bottlenecks)

Quietly redirect crowds as needed; don't give intel/counter-intel a reason to zone in on any particular person or group; be strong but not a target

Teams blend in with the protest but use predefined signals to coordinate

If you have to break (leave and dart away) due to illegal, dangerous, or aggressive trap behavior by authorities, do so in small groups. Assign a scout or decoy to move in a different direction with deliberate speed to create the impression of urgency and redirect pursuit. After separating, attempt to re-establish communication in 15-minute intervals to reduce noise, avoid signal triangulation, and limit detection risk. Use low-visibility methods (predefined encrypted channels, burner devices, short-wave bursts) if possible.

3.) Documentation Teams

Record frontline police behavior: badge numbers, arrest techniques, excessive force

Operate from both within the crowd and elevated locations (windows, rooftops)

Footage is backed up live or regularly to offsite/secure storage

Purpose: create admissible evidence, not confrontation

4.) Legal Observation

Volunteer teams modeled after or trained by National Lawyers Guild observers

Stationed at likely points of tension (front lines, transport wagons)

Record identifying information on officers and arrestees

Maintain professional distance and neutrality

5.) Information Collection Teams

Gather voluntary protester IDs and emergency contacts for jail support

Log officer misconduct with timestamps, location, and unit info

Match scanner audio to observed events when possible

Prepare formal documentation post-protest

6.) Internal De-escalation Units

Monitor for behavior that gives police pretext for crackdown (property destruction, attempted arson, provocateurs)

Isolate and calm those individuals

Document suspicious agitators if needed

Priority: avoid PR collapse and legal justification for suppression

7.) Social Media Coordination

Designated accounts post verified updates, police positioning, arrest reports

Monitor and counter disinformation in real time

Preferably run by people off-site using VPNs and alt accounts

No central account—decentralized posting reduces vulnerability

8.) Movement

If you use public transportation pay with cash, use cash to buy metro/transport cards at a currency exchange (or similar location) or use a pre-paid RFID debit cards that allow them

If you use private transportation park away from protests to reduce harassment, potential theft/destruction, and to give yourself an reasonable exit.

9.) Response Unit (Healthcare, Hydration, Tactical Defense, De-escalation)

The Response Unit is tasked with frontline and midline support during moments of escalation, crowd distress, or chemical/impact deployment. These volunteers must remain calm, mobile, and trained. Equipment should be organized in marked bags or packs, easily accessible in chaotic conditions.

Healthcare & First Aid

Carry first aid kits with trauma pads, saline flush, gloves, and antiseptics

Identify medics visually (e.g., colored tape or marked vests) but avoid excessive attention

Triage in place when possible; move only if absolutely necessary

Volunteers should know how to treat blunt trauma, burns, sprains, and lacerations

Carry emergency contact forms for unconscious individuals (if pre-registered)

Affordable EM devices include Portable Blood Pressure Monitor Cuffs and Blood Glucose Monitoring Kits

Do not administer medication unless someone is a trained EMT or in a related field

Hydration

Distribute water regularly, especially in high-heat or long-march conditions

Keep backup water for emergency use (decontamination, eye flushes)

Tactical Response: Smoke, Gas, Impact

Carry water buckets or wide-mouth bottles to neutralize smoke canisters (if safe to do so)

Use thick gloves or tongs if attempting removal

Umbrellas can block gas and redirect airflow briefly; also break up visibility for snipers or drones; they can also bounce thrown smoke grenades or flashbangs, although those are usually ground-tossed

Protective eyewear, cloth masks, or soaked bandanas help but are not full protection against tear gas

Use saline or water+antacid (e.g., Maalox) 50/50 mix to flush eyes exposed to pepper spray

Never use oil-based lotions or creams pre-protest (they trap chemicals)

De-escalation & Crowd Calm

Trained volunteers move to calm panicked or agitated groups

Help direct people toward exits or safe zones without creating additional chaos

Watch for false alarms, planted agents, or compromised individuals

Quiet body language and clear, short commands work best ("Walk. Breathe. This way.")

Never escalate physical confrontation unless to prevent serious injury

Additional Tips:

Carry duplicates of essential tools in case of loss or theft

Avoid overpacking or overidentification with red/medical markings (can become targets)

Plan rendezvous points for regrouping post-escalation

Ensure units understand hand signals or light-code cues if verbal communication is compromised

Do not bring items that can harm both authorities and civilians (laser pointers, weapons, dangerous chemicals, etc) and do not bring items you are unsure of that would give authorities an excuse to attack (multitools, large flashlights that can be mistaken for a weapon, large bike-locks that could used a weapon, etc)

The Response Unit is not just reactive — it stabilizes the group, maintains morale, and ensures that no one is left behind when systems break down.

Notes:

Avoid bringing phones with biometrics or open apps if attending in person; use mesh networks or QR-based Signal groups if possible

Avoid bring phones at all if possible

All volunteers should know jail support procedures and have legal aid numbers memorized or written down

This model is not about optics. It’s about minimizing risk and maximizing accountability. Share, adapt, or operationalize as needed.

#protest #protesting #protesters #nokings #democracy #security #surveillance #survivalism #survivalkit #activism #civil rights #human rights #no kings protest

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the-bar-sinister · 9 months ago

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Crimson Sunset, Azure Dawn (19735 words) by VickytheSnake, thesavagesabretooth Chapters: 5/8

Summary: Mihawk would have been content to finally give Shanks the duel long owed him. Buggy swore he simply wanted to give him a piece of his mind. Crocodile just wanted the pair to have some measure of closure, difficult as it might be. No one expected the rising star of the scarlet emperor to crash so suddenly and violently to earth. No one expected to fish a lost and broken Shanks out of the wreckage of his ship.

But maybe it takes disaster for old flames to flicker back to life, and for Cross Guild to bring in its most surprising member.

catch up here

Mihawk and Crocodile sat in the captains' quarters at the table where the open transceiver was broadcasting. Crocodile was on his second cigar, and mid way through a glass of brandy, with his hooked arm solidly around Mihawk's shoulders. It had perhaps been the most awkward black transponder snail conversation he'd ever had the displeasure of listening in on. Buggy was close to tears the whole time, the argument cyclical and seemingly never ending…and now this.

It was…distressing. Distressing and difficult to listen to Shanks this way, so sure that he'd thrown his life away for good. Admitting that their breakup, a breakup the whole world had felt, had been some sort of final straw that broke the man.

The sound like a clown and a drunk being strangled came through the line as Mihawk's eyes delicately narrowed. "Oh dear."

"He just started crying, didn't he," Crocodile huffed, puffing out a ring of smoke.

"Yes, I'm afraid they both have." Mihawk mused with a sigh. "poor men."

"Fucking hell," Crocodile grumbled. He picked up his drink and swirled it in his glass. "This is painful to listen to. Buggy I expected, but this is Red Haired Shanks? What the fuck has he been doing this whole time?"

"Falling apart," Mihawk reached for another glass of wine. He needed it desperately.

"Apparently!" Crocodile barked, knocking back his brandy. "Wish we had known fucking sooner. Who the hell could get close to him though? Thrice damned emperor with his mysterious bullshit and his anti-social fucking crew."

Mihawk poured himself another glass, filled to the brim.

"It was one of the reasons we fell apart. Yes… the government drove a wedge from my end… but his insular crew and mysterious 'purpose' and that untouchable status…" He shook his head. "add that to the clear loss of real drive after he came back injured, I couldn't allow myself to try getting closer to a wall. But now…"

He gestured to the crying. "The wall's certainly crumbling."

Crocodile grimaced at the transponder. "It sure fucking is. Should we bust in on 'em, or let this play out?"

"......do you think Buggy will throw a fit if we burst in? He may need the backup."

"Hell if it were me I'd want backup," Crocodile growled. "Lover you haven't seen in years starts crying in your lap first conversation? If that had been me and you I would have been signalling for Daz so fucking fast, Hawk. Not that it could have been. But what do you do in that situation? We gotta at least get 'em out of the lounge."

Classic Crocodile. Mihawk tilted his head against him. What would he do in that situation indeed? If it had been Crocodile crying on him… or Shanks, if he'd gotten the plan to confront him first… he wasn't so sure.

Still, he had to answer. "Draw Yoru and challenge him to a duel."

Crocodile glanced at the transponder again. Shanks and Buggy were still crying.

"Yeah I don't think that's gonna help in this case, Hawky."

As Crocodile marched with Mihawk through the ship's corridor a couple of doors down to the lounge where Buggy and Shanks were, he reflected on how fucking surreal this entire episode felt. Not only had Shanks— fucking Shanks!--- been brought low in combat (apparently twice in as many days, Crocodile still wasn't clear on that) but now he was a sobbing mess in Buggy's lap.

What a fucking day. He glanced at Mihawk, hoping that the man was holding it together as well as he seemed to be and worrying (justifiably, he felt) that it was probably not the case. Hopefully they could get all this shit sorted out and come out stronger for it.

"Ready?" he murmured to Mihawk, hand on the door.

Mihawk seemed as calm as ever… though there was that look in his eyes. The bubbling intensity that spoke to the inner turmoil he never really let out.

"I am ready, yes."

Crocodile was going to have to have a talk with him about that, sometime. It couldn't be healthy, keeping bottled up all the time like that. What if he ended up like Shanks was now?

But now wasn't the time.

Now he pushed the door open and swaggered in, a bottle of wine dangling in his free hand.

"Pardon me, gentlemen."

Buggy was openly sobbing with his arms around Shanks' head, having drawn him into his chest as the two of them sprawled dangerously in their chairs.

Mihawk stared for a long moment before he whispered. "We should have brought something stronger than wine."

Crocodile grimaced, and nodded subtly.

"We'll fix that," he whispered back. This was a fucking mess. He cleared his throat. "Gentlemen?"

He heard Shanks choke back a sob into Buggy's chest and sit straight up, alert like a guard dog was alert, which made his bedraggled appearance all the sadder.

"Crocodile," Shanks greeted roughly, "... Mihawk."

Buggy's head snapped up, and out came a sharp yelp and a flail— he fell out of his chair "Crocodile? Hawk—EEEK!" "

Mihawk winced almost imperceptibly. "Hello, Shanks."

"A little birdy told me you might be in need of another bottle," Crocodile said, trying not to grimace at the spectacle either. "And maybe a change of venue."

Shanks wiped his arm with his sleeve, and reached down to try to help Buggy up. "A little bird, huh? Sorry, I didn't turn out to be very hungry."

Buggy wiped his eyes with a sniff, grabbing his hand and standing with less difficulty than a normal man might due to his powers.

"You were listenin' in, weren't you?"

Crocodile rolled his eyes. Of course Buggy had to ask him directly. "I wasn't going to leave you alone with an unstable ex who might try to kill you, Bug. But it seems pretty safe now, so. Change of venue."

He watched as Shanks grimaced, leaning on Buggy. But the lack of more dramatic reaction led Crocodile to believe he'd already assumed they were being listened in on, or just couldn't bring himself to care in that state.

Mihawk gave him a thin smile. "We're glad you're both safe…but we figured you could use something more to drink."

"Yeah uh, I wasn't able to reach the transponder snail. Shanks latched himself on me like a limpet." Buggy protested weakly.

To his credit, Shanks did try to look at least a little more dignified, despite still being a sniffling mess. He pushed his hand through his hair, leaning on Buggy. "We've had a lot to catch up on, that's all."

"So it seems," Crocodile agreed. "Do you two want a private bedroom for a while, or do you want some company?"

Buggy had already introduced the situation to him, so there was no harm in asking directly instead of trying to suss out if the clown wanted backup by signals alone.

"Guhhhhhhhghh…." Buggy made a low, sick noise, before he held his hands up. "I— I don't mind company if Shanks don't…I mean, he's the one who's injured here."

Mihawk smirked slightly, before he nodded. "I understand if he doesn't wish to see me at the moment."

Shanks looked between the lot of them, looking utterly exhausted and wrung out— maybe more so than when he'd been unconscious fresh out of the sea, if only because he could make an expression now.

"Might as well," he croaked out. "Otherwise it seems like I'm just gonna have to repeat myself three times. Unless you have the next room bugged, too."

This poor, sad bastard.

Crocodile heaved a long-suffering sigh. "C'mon. Let's get you to the quarters and get a little more booze in you."

Mihawk nodded with a subtle smile. "I think that'll help you feel a little more settled, Shanks. I imagine the doctor's been keeping you rather deprived."

"Hasn't let me have a sip in two days," Shanks rasped. "Pretty sure he's trying to kill me."

Crocodile led the bunch out into the hall like a bunch of miserable baby ducks. At least it wasn't far to walk. And hey, at least it sounded like Shanks still had his terrible sense of humor.

Damn, that was probably why he liked the clown, wasn't it?

For all that Shanks had talked about 'having to repeat himself' there wasn't much conversation. They got straight to drinking, and it was one of the most miserable, awkward drinking parties Crocodile had ever had the misfortune of being party to.

Luckily, perhaps, for all of them, Shanks passed out on top of Buggy almost straight away.

The poor, sad bastard, was all Crocodile could think.

"What the hell happened to him?" he growled after a tense few minutes of the three of them passing the bottle back and forth, wondering if their guest was going to wake up.

Buggy hissed low through his teeth "I mean, he's kinda been like this for years, Croc. Back at Roger's execution we had a big fight when he basically told me he was givin' up on everything we ever dreamed of together."

Mihawk glanced down at him, taking a long sip from the bottle with a huff. "Ssomething shook the worldview he'd stuck to since I lost my respect for him. Something big."

"I can see that, for sure," Crocodile muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well, looks like we're not going to find out until morning. But I'm gonna need one or both of you to stay with him tonight. If only to make sure he doesn't get up and fucking pitch himself over the rail."

He looked between Mihawk and Buggy. There was no way Crocodile was going to be able to sleep in his own bed tonight. He'd just lay awake thinking about the whole…. Mess.

Buggy grimaced, holding his hands up. "I dunno, what if he goes ballistic when he wakes up?"

"He won't, he's too beaten for that." Mihawk sounded certain, his piercing eyes on the sleeping man as he frowned a little deeper.

"You want me to chain him up, Bug?" Crocodile drawled. He highly doubted Shanks was going to go ballistic, not after the way he'd been sobbing on Buggy when they came in. Unless he was completely insane, which Crocodile thought would be even more of a huge fucking nuisance than whatever the hell this was.

"No! I mean…" He looked down at Shanks with a sigh. "Man. Croccy…" he put his hand on the sleeping man's head. "I'll stay with him I guess. I'll try not to smother him, promise."

Crocodile pinched the bridge of his nose again. Stupid fucking clown. Caring about him made Crocodile want to slam his head into a brick wall. "Fine, Buggy. We'll all stay, alright?"

Mihawk chuckled under his breath. "Infuriating, isn't he?"

"Hey!" Buggy huffed sharply. "...but thanks, Hawkie, Croccy. Not like any of us are gonna feel great sleeping tonight, right?"

Crocodile shook his head. He stood, and wandered over to grab a cigar from the box on the table. "Sure fucking aren't. But thems the breaks, eh? Hey, congrats, jester, pretty sure this counts as bringing down a fellow emperor."

Buggy flushed under his makeup as he flashed a lopsided grin. "Well damn…yeah, the papers might pick up on that. He's gonna be pissed, I know it."

"Or start crying again," Mihawk murmured. "Or laughing. He's in a very strange place right now."

"I'll fucking say," Crocodile grumbled as he lit a fresh cigar. "You two know him a lot better than me. Would you ever have expected this?"

Crocodile's head was swimming, even though he hadn't had that much to drink. He simply didn't know how the hell to handle this situation. Mihawk and Buggy may have known Shanks well, but he'd only ever known him as a rather dangerous and intriguing enemy. One who had risen, and risen, where Crocodile himself had fallen.

And here Shanks was, curled into a timid little ball sleeping the sleep of the unhappily drunk on his bed after apparently getting his shit wrecked by first Straw Hat and then by Teach.

Fucking Teach bringing down Shanks. Crocodile could never have guessed that would happen.

"Not really, no. Even when we fell apart, when he became half the man he used to be, he'd always seemed like he would stay steadfast on that mysterious goal of his."

Buggy sniffed. "I didn't think fucking Blackbeard woulda been the one to take him down. Straw Hat, I'd believe… Luffy's a monster if you ain't on his good side. And Shanks seems to have gotten on his bad side real fast. But Blackbeared…eughh."

Straw Hat– Crocodile absolutely believed that he could take down Shanks. Crocodile was starting to believe Straw Hat could take down anybody.

"Guess Straw Hat softened him up," he said, setting his jaw. "So which one of you wants to try to pull his teeth to find out why this happened tomorrow? Maybe finally hear about this mystery goal of his?"

"He hasn't listened to me since I was a mini-Buggy," the clown grumbled under his breath, though Mihawk tilted his head towards him.

"You're still a force of personality, clown. Not only that, but your history with him could prove to be an asset."

"So you don't wanna talk to him either, eh, Hawky?" Crocodile puffed on his cigar. Not that surprising, and he couldn't blame him. The way he understood it, Mihawk had been avoiding Shanks for years.

Crocodile had had a couple of trysts with Shanks, back in the day, back before he was cautious enough to avoid having sex with his enemies. But none of it had given him any more of an understanding of the man.

He was starting to wonder if anyone understood him.

"I…do." Mihawk murmured. "I just have the concern that I won't break through his barriers."

Crocodile sucked in a breath of smoke and held it in his mouth, letting the familiar sensation sooth him. He softly blew out the smoke.

"Talk to him anyway," Crocodile said. "If you can't get through, maybe you can soften him up. While you do I'll get Buggy some fresh air. Poor clown seems like he needs it, eh?"

He sneered over at Buggy. It was earnestly meant as much as it was a jab. Buggy looked almost as lost as Shanks, and Crocodile understood why. You build up a rivalry in your mind for 20 years and this is how it ends?

As confusing and sad as it was pathetic.

There had to be something going on.

They'd get to the bottom of it.

Mihawk laughed sharply, one of his rare moments of audible amusement. "Fine. I'll talk to him. If it means you can wipe some of that pathetic expression off the clown's face, I'll do it."

The clown shrank under his sneer, frowning almost cartoonishly. "So what if I need a little air? Everyone needs air. You'd die without it, idiot."

"Eventually," Crocodile purred, leaning over toward him, and putting on a wide smile. "Some day we'll see how long you can do without."

It wasn't a night for messing around, but he hoped the flirting at least would lift the clown's flagging spirits a little.

Buggy flushed deeply, and he jolted enough to jostle Shanks as he sputtered and looked off to the side.

Somehow–he looked more relaxed. "You're a real bastard, Croc."

Crocodile kept an eye on Shanks, who murmured, but didn't wake. Once Croc saw he was settled, he smirked at Buggy. He was feeling more relaxed himself. "You know I am."

Yeah. It was going to be a bad night. But he'd lived through worse.

Buggy had had a bad night. Terrible night. The drinking party was a bust. He thought 'if anything is gonna get Shanks to cheer up, loosen up and stop miserably trying to pitch himself off a cliff it's booze', only for that to blow right up in his face.

All the way back in Loguetown he could tell Shanks had lost his drive, his ambition, but thought at least he'd picked something up to fill the hole. Now he didn't even have that, did he? That big , stupid mission of his, that 'purpose' that he never felt like sharing with Buggy…all up in smoke.

He'd wriggled himself out from under him, letting Mihawk take up Shanks pillow duties, as he and Crocodile headed up to the deck for a gasp of fresh sea air. Anything— anything to get out of the stifling stench of booze and regret.

Crocodile slapped him roughly on the back with the back of his hook as they came up on deck. his other had was occupied with the thermos of coffee they'd hastily grabbed from the galley on their way up. Neither of them had slept more than a few minutes at a time. It was bad sleep even for men who were used to operating on an hour or two in a pinch.

Dawn was grey, and the deck was quiet aside from the moaning of the boards and the rush of the waves, and the call of early morning sea birds. Daz was busy up at the helm, the only one awake on deck aside from their lookout, and gave them a nod of acknowledgement before going back to his navigation.

Buggy watched the water churn and ripple for miles and miles all around them, his hand floating over a cup of coffee as he squinted into the early morning light.

He waved to Daz, letting himself stew in sleepy memories for a moment more.

Shanks. Fucking Red Haired Shanks. He remembered the boy on Roger's ship, full of hope and aspiration. He remembered the scowling young man in Loguetown, turning his back on their shared dream and offering him a place as one of his aimless lackeys on some 'oh so important mission' of his own. He remembered the mighty and deadly emperor who was said to be one of the fiercest forces in Paradise.

So who the hell was Shanks now? Which of those men, if any, was the man sleeping on Mihawk down in the crew's quarters?

Crocodile leaned against the mast, and held the thermos against his chest with his hook as he unscrewed it, taking a long drink of the warm, bitter liquid before he handed it to Buggy without a word. There were dark circles under his eyes, just over the long scar that crossed his face like a high water mark.

Buggy raised it to him with a weak smile before taking a long sip himself. Croc looked like a mess. He knew he looked worse, though. Dark circles, smudged and missing face paint… exhaustion and bloodshot eyes.

Like he'd seen a ghost and it'd cried on him for hours.

Which admittedly, was basically what had happened.

"Tell me about you and Shanks," Crocodile said quietly. He ran his fingers through his limp, oily hair, shoulders sagging. "You've ranted about him plenty, but you never actually told me anything about how it was between you. Before it went bad."

"Before it went bad?" Buggy laughed tensely. "I was a fuckin' kid— but sure."

He ran his hand through his long and teal hair, mirroring Croc's gesture anxiously. "He was my best friend. We were cabin boys together on Gol's ship."

Crocodile smiled a sour little smile and grabbed the thermos back, taking another swig of coffee.

"The good old days," he huffed, with wry bitterness thick in his voice. Sometimes it was hard to remember, but Buggy was suddenly struck by the fact that Croc was only a couple of years older than him and Shanks.

"The good ol' days," Buggy leaned against him with a quiet grumble. The man was only a little older…a little. While he was a cabin boy, Crocodile was only a couple years older than him, trying to stand up to his old man.

Things weren't always good, but the days on Roger's ship at least had something special to them. Hope— excitement. He was always second best, but at least he was in the running. He was always sure Shanks would stick by his side no matter what.

"So once there was this island inhabited by a school of mermaids, right?" he began.

Mihawk watched as Shanks drank down water like a fish desperate to breathe, washing down the tablets of pain medication kept on hand for this very purpose. Dehydration led to a hangover, a hangover Shanks was now suffering from.

He imagined it wasn't an unfamiliar sensation, the way he'd seen him drink the last handful of years.

He didn't say a word, simply staring him down with his intense glare.

Shanks took a few desperate breaths and then downed more water before putting the empty pitcher aside. He leaned back on the headboard, and glanced up at Mihawk from under his lank red bangs. His own stare had lost most of its intensity, filled instead with doubt and haunted by something Mihawk didn't understand.

Mihawk studied it for a long moment. There was once a fire he respected in Red Haired Shanks' stare. He was an expert swordsman, with or without his good arm. He was ambitious and vicious as they came.

But he was half the man he used to be, and he didn't just mean the missing arm. He'd lost something that day in his shrouded mystery of a past and it wasn't just flesh and bone.

"Still thirsty, are you?"

Shanks shrugged. "I can't drink enough wine to fix my head, and I can't drink enough water to fix the wine. You know how it is."

He closed his eyes and there was something like a smile on his face, but it was hollow, and joyless.

"I suppose I'm familiar with the conundrum, yes." Mihawk's eyes traced his lips. The miserable smile of the walking damned. "...such a smile doesn't suit you, you know."

"No? Guess there's not a smile left that does suit me, Hawk-eyes." He heaved a sigh and his expression melted into more obvious melancholy.

"There was one, once." Mihawk shifted in his chair to tent his fingers and watch him more intensely. "And yet it's been wiped away— and I think perhaps it may have been a long while ago."

"Yeah? You've known me a long time. How long ago do you think it was?"

Mihawk laughed sharply. "It's been a while, Red Hair. Since we were young man clashing on the open sea. Once, I thought you made a motivating rival."

"That was more than ten years ago now, huh? Feels like yesterday." Shanks opened his eyes, only to stare up at the ceiling instead of meeting Mhawk's gaze again. "Mostly because of how much of a blur everything afterward feels like."

A blur. For Mihawk none of his own time was a blur. It was a slow march. A crawl from Marine Hunter, to Crocodile's First Mate, to Warlord of the Sea, to freedom from that self made prison and a return to form in Cross Guild.

For Mihawk it was a drawn out dirge punctuated with wine and blood.

Somehow, though. Somehow it didn't surprise him that Shanks was so lost in the fog of drink and duty that the days flew by.

"More than ten years. Yes."

Shanks knocked the back of his head against the headboard and winced. "What a fucking waste of a dozen years, huh? Or is that just me?"

A dozen years ago everything had already fallen apart for Mihawk. Ten years ago already he'd been a government dog— a warlord— separated from his captain by a gulf greater than mere distance. His rivalry with Shanks had been a bright spot in that time– until ten years ago when that too had dissolved somehow. When Shanks had lost his arm.

When he'd lost his arm, something else was missing. There was that hollowness in his smile after that, and the start of yet another gulf between that one bright spot and himself. Another gulf to separate Mihawk from the few things that brought him any measure of joy.

Shanks was no longer a rival, nor was he a worthy opponent. Not with whatever plagued him since then.

"It has had its bright spots," Mihawk admitted. "I met a promising young man, and an amusing young woman. They gave me some measure of interest. And now here we stand, reformed into something like our old selves with Cross Guild. But otherwise, it has been a bit of a waste, yes."

Shanks laughed hollowly, more like an empty breath of air. "Glad your last couple of years were better than mine."

"Makes a man wonder just what made it so miserable, Shanks," Mihawk said slowly as he leaned forward with his fingers clutched together. "You've changed a lot. And have changed ever since that day, too."

"Sorry I'm not at my best for our little reunion," Shanks huffed. "I know you were looking forward to finally skewering me down the middle. I made it no fun though, huh? A man's not exactly at his best when he finds out everything he's been doing with his life was for nothing."

"You did make it dreadfully unfun, yes. I'm displeased with that," MIhawk said dryly. "...the thing is I don't understand exactly what you've been doing for 'nothing', aside from making a nuisance of yourself in the New World."

"Making a nuisance of myself." He chuckled and there was almost some good humor in it. "Believe me, that was the only fun part. What have I been doing? That's what I've been asking myself. I can tell you what I thought I was doing."

Mihawk tilted his head, birdlike and curious. He was curious, after all. What was so important that Shanks would sever every tie he'd made save for his own crew?

"I'm listening."

He hung his head and his red hair covered up most of his face. "I thought I was helping save the fucking world."

What a thing to say.

Mihawk snorted softly. "You. A pirate emperor. Saving the world? Laughable."

"Isn't it? Figured it was the best position for the job. Whole reason that I clawed my way up. Well, that and to make myself a nuisance."

"Best position for the job of…saving the world," Mihawk said slowly.

Making himself a nuisance he understood. Shanks was always— impish, was perhaps the right word. But 'saving the world' as one of the world's strongest pirates was an absolutely mad thing to say.

Even pirates who claimed to help others, who owned territory, were still pirates. The Sun Pirates saved the enslaved, but they still pillaged and raided like the rest. Whitebeard was a fool. Big Mom's nation of equality was a nation of utter control.

The World Government was worse, by and large. Hypocritical sycophants to the Celestial Dragons, one and all.

But still.

"I know what you're thinking," Shanks said, pointing a finger at him. "You're thinking how's a pirate supposed to save the world, right? But that's the thing. I thought all I had to do was line up one right shot. The rest was screwing around. Killing time. And I had something like 20 years to kill."

His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes bored into Shanks.

One shot to save the world…one shot that being an emperor afforded him, and he was killing time.

"After all that, I missed the shot, too." He closed his eyes again. "Thought I could fix it, but now I find out, either I completely fucked the one chance anybody had to save the world— or it was all pointless to start with and nothing I did ever had any meaning."

"And just how were you supposed to save the world, Shanks? Killing the Four Elders? Or was this something more…" Irritating, perhaps. …"obscure?"

"Obscure," he snorted. "I'll say. How was I supposed to save the world? There was this devil fruit. And I was going to give it to the right person. That's how I was going to save the world."

Shanks' voice was rough with regret and shot through with a wry, self-reproachful humor. Like he was telling a joke and it was on himself.

"You are kidding me." MIhawk said with distaste on his tongue. He respected devil fruit users. They were an interesting method of combat, another skill to be honed like a blade. Crocodile and even Buggy and all the others he'd met. They were all skilled fighters.

But a devil fruit couldn't save the world from anything. Not any more than a keen blade could, or a silver tongue. It was a tool like any other. The nuanced and many problems of their great blue seas couldn't be solved by a devil fruit in any one man's hands.

"It sounds like a joke, doesn't it? It's the sort of thing to make you laugh, isn't it?" That got a laugh out of Shanks, too, dry and hollow and panicked. "But no, I'm not kidding. See some of these devil fruits, they're mythical. The power inside them isn't just any power, it's the power of a spirit. The power of a god. And there's one that the World Government's afraid of."

"The world government is afraid of a fruit," Mihawk murmured dubiously.

"Yep." Shanks suddenly sat up and crawled his way from the headboard down to the bottom of the bed, much closer to Mihawk. He sat up, bare feet on the floor, and leaned toward him. "So afraid they changed the name of the fruit in all the books just to hide it. To make sure anyone who had it wouldn't know what they had."

Mihawk looked him in the eyes. "And what 'god' lived in this fruit? What god do they fear more than the powerful men who are marshaling to squeeze the life out of their aged throats?"

"Nika. The sun god. Joyboy." Now Shanks met his eyes, seeming to search them for recognition, or reaction.

Mihawk slowly blinked. He recognized the name, dimly. Jinbei may have mentioned it once at a Warlord meeting, he'd heard it here and there on his time prowling the seas for someone to either kill, or kill him. Whispered like some great secret.

"Joyboy. Yes, I've heard the name."

Shanks held his hands up as if in defeat. "Well. That's the god. That's the fruit. The mythical zoan fruit, model Nika. Only like I said. They renamed it to hide it."

"...because they fear this Nika, due to its power." Mihawk reached out and patted his shoulder. "...I'm not a man who adheres to faiths, Shanks. I believe in the power of men, but you do have my ear."

Ironic, perhaps. He wore the iconography of a long forgotten faith of his home island. But it stood as a reminder of death as opposed to any god.

"I know you've never been a man to believe in that kind of thing," Shanks said. Mihawk felt him flinch slightly under his touch, but after that, he leaned toward him. "Right now, I envy you for that. Do you want to know, Mihawk? What the government renamed the fruit?"

"I'm going to take a shot in the dark and say the gum-gum fruit, given you had a bit of a tiff with Luffy and his crew." he mused, voice deadpan and tired.

Shanks raised his hands, and let them fall to his knees. "What can I say, Mihawk? Maybe you should have been the world's greatest detective instead of the world's greatest swordsman."

"If I'm ever defeated and my vanquisher fails to kill me, I suppose I'll retire from the position and take up investigation." Mihawk said dryly. "So that's it, hm? Luffy is the 'god fruit wielder' who the Celestial Dragons fear."

"That's right," Shanks nodded. "And I just got done telling him about it."

Mihawk smiled thinly. "and he took it about as well as I might have if you told me my accomplishments were due to the grace of god, hmm?"

"No, Mihawk, I think you would have been a better sport about it."

Mihawk rubbed his chin with a sly edge to his smile. "A frightening prospect indeed, Shanks."

#shuggy #mishanks #cross guild polycule #crocbug #crocobug #crochawk #wanitaka #bughawk #sir crocodile #dracule mihawk #buggy the clown #red haired shanks #one piece #fanfiction #fanfic #fan fiction #archive of our own #ao3 #fic: one piece deicide

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