#Outlast At Outpost

[gooeykit]

when not even the bacteria knows to decompose your body THIS POST IS ABOUT SOTTO

IF YOU DERAIL I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU

[hero-israel]

I feel a little frustrated at my fellow zionists at the moment, because I see people saying "we have no partner for peace" (in all the forms you can say that) and yep 110% correct it is very clear that Hamas does not want peace, the PA doesn't want peace (in a different way) there's no movement for peace out of the Palestinian streets etc so yeah totally no partner for peace

but I hate thats everyone's stopping point! we're Zionists! this is ISRAEL we don't just take impossible and say "oh well" we make facts on the ground! we make the desserts boom! we bring a nation and a language make after 2,000 years, come on! The Palestinians don't want to work with us? great whats our plan? whats our future? what we gonna do? I just feel like everyone on the left, center, and center-right are just kinda head in the sand about it, vaguely holding out for one day a Palestinian side that wants to return to Camp David as a jumping off point while denying thats what they're doing. While the far right is smoking crack about holding onto every square inch of the land and all 3 million people who violently do not wish to be ruled by Jews, and they also don't have a plan for those people just kinda "don't worry about it" and using the status quo to try to creep onto any spot they can find without any real regard for if it's defensible

The most likely future is more of the same, with the status quo being maintained as-is for decades simply because it can. I've been reading for many years about how "the status quo is unsustainable, the occupation is unsustainable," when it's exactly the opposite, it's VERY sustainable, and it has outlasted its most important critics (the Soviet bloc, the Arab League boycott, the "Three No-s," "Zionism-is-racism," the rules-based international order, etc). For better and for worse there is no need for urgent intervention, and it makes the most practical sense to view I/P as a chronic condition to be managed. That means REALLY sticking to the status-quo: not annexing anything, not starting new settlements, not broadening current ones, not legalizing outposts. If Palestinians get a two-stater government in 5 years or 105 years, let Israel be waiting there for the signature and handshake, with everything Palestinians could have had 4 years earlier or 104.

I see the appeal, from a sense of moral rightness, in Israel unilaterally proclaiming what territory it must have and then departing from the rest, which would then become a Palestinian state. It would be a dramatic and noble gesture, and it would certainly fail and result in a much bigger Gaza surrounding Israel's major cities.

This is a partial failure of the Zionist vision - that they can't extricate themselves from this grinding brutalizing tension, that they can't find a divorce both sides can live with. I would sooner accept that partial failed principle than widespread real death.

[burnertrust]

TF OC: Artifice Emperor

They were a Decepticon throughout the war, but they were stationed on an asteroid outpost that was quickly forgotten. They spent the duration of the war engaged in increasingly elaborate role-play battles with a team of Autobots stationed on the same asteroid. As a part of the LARP, they adopted “Artifice Emperor” as an edgy persona and never went back. Their bouts with the bots grew into deep friendship that outlasted the war. After “The Call” brought the scattered Cybertronians back to a newly reborn Cybertron, Artifice and friends wound up being invited to join the university being built in the ruins of the crashed Kimia satellite. Their dedication to “living an elaborate lie” earned their group the position of leading the Tradition of the Liege Maximo track at the university.

While at New Kimia University, Artifice was introduced to the possibility of becoming a Transmetal through a phenomenon being studied in the Tradition of Onyx track. Artifice opted into a partial transmetalification as the new look for their arm would add to their story arc.

[bladehorror]

Unlike Dragonhome, which the Earthshaker has barely touched after the shattering of the Pillar, the Shifting Expanse is a desert by design.

Usually, it isn't very windy during most of the year -- although it is rather cold, which is a surprise to those who come from other flights. The ever-brewing storm above needs to stay in place for as long as the Stormcatcher can keep it there and wind is generally a nuissance in the process, so there's plenty of climate control equipment all over the flight.

It doesn't work perpetually, however. Maintenance is needed, and it's better to have a predictable time table for these things than be caught in a situation where weather shields short-circuit and dragons have to work under a literal deluge to fix them.

In the brief annual period in which the thunder clouds above the Expanse finally precipitate, it all comes down hard. The entire flight is issued a warning weeks in advance, and efforts are taken to prepare for the scheduled floods and storms. Waterholes and tanks are cleaned, the dams and giant pipes that prevent the Carrion Canyon from becoming a giant river are checked for leaks and clogging, overworld lairs and equipment alike are properly stormproofed, and everyone is highly encouraged to go underground for the duration.

Then the shields are taken offline.

It usually happens right after Thundercrack Carnivale. The Deluge itself lasts for nearly three weeks, as the clouds have had all year to build up. It's a terrifying thing, near rivaling the Twisting Crescendo in intensity and much more unruly.

Beastkeepers, guards and even mercenaries are conscripted to patrol and guard entrances from infestations and wild animals, as well as offer what support they can give to beastclans looking for refuge. Water and Wind-born mages do their best to protect vulnerable points, and Earth-born dragons constantly reinforce the walls of the underground shelters as to prevent cave-ins, infiltrations and anything else that risks the clans inside.

It's a time of uncertainty and anxiety, as one never knows whether their home and belongings will outlast the storm; and while the Lightning followers are rather lax in their religious practices (less interested in ceremonies than in practical services in the form of work), it's a time some reserve to reflection, meditation and spiritual cleansing -- as the surface of the Expanse is being washed by the storm, so should they clean themselves.

In the days afterward, when the storm is over, it's time to go back up, assess the damage and begin rebuilding. Since this is a scheduled phenomenon, the vast majority of lairs are well prepared and damage is minimal, the biggest losses being temporary outposts and settlements, and the rare casualty of a poor uninformed traveller. These days preceding the next elemental festival are spent cleaning things, replanting crops and gardens (for more ostentatious lairs) and general mutual help.

The clouds take a while to build up after that. It's a rather idyllic period; the clear skies and bright days in the week that follows allow the land to dry up and the wild cacti to recover. All that warmth after the storm makes the Shifting Expanse home to the greatest celebration of Flameforger's Festival, second only to the Ashfall Waste itself.

[seaofimaginarysins]

"Status Check" + Hedonia

She was built to provide stress relief for all Commanders, no matter their sex. She can totally have one if she needs to!

Size

Pretty variable, all in all. She tries to match the preferences of her partners, so she can be as big as they want her to be! Still, if a desired size isn't specified, she generally tends to default to about 12 inches long and 3 inches around, a solid size all around that'll still leave most girls feeling stuffed in a good way.

Letter Grade: C+

Libido

Non-stop. She was literally built for this, so you can bet that she's always ready to go at the drop of a hat.

Letter Grade: EX

Stamina

Disproportionately high, but also hella specialized. Pretty much the only area where she has this high a stamina is in sec, everywhere else is a lot lower. Still, her sexual stamina is incredibly high, enough to outlast just about anyone else at the Outpost, barring a few special exceptions.

Letter Grade: A+

Fertility

Unfortunately, as Nikke, her fertility is more or less nonexistent. She's not gonna be knocking anyone up or getting knocked up herself anytime soon, not without special modifications to make it possible.

Letter Grade: E

Volume

Plentiful and abundant by default, though again, she can adjust the amount to match the preferences of her partners. Still, no matter the volume, her loads are always very thick and sticky, and generally tend to cling. Makes washing up a bit more difficult in the aftermath.

Letter Grade: B+

[linuxgamenews]

Build the Best City and Defend it with NecroCity

NecroCity strategy and city builder game is still due to evolve onto Linux with Windows PC. The developer Shift Games has provided more exciting details. Available now on Steam. So, let's talk about NecroCity, the strategy game crafted by the folks at Gameparic, now fully launched on Steam. It's a mix of building your own city, planning strategies, and defending your outposts. You're stepping into the shoes of a young Prince of the Undead, and it's your mission to show what you're made of in the Undead Kingdom. The folks at Gameparic, the studio behind this, spent several months tweaking and perfecting it. They've just introduced the Endless Mode. This is a free update for anyone who buys the NecroCity strategy. In this mode, you're up against never-ending waves of baddies. Your goal? Stay alive as long as possible and rack up tons of points. It's a real test of your skills and how well you can handle non-stop action.

What about Linux support

It's hard to say when and if it will appear on Linux...

According to the Shift Games email, they have some "problems with porting." But Unity 3D is being used for development and "the team has it in mind." So the native port is still on the table. Until then, we have Steam Play.

NecroCity strategy and city builder Release Trailer

Step into the shoes of a Prince of the Undead. While trying to prove your NecroCity strategies are the best in the Undead Kingdom. Your mission? Keep those monster hordes away, build up your kingdom, and protect your main fortress, the Ziggurat. This new Endless Mode is now up for grabs for everyone. Here, it's all about endurance. How long can you stand your ground against a relentless army? NecroCity is the ultimate challenge to see how sharp your strategies are when things get really tough. But that's not all. You also get to expand your Undead Kingdom. Think of it like setting up your own spooky neighborhoods. You'll summon workers, dig up bones, capture souls, and do everything to keep your Ziggurat safe. You'll set traps, call on ghosts and skeletons, use magic, and even add mods to make things more interesting. Now, NecroCity isn't just about the Endless Mode strategy. There's a lot more to explore. With the full version out, you've got 9 new levels to conquer, fresh biomes to discover, a better minimap to guide you, and loads of other stuff. Available in 7 different ones! So, no matter where you're from, there's a good chance you can enjoy it in a language you're comfy with. So, if you're into city builders, thinking through strategies, and love the thrill of defense, NecroCity might just be your next big title. It's available right now on Steam. Remember, it's not just about playing; it's about outsmarting, outlasting, and proving you're the ultimate ruler of the Undead Kingdom. Playable on Linux with Proton via Windows PC. Priced at $4.99 USD / £4.25 / 4,87€ with the 50% launch discount.

[cyclopeanpubco]

Vignette 6: Trackside

That elves long ago determined that the root of their success simply laid in outlasting their foes. When the humans (or orcs, tieflings, or hobgoblins; it mattered little which) would fall upon their cities with fire and steel, that was fine, they would simply depart for a brand new enclave. Whisking away in the night through their portals to far off places, the invaders would batter down secured gates to find the ghost of a city left. No inhabitants to battle, no loot to plunder, just a beautiful elven city left quiet and desolate for the ransackers to slowly wander through, weapons dangling pointlessly from their slack hands. Indeed, even as these elven cities would come to be occupied by the invaders, the elves in turn found the abandoned outposts of their enemies and came to call them home.

(1) The Staging Ground

The key to the elves success is their overwhelming capabilities when it comes to the use of magic. Some time ago they determined it was safer to simply pick up and go rather than deal with the messy realities of violence. As a result they have specialized their use of magic in three primary areas: teleportation, divination, and architecture. The council of elders that runs the settlement always has a variety of new destinations in mind and once they arrive in their new home the first building that is magically crafted into existence from the surrounding flora is the Staging Ground. From here, supplies are distributed and the council coordinates the activities of the new settlement.

(2) The Altar of Water

The elves venerate a pair of powerful genie lords from the elemental planes, a marid and a djinn. Each receives their own temple within the new settlement as they are viciously jealous of one another and vie for the attention of the elves. The Altar of Water is dedicated to the marid lord known as the Shah of Tide and Wave. Both genies have been instrumental in increasing the arcane potential of the elven society, and developing their strategy. Through their veneration of the Shah they have learned that while the soldiers who invade their lands might brag that their blades are so sharp that they would cut through the elves as easily as through water, the elves know to simply be the water, not registering at all that the blade had ever been there.

(3) The Cornucopia

The methods through which the elves express their magical ability are varied, with some utilizing the bookish study of the traditional wizard, while others have come to utilize music as their primary form of arcane expression. As such, often a grand shell is created from which music may erupt to fill the surrounding vicinity in the sonorous melodies of sylvan operatic triumphs, hauntingly beautiful orchestral productions, and enchanting soloists. Sometimes the music is performed for the sheer beauty of it, but on other occasions whole new buildings sprout from the earth to listen.

(4) The Alter of Wind

The other venerated figure in the elven community is the Keening Khedive, a whimsical and capricious djinn lord that inspires the elves to constantly explore the world that surrounds them. The Khedive has been instrumental in shifting the elves frame of mind from that of a landed empire to the realization that where they put down their roots matters little for there are always so many more beautiful places in which they might grow. While it took some time for the lesson to permeate the culture of the elves, they have wholeheartedly taken to the notion that their community matters far more than any patch of land or building.

(5) The Citadel

While the elves standard protocol is to use their magic to keep an eye on the area surrounding any town or city they found, with plans for where next they will teleport to should the need arise, they also are not so foolish as to think a martial defense is utterly useless. Monsters might wander in unnoticed, enemies might teleport to them in turn, or their divinations might fail to pick up on the impending danger. For these situations the Combat Coterie always exists in a Citadel at every settlement, housing a complement of warrior-mages that can handle virtually any situation that might arise.

(6) The Laden Bough

While this settlement (affectionately referred to as Trackside by the locals) has mostly been constructed inside the racetrack that dominated this portion of the sprawling derelict human city now occupied by the elves, the tavernkeeper/brewer decided to settle on the perimeter, nestled among the trees that have flourished since the demise of the city’s original inhabitants. The ruins are a popular spot for adventurers to seek treasure to scoop up and monsters to battle, and all of them end up amazed when they stumble upon a well stocked and totally functional tavern in the midst of all the surrounding desolation.

(7) The Ghoul Haunt

A small group of ghouls occupies this ruined haberdasher’s shop, and at first were overjoyed at the prospect of so many meals that teleported directly within their reach. A display of overwhelming brutality on the part of one of the warrior-mages of the Combat Coterie quickly put the ghouls in a less hungry mood. The elves now treat the haunt as their quirky neighbors, happy to have them close as an added line of defense against outside threats, and even occasionally engaging with them in conversation or sharing the spoils of their hunts.

(8) The Studios

In addition to constructing whole new settlements in their new homes, the elves will also happily occupy preexisting buildings. This building was once a grand adventurer’s guild when the city was bustling. Now that the elves call this place home it has been overtaken by the artists and artisans of the elves creating all their myriad works of beauty to fill the new settlement with and often taking inspiration from the new surroundings. Popular themes that have arisen from the budding settlement of Trackside have included graceful horses and lurking undead.

[hasbr0mniverse]

Beast Machines Transformers 2000 - Maximal Skydive - Function: Aerial Combat Specialist - To the Vehicons, Skydive is the true menace of the skies above Cybertron. Speed and maneuverability are umatched within the Maximal ranks; makes him an impossible target. Reinforced, specialized alloys offer maximum protection if any Vehicons manage to get a lock. Wings act as energy receptors, supplying incredible endurance - always outlasts opponents. Despite stoic personality, Skydive takes great pleasure in "buzzing" secret Maximal outposts.

[inspectorspacetimerevisited]

Many of the Second Inspector’s serials involved a base under siege,

in which the Inspector must outwit, outfox and outlast his enemies.

[wolf-and-bard]

Resigned To Fate

Prompt: Memory Alteration / Gaslighting

Relationships: Guxart/Vesemir (from one of the witcher-centric cards), Lambert/Aiden (background)

Rating: M

Content Warnings: heavy angst, suicidal tendencies, grief, mild gore, self-harm allusions

Summary: In the aftermath of the betrayal of the Cat school, Vesemir has not only his own school to hold together, but also a traumatised lover to care for. In which: Vesemir is strong and Guxart is weak and they find it hard to meet in the middle.

Word Count: ~2k

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo​

I.

Witchers survive.

Witchers endure.

Witchers outlast.

No matter the tragedy that befalls them or how difficult the contract. When they're being persecuted and beaten, starved and denied basic human decency. There's always a way forward.

Survive. Endure. Outlast.

Those are the thoughts Vesemir clings to, each sentiment falling as a whisper from his cracked and splintered lips to puddle at his blood- and gut-soaked feet, each word accompanied by the low wheeze of his shovel penetrating dry earth.

He couldn't fight for them, has to bury them. All of them.

He doesn't cry like the pups do, they haven't yet understood.

This is no genocide. This is merely a manifestation of what has been a long time coming, a natural course of history.

Vesemir cradles that truth tight to his chest. He survives, endures, outlasts. It's his birthright, duty, privilege, honour, burden, curse, cure, calling, punishment. It's a law of nature, the first one the new recruits learn when coming to the keep.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

II.

When the wolves all sleep, the living in bed rolls pushed together in the great hall, the dead in their forever resting places of hard-packed dirt, the new day is already sloshing over the horizon in waves of muted scarlet. Vesemir finds no beauty in that, he doesn't think he will find any beauty in and around Kaer Morhen ever again. All that was tranquil about this place has been soaked in blood and so, it seems, has the sky. He fills a pack with their sorry dinner's leftovers - stale bread, hard cheese, dried berries - foregoes the soup and the spirits. Two deerskins of water and a faded quilt blanket. It smells like cinnamon and honey, like comfort he hopes. It's not cold enough to warrant any kind of coat yet, but halfway across the courtyard, Vesemir finds himself shivering. He unpacks the blanket and wraps it around his own shoulders, then briskly walks out of the keep's enclosures, the sun a cool caress on his stained cheeks. He's never hated her more than in that moment.

III.

She follows him even into the dingy half-dark of the outpost's only bedroom. The curtains are drawn, the room lit by a single artificial torch, but Vesemir finds another echo of the red horizon in Guxart's eyes as they meet his across the few paces that separate them. Seeing him is somehow still a bit of a surprise.

Guxart doesn't look haggard and wrung-out the way Vesemir knows he himself does. In the wake of their shared misery - the imprisonment, the wait, the release to find their schools in ruin and their charges mostly dead or mutilated - Vesemir aged a century while Guxart is frozen in time, barely more than a shell of the witcher Vesemir begrudgingly fell in love with.

His salt-and-pepper hair falls in curls just below his ears and his greyed beard looks freshly groomed, obscuring the permanent tremble of his lips, pressed together to contain the creature of mourning that grows in his chest. His slitted pupils are constantly thin so that they nearly drown in the red hue of his irises. There are but two things about Guxart that have changed in their trudge through agony - in physicality that is. He is pale now - almost as pale as Vesemir, who always used to look like a wraith next to Guxart's light-brown skin - and his voice has lost all its natural thunder. A husk, yes. But not irrevocably so.

Guxart may be broken, but Vesemir is barely more than cracked and he can hold it together for the two of them.

"Ves," Guxart croaks from his perch on the bed and Vesemir doesn't pretend like this is a happy meeting. He draws the door shut behind himself and opens the curtains with a precise blast of Aard. The light that filters in is grimy still and Guxart turns his back on it. It's the only thing he can do. In an act of protection, born from love, Vesemir had to shackle Guxart's wrists and ankles, just so the other witcher wouldn't hurt himself. Last time, Vesemir was nearly too late and that is not something he will stand to experience again. It's a precarious arrangement, temporary, but Vesemir didn't know how else to help either Guxart of himself. Bringing him to the keep would have been certain death for them both.

"I brought food."

"I'm not hungry."

Vesemir puts the pack down by the window and slips out of his boots, then crawls up on the bed and drapes the quilt over both their legs. The sight of it puts his gut in a twist.

This is where he used to let go. Relax his shoulders and drop the teacher, the torturer. Just be. Guxart gave that to him and he to Guxart. Had he any imagination, he would let his head fall to the brick behind himself and close his eyes, imagine it's just another morning after a night spent tangled up in each other, relishing dawn's kiss and each other's presence.

Vesemir is exceptionally bad at self-delusion.

"Will you have water?" he asks. Guxart shakes his head, remaining in his strained position, even when Vesemir jerks his chin to the side in an invitation to sidle up to him.

Guxart, for his part, is exceptionally bad at accepting love and pain at the same time.

"I'm not thirsty."

"Fine," Vesemir replies and they look at each other. It's not a staring contest like they sometimes held across the training fields when their students were locked in combat. It's searching for some remnant of joy and coming up short.

"There's dirt under your nails," Guxart murmurs without breaking the eye contact. "You buried them."

"I did."

"Mine also?"

"They took them back to the Camp."

Vesemir can still hear the hisses of cats, wolves, and swords alike as the witchers collected the bodies of their fallen comrades to separate and honour them. Vesemir suspects that what he feels for Guxart will be the last love ever lost between the two schools.

"It's all my fault."

"Come here," Vesemir says, keeping his tone levelled, understanding. He opens his arms a fraction, a more blatant invitation.

Finally, Guxart slumps against Vesemir, a heaving dead weight. Vesemir brings his arms around Guxart and presses his face into his curls. He finds little comfort there and lots of reminders to all that he lost at the hands of Treyse and Radowit's damned mage. Guxart presses into Vesemir with all the strength his restrained body can muster. They don't fit together quite so well anymore.

"They gave me a choice," Guxart says. "They gave me a choice."

"What choice?" Vesemir asks, mouth dry. He blinks rapidly as he rubs soothing circles over Guxart's sharp shoulder blades. In a moment here, he will have to think about how to feed the other witcher against his will, a painstaking process. Why keep at it?

Because he has to.

Nothing breaks Vesemir.

"They took me away one night," Guxart continues. "When you were asleep. They took me away and told me how I was to arrange it. Their death sentence. And they gave me a choice."

"What. Choice."

"They said they would spare them. All of them, all of our beautiful pups and kittens. They said if I throttled you, they wouldn't make me act out the treaty. It's why we were put in the same cell after that first week."

No such thing happened.

Vesemir knows.

He feared for their schools during their time in Radowit's dungeons, but his mind was sharp always, awake and waiting. Even then, he knew of Guxart's tendencies to slip from reality into madness fashioned by others. A consequence of the meddled-with cat mutagens perhaps, or a personal disposition. Doesn't matter. What does is that Vesemir was awake in the cell opposite - never sharing, never touching - watching his lover pass from one fever dream into the next as they kept him drugged, whispering to him, sentiments Vesemir himself managed to deflect when the guards - or his own mind - threw them at him.

This is your fault.

You brought this upon them, mutant scum.

They will die for your sins.

Nothing. Breaks. Vesemir.

"A lie," Vesemir sighs and presses his lips to Guxart's scalp. The other witcher shudders and the worst part about this is that he knows they will have this conversation again. And again. And each time, Guxart will believe a little less.

"They were our children, Ves. They were our children and I betrayed them. Traded their life for yours. If you had been given the same choice, would you have been strong enough?"

They both know the answer to that. If it had been between Guxart and his wolves, Vesemir wouldn't have hesitated to kill his lover. But that is entirely beside the point.

"There was never such a choice and what happened is not your fault."

"But it is. My fault. I spared you. And then I went on to kill them all. Treyse, he tried to stop me once we got out, but I gave the command anyway. We could have stood together, could have flattened all Kaedwen to dust, but I was greedy. I wanted you and the reward. I wanted... I wanted..."

Nothing ever. Breaks...

"You're talking nonsense. We were only released after the massacre took place, remember? Treyse was the one to commit treason, he gave that command."

"I have to die," Guxart says numbly. He doesn't listen now and his bound hands paw at Vesemir's thighs. "I have to die. You have to kill me."

"No."

"Please, I cannot live with this pain. Knowing it was all my fault, I cannot... how can you?"

Vesemir closes his eyes. Nothing. Nothing has yet broken him.

IV.

There is no containing Guxart forever. Vesemir knows this, Guxart knows this.

He waits, tends to his lover until such a time that he feels he's coaxed Guxart away from the brink of self-destruction at least. At the end, most of what hangs between them is fatigue and resentment, indistinguishable from the scraps of nostalgic affection they yet harbour. Vesemir does not remember what it felt like to love without care. He has to let go.

"I'm sorry, Ves," Guxart says when it's time to part, a whisper over Vesemir's lips in what will likely be their last ever kiss. "I know you mean well, but I cannot believe you. I have to repent."

There is no penance for a crime uncommitted. The only forgiveness you should want for is mine once you leave me here to grief on my own. You will wander and you will weaken and you will wither. Nothing will break me like you will, the moment you fade from sight.

Vesemir bites down on these thoughts. They're silly, selfish, and he is neither.

"Take care of yourself."

Guxart nods and turns and walks away.

And Vesemir doesn't break.

V.

Decades pass.

Vesemir fixes up whatever fissures did sneak up on him, he remains whole, he moves on.

Guxart may be out there, he may not. Vesemir will never know what fate Guxart has resigned himself to and that is acceptable.

It is acceptable.

Until the day Lambert comes home, announcing that he has given and lost his heart to a young cat by name of Aiden. He howls through the night and Vesemir holds him, the way he himself needed to be held back then perhaps, and he understands that all the glue he has been applying to his own heart was a sorry fake.

Vesemir has been broken for a long, long time.

And once he accepts that, he feels the years fall off his shoulders like leaves from an old tree, preparing for another winter. Possibly its last.

[kkrazy256]

top five pharma being a lunatic moments? skdjxhdjd

or top five fave viddy games 🧡

oh man, idk how to rank these so I'm just doing these in timeline order

Blowing up the prosthetics outpost 1.0 to get away from Remedy but then sticking around just to gloat and screwing himself over.

Chasing down and killing some innocent person just to open the seal on the Haxis-9 Crypt. Then the deal.

Asking for an audience with Dooku. And also getting one with Sidious as a bonus.

Killing everyone in the prosthetics center 2.0 for his project (w/ help)

Ripping Drift's spine implant out

Viddy games beloved

Resident Evil (the whole franchise)

War for Cybertron and Fall of Cybertron

Valorant

What Remains of Edith Finch

Outlast

[gooeykit]

finally touched this for the first time in months just to play with hue levels and i finally like it again [old->new] also i have to change the tattoo on their arm because i learned what almond branches look like :( JG WENTWORTH 877 CASH NOW

[togglesbloggle]

We Needed a Place to Bury Our Dead

When I came out of the closet for the first time, around the age of twenty or so, one of the first things I did was to start going to church.  Not out of a rediscovered faith or anything.  It’s just that I lived in a rural town, and churches were the cultural centers- student churches, retiree churches, black churches, you name it.  That was as true for the gay community as it was for anyone else; there was a United Church of Christ outpost on the south end of town that acted as the center of gravity for all the queer folks in the area.  There was also a proper gay bar, the only one within a hundred miles (I measured).  But it wasn’t actually a good place to find people, and was sort of drowning under the weight of tourists.  So if I wanted to actually meet guys in person, it was church or nothing.

I felt a little bad about it, so I talked to the pastor first to put my cards on the table and make sure that he didn’t mind a heathen showing up just for the dating scene.  He was a pretty good sport about it, told me that he didn’t have a problem with my attendance as long as I made a sincere attempt to pray every now and then, and kept an open mind about waiting for an answer.  I held up my end of the bargain, for what it’s worth.  I never did hear back from God in unambiguous terms, but the plan worked- I found my way in to a nice circle of early-twenties gay guys.  Dated some of them, although it didn’t really work out long term, and the principal benefit was just having a nice queer group of peers who kept quoting Mean Girls no matter how much I begged them to stop.

One of the more memorable days in that chapter of my life was an overnight trip to Dallas, to visit the Cathedral of Hope, possibly the largest specifically LGBT church in the world.  The architecture is interesting enough; they call it a cathedral, but of course the construction is quite modern, and I was surprised by how well it worked as a synthesis of very different sensibilities.  One stand-out feature of the service was that they took communion in groups of three- two parishioners and the pastor together.  It’s a tradition that dates back well before the advent of legal gay marriage.  Where gay or otherwise nontraditional couples lacked the full protection of law, the Cathedral of Hope made a point of incorporating a community-wide recognition of those relationships by other means.  It was a beautiful thing to see.

That evening, I was wandering on my own around the grounds outside the cathedral proper, and happened to run across a graveyard of sorts.  Semi-outdoors, several large walls with many slots for cremated remains.  I spent some time alone with it, though I didn’t have any particular reason.  Just killing time, so to speak, but in retrospect it was probably the disproportionately high volume that caught my attention, given the size of the congregation and the relative youth of the church itself.

The AIDS crisis, obviously- all those deaths in the 80s.  But sometimes I’m a little slow on the uptake, and I didn’t really understand what I was looking at until the local pastor sat down beside me.  This was Jo Hudson, who I think has since retired.  We talked at length, but the fragment of the conversation that really etched its way into my brain was when she asked- 

“So, do you know why we built the cathedral?”

I, baby gay that I was, just sort of shrugged.  “Why?”

“We needed a place to bury our dead.”

Like I said, I’m slow on the uptake sometimes, but by this point I’d gotten caught up to the conversation.  For Jo, this place was as much the center of the Cathedral of Hope as any of the more impressive bits of architecture.  An altar, of sorts-  I was standing in the heart of the thing.  Fully understanding that, fully digesting what that sentence meant to her, was an important part of my coming of age, and Jo wanted to make sure I understood.

The primary function of the Cathedral of Hope, and the reason it grew so large when it did, was that it provided a venue for the mourning and burial of those who were killed by HIV.  Nobody else would do the job, because the plague and the politics and the moral judgment created a perfect storm of social exile that afflicted the dead as well as the living.  I was too young to really see the AIDS epidemic firsthand, but only barely, and Jo absolutely wanted me to come into adulthood with that awareness, knowing what the gay community was really, actually for.

“We needed a place to bury our dead.”  Meaning: They’re going to hate you so much that when you die, they will go on hating your corpse.

Like I said, I didn’t actually experience the AIDS epidemic directly, and I’m sure it was complicated and multivalent even in its horrors.  Stories simplify the world, and simplicity is dangerous if you use it unwisely.  But Jo was a preacher.  Stories were her business, and the story of that memorial was one about how bottomless the hatred of crowds can be, and of the necessity of community in the face of that hatred.  For her, that story was part of my heritage, insofar as being born different can entitle one to a heritage.

There’s a deep trauma that comes with this history as an inheritance, an awareness of how bad things can get and how tenuous the victories really are.  One fact that gets under your skin is: it’s hard to mourn the dead, sometimes.  It’s much too easy for us to end up the villains of this kind of story, cheering on the deaths of our enemies, convincing ourselves to feel like those deaths are a kind of justice.  There’s always going to be this seductive allure in taking satisfaction in the mortality of our opponents, in bending those deaths into a kind of self-serving fable.  And when we give in to that impulse, the last and most important barrier has been removed between us and true atrocity.

Political violence in the US has claimed at least three lives this week, in Oregon and Wisconsin.  It’s been a clusterfuck, and it seems like things might get worse before they get better.  Lots of people are bringing their own stories to those deaths, trying to make sense of them with different simplifying frameworks; it’s the only way we know how to understand things like this.  But here’s what I’ll beg you for: try to mourn the dead.  Try hard, as hard as you possibly can, to remember that death is an outrage and a tragedy, that the extinction of a human soul may have causes but it can never have reasons.  If you fail in this, and your actions are informed by the kind of hatred or contempt that outlasts even death, then you’re going to cause wounds deeper than you can possibly imagine.

[themerriweathermage]

Cardinal Silk Pt. 6

The rescue has left Zipporah weakened and in the care of Ms. Mead, who now knows the truth about why this Outpost has outlasted the others. And yet, she bides her time in telling Michael. Michael discovers more than just angelic lore in the library-- a coded book that will take far more time to decipher.

Warnings: None

Zipporah clutched the cardinal silk to her chest. The meal was simple-- bread, broth, and a warm tea. “I can get you more.” Ms. Mead offered, seeing how famished she was.

“No. Venable will suspect if rations go missing, and she will report to Cordelia.” Zipporah murmured, taking solace in the tea.

“Can you tell me about the place I found you? The rotunda?”

“How much did you see?”

“All of it.”

“How much does Mr. Langdon know about?”

“Just the rotunda.”

“Why didn’t you tell him the truth?” Zipporah asked. “You are loyal to him, aren’t you? I know about your story. I know the coven burned you at the stake. I also know that Mr. Langdon found some way to sort of bring you back, but you’re not fully here. Just a pawn, like me.”

“Figured you might want to tell him the truth yourself. Does the coven know?”

“Yes. It’s why we’ve stayed alive as long as we have.”

“These systems, did you design them yourself?”

“There are books that I based them off of, but I built them all by hand.”

“If the Cooperative knew, your systems would have been based in every single Outpost out there. Why has the coven squirreled you away?” Ms. Mead asked. Zipporah clutched tighter to the silken scarf-- she gathered comfort from it, Ms. Mead realized-- and shook her head, glancing to her wrists.

“Too many people would ask questions about it. The only person who’s ever asked in this Outpost, they threw outside to wither in the toxic fog.” Zipporah murmured. “Mr. Langdon really pushes their buttons.”

“You know his name is Michael.”

“He’s not that boy anymore.” Zipporah replied. “I’ll call him Michael when he asks me to, and no sooner.”

“You knew him... when he was...”

“A student of Hawthorne. I’ve been in this Outpost for so long, I hardly remember what the outside world looks like, but I doubt it’s anything as beautiful as it once was.” Zipporah sighed. “At least I have some amount of that beauty left, as false as it is.” She looked away for a moment. “Do you think he’ll mind if I borrow that?” She gestured to the notebook on the table.

“He’s particular.” Ms. Mead answered. Zipporah stood from the bed, limping to the table and tearing out a sheet, writing something in the middle before making a series of complex folds. When she was done, a neat little origami bird sat on the table and Ms. Mead watched as Zipporah’s eyes flashed gold for a moment, enchanting it to flap its wings. 

“Find him.” She whispered. It slipped beneath the crack of the door and vanished.

“Why does the coven torment one of their own? Why would the coven torment a witch?”

“Witch? No. I’m not a witch. I’ve about got the powers of one right now, with these damn bonds on.” Zipporah murmured.

The sound of paper rustling finally drew Michael away from his notes. He swore he wasn’t going crazy as a neat little paper crane and a harried Cordelia trying to catch it tumbled into the library.

“Hold still, you blasted little!” Cordelia swore, fingertips grazing the light little bird, but never diverting its flight path. It perched on his shoulder, slipping inside the coat pocket on his breast and Cordelia snarled at the action. “Of course you’re involved. Wait until I get my hands on her...”

“You nearly killed her.” Michael stood, hands slamming down on the table.

“Don’t be absurd.” Cordelia hissed. “No one of this world possesses the means to kill her. She may wither. She may get sick. But she won’t die. A hundred years could pass without food or drink but she wouldn’t die.”

“I’ve found nothing in these books that are indicative of what you speak of. Why would an angel come to Earth? Those days are long past.” Cordelia’s smile was soft for once, almost remorseful.

“The coven took her in ages ago. I do mean, literal ages. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon back then for babes to be abandoned in the woods. But this was no babe; she was a young girl, probably no more than five or six, beaten and bloodied and wailing. Gods, she wouldn’t stop crying; she attracted all the predators in the woods but they laid down at her side instead of devouring her. We thought she was gifted. We didn't know then what she was.” Cordelia murmured.

“I wished the bonds weren’t necessary. Many times. Many, many times, Mr. Langdon. But in truth, even all the witches in their prime couldn’t contain her and she was a threat. Even the Supreme couldn’t contain her and she was a threat. I have an idea, if you want the information you seek so badly. Why don’t you ask your father?” Michael blanched a little bit. “He’s a fallen angel after all.”

It wasn’t a far-fetched idea, and he knew it, but he wasn’t going to give Cordelia the satisfaction of knowing that. He sank back into his seat, muttering something off-handed about doing more research.

“You won’t find your answers in a book.” Cordelia finally replied, turning on her heel and leaving. There may have been some truth to that but Michael wasn’t going to tell her that. Regardless he continued to make his notes, reshelving the books he had already taken out when a small leather book drew his fingers to it. He pulled it off the shelf, unwrapping the leather binding, to reveal a number coded message. Pages upon pages of numbers, lined up neatly. What in the hells? It would take him hours to go through this. Something for another day, he supposed, gathering up his notes and heading to his room. Zipporah was gone, the cardinal silk along with her.

“I tried to stop her.” Ms. Mead murmured.

“No, it’s quite alright. I have another project for you. I found this in the library; I think it’s coded to something in there. Would you mind taking a look?” Michael asked, handing her the leather book.

“I’m at your command.” Ms. Mead replied, leaving him to his rest. He slung his jacket over the chair, remembering last minute to check his breast pocket. The paper bird lay there still, the enchantment worn away, and he unfolded it to be met with a message in the middle: Thank You. It shouldn’t have been as heartwarming as it was but Michael’s lips still twitched upwards in a soft smile as he refolded it carefully, pressing it against his chest as he laid down.

[set-phasers-to-whump]

just a little while longer

Whumpee: Will Riker

Fandom: Star Trek TNG

For: ValorousLeader on ao3

Prompt: outnumbered in a fight

hi folks whats poppin!! i hope u enjoy this fic :)

He was not going to win this fight. That was obvious. He supposed he should have just been glad that none of his attackers had a weapon. He didn’t like to imagine what would have happened then. 

As it was, though, it was just him, standing warily in the middle of an alley, wishing desperately that he had a phaser on him, or even just a communicator. But he had no such luck. It was him and his fists versus the six or so people surrounding him and their fists. It didn’t take a lot of thinking to work out what was about to happen.

“I’m a Starfleet officer,” he said, like this was going to change anything.

“Good for you,” said the man closest to him, grinning dangerously. 

He tried a different tactic. “I don’t have anything you’d want,” he insisted. This was true. He had nothing on him except for his clothes. 

“What makes you think we want anything from you?”

“The fact that you’re all advancing on me like you’re about to do something really stupid.”

“Hm.”

There was no further communication between them. Or, at least, no verbal communication. They made a hell of a point with their fists. And feet. And elbows, knees…

The first blow wasn’t so bad. He’d raised a hand to defend against a fist aimed at his face, stuck out his other hand to strike at the man closest to him, and gotten punched in the ribs before he could move his hands and defend against that attack. It hurt, of course, but it was the kind of pain he was used to. It was like nothing so much as accidentally stumbling into something hard. Painful, but not so bad. Maybe this won’t be so bad, then, he thought. 

Before he could do any further thinking along that line, however, he realized that this was, in fact, going to be bad. 

After the first punch, the hits just kept coming. One after another after another after another until they all blended into one constant pain. He defended himself as best as he could, quickly giving up on the idea of fighting back. But for every strike he blocked, four more would rain down before he had time to react. 

At some point, he felt something smack into his nose, accompanied by a very unpleasant crunching and a warm, wet feeling trickling down his face. At another point, someone kicked him in the stomach, and knocked what little air there was in his lungs right out of them, sending him unwillingly to his knees.

Once there, all he could do was curl up into a ball, wrap his arms around his head, and try to outlast his attackers, who kicked him over and over again, seemingly harder and harder every time. 

He’d become quite unable to think. Everything that he knew was pain. Sometimes the pain would intensify in a certain place, but it was constant and overwhelming. It burned, maybe, or it ached. It throbbed, vaguely, in time with his heartbeat, which pounded in his ears, nearly outdoing the painful sounds of his body being beaten to a pulp.

Later, he wouldn’t even remember when it had stopped. The pain was so constant that he just couldn’t tell. All he knew was that, at some point, the level of pain evened out - there were no sudden spikes as a particularly rough kick hit home, no throbs as an especially hurt place was hit again. Slowly, his mind emerged from the haze of pain, and he blinked open eyes that had been screwed shut against it. 

He looked around as much as he could in his current position. He didn’t see anyone around. It was getting dark out. He thought it had been light when he’d stepped into this alley, looking for a shortcut. He hoped he hadn’t been there for too long. He kept looking around. There were splotches on the ground. Dark ones. His blood, he figured, feeling a trickle of it drip down his face. 

As he continued to gather his thoughts, he realized that he had no idea what to do. He’d left his communicator behind in his room at the hotel, eliminating his ability to call for help. He had come into the alley off of a busy street, but he was sure he looked, well, awful, and he didn’t especially want to scare any of the pedestrians, even if they would be capable of getting him some help. 

However, unless he wanted to spend the rest of his life in the alley, he was going to have to suck it up and get out onto the street. He groaned. He was not looking forward to that. It had to be done, though.

First things first, he had to stand up. This was a task much easier said than done. While the pain in his body had become almost bearable, movement of any kind sent it skyrocketing. Even pushing himself to his knees was an almost insurmountable task, and he nearly collapsed back to the ground again, fighting against himself just to stay conscious. 

He managed to stay up, though, somehow, and then very slowly stood up, closing his eyes as the world tilted and his head spun. What he wouldn’t give to beam up to Sickbay right now…

But Sickbay was off the table - the Enterprise itself wasn’t even anywhere nearby. He was supposed to be on shore leave while the ship made a routine delivery to an outpost. He’d thought it would be fun. Himself, Dr. Crusher, Data, and Geordi, exploring a new city on a planet he hadn’t visited before…

Dr. Crusher! She would be able to help him, somehow. He knew she’d at least brought some basic medical supplies. Maybe she had something that would stop whatever injury it was that was leaking blood down his face. Maybe she could make the pain go away. He had to find her. He just had to find her, and then everything would be okay.

He stumbled his way out onto the street, ignoring the shocked looks and offers of help from the pedestrians around him. He looked around, trying to remember which direction he’d come from originally. 

Eventually, his eyes landed on a small shop with a brightly colored awning. He remembered walking by that shop! He must have come from that way, he decided. 

He started off down the street, very slowly. Every step was pure agony, and he barely managed to keep himself moving, motivated only by the thought that as soon as he found Dr. Crusher, everything was going to be alright. All he had to do was keep going. He could do that. He always kept going.

He wasn’t sure how long it was before he finally reached the friendly building that was the hotel his little group was staying in. He’d been walking for what felt like forever, dizzy and hurting and just hoping that he was going the right way. He very nearly collapsed the second he was through the door, and was saved from that fate by the surprised shout of a man sitting in the lobby, which brought him back to his senses.

“Sorry,” he choked out, the words tasting of blood. He ignored the man’s suggestions of finding a doctor, and stumbled off to find Dr. Crusher. He remembered where her room was, because it was right next to a painting that Data had talked about for half an hour over dinner the previous night. He found himself suddenly very glad for that conversation. 

He located the painting, and then the door, and knocked on it, wincing at the jolt to his arm and the pain in his fingers, glancing briefly down at his knuckles when he realized he’d left a bloody smear on the wood.

The door opened, and Dr. Crusher peeked her head out, smiling. Her face changed the second her eyes landed on Will, who stumbled forward into the room, collapsing at last onto the soft carpet. 

“What happened?” was the first thing that she said to him, as her hands fluttered carefully over his body, examining his many injuries.

“Dunno,” he said, trying to remember whether there had been any clear motivation behind his beating. “Lot of people,” he decided, vaguely recalling a jumble of fists and a man with a terrible smile. 

“I’m so sorry,” Dr. Crusher said, her voice soft. 

“S’okay,” Will told her, wincing when her hand touched an especially painful spot.

“I’m afraid there’s not much I can do,” she continued, a hand coming up to lightly touch the side of his face. “I’ll comm the Enterprise, of course, but in the meantime, this planet doesn’t have much in the way of medical capabilities. They can’t do much more than I can, right now, and all I can do is clean you up, patch up some of these cuts, and give you something for the pain. I can’t heal you the same way that I could if I had access to Sickbay.”

“I just want it to stop,” Will told her, honestly. “Don’t care about anything else.”

“I know,” Dr. Crusher said, sympathetically. “I’ll do my best to make it stop.” She gently helped him into a sitting position, easing him back to lean against the end of the bed. 

“I know you probably don’t feel like moving, but you might be more comfortable on the bed,” she suggested, turning away to grab some supplies.

Will shook his head at her back. “Don’t wanna move,” he said. His head was spinning far too much for that to be wise, and he was feeling dangerously close to passing out. Just a little longer, he told himself, to avoid that outcome. Just a little longer, and it will all stop.

A hypo pressed into his arm. 

“This is for the pain. It’ll take a few minutes to settle in. In the meantime, I’d like to work on some of those cuts, if that’s alright.”

“Sure,” Will said, closing his eyes. He didn’t much care what happened now. The important thing was that the pain was going to stop. 

He faded in and out of reality as something wet and vaguely cold touched his face. It stung slightly, but that was absolutely nothing compared to the magnitude of pain he was in, and he didn’t even react. He felt something press against his forehead, and then the blood stopped dripping down his face. That’s nice, he thought. Something else touched his knuckles, then, and then his shirt was being pulled away from him, and he heard a sympathetic hiss. 

“Will…”

“I know,” he mumbled. He didn’t know, really. He hadn’t looked at the injuries beneath his clothes. But he felt them, at any rate, and could imagine how bad they must have looked.

The cold and wet thing passed over his entire torso, but nothing pressed up against it. No bleeding to stop, he knew instinctively. 

“There’s nothing else I can do for your injuries that aren’t bleeding,” Dr. Crusher said, voicing his thoughts. 

He gave an almost imperceptible nod. The hypo was starting to kick in, and he found he didn’t care about anything else. 

“Feeling better?” Dr. Crusher asked, evidently noting his slight relaxation.

“Think it’s working.”

“Good. I’m going to finish cleaning you up, comm the Enterprise, and have you in Sickbay by tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” Will said, the word dropping heavily from his tongue. He was exhausted, and now that the pain was fading, he was finding it very difficult to stay any level of alert. 

“You can sleep, Will,” Dr. Crusher said, putting a hand back on the side of his head. “Just get some rest, and when you wake up, you’ll be in a nice, comfortable bed in Sickbay and I’ll be telling you that you can’t get up for a few hours, and you’ll be insisting that you’re fine…”

As Dr. Crusher continued to talk and patch him up, Will finally let himself drift off to sleep. The pain was gone, and tomorrow everything would be alright.

thanks a ton for reading this!!! anyway now it is time for Me News: i quit my job the other day lol and today i gave a speech to my whole school (admittedly online which was not so scary) and it went well which was nice!! i’ve been kinda swamped lately with school but after this week i should have some free time between writing college essays if anyone wants to req a fic!

[purplehairedwonder]

Inside a Broken Dream Chapter 5

Fandom: One Piece Rating: PG-13 Pairings: Gen Words: 3617 Characters: Trafalgar Law, Donquixote Doflamingo, Penguin, Jean Bart, Smoker, Tashigi Note: Story title comes from the Vertical Horizon song “Shackled.” Character and relationship tags reflect the current chapter. Obviously this is canon-divergent ;)

Warnings: There is an assault in this chapter. It’s not overtly sexual, but if that bothers you, avoid the italicized section.

Summary: Two years after Wano, peace on the Grand Line is fragile. Trafalgar Law and the Heart Pirates are doing their best to help maintain the peace, but when Doflamingo returns with Law in his sights, the balance of power entirely may shatter entirely.

Previous chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Read also at AO3 / FF.N

Law was so startled by the revelation that he forgot his vulnerable position for a moment, eyes widening. Dying? He could have laughed, except—

“I’m going to fix it?” he echoed in disbelief, brain catching up with the other man’s words. “Why the hell would I do that?”

Doflamingo set his pistol down on the table—Law’s shoulders loosened at that—and reached down to grab Law by the collar and pull him upright in the chair he was bound to.

“For one thing,” he said directly into Law’s face as Law very carefully did not flinch. “It’s your fault.”

“Oh?” Law raised an eyebrow. “As happy as that would make me, when did I—”

“Dressrosa.”

Law blinked, momentarily confused, then recognition struck like lightning. “The Gamma Knife.” That was supposed to be a killing blow—and it would have been against anyone who couldn’t stitch their organs back together with strings. But Doflamingo had said that was merely first aid, not healing. It had been a patch job for the immediate damage to his organs but didn’t account for the—

“You have radiation poisoning,” Law realized. He hadn’t spent much time thinking about the long-term effects of the attack after developing it because he hadn’t considered that someone might survive for more than a few agonizing minutes. But it made sense. Interesting.

Doflamingo rose to his full height, forcing Law to look up at him. “The doctors at Impel Down discovered it not long after I arrived. My unique abilities have kept me alive longer than I had any reason to live.”

“But you’re almost out of time,” Law deduced. Radiation at the level Doflamingo had been exposed to from that attack should have killed him within days, if not hours. That he had lived for two years after the attack was downright miraculous. But even his impressive biology and the creative use of his Fruit couldn’t keep him alive indefinitely.

Doflamingo’s expression tightened, as if it pained him to concede, “Only the Ope Ope no Mi can cure me now.”

For a moment, Law was speechless as he processed what he’d just heard. Suddenly it made sense why Akainu had chosen now to sic Doflamingo on him; he didn’t have any more time to wait if he was going to play that card. But Doflamingo was, as ever, the Joker—a wild card.

And then Law laughed, hard enough that tears formed in his eyes. He knew the laughter was jagged with sharp, unhinged edges to it, but he couldn’t stop himself. It had taken an additional two years—fifteen years since that night—but Law had pulled the trigger after all.

Cora-san…

After several long moments, Law collected himself with no little effort, aware that Doflamingo’s veins were bulging in fury. But Law couldn’t bring himself to care. Doflamingo couldn’t maim the only surgeon in the world who could save him. And Law would need to use his abilities if he were to operate on the former Warlord, so the threat of another Seastone bullet was just that—a threat. Even the one in his shoulder would have had to come out eventually.

“Why,” Law asked, amusement still evident in his voice, “would I help you when I was the one to deal the blow in the first place?” Especially now that Doflamingo knew the truth about that night and Law’s revenge mission.

“For the sake of your crew.”

Law stilled, all traces of humor dissolving. “What?”

“I have two members of your crew in the brig,” Doflamingo reminded him. “How long do you think Penguin and Jean Bart would hold up under torture, Law?” He tapped his chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “I’d bet on Jean Bart outlasting the bird, being a former captain and slave. But maybe he’ll surprise me.”

Fury, now uninhibited by Seastone, uncurled in Law’s chest. “No,” he snarled.

“No?” Now Doflamingo’s tone had turned amused.                              

“They have nothing to do with this.”

“They have everything to do with this,” Doflamingo sneered. “The moment you made them yours, they became mine as well. Because you’ve been mine since you were ten years old, Law. You know what kind of Family we are.”

“You son of a bitch,” Law growled. “You leave them alone.” This is exactly what he’d been afraid of when he’d sent his crew to Zou while he went to Punk Hazard on his own.

“Why would I do that? I know better than to think I could torture you into compliance. I trained you too well for that.” Doflamingo licked his lips in anticipation. “But your crew? I know you never did for them what I did for you.”

Doflamingo was right; he’d never treated his crew the way Doflamingo had treated his Family—valued for their usefulness to the captain. It had taken Cora-san’s death for Law to realize it, but Doflamingo was everything Law didn’t want to be in a leader. The only Donquixote legacy Law wanted to pass on was that of Cora-san.

The thought of Penguin and Jean Bart subjected to the cruelty he knew Doflamingo capable of, Law forced to watch helplessly as they suffered because of him, made Law sick. It was his job as captain to protect his crew.

But he also knew the danger of healing Doflamingo, knew what the man could and would do once he was no longer suffering from the effects of radiation poisoning. Doflamingo couldn’t have much time left if he’d been willing to risk stealing a Marine ship and kidnapping Law in broad daylight. If they could just outlast him…

“And besides the two in the brig,” Doflamingo added, “the rest are sailing right into my arms as we speak.”

Law bit the inside of his cheek, thinking. Though his first instinct was panic, he forced his mind back to logic. Penguin and Jean Bart might be captive, but the rest of his crew was free. They would fight. And if the Straw Hats were also on the way, Doflamingo would be outmatched, even with a ship full of Marines under his control.

“I put my trust in my crew,” Law said finally. “And my allies.”

“Even against a Buster Call?” The retort was immediate, as if Law’s response had been expected. (It probably had been; Law had constantly felt steps behind Doflamingo ever since he’d known the man.)

Law went cold, memories of Flevance surfacing in his mind’s eye unbidden. The gunfire tearing through bodies like paper, the blood flowing like rivers, the heat of the fire that consumed the hospital and Lami, the moans of the dying children he should have been among, the weight of the corpses pressing in on him as he fled…

That hadn’t been a Buster Call, but it had been close enough.

He thought of Nico Robin and the haunted looks that she masked expertly from her crew but never could disguise from Law when he knew them from his own mirror.

He shook himself, trying to force the images from his mind. “What?”

Doflamingo smirked widely. “What do you think Akainu would do if I sent word that I’d lured both the Heart and Straw Hat crews to one place?” He slammed a hand down flat on the table, and Law started, despite himself. The memories had cracked his composure, and he knew Doflamingo had seen it. “It may not be his original plan, but do you think that man wouldn’t take the chance to wipe out the both of you at once?”

“You’d still be dying in that case,” Law countered, swallowing against the bile in his throat.

Doflamingo tilted his head. “Perhaps. But at least I’d be taking you and Straw Hat and your nakama with me.”

The words struck a familiar chord. Law had felt much the same when he’d made his plans for attacking Dressrosa; if he’d died, so be it—as long as Doflamingo’s death was assured in the process. And now their roles were reversed. The power of a man with nothing to lose could be a fearsome thing indeed.

“But it doesn’t have to come to that,” Doflamingo added.

“If I do the operation,” Law supplied flatly.

“It would make things simpler, would it not?”

Law’s eyes narrowed. “My crew will be unharmed.”

“As long as you play your part, they won’t be harmed,” Doflamingo confirmed with a creeping smile that made Law’s skin crawl.

“And the Straw Hats? They are my allies.”

“Don’t push it.”

Law’s hands were clenched so tightly in fists that when he forced himself to loosen them, he found bloody crescent-shaped wounds in his palms. He absently rubbed his hands on his jeans, leaving bloody streaks on his thighs. He could try to push the negotiation further, but knowing Luffy, he wouldn’t care about or stick to a deal Law had struck anyway.

“Fine,” Law decided finally, the words strained. “I will treat the radiation poisoning only.”

He would not be cornered into the other operation. Law didn’t mind dying to protect his nakama, but he wouldn’t unleash an eternally-young and powerful Doflamingo on them—or the world. And he knew his crew and allies wouldn’t accept him making that trade either. It was the one line he wasn’t willing to cross to protect them—at the end of the day, it wouldn’t protect them or anyone else he cared for anyway. He’d even risk the Buster Call for that one.

Doflamingo nodded. “Agreed.” He eyed Law. “But to make sure you don’t get any more smart ideas before we reach Herrenlos, you won’t be leaving my sight.”

Herrenlos. Of course, Law thought as he remembered. It was the name of an island the Donquixote Family kept as a secure outpost in the New World in case they ever needed to flee their current locale. He’d learned all the names and locations of the Family outposts across the four Blues and Grand Line as a child. Law hadn’t thought about any of them in years since Doflamingo had been openly ruling Dressrosa while Law plotted his revenge. He’d asked Tashigi to find out where they were going, and she’d done so.

“Fantastic,” Law muttered.

-----

The longer Law was away, the more Penguin’s worry gnawed at his insides. The three prisoners had been brought their usual scraps for dinner, and when Marines had come to escort them to the bathroom, he’d tried to find out Law’s status but had only gotten an elbow to the gut for his trouble. Once night had fallen and his captain—his friend—still hadn’t returned, Penguin turned restless and started pacing his cell. Though he’d washed his hands in the bathroom, he could still feel Law’s blood on them from removing the bullet, and, though it wasn’t the first time, he’d never get used to that feeling.

“Would you stop before you wear a hole in the floor?” Smoker snapped. “Not all of us can swim.”

Penguin paused and glared at the Vice Admiral. “Easy to say when it’s not your captain being held captive by a madman.”

“No, it’s my partner and my men,” Smoker retorted coldly.

Penguin stiffened. Smoker had been commanding this mission when Doflamingo had taken it over, leaving his men under the string man’s control. And the swordswoman who’d taken Law away was Smoker’s partner; he’d forgotten.

“Right,” he muttered, sliding down against the wall again and burying his face in his collar. He could only be so sympathetic when the man had been leading a mission to capture or kill his captain in the first place.

He knew Law was more than capable of taking care of himself—he was a freaking Emperor—but he also knew there was a long, nasty history between the two former Warlords. And that history had been haunting Law since before Penguin had met him when Law was 13.

Having known Law for as long as he had, Penguin had seen and heard Law’s nightmares, had more than once held him as he came awake with whimpers or shrieks, his body wracked with tremors. He’d seen the haunted look in Law’s eyes, emphasized by the darkening circles under his eyes, and Law’s growing insomnia as he feared sleep, succumbing only when his body gave out from exhaustion. Once the original four Hearts had taken to the sea in the Polar Tang, Penguin had watched as Law stared at the skies and constantly looked over his shoulder, always wary of a flash of pink.

Penguin had also kept a careful eye on his friend once he’d returned from Dressrosa. After Doflamingo’s fall, some of the weight had lifted from Law’s shoulders and some of the shadows had faded from his eyes, but Law had never told even him, Shachi, and Bepo everything that had happened on Dressrosa. More than once, he’d caught Law absently fingering the ugly scar on his arm and flinching at the sight of guns and knew whatever had happened wouldn’t leave him so easily.

Law kept his pain to himself, tried to avoid burdening his nakama no matter how much they wanted to help him carry it—and so to know that Law, no matter how strong he was now, was once more in that man’s hands made Penguin sick.

Sometime during the night—it was impossible to keep track of time in the brig except for the visits of the guards and the sounds of activity above them on deck—the brig door opened. Penguin sat up, hoping to see Law, but it was the swordswoman.

“Tashigi,” Smoker said in surprise.

She put a finger to her lips. “I don’t have much time. I’m supposed to be going to the kitchens, but I took a detour.”

“Where’s Law?” Penguin demanded.

“With Doflamingo.” Penguin’s stomach sank. “As far as I know, he’s unharmed,” Tashigi added quickly, glancing between Penguin and Jean Bart. “But Doflamingo wants to keep an eye on him until we arrive.”

“Arrive?” Jean Bart asked.

“Where are we going?” Smoker prodded.

“An island called Herrenlos.”

Penguin frowned. “What’s that?”

Tashigi shrugged. “I don’t know. But it seemed to mean something to Trafalgar.” She looked at Smoker. “We should arrive sometime tomorrow.”

Smoker nodded thoughtfully. Tashigi, meanwhile, looked between Penguin and Jean Bart.

“Your crew is not far behind us.” She sighed. “Same with the Straw Hats.”

Smoker groaned, but Penguin and Jean Bart perked up. Penguin knew his nakama would come for them, but that they had apparently called the Straw Hats for backup as well was excellent news.

“Do you know what Doflamingo is up to?” Jean Bart asked.

Tashigi shook her head. “He sends me outside the room any time he talks about anything important.”

“Talks with who?” Smoker asked, leaning forward. “Law?”

“Him. And he’s been making calls on the Den Den Mushi.”

Smoker frowned. “Who would he be calling after two years in Impel Down?”

“I don’t know. Old contacts?” Tashigi twitched. “I have to go. Be careful,” she said, turning from the cells and leaving the brig.

“You be careful,” Smoker called after her, sighing as the door clanged shut behind her.

Penguin exchanged looks with Jean Bart. It was good that Law was okay, but that still didn’t answer what Doflamingo wanted him for. He supposed they would find out tomorrow.

He really hoped his nakama would hurry.

-----

Though Law had never been to Herrenlos, he’d seen the maps and base schematics—though that had been nearly two decades earlier. Still, the name had stuck with him; with its name meaning abandoned, the island had sounded haunted to Law when he was a boy. As the Marine vessel pulled into the docks on the island the next afternoon, Law took in the island through the window of the captain’s quarters and thought his younger self had been on the right track.

A rocky outcropping loomed over the beach, which was rocky rather than sandy and was scattered with desert flora. Atop the outcrop was the base—a warehouse with living quarters, from what Law could remember. The base was well-suited to defense from an outside attack… like would be coming from the Heart and Straw Hat crews.

As Law watched, the Marines, some under the control of strings and some moving of their own accord, started unloading cargo from the ship. Whatever items would be useful for stocking up the base, Law assumed.

Law flinched when one large hand came from behind to rest on his right shoulder, the other stroking down the left side of his face, tracing his line of his cheek—a facsimile of tenderness and affection.

“Stop that,” Law snapped then hissed in pain when a finger found its way into the bullet wound on his shoulder. His knees nearly buckled as the finger pressed into the wound, sending a jolt of pain down to his toes and drawing fresh blood, but Doflamingo’s unrelenting grip on his shoulder kept him upright.

“It’s time to go,” Doflamingo murmured into Law’s ear, his breath wet and warm against Law’s skin.

“Fine,” Law said through clenched teeth, gathering himself and turning on his heel. His shackles clanked with his sudden movement. He didn’t look at Doflamingo.

Doflamingo chuckled but let go of his shoulder and followed him. Tashigi was standing outside the door when Law opened it. She glanced back at him in surprise, eyes briefly falling to his left shoulder and blanching, but she was forced to walk half a step behind Law as a guard. Law ignored her reaction and strode forward. Doflamingo followed his two captives.

Neither Law nor Doflamingo slept the night before. For several hours after their tense arrangement had been reached, Law remained tied to the chair, stewing silently, while Doflamingo sat at the desk and looked over papers and maps and scribbled notes. Law very carefully did not think about how much this felt like sitting shackled to the Heart seat in Dressrosa, powerless.

Some time after night had fallen, Law started when he felt the strings confining him to the chair fall away. He looked over at Doflamingo, who had shifted in the desk chair to face Law, and raised an eyebrow. Rather than respond, the other man pointed a finger, and Law was pulled to his feet as a single string wrapped around his shackles and tugged him forward.

Law grimaced but didn’t fight the movement. He didn’t think it was worth picking the battle—not yet. He came to a stop directly in front of Doflamingo, Law’s thighs nearly touching the larger man’s knees. For a long moment, Doflamingo scrutinized Law from behind his glasses. Then he reached one hand, almost tentatively, up to Law’s face. Law inhaled sharply as Doflamingo’s hand cupped his cheek and tried to push back against the touch, but the string was still wrapped around his shackles and kept his hands in front of him.

“W-what—”

The hand slid from Law’s cheek to the back of his neck and fingers lightly brushed through the hair on his nape. Goosebumps erupted under the touch, Law intimately aware that Doflamingo’s large hand could enclose around his throat at any moment. Logically, he knew it wouldn’t because Doflamingo needed him alive, but his body wasn’t reacting to logic.

The fingers suddenly tightened in Law’s hair, and Law’s breath hitched as Doflamingo pulled back, exposing Law’s neck. Law swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and Doflamingo slowly rose to his feet. He leaned over, as if to sniff Law’s exposed neck. Law’s heart hammered in his chest as his position became even more vulnerable.

Maybe he should have picked the battle after all.

“I always knew you’d grow up into something incredible, Law,” Doflamingo murmured.

“Funny,” Law replied, voice unsteady as he focused his gaze on the ceiling. “I didn’t expect to grow up at all.”

There was a huff of laughter against his neck, and Law suppressed a shudder. “I have always been good at cultivating potential.”

Law felt his irritation spike at that. “Yes, such great potential behind bars in Impel Down,” he retorted with a measure of satisfaction.

Doflamingo growled, predictable in his anger at any slight against the Family. The hand in Law’s hair tightened further then Law cried out as he felt a sharp sting in the meat of his left shoulder. His eyes flew wide, and he jerked back as far as he could with the string still attached to manacles. Breathing heavily, he looked down to see a bloody bite mark.

Furious, he glared at the other man. “What the fuck?”

“A reminder of just who you belong to,” Doflamingo simply replied, teeth bloodied as he smirked.

Law’s stomach turned. Doflamingo, seeming satisfied to have made his point, dropped the string from Law’s bindings. Law retreated to the chair at the table, moving only to clean up the wound when Doflamingo had thrown a towel in his direction.

When Law emerged on the deck, he was relieved to see Penguin and Jean Bart, as well as Smoker, standing by the gangplank, guarded by armed Marines.

“Captain!” Penguin called, relieved, as Law approached. His eyes narrowed as he saw the fresh wound on Law’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Jean Bart asked, having noticed it as well.

Law nodded, refusing to give Doflamingo the satisfaction of acknowledging it. “Fine. You two?”

“We’re good,” Penguin said, and Jean Bart nodded in confirmation.

“As touching as this little reunion is,” Doflamingo drawled, “it’s time to go.”

The Marine guards jerked into motion and grabbed Penguin, Jean Bart, and Smoker, pushing them toward the gangplank. Law and Tashigi followed, with Doflamingo bringing up the rear.