#Root induction

[deadsetobsessions]

Pt. 4

Sorry this took so long. In the hospital still. Out of the hospital now!

For @unadulteratedsoulsweets

——

It had been early in the morning when she’d stepped foot in the manor. It was closer to noon, now, that found the reincarnation attentively sitting in one of the (if she remembered correctly from the blue prints) three massive kitchens located in Wayne manor.

She sat atop one of the island stools Damian had ushered her into, spaced a comfortable distance from the man that was her biological father in this life. Her mask dangled at her hip, a comfort she indulged in after unpacking her things. In truth, she’s had cookies before, but it had been so long since she’s tasted it that she might as well have never tried it before. Damian and Alfred Pennyworth worked with maximum efficiency, measuring out flour and sugar and chocolate like there were no tasks more important than this.

Alfred Pennyworth also avoided a specific cabinet that smelled slightly of metal polish and gun powder. It was kept away from the perishables.

Perhaps the manor was smaller and much more homely than the palace, but the reincarnate could see the sense in and approved of the various well-hidden caches of weapons around. Meant for non-lethal take downs, of course, but anything can be lethal if you tried hard enough. Or, considering the vigilante filled manor she had agreed to vacation in, anything could be lethal if one did not try hard enough to keep it non lethal.

The scrape of a spoon drew her attention back to Damian, waving away the off topic musings her mind had wandered into now that a large portion of her brain power was freed from the duty of fear.

She tracked how Damian existed within this space he had so clearly made for himself. He was… happier. Kinder. More. More at ease, more settled into his skin instead of where he stretched it to fit the cast of the Demon’s Heir. Simply, more. He was more Damian than he had been in the league.

When Damian was locked within the walls of the palace, his shoulders were always held straight. There’d been a- not quite darkness- cruelty in his eyes and gait that their grandfather had eagerly nurtured. His chin had remained lifted, his actions closed and callous. She’d feared, for while, that Damian would follow their grandfather’s footsteps. Until the day she saw him sneak a bird into his room to heal, her heart had trembled and grieved to see someone she loved imitate the worst parts of her abuser. It didn’t change the fact that she loved him, but it changed how she taught him.

But experience is a better teacher than she will ever be, and Damian had little chance to experience true kindness in the pits of the league.

Here, Damian is light. Perhaps less aware than he normally would have been, on the look out for fatal attacks as she had trained him to be within the league, but here he is free and safe and relaxed. It feels like she’s sitting in a haze, the chirps of birds and the clouded noon sun casting everything into an unreal light.

“Ukhti, assistance is requested.” Her brother holds out a bowl of dough. Her heart hurt with how happy it was. She squished the dough between her fingers like a child rediscovering her childhood. In some ways, she was.

——

As she watched Damian, in turn the others observed her. Bruce sat beside her, cataloguing every minuscule expression of his child, the first and the eldest, in an attempt to make up for lost time. And truly, it was minuscule. For all Bruce trained in micro-expressions and movements, his eldest- god, he had another daughter, the eldest- daughter remained a mystery from which he gleaned little of. Her face never lifted from that trained neutrality, having resettled back into it after first bite of b’stilla. He cradled the mug of coffee in his hands, the tang of grief and guilt roiling in his stomach as his daughter hesitantly but skillfully rolled a ball of dough.

“Pennyworth has divulged his secrets to me.” Damian plucked the ball from his sister’s hand, who allowed it with traces of… bemusement, perhaps? His eldest daughter flicked her eyes up in question, perhaps mildly amused. Even if she had more than two decades worth of training, Bruce was frustrated that he could not read her. She was his daughter.

Already he fails her. For too long, he had failed her.

“He chills the dough for a chewier cookie. I, and some of the others with adequate taste, prefer this texture. But which would you find adequate?”

His daughter flickered through that sign language again, the one he had no knowledge of. Considering he knew multiple from each continent, that was saying a lot. He was catching a few repeated signs, but nothing concrete.

Alfred waited patiently as they had their conversation, paying sharp attention to their motions. Bruce… felt like he was sitting next to Cassandra. He supposed they were the same, except his eldest daughter hadn’t gotten free.

“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it.” Damian grumbled, resting his hands on the counter, making sure to keep it away from his meticulously clean clothes. “We’ll cook them immediately.”

Bruce, in a fit of inspired parenting, offered a compromise.

“We could do two batches. One for right now and save a batch for later.”

Unspoken were the words ‘so she can try the cookies now.’ Despite the silent nature of his intent, Bruce thought that Alfred and Damian understood anyways.

“A fine suggestion, Master Bruce.”

“Thanks, Alfred.”

——

She sensed them before she saw them. Her father had slipped out after his suggestion, no doubt intercepting his flock of traumatized orphans before they could pile in.

Perhaps she had inherited something from Bruce Wayne after, considering how many of them she’d taken under her wing. She rolled the ball of dough between oiled fingers in a haze. Faint memories, impressions of a life long faded, guided her hands as she smooshed the cookies to her preference.

“Penny for your thoughts, Miss Al-Ghul?”Alfred Pennyworth asked her.

‘A Pennyworth for my thoughts?’ She swapped sign language, eyes slyly watching for Damian’s reaction.

Damian, right on cue, clicked his tongue, looking defeated. Alfred, on the other hand, smiled wider.

“A Pennyworth for your thoughts indeed.”

Her humor faded into something softer. Longing. Melancholy.

‘It’s been a long time since I’ve made dessert for myself.’

She glanced at Damian, who was trying his best to pretend like he wasn’t paying attention to the conversation lest he caught another stray pun. ‘Or used it to inoculate poisons.’

“I see.” The butler patted his hands dry onto a towel, a sharp eye on Damian’s efforts at covering the dough meant for freezing. “I assure you that these cookies will remain poison free, have no worries about that. Now, would you like some tea?”

She shook her head. ‘I’ll make it myself later. Thank you.’

“Very well, Miss-”

“Hi, Alfred. Making cookies?”

Her hands continued to work on her tray, placing cookie dough on the tray with military precision. Damian remained relaxed, though watchful of her reaction.

“That’s correct, Master Tim.”

Tim shuffled over to her, and she turned. Ah, her partial benefactor.

“Little photographer.” She smiled, slightly. Her eyes, however, were warm. Alfred stilled for a brief second at her voice.

“Hi. It’s been a while.” Tim plopped down on the seat next to her. His whole body screamed of nostalgia. It’s odd to see the little scrawny Bristol boy grow into a full fledged vigilante. It seemed like yesterday she was keeping him from slipping on Gotham’s manifestations of its rot and plummeting down on its stone heart.

She hummed. ‘Not too long.’

“What is that supposed to mean? When had you met Drake, recently?”

She glanced at the little- not so little- photographer.

“She helped me bring B back.” Tim lied. She didn’t like how easily he lied to Damian… but on account of her fondness for him, she let it slide.

“Did you, Miss Al-Ghul?” Alfred wiped his hands on the hand towel he carried. “Then I suppose we owe you our sincere thanks.”

She blinked slowly.

‘I didn’t do much. I kept him alive just the once.’

“That is a harder task than one might think, Miss Al-Ghul. Master Tim has, arguably, the worst self preservation instincts out of the life risking vigilantes I have known.” And he has known many, Alfred seemed to imply.

She tilted her head in acknowledgement.

“Hey! What is this? Gang up on Tim day?”

“I would participate in that even if it wasn’t,” Damian stated, packing the frozen cookies away in the corner. “Come and help, Drake. My ukht is about to have her first cookies and we will bake it to perfection. Bring the tray.”

Tim scoffed but slid the tray away from her, Alfred seamlessly dropping a napkin for her to wipe off the dough from her fingertips.

“Thanks, by the way. For saving Z and Owens.”

‘They were my assassins. Even if you did manage to sway them to your cause.’ She tapped the marble island, before opening her mouth. “Thank you. For destroying his pit options. It helped me kill Ra’s.”

In her peripherals, Damian settled back, disgruntled but willing to rest his curiosity as gratitude towards Tim’s part in her freedom overrode his need for answers.

Tim stilled. “…What are friends for, right?”

‘Of course, little photographer.’ She relaxed as her, arguably first, friend and now brother popped the tray into the oven.

“Anyways, they sent me in here to see if you’re ready to meet the rest of them.”

“And they said that?” Damian scoffed, coming around the island to stand beside her as she slipped off the stool.

“Nah, they actually wanted me to subtly vibe check her, but it’s not like she wouldn’t catch me doing it.”

“Ukhti’s ‘vibes’ are perfectly fine,” Damian said crabbily, crossing his arms defensively. She tapped the back of Damian’s neck and he relaxed.

‘Thank you for the… assessment of my character and general disposition.’ She signed dryly.

“Ugh, I should’ve made the connection. Your syntax is exactly like Damian’s.” Tim joked, dodging the punch Damian aimed at his nonexistent spleen.

The reincarnation huffed. ‘I spoke perhaps three words to you.’

“And how many people use disposition on a regular basis?”

“I do, Drake!”

“I know, Damian. That was the point, you little walking thesaurus.”

——

They left Alfred in the kitchen, the man all but shooing them away so he could get working on lunch, and made their way to a sitting room. The floor was covered in a plush blue carpet, a fact that made itself vividly present to the reincarnation when she placed her foot on it, the fabric brushing the back of her heels. She was too trained to allow the slip to visible, but for a microsecond, the memories of kneeling and choking clawed their way past her defenses. She made note of the trigger and moved on, compartmentalizing that fact for later.

“It’s you,” Nightwing breathed out, tensing. The others behind him freeze, even more alert than their regular state. Bruce whipped his head towards him, sharp and searching.

“Nightwing.” She greeted. She felt a kinship with this vigilante turned brother. She watched him soar and fall alongside the little photographer. She watched him grow new wings and watched them get tainted with blood and fear and grim hope. She lived vicariously through him, he who flew when she was chained. In some ways, she had ended up watching his back for a long time, both in yearning for the ease he was allowed at her father’s side and to protect the vulnerable back that knew not of its openness. Bruce inhaled deeply at her voice.

Dick stepped forward and pulled her into a hug. She does not disembowel him for it. Instead, she allowed the giant octopus hug her new oldest little brother gave her. There was no aggression in his countenance. Only relief and gratitude.

“You know Dick?” The little, ah, no, she doesn’t want to sound like Ra’s, Tim asked. Dick tensed, clearly unwilling to speak about it. She stepped in.

“I met him once. Eliminated a spider for him on a rooftop. I did not think he would remember.”

“Is that why you were so adamant on knowing who ukhti was?” Damian demanded, scowling. She immediately freed an arm and wrapped it around his shoulders. Damian ducked away with a rather petulant scowl. "Not because of my safety but because she crushed an arachnid for you?"

Dick nodded at him before looking up at her. “I really hated that spider. It was super scary. Thank you for getting rid of it.”

In lieu of an answer, she gently hugged him back.

“I get the feeling.” She said solemnly, voice coming out soft and borne of an implicit understanding. ‘Talk later,’ she signed to him.

“I was not aware you were afraid of spiders, ukht,” Damian muttered. “Though, Richard, I would believe.”

“Hey!”

Dick detached himself and pasted on a mostly genuine smile. “Oh! You should meet the others!”

He turned to the rest of Bruce Wayne’s wards and children to cheerfully point them out.

“This is Duke! He’s Alfred’s favorite grandkid, because he hasn’t burnt down the kitchen yet and reports when he’s injured.”

“Hey. Nice to meet you.” Duke Thomas raised a hand, smiling. “The bar was literally on the floor with you people. ‘Sides, Jason did just fine.”

The reincarnate nodded. Yes, she knew of him, though her memories were hazy. It had been over two decades, after all.

Dick steamrolled onwards. “This is Stephanie-”

“But you can call me Steph!” Stephanie Brown interjected, bouncing in her seat. Despite her bubbly demeanor, her gaze was sharp. Seeing. She liked that sharpness. It was tempered by the same rough and tumble kindness she’d seen in Grave- ah, Jason.

Spoiler, her memories reminded her. It was a soothing distraction from the anxious memories of the league. She found herself collecting little hints and information about this family. Her family, even if it were tentatively so. She caught Bruce staring at them intently, visibly anxious about this meeting.

‘A pleasure to meet you.’

“So… what do we call you?” Steph tilted her head. Hm. A tell Ra’s would have beaten out of her, had Stephanie had the misfortune of being in his presence for more than a day.

“Al Ghul will be adequate.” Damian cut in. The glance he threw her promised a discussion upon the topic of her name. Later, it promised.

“Wow. That’s kind of impersonal though.”

“Steph!”

“What?! I’m not wrong.”

“Anyways!” Dick loudly said over the two bickering kids. “That’s actually it for now.”

“The rest aren’t here as of this moment, but they’ll be around for dinner.”

A white lie. She studied Bruce for a moment before acquiescing. He meant no harm. Despite his capability to inflict harm, his willingness to do so, she could not read a single instance of ill will in him. Not, at least, towards her. She allowed the lie to slide.

‘I wish to see the grounds.’ She put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. He knew what it meant for her to retreat to the wilderness. Nature, where most things were free and where one does not often find Ra’s after he’d had a taste for luxury.

“We will go to the gardens. Ukhti wishes to explore.” Despite the rather curt way he pronounced it, Damian had stepped closer to her side in a gesture of concern. The pit inside of her stomach eased.

“Sounds good! Let’s go!” Steph bounced out of her seat.

“We could tell you stories,” Tim offered from behind her.

“Yeah, like that one time Dick face planted onto one of Poison Ivy’s flower beds because he was distracted by an ice cream truck.” Duke grinned, eyes crinkling.

“Hey! That ice cream truck was full of Scarecrow thugs!”

“And they weren’t worth an Ivy-lecture. I’m surprised she didn’t skin you and make a pot out of your bones, Dick.” Tim yawned.

“Ooo, we should tell her about the time I hit you in the face with a brick!”

“Literally what more is there to that story, Steph?” Tim grumbled.

“I would like to hear this tale,” Damian said, beginning to tug his ukht towards the garden. The rest of the group followed.

“Actually, why don’t we tell her about the time you tried getting Batcow to the barn and he just sat down? Didn’t you bargain with her for an hour, Damian?”

“Tt!”

Duke leaned back and took in the chaos he unfolded with a twinkling grin and Bruce’s sigh bolstering him. And if their newest and oldest addition to the family relaxed in his chaos, well, that was between him and her.

——

Cassandra found her in the gardens, the both of them weaving in between the foliage like light footed cats. Her contingent of Bats were behind them, watching the two former assassins approach each other.

Cassandra had frozen, mirroring the reincarnator’s stillness.

“Ukhti.” The word was torn out of Cass’ throat, filled with tears and relief.

“Cassandra,” she called, fond and kind and loving. Damian’s eyes darted between his sisters. They knew each other. How? She called his ukht, ukhti. A title he had assumed only he could use.

Cassandra scrambled and launched herself at her, silent sobs shaking her frame.

“Hello, Cass,” she caught the flying vigilante, crushing her first little sister into a tight hug. “Freedom suits you, habibti.”

Cass trembles in her arms, hands clutching at the fabric on her shoulder blades like Damian’s. Her eyes softened, and she rested her chin on Cass’s head.

“You know Cassandra too, ukhti?”

She nodded.

“Ukhti named me.” Cass said, voice wobbly. ‘Cass. Cassandra.’ Cass did her name sign. The one she had taught the slip of a girl back when Cass was stuck in a senseless prison and she was only free in terms of movement.

‘First word too.’ She smiled, proud of Cass and how far she’s come. Cassandra reads the pride in her language, the safety and kindness that she’d never forgotten even after traversing the world for years before arriving home, and she burrowed deeper into the hug.

“Oh. I see.”

“Two ukhts.” She smiled at Damian.

Cass shook her head, but before Damian could settle into his hurt at her supposed rejection, Cass explained her confusion. “Ukhti is your name? I’m Cass.”

“Ukhti means older sister.” Damian informed her.

Cass blinked and looked back at the reincarnation. Her shoulders relaxed and drew back, eyes softening and body loosened from its confusion. She smiled, bright as the sun, and deftly clambered around to perch on her older sister’s back.

“Two.” She declared. And truly, the reincarnation was weak to her younger siblings because that was that. Cass declared it so, and it shall be so. Damian grumbled but seemed like they agreed.

“How did you two meet?” Bruce piped up, intent and surprisingly considerate.

“Saved me,” Cass sighed, resting her chin on her ukht’s head. ‘From father and the league. Taught me to speak, a little. My name. Cass. Taught me..’ Cass paused. “Taught me I am not a weapon.”

The former assassin carrying Cass on a piggy back ride hummed in agreement.

“Oh.” The rest of the family glanced at each other. Dick had his shiny teary eyes on, the ones he got when Jason initiated a hang out.

“Not a weapon,” Cass repeated, pressing firmly on her ukht’s head.

A less sure hum. Cass scowled.

“No. Bad,” Cass scolded. “Not a weapon.”

An acquiescing hum, full of fondness and exasperation.

Cassandra Cain will take that answer. For now.

“You named Cass?” Duke asked. Bruce looked at them with gentle eyes.

“After a heroine I knew.” She replied, shifting. Cass hugged her tighter, intently listening. “She was strong. Lethal if need be. But… kind. She had an inherently kind heart. Full of love. Like Cass.”

“Oh, that’s really.. that’s really sweet.”

Cass hugged her ukht closer, touched. She had never known why she had been given the name, but finding out that it was after a heroine her sister looked up to made the day that much brighter. Hopeful. Honored.

“You have not told me this story,” Damian said.

‘I will. One day.’

——

Jason found her at the lunch table. Along with the rest of the brood. Except for, jarringly, an alien named Jarro.

“He’s our alien brother!” Duke said. He smiled, and it was a smile of unassuming harmlessness. A well crafted mask that she knew better than to be fooled by.

She offered three long blinks that had Cassandra, stuck like a limpet on the reincarnator’s back, muffling a laugh.

“Telling truth,” Cass whispered, sentences punctuated by giggles.

She hummed, shifting to more securely carry Cass on her back. Damian sighed and dutifully carried Cassandra’s pack. She smiled at her little brother, who straightened. Adorable. All of her siblings were adorable. She would kill for them. Ah, right. They frown upon murder here. So had she, once. Before Ra’s broke that part of her heart and forced her hands to commit evils that grew gnarled vines through her very soul.

“Oh.” She blinked.

“Hm?”

“Killing is… a choice.” The conversations around them fell silent. Cass’ arms tightened around her shoulders.

“We don’t have to do it, anymore,” Damian agreed. Yes, he understood what it was like, to be raised to kill and suddenly having the option not to.

“Did you not want to kill, before?” Bruce asked, suddenly a bit closer. Her mind was slipping, she realized. It felt… safe, to slip.

‘If I did not,’ she admitted, like throwing stones off of a lock-laden bridge. ‘Damian would bear the consequences.’

She sounded… young. Afraid. Two things she had always been and were never allowed to be.

Bruce Wayne looked at her like his heart was breaking, like he wished he could shoulder her pain on top of the weight of the world he willingly carried since his parents died. This, she is reminded, was why she swore Damian to secrecy regarding her existence. She wondered if he had ever taken the burden of more grief than he could bear.

‘And I could not say no, regardless,” she told them, absent and tired.

She wondered if she would be the one to break him, should she allow him a glimpse of the scars on her back.

“I could have taken it.” Damian grabbed her arm, clutching at her sleeve once more.

“No,” she whispered, haunted. ‘Not while I drew breath, habibi.’

“You don’t have to kill here. We’re all very good with no murder.” Tim reminded her firmly.

“Unless it’s the Joker.” Steph chimed in, bubbly smile gentled into something kinder.

“Unless it’s him.” Duke agreed. His eyes were more serious now.

“No,” Bruce replied, tired. Heavier, in a way that made sour tang of guilt scratch the back of her tongue. She hadn’t meant to give him the weight of knowledge, but she had inadvertently done so with the things she had and hadn’t said. He wasn’t the world’s- she glanced at Tim, who quirked a smile at her- second best detective for no reason.

“Yes, but you’re not ready for that conversation.” Dick snapped, lightheartedly.

Ah. That’s what was off.

They’re kind. They choose to be and they inherently are kind.

It showed. And she wasn’t used to that.

“Lunch.” Cassandra reminded them. She was a solid, grounding presence at the reincarnator’s back.

“Oh, Jason said he’s on the way.” Duke commented, nodding when she quickly did a subtle thank you sign.

“Why does he text you and not me?” Dick whined.

“Wow, man. I don’t know. Maybe it’s because of the emoji wall you send?”

“They’re nice! How else are you supposed to know what I’m feeling, right, Cass?”

Cass nodded and gave a thumbs up from her place on ukhti’s back.

“See?!”

“I love you Cass, but you also use a wall of understandable emojis. Dick just spams them.” Steph retorted.

The reincarnator turned to Damian, a silent question in her eyes. He sighed. “Yes, the imbeciles argue all of the time.”

She nodded and the group made their way to the green house for lunch, bickering all the while.

When they get there, Jason Todd, along with Alfred Pennyworth were already at the table.

“Grave.” She greeted as Cass slipped off her back.

“Ain’t no fucking way, Trainer?” Jason leapt to his feet. It was odd, seeing him in casual clothes. Ra’s had kept him in armor most of the time.

“You know each other?”

“At this point, who doesn’t ukht know would be an easier question.” Damian grumbled. She tapped him on the head twice, a light reprimand.

‘Grave was part of your guard,’ she told him. ‘He protected you well.’

“You’re the demon brat’s older sister? That makes so much fucking sense.”

She felt her eyes go cold, lifting to stare at Grave’s rapidly paling face. He visibly backtracks.

“Uh- I mean, you’re Damian’s older sister?”

She regarded him for a beat longer before blinking, ice melting away at the change. The nickname chafed at her neck, too close from a fate she gave everything to save Damian from.

Her head dipped into a small nod.

“Wild.” Jason sat back down. “So, uh, how are you handling the pit?”

‘I am not.’ She informed him, settling down in her seat. Damian claimed the spot next to her and Cass quickly took the other, much to Bruce’s chagrin. Tim plopped down to the seat next to Cass, eyes zeroing onto the chamomile tea Alfred had set out for him.

Duke smiled at Bruce before sitting next to Jason, Steph skipping over and sitting next Dick and Jason at the same time.

“Ukhti managed to get rid of the side effects,” Damian informed the table at large.

Her little bat had the worst ability to make sure attention focused on her, the reincarnation groused. She sighed.

“How?” Clearly, Grave had forgotten how much she beat him into the sparring mat because he leaned forward to glare at her. Well, she hadn’t wanted him too afraid of her.

‘Magic.’

His face fell at the assumed non answer, but Damian’s nod had the entire table once more expectant.

She sighed and began weaving her magic.

——

She stalked through the shadows of the manor, at ease. Bruce and the others had left on patrol, hours ago. She was clad in her sleeping clothes, one of her less favored clothes. Her hands would get dirty again tonight but she was long past the point of lingering on those regrets.

“Miss al-Ghul,” Alfred turned as she stepped towards him, having made sure she made adequate noise as a forewarning. “Having a good night?”

She tilted her head, eyes inquisitively peering at the spotless china display behind the butler.

“Ah, you must be curious about the fine ceramics we have currently displayed,” Alfred smiled. “Would you be so kind as to indulge an old butler on this topic?”

She had an idea about the kind of gift Alfred Pennyworth would appreciate.

——

“Uh, whatcha got there?”

She blinked, pulling bloodied hands away from her clothes where she had been inspecting them. The assassin that caused the damage on her clothes laid beneath her feet, still and lifeless. She blinked again.

Nightwing, Dick, stood in front of her, freshly showered from his patrol.

Some form of long forgotten instinct rose from the dry rotted fabric of her faded memories had her responding, ‘A smoothie.’

“…That’s… not a smoothie,” Dick said as he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m pretty sure that’s an assassin?”

She shrugged. “He was after Damian. To force him into being the Demon’s head.” She paused. ‘I am tying up loose ends.’

Dick considered her. And the he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, okay. I’ll help you get rid of the evidence.”

She waved him off, clicking her fingers and looking over the room with critical eyes as the body and traces of the fight disappeared.

“Woah, handy.”

‘Very,’ she agreed. ‘Did you need something?’

He made a face. “That’s weird. It’s usually me asking that,” he muttered. “Uh, yeah. I just… wanted to thank you again. And uh, let you know that the others don’t know so if you could not tell them, that would be great?”

With a huff, she reached over and up to gently ruffle his hair. ‘Of course. Damian did not know either.’

“Right,” he breathed. “You get it.”

She gave him a knowing look. “Been avoiding thinking about it?”

He swallowed. “Yeah.”

She looked at him, silent. Offering a space to listen, and a quiet promise to offer no judgement.

“I don’t- it- I could have stopped her,” he told her, guilt and shame and the lingering whispering voice Catalina burrowing into his ears and heart.

And when he started, it seemed to him like he couldn’t stop. Dick told her of the things he felt as she got on top of him, of how numb and far away things were. How, if it rained, he couldn’t be in the quiet because it made him relive it.

“But… but you stopped her so I shouldn’t even be like this!”

‘It wasn’t your fault.’ She told him, the first thing she’s said since he’s started talking. ‘The only one at fault was her. You trusted her to stop. She did not. Her crimes were not yours to bear.’

She paused, taking in the refusal she could read on his face. “If someone beats another person, would you blame the person who was beaten?”

“No!”

‘Then you are kind. But you are so kind to others, why not yourself?’

Dick fell silent.

“I killed Ra’s,” she reminded him. “He allowed many others to partake in my body without my agreement.”

She leaned towards him, the admittance of something she had not even told Damian ringing painfully in her heart but made all the easier to say by the fact that one of her little brothers (the free, first Robin, the son who stood by Bruce’s side when she could not) needed her. “He himself partook in me. And yet,” she added, when Dick looked up. ‘It is difficult to forget. I am still afraid when I step onto the carpet on the sitting room.’

“The carpet? The rug? The fluffy one?” He asked, confused.

“It is like… your rain and silence,” she crossed her arms. ‘That and the sound of rustling silk reminds me of his chambers.’

“Oh.”

‘I killed him and it will not go away. Would you blame me for that?’

“No, that’s how healing is- oh.”

“Be kind, to yourself.”

His chin trembled. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Ukhti.”

“Ukhti,” he parroted, aiming a watery and small smile her way.

She held out her arms and, with Dick’s tacit understanding, tucked him beneath her wings like she did with Damian. “Thank you for offering to get rid of the body, habibi. But I would not want you to get in trouble.”

“Eh, I’ve helped Jason deal with worse.”

‘Comforting.”

“I know, right?”

——

“Why the hell do you keep calling me Grave?” Jason asked her, grumbling as he tried to wire his new helmet after the last one got damaged.

She leaned back, basking in the sun on the new rugs. After their conversation, Dick had set fire to every fluffy rug in the house-

“What the hell, dude?!” Duke gaped as he watched Dick cheerfully toss an expensive rug into the impressive bonfire they had going on.

“Ukhti doesn’t like fluffy rugs,” Dick said with a straight face. Damian dragged another roll to the bonfire with a scowl. “Alfred Approved project, if you want to join~!”

Duke stared at him… and picked up a roll to toss into the fire.

- and bought new ones using Bruce’s credit cards.

“You got some of your memories back, in the league.” She hummed. “You liked reading. Poems.”

“What does that even have to do with Grave?”

“I remembered one. A line. Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep…”

Jason twisted around. “Are you kidding me?”

She continued. “Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there. I did not die.”

“But I did die.”

She shrugged. ‘People still remembered you. Gotham and Bruce cried at your loss. I saw it.’

She straightened and smiled a small smile at him. ‘Besides. You got better.’

Jason snorted. “You too, I guess.”

She hummed an agreement, eyes slipping closed in the warm light of the sun, relief after a long second life of cowering in the shadows of a man more like a demon than he was a grandfather.

[burtlancster]

Burt Lancaster in A Child Is Waiting, 1963.

[woradat]

Hold me tight

SUMMARY - before you drift away, into the galaxy —too far for him to reach, he should have held onto you tighter, but he didn't (pre-war)

PAIRING - jetfire x reader, skyfire x reader

·

·

He should have left the moment the projector’s beam sliced through the dim chamber and cast the silhouette of another onto the polished obsidian floor

The light cut across the dust-moted air like a blade of frozen sunlight—soft, but unyielding. The silhouette did not shift. Merely stood there, tall and still, as if carved from old starlight and authority

Jetfire’s vents caught in his throat

He remained rooted. Not out of defiance—no, never that—but because the variables of movement and consequence had suddenly multiplied beyond calculation. His body refused to obey logic. The simplest action—turn, retreat, explain—felt like a catastrophic misstep on a precarious quantum equation

He could feel the temperature change in the air. Not with heat, but with presence—that ineffable shift when another mind steps into your radius and rewrites the gravity of the room

He tilted his gaze upward, slowly. Reluctantly. Bracing for a voice made of judgment and protocol

Expulsion. Citation. Public apology. Reclamation

A thousand outcomes bloomed in his mind like faulty computations

Instead, the voice that came was neither clipped nor cruel

It was curious

“If the universe is a question... are you attempting to answer it with a nobleman’s equation?”

The words rolled out with a peculiar elegance—like poetry smuggled into science, soft and sharp in equal measure. The voice was stately but playful, as though both mocking and indulging him

Jetfire blinked. His vocalizer crackled slightly before functioning

“I’m sorry. I just… the datapads fell, and I—”

“And you chose to pick them up” the other said, stepping closer. Their silhouette became clearer in the light, glinting at the edges—like moonlight caught on the lip of a goblet “And you read them”

Jetfire stiffened

“Not the worst choice. But don’t expect praise for daring to think without permission. Not in this building”

He looked down, shame creeping like corrosion through his circuits—until the next words caught him off-guard

“But I commend you”

His gaze snapped back up, optics wide

The other offered the datapad back to him with a delicacy that bordered on reverence—like handing over something fragile, alive, and perhaps forbidden

“Are you the kind who reads to believe, or the kind who reads to question?”

It wasn’t a trick question. And yet it felt like it held a lock to something far beyond data

Jetfire opened his mouth—but the question was too rich, too strange. Not designed for swift answers, only quiet undoings

The stranger smiled. It was not warm, but it was honest

“I ask for one hour of your time. Each day. In the lower chamber. The one they abandoned after the war scare. I wish to see whether your gravitational equations map the stars as I do”

“You mean… you want me to research with you?”

“No” A quiet, indulgent laugh “I want you to answer one question a day. No more”

They stepped past him then, their field brushing faintly against his like the edge of magnetism—unseen, but undeniable

“Here’s one to begin: do you believe the sinusoidal fluctuations in the gravity of dying stars suggest any pattern in the behavior of consciousness?”

Jetfire made a choked noise

“What?”

“Too soon? Forgive me. I tend to start conversations in the middle.” They turned, pausing in the doorway like a scholar on the brink of forgetting their own name

“Let’s begin again. What’s yours?”

“…Jetfire”

The figure did not offer their own. They merely studied him—as though reading a newly named particle—and murmured:

“Fitting. One day, perhaps, you’ll fly”

Then, without waiting for response, they vanished into the hall—leaving Jetfire to stare at the flickering projector still humming softly, and wonder if he had just been inducted into a secret society of one

—

No one had ever once suggested to him that silence, in a space built to amplify the smallest of sounds, could resonate in such a peculiar, almost devastating manner. Silence in a laboratory wasn’t a void, not quite. No, it was a substance, something that wrapped around you like an invisible fog, as if every molecule of the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for the next disruption, the next event, the next explanation. But tonight, the air felt particularly thick with it—as though the universe had paused for a heartbeat, just for him

It had taken him years of training, of learning how to concentrate in the face of chaos, of adapting his mind to the punctuated rhythm of data and deductions. Yet it was in this silence, this suspended moment, that Jetfire realized with a sudden jolt of clarity: he had been waiting

Waiting for what? He wasn’t entirely sure, but the answer lingered just at the edge of his awareness, like a half-remembered dream or a word you knew was on the tip of your tongue but couldn’t quite pull to the surface. Perhaps he had been waiting for the familiar hum of his sensors to be disturbed by the singular presence that always found him here, at the desk beside some unfinished analysis, surrounded by research notes, and the faint scent of machine oil

“You're two and a half minutes late”

The words—no, the voice—cut through the stillness with a precision Jetfire could never quite predict. Dry. Unfazed. The perfect example of an observation made simply because it was there to be noted, like the path of an asteroid traversing the cold void of space

Jetfire smiled faintly—a rare, slanted curl of his mouth that he never showed to anyone else

"I was detained by an emergency briefing. Apologies, I—"

“Mmm… A grave offense indeed” you replied in a drawl, lifting a bottle of lubricant and giving it a shake like someone mixing a midnight cocktail

A faint snort interrupted him, not mocking, but amused in the way that only someone who knew how to reduce the weight of all things could manage "Grievous misconduct. And as for your punishment, I’m afraid you’ll have to endure my complete and utterly enlightening lecture on The Gravitational Philosophy of Dream Oscillations"

Jetfire let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head slightly "I... didn’t realize that was an actual field of study"

"No, of course not" came the immediate response, with an exaggerated lift of the speaker’s shoulders as if it were entirely unimportant whether or not they were speaking of any truth

"But you see, I had a dream last night—a dream—and in it, the entire universe existed without a gravitational core. It was, naturally, quite difficult to navigate, because everything, every matter, every thought, just… drifted. But strangely, there was one constant. One force"

The absurdity of the words struck his mind like a needle to the most tender part of thought—sharp, precise, and disturbingly accurate

Jetfire lowered himself into the lab's rickety swivel chair. The metal frame groaned in protest

“And in that dream of yours… did anyone survive?”

There was a pause. The other bot stilled, set the bottle down, and looked up with an expression halfway between amusement and strange clarity

“There was one. The one who created gravity themselves… and pulled all the stars toward them — with sheer will of heart"

Jetfire didn’t reply right away. He simply sat there, listening as the scientist across the room rambled on in whimsical metaphors—half-poetry, half-forgotten philosophy. And while his logical mind attempted to separate fantasy from fact, his spark was doing the opposite

It was pulling everything inward. Toward a center

Toward you—the one who always sounded like you were joking, but never once lied

At first, he had merely been here because the lab offered access to rare instruments—free from bureaucratic rituals. Then he had chosen to stay because you understood the language of science. But now…

He didn’t want to leave

"Do you always dream like that?" Jetfire asked, his voice softer than he intended. It wasn’t just about the dream, of course. It never really was. But this—this peculiar pull, this gravity between them, that wasn’t the kind of thing Jetfire could admit easily. And so, he hid it behind his inquiry

You smile, when it came, was a quiet thing, edged with a knowing that only made Jetfire more uncertain of his own thoughts "Sometimes" they replied. "I think it’s the only way to escape the weight of everything around us. Dreams don’t have to make sense, after all"

He wanted to argue with that, wanted to say that dreams weren’t supposed to be some ethereal escape, but the truth was, he couldn’t. Not when the room itself felt so real when it was just the two of them standing at its center

There was a tension here, one that neither of them had asked for, but neither could escape. A strange, compelling force between them that felt like the pull of unseen stars—a pull neither had the strength to ignore. And yet, there was no admission. No declaration. Just an ever-growing understanding that, in the quietest moments, they both understood the same thing without ever speaking it aloud: the universe, in all its infinite complexity, could very well be shaped, and bent, by the simplest of forces—whether gravity, or will, or even something as unmeasurable as a glance

It was when the silence stretched again, both of them sitting side by side, neither of them quite able to leave, that Jetfire realized with a sudden clarity that the silence between them had changed

It had shifted, imperceptibly, but undeniably

And the only thing left for him to do now was to accept that it had happened. And maybe… maybe he didn’t need to fill it with words

Maybe the absence was the answer

—

After day and after day, Jetfire returned

He told his superiors that he was conducting field surveys around the Senate Tower perimeter. In truth, he just kept finding reasons to enter the lab again. To sit across from you—the planetary scientist who seemed less like an academic and more like a verse carved from the cosmic dust itself

You explained quantum entanglement with the cadence of a bedtime tale. Your hand gestures painted orbit lines in the air. You labeled your document drawers with star charts instead of numbers

You once asked, in a perfectly serious tone: “If stars could write letters to one another, what grammar would they use?”

It wasn’t a question he could answer. But he remembered it

—

Each day, once the experiments ended, there came a brief, weightless moment—just the two of you, sitting quietly beside cooling machinery. Watching an unfinished star map flicker on the display screen. Sometimes, no words were exchanged. And yet, the silence felt full—like a breath the universe was holding in

“You know” your voice broke the hush, “in this vast universe… perhaps we’re nothing but space dust. Maybe none of this means anything"

Jetfire turned to look at you. He had never considered the thought in quite that way before. But then, unexpectedly, words slipped past his lips

“Maybe… it means something to us. Just now.. like this”

You gave him a faint smile. You looked like you were going to say something else, but chose not to

The silence that followed wasn’t like the one from the first time you met. It wasn’t hollow. It was full of questions that didn’t need answers

“Do you have a plan for what comes next?” Jetfire asked, voice almost hesitant

“Explore the whole universe” you replied at once, mischief dancing behind your optics “And you?”

He paused, then smiled too “I’d like to go with you.. but I don’t know where to start"

And in that moment, he realized: it wasn’t just about the stars above, or the trajectories he could calculate. It was that with you beside him, even the smallest questions in life felt like they carried immense weight

“Sometimes, it only takes one strange little question to lead us away from everything we thought we knew” you said gently, your voice already drifting into another realm

Jetfire looked at you, and the universe suddenly felt smaller

Maybe… the journey didn’t need a destination

“And what if there's no path to follow?”

“Then we’ll find one. Or make one. Together”

The answer came clearly, as if it had been waiting inside you all along

And for the first time, Jetfire felt as though he was beginning to understand his own journey—not through drive or ambition, but through a stillness that could not be measured by instruments

—

Jetfire was hunched over a data console, utterly immersed, when they leaned on his side—too close, of course, deliberately so. They always had a knack for standing where they weren’t needed, asking questions that twisted like Möbius strips and left interns fleeing for quieter company. But Jetfire never asked them to leave

You didn’t speak at first, only watched the patterns scrolling across his screen, their chin resting in one servo, optics half-lidded like a cat watching a bird it wasn’t quite hungry enough to catch

“So"

You murmured eventually “if quantum field fluctuations respond to proximity and intent—what do you suppose that says about us, hm?”

Jetfire didn’t turn. He paused, one servo frozen mid-input, then resumed typing with a sudden stiff precision “It says you’ve been reading fringe journals again"

“And flirting, if you noticed"

“I noticed"

A beat. Then another, long enough for them to step back like they usually would, laugh it off with a joke about social experiments gone wrong. But you didn’t. You stayed

“You always act so composed” you said softly “but your EM field is terribly loud when you're pretending I don’t affect you"

Jetfire’s digits stalled again

They continued, letting their words fall with the kind of offhand rhythm that made people forget how sharp they really were

“Do you know what I think? I think you like being bothered. I think you find me—” Their digits lightly tapped the back of his shoulder, where circuitry was most sensitive “—stimulating"

Now he did turn, ever so slightly, not enough to meet their gaze but just enough to suggest caution “You’re not usually.. be like this"

“I’m not usually this serious” you replied, smile lopsided and voice light as starlight

“But you are. You’re always so precise. So heavy with your truths. So terribly fond of structure. And I… well” you stepped closer again, tone dipping into something uncharacteristically tender “I’d like to see what happens when something... unstructured gets under your plating"

Jetfire inhaled sharply, and for once, didn’t have an answer ready. Not a theory. Not a quip. Just the steady thrum of his field responding, betraying him

You tilted your helm and added—half playful, half hopeful “Would you permit the hypothesis that I’m fond of you?”

Jetfire stared for a moment, then—slowly, achingly—nodded

A beat passed

Then you smirked

“Excellent. Expect several invasive follow-up experiments. Peer-reviewed, of course"

He sighed, the sound brittle with half-swallowed laughter, and muttered under his breath “I should’ve known”

“Oh, you did” you grinned, optics bright “You just hoped I’d be subtle"

.

.

They didn’t leave that evening

Not when the lights dimmed for shift-change. Not when Jetfire’s screen flickered into idle starlight. Not even when silence began to pool between them like liquid static, heavy with unsaid things

You stood beside him, arms folded, posture languid—but your optics gleamed with calculation, as though you were calibrating an orbit

“Did you know” you began in that infuriatingly smooth tone “that shared frequency alignment over time can be... accelerated, if both subjects are in prolonged proximity?”

Jetfire glanced at you warily “Are you proposing that we sit closer?”

“Oh, sweetspark. I’m proposing far more than that"

You stepped in until your helm nearly brushed his shoulder, their voice a low hum—part mockery, part invocation “I’ve been circling your orbit for cycles, Jetfire. Tapping at your shields. Reading your footnotes. Tuning myself to your silences and you—” your servo brushed his arm, a fleeting contact that felt measured, deliberate, almost reverent “You always flinch like truth is a wound. But I wonder... what happens if I don’t let you look away this time?”

Jetfire inhaled sharply. His optics flicked to theirs, wide, vulnerable—and caught

“I ..I didn’t mean to mislead—”

“Oh, I know” they interrupted gently, stepping closer still “You were trying to protect yourself. You always do. But I’m not here to dissect you, Jetfire. I’m here to choose you. Again and again. With all your walls and silences and nervous, noble spark"

He swallowed thickly “You can’t just say things like that"

“I can” you whispered “and I will"

A moment passed. And then, as if gravity had given up—

Jetfire reached for them

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t rehearsed. It was the startled, breathless motion of someone who had spent too long holding back—and now couldn’t

Their bodies met in a slow, deliberate collision, a hush of metal and warmth. His arms enfolded them like he was afraid they’d vanish, and they leaned into him with a smile that tasted like triumph and tenderness all at once

“I love you” he whispered, almost inaudible “Primus help me"

The confession landed like stardust—soft, infinite, real

They leaned up, brushing their mouth along the edge of his jaw in a kiss so subtle it felt like a secret, and murmured “I know. You were terribly obvious. But adorable about it"

He gave a shuddering laugh—and when they kissed him fully, it was slow and breathless and aching, like two minds syncing after endless static. No rush. No chaos. Just resonance

When you pulled back, they pressed their forehead to his and added with mock-seriousness “Now that we’ve aligned... may I begin the real experiments?”

Jetfire exhaled, optics fluttering shut “Primus. What have I unleashed?”

“A lover with a lab and very ambitious hypotheses”

—

The world was already fraying at the seams

Cities once humming with philosophy and particle dreams now bristled with paranoia, blared slogans through smog-thick air. Everywhere, signs were changing—banners raised, sides drawn, colors worn not with pride but with the desperation of identity carved into metal and flame. War had not yet come in name, but its scent was already in the circuits of every thinking mech

You stood in the hangar of the survey vessel they once treated like a daydream—tall, sleek, built for long-term celestial research. It was the kind of ship only a handful of scientists could even touch. But you had clearance. You had always been too curious, too vocal, too exhausting for bureaucratic comfort—but undeniably brilliant

Enough to be tolerated

Enough to be trusted

Enough to leave

You had recalibrated the nav systems two cycles ago, quietly. Stocked the coolant, loaded rations. Ran diagnostics under cover of "long-range sub-quantum testing" All ready and now, Jetfire stood before them, half-shadowed by the cold white light

“You knew I wouldn’t come"

You smiled softly. Not sad. Not angry. Just... aware

“Yes. I knew” your voice was like paper slowly folding in firelight—delicate, measured, but glowing from within “But knowing doesn’t dull the wanting, Jetfire. I wanted to believe we’d chase nebulae together. That we'd map the gravitational poems of the void and argue about nothing for a few million years"

He looked away. His Decepticon badge wasn’t fully painted yet—half-dried on his plating, like a promise he hadn’t learned to carry “There’s too much wrong here to run from"

“I’m not running” you stepped closer “I’m leaving. There’s a difference"

Jetfire’s optics flicked up, stricken “Don’t say it like it’s noble"

“It’s not..” A small, tired laugh “It’s cowardice and dreamdust and a touch of statistical pragmatism. There’s nothing noble about solitude, Jetfire. But... I have to go"

You reached up, gently resting two digits on the badge’s edge. Not to peel it away. Just to feel the heat of it

“I know what this means to you. I know why you chose it. And I don’t blame you for choosing a war over the stars. Someone has to stay and fight for the ones who can’t escape"

He looked at them as if they were already a ghost

“And what if I regret this?” he asked quietly

“Then I hope you find me” they said simply “Out there, among the dark harmonics of some distant system. I’ll be cataloguing the spin of dying suns. Waiting. Not for you—but for the version of you who’s ready"

Silence bloomed between them like a nova

No kiss. No hug. Just two minds, once aligned, now drifting—still caught in each other’s gravity, but on diverging trajectories

And then you turned, boarding the ship alone

As the launch thrusters powered up and the docking bay peeled open to the black, star-speckled vastness, they allowed themselves one final indulgence—a line spoken softly to the emptiness beside them: “You were my favorite hypothesis, Jetfire. I hope the data proves me wrong"

And then you were gone

—

Some nights,

he sits in front of the console, reading through your logs—the ones detailing anomalous gravitational phenomena you were trying to make sense of

And in one of them, there’s a single line that has nothing to do with science at all: "If I became a star no one could see, would someone, somewhere, peer through a lens and know that I was lonely?"

Jetfire quietly closes the datapad

He understands now… you weren’t asking for an answer. You were reaching out, wondering if someone was listening

And he—he always was

Even if he never said a word back

·

·

NOTE - don't be so surprised. I mean yeah and they broke up like that. Ha

[drnikolatesla]

Tesla’s Wardenclyffe Tower: Built on Sound Math, Undone by Cost and Misunderstanding

Let’s set the record straight—Nikola Tesla’s Wardenclyffe Tower was a high-voltage experimental transmission system grounded in quarter-wave resonance and electrostatic conduction—not Hertzian radiation. And the math behind it? It was solid—just often misunderstood by people applying the wrong physics.

In May 1901, Tesla calculated that to set the Earth into electrical resonance, he needed a quarter-wavelength system with a total conductor length of about 225,000 cm, or 738 feet.

So Tesla’s tower design had to evolve during construction. In a letter dated September 13, 1901, to architect Stanford White, Tesla wrote: “We cannot build that tower as outlined.” He scaled the visible height down to 200 feet. The final structure—based on photographic evidence and Tesla’s own testimony—stood at approximately 187 feet above ground. To meet the required electrical length, Tesla engineered a system that combined spiral coil geometry, an elevated terminal, a 120-foot vertical shaft extending underground, and radial pipes buried outward for approximately 300 feet. This subterranean network, together with the 187-foot tower and carefully tuned inductance, formed a continuous resonant conductor that matched Tesla’s target of 738 feet. He described this strategy in his 1897 patent (No. 593,138) and expanded on it in his 1900 and 1914 patents, showing how to simulate a longer conductor using high-frequency, resonant components. Even with a reduced visible height, Tesla’s system achieved quarter-wave resonance by completing the rest underground—proving that the tower’s electrical length, not its physical height, was what really mattered.

Tesla calculated his voltages to be around 10 million statvolts (roughly 3.3 billion volts in modern SI), so he had to consider corona discharge and dielectric breakdown. That’s why the terminal was designed with large, smooth spherical surfaces—to minimize electric surface density and reduce energy loss. This was no afterthought; it’s a core feature of his 1914 patent and clearly illustrated in his design sketches.

Now, about that ±16 volt swing across the Earth—what was Tesla talking about?

He modeled the Earth as a conductive sphere with a known electrostatic capacity. Using the relation:

ε × P = C × p

Where:

ε is the terminal’s capacitance (estimated at 1,000 cm)

P is the applied voltage (10⁷ statvolts)

C is the Earth’s capacitance, which Tesla estimated at 5.724 × 10⁸ cm (based on the Earth’s size)

p is the resulting voltage swing across the Earth

Plugging in the numbers gives p ≈ 17.5 volts, which Tesla rounded to ±16 volts. That’s a theoretical 32-volt peak-to-peak swing globally—not a trivial claim, but one rooted in his framework.

Modern recalculations, based on updated geophysical models, suggest a smaller swing—closer to ±7 volts—using a revised Earth capacitance of about 7.1 × 10⁸ cm. But that’s not a knock on Tesla’s math. His original ±16V estimate was fully consistent with the cgs system and the best data available in 1901, where the Earth was treated as a uniformly conductive sphere.

The difference between 7 and 16 volts isn’t about wrong numbers—it’s about evolving assumptions. Tesla wrote the equation. Others just adjusted the inputs. His premise—that the Earth could be set into controlled electrical resonance—still stands. Even if the voltage swing changes. The vision didn’t.

Wouldn't that ±16V swing affect nature or people? Not directly. It wasn’t a shock or discharge—it was a global oscillation in Earth’s electric potential, spread evenly across vast distances. The voltage gradient would be tiny at any given point—far less than what’s generated by everyday static electricity. Unless something was specifically tuned to resonate with Tesla’s system, the swing had no noticeable effect on people, animals, or the environment. It was a theoretical signature of resonance, not a hazard. While some early experiments in Colorado Springs did produce disruptive effects—like sparks from metal objects or spooked horses—those involved untuned, high-voltage discharges during Tesla’s exploratory phase. Wardenclyffe, by contrast, was a refined and carefully grounded system, engineered specifically to minimize leakage, discharge, and unintended effects.

And Tesla wasn’t trying to blast raw power through the ground. He described the system as one that would “ring the Earth like a bell,” using sharp, high-voltage impulses at a resonant frequency to create standing waves. As he put it:

“The secondary circuit increases the amplitude only... the actual power is only that supplied by the primary.” —Tesla, Oct. 15, 1901

Receivers, tuned to the same frequency, could tap into the Earth’s oscillating potential—not by intercepting radiated energy, but by coupling to the Earth’s own motion. That ±16V swing wasn’t a bug—it was the signature of resonance. Tesla’s transmitter generated it by pumping high-frequency, high-voltage impulses into the Earth, causing the surface potential to oscillate globally. That swing wasn’t the energy itself—it acted like a resonant “carrier.” Once the Earth was ringing at the right frequency, Tesla could send sharp impulses through it almost instantly, and tuned receivers could extract energy.

So—was it feasible?

According to Tesla’s own patents and 1916 legal testimony, yes. He accounted for insulation, voltage gradients, tuning, and corona losses. His design didn’t rely on brute force, but on resonant rise and impulse excitation. Tesla even addressed concerns over losses in the Earth—his system treated the planet not as a passive resistor but as an active component of the circuit, capable of sustaining standing waves.

Wardenclyffe wasn’t a failure of science. It was a casualty of cost, politics, and misunderstanding. Tesla’s system wasn’t just about wireless power—it was about turning the entire planet into a resonant electrical system. His use of electrostatics, high-frequency resonance, and spherical terminals was decades ahead of its time—and still worth studying today.

“The present is theirs; the future, for which I really worked, is mine.” —Nikola Tesla

[the-catch-center]

I. ORIGIN IDENTITY (2025)

Name: Nathaniel "Nate" Carter Date of Birth: March 12, 1993 Origin Point: Houston, Texas, United States Profession: Personal Trainer and Amateur Bodybuilder Psychological Profile: Highly ambitious, narcissistic tendencies, obsessive focus on physical perfection, and a deep-seated desire for recognition and fame.

Summary: Nathaniel Carter was a product of the 21st-century self-optimization culture. His life revolved around sculpting the ideal physique, not for health, but for adulation. Dissatisfied with his reality, he sought to rewrite his existence by exploiting temporal loopholes, aiming to implant himself into a past where his idealized version of success could be realized.

II. INTENDED TEMPORAL INSERTION (1975)

Alias: Chadwick "Chad" Thompson Target Date of Birth: June 6, 1957 Insertion Point: Des Moines, Iowa, United States Intended Role: High School Football Prodigy transitioning to a collegiate athletic career Physical Blueprint: 6'4", 245 lbs, muscular build, clean-cut appearance, embodying the archetype of the 1970s American football star. Psychological Conditioning: Assertive, competitive, disciplined, with a singular focus on athletic excellence and the pursuit of national recognition.

Summary: Carter's plan was to become the quintessential all-American athlete of the 1970s, leveraging his knowledge of future sports strategies and training methodologies to dominate the era's football scene. His ultimate goal was to secure a legacy as a sports icon, complete with endorsements, fame, and the adulation he craved.

III. INTERCEPTION AND REASSIGNMENT

Interception Date: April 14, 2025 Location: Temporal Transit Corridor 7B Reason for Interception: Unauthorized temporal insertion with high risk of causality disruption. Reassignment Protocol: Subject rerouted to a timeline and identity with minimal historical impact potential.

IV. ASSIGNED IDENTITY (1990s)

Name: Giovanni Bianchi Date of Birth: April 14, 1944 Assigned Location: Modena, Italy Profession: Opera Singer (Bass-Baritone) Physical Characteristics:

Height: 5'11"

Weight: 290 lbs

Build: Broad, burly, with a prominent abdomen

Hair: Sparse, with a receding hairline and balding crown

Facial Hair: Full beard stubble

Body Hair: Dense chest and shoulder hair

Feet: Size 28EE, intentionally disproportionate for biometric tracking

Psychological Profile: Grounded, passionate about music, family-oriented, with no recollection of previous identities.

Summary: Giovanni Bianchi is a respected opera singer known for his powerful bass-baritone voice that resonates with audiences. He leads a modest life, deeply rooted in Italian culture, with a loving wife and three children. His daily routine includes rehearsals, performances, and family gatherings, embodying a life of stability and artistic contribution.

V. TRANSFORMATION PROCESS

Mental Reconditioning: Subject's memories were systematically overwritten, replacing all traces of Nathaniel Carter and Chadwick Thompson with those of Giovanni Bianchi. This included fabricated memories of childhood in Italy, conservatory training in Vienna, and a flourishing opera career.

Physical Alteration: Utilizing advanced morphogenic technology, the subject's physique was transformed from a lean, athletic build to a robust, middle-aged form. The process included:

Redistribution of muscle mass to increase body girth

Induction of male pattern baldness

Enhancement of vocal cords to produce a deep, resonant voice

Augmentation of foot size to 28EE for identification purposes

Summary: The transformation was executed seamlessly, with the subject exhibiting no resistance due to the complete mental reconditioning. The new identity aligns with the SCC's objective of minimizing temporal disruptions by integrating deviants into low-impact societal roles.

VI. CURRENT STATUS

Family: Married to Lucia Bianchi; father to two daughters and one son. Career: Performs regularly at regional opera houses; teaches vocal techniques to aspiring singers. Community Standing: Well-respected figure in Modena's cultural scene; known for his generosity and mentorship.

Notable Irony: Giovanni's son, Marco Bianchi, exhibits exceptional talent in American football, eventually securing a scholarship to a U.S. university in the early 2010s. This unintended echo of the subject's original aspirations serves as a testament to the unpredictable nature of fate.

VII. OPERATIVE'S NOTES

Observations: The subject's transition from a self-absorbed fitness enthusiast to a humble opera singer is both effective and poetic. His current life, centered around art and family, stands in stark contrast to his previous narcissistic pursuits.

Commentary: It's almost amusing how the universe finds balance. Carter sought fame through physical prowess, yet now his voice—a tool he never valued—is his most celebrated attribute. The oversized feet, a permanent reminder of his temporal transgressions, ensure he remains grounded, both literally and metaphorically.

VIII. TERMINATION PROJECTION

Projected Date of Death: August 22, 2019 Cause: Natural causes (myocardial infarction) Location: Modena, Italy Remarks: Subject will pass away peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by family, leaving behind a legacy of music and mentorship.

[nebuulaae]

People liked my previous post !! Yahoo!!!

:D

Here’s a part 2 of Guardian headcanons I’ve conjured up:

- As time passes, Ghost names have become more obscure and strange. It started out with cuter names like “Sparky” or “Lucy”, or even just simply “Ghost”. Now, it’s common to see names like “Windshield”, “Lord Foog”, or “Media”.

(Side note for the point above: I took inspo from pet finder names lmfaoo)

- Some Guardians have physical disabilities that have carried over from their past lives (blindness, deafness, missing limbs, unable to walk after a certain period, etc). Their Ghosts try their best to make life easy for them, but most of these Guardians are able to use their Light as an aid; imagine a Titan with a badass Stasis fist, or a Warlock with glasses and hearing aids made from Void light that further enhance their hearing and vision.

- There’s a group of Hunters who build treehouses for kids in the City, since they’re able to climb into trees and such.

- Rock and metal is the most popular genre of music among Guardians

- This is already kind of implied based on concept art and lore, but Guardians owning exotic pets and making meme accounts with them

- Assuming 2014 is the year that the Traveler was found, that means Hatsune Miku technically exists in the Destiny universe up until that point. Meaning that Crucible compilations with Vocaloid music also technically exist.

- Awoken Guardians tend to hobbies such as divination, creating crystal grids, and astrology, or find themselves believing in spiritual phenomena to a degree; Returning to their roots in a way.

- Guardians unironically calling their respective Vanguards mom and dad. Imagine Crow’s surprise when he heard one of his hunters calling him dad for the first time after being inducted as Hunter Vanguard.

[circle-of-mushrooms]

Violets | Lute x F!Reader

word count: 3k

summary: its been a few months since you've joined heaven and you've taken up a volunteer role in a garden. longing for a friend, you might have just found one.

   Heaven was a paradise. In a place where wanting was rare and needing was rarer, it was hard to disparage the gift of passing St Peter at the gates. Everything here was designed to keep all of its inhabitants happy and wistful, and yet . . .   No one ever talks about how lonely Heaven is.

  Gravel crunched beneath your shoe with each passing step, the dust lightly kicking up as you ventured further into the expansive gardens of Patience. Heaven had seven clouds, with only one notorious for its flora. If one ventured into its city, they would find - among the conurbation - a grand park within the centre. Open to the public, anyone and everyone was welcome to venture into the large fields, the greenhouses and the outdoor gardens. 

 Held tightly in your hand was a weighted watering can, pink with a daisy delicately painted on its side. With eternity and a half on your hands, you one day figured that you could give back to the community that was housing you and picked up the volunteer role to be one of the many angels who tended to the gardens.

  Although, with each passing day, you had found yourself lacking that sense of community very often.

  You had arrived in Heaven only recently, your induction had been a few months ago, and while you loved it deeply here, the angels who took to the skies were much harder to digest. All the faux smiles and saccharine words were nothing but a blatant facade to you, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t bring yourself to accept the lies that they were all fluent in. All you wanted were friends yet when no one seemed genuine, you were the only one turning them all down.

  Kindness meant nothing to you if it was done out of obligation. You had no interest in befriending someone because they thought it gave them a merit for being a good angel. There were even times when you would wish a conversation would end quicker because you couldn’t handle hearing how censored other winners would make themselves. In fear of losing their wings, some other humans would be aghast even to hear the word damn.

  Heaving a sigh, you tilted your wrist so the cool water would run through the can’s spout and trickle down to the succulents’ roots. Working in the gardens was as rewarding as it was, admittedly, boring. Arguably, it was a good way to waste time when you didn’t have much else going on. The only downside was there was who you wished to accompany you, and so you were left with the wind as your only friend, who carried your forlorn sighs away. 

  Once done, the gravel path guided you to one of your favourite beds in the entire garden. Upon seeing the vivid purple petals, thriving under the sun’s rays, you felt a sense of well-placed pride when you saw how well the violets were flourishing. You had been the one to nurse them from seedlings and had witnessed their growth and blossoming into the vibrant display that they were today.

  The roots were the parts that needed the most attention. Watering from above would have forced the leaves and petals to absorb too much, so you crouched downward to position the watering can closer to the soil.

  At least, this was all rewarding. It wasn’t as though you were in love with flowers and had a desire to be a renowned florist. Flowers were simply pretty and a testament to one’s character. If a flower could live long enough to flaunt its colours, then the one who tended to it was someone who was patient and attentive. Traits that you wished to embody.

  Or else you’d be kicked out, probably. You snickered to yourself. As wonderful as this paradise was, there were undoubtedly many strict rules to keep it the idyll that it was. Besides the seraphim, whom everyone was made aware of upon entering Heaven, you weren’t all too sure who ran this tight ship. You were aware there were some Heavenly Guards, yet had no idea who they truly were.

  Now and then, through the plazas and streets, you would see women donned in grey and bearing frightful masks. Brilliant as they seemed, they all walked in disciplined unison and emulated what must be a police force - even though you had never heard of crimes being committed in Heaven. Perhaps because of them?

  Standing up once more, a satisfying click coming from your knees, you took another second to appreciate the fruits of your labour. Even if you had no one to share this vista with, you could never hate this job. Until the day you meet someone you deem to be honest, the flowers could be your friends. 

  Oh, no. That was incredibly sad.   Lots in your spiralling thoughts, you hadn’t heard the heavy strides that were barrelling toward you and were none the wiser until you took a step backwards and someone’s body slammed into your own and you were knocked forward.

 A loud clattering was made when the tin metal hit the floor. One second, you were standing above the violets, and now you were in them. Soil and sweetness flooded your nostrils, and while you were spared any severe pain, you were confident your knees and palms were stained from the dirt. Groaning, you quickly turned so that you were at least lying with your face pointed to the sky, your elbows keeping you propped up when the rest of your body wasn’t ready to be lifted. 

  “You should–”

Wait. What was that? Was someone speaking to you?

  Your dazed confusion must have been plastered all over your face because soon enough, the words had been repeated.

  “I said you should watch where you are going.”

  The sun was positioned perfectly within your line of sight, blocking your view of anything and forcing your eyes to squint uncomfortably to fight against it. While it did nothing to help, the face of the voice became clearer when her head blocked the beaming star.

  “Now, are you going to get up or what?”   Platinum hair reflected under the beams of light, strands of white becoming silver and you noticed that some looked similar to a pale purple. You had to blink your eyes a few times to adjust to the new lighting, which helped you pick out the pointed look you were receiving. Bright eyes that rivalled gold were fixed on you, making you hyperaware of how you must look to the beautiful woman standing in front of you.

  Yet you were dumbstruck, mindlessly unreceptive as your best response was a droning, “uuuuh.”

  Unimpressed with your oh-so-verbose response, those golden pools rolled and a hand was outstretched toward you. You hadn’t thought about it twice before accepting the offer and were astounded to see someone so petite had slightly larger hands than your own. Your palms had developed a single callous or two from your tiring efforts in the gardens, but her skin was almost as rough as sandpaper, and you wondered what her story was. 

  You yelped when you were on your feet in seconds, almost staggering forward from the sheer force that she had pulled you with. 

  “Damn! You’re strong!” And immediately, you wanted to shun yourself for saying something so obvious and simple. What a shame your brain was failing to work with you today.

  “Mhm.” The best you got in response was a short, agreeable hum before the pale woman began to turn her back to you. Your eyes dropped to her strong back, revealing a section between her sports bra and leggings that was not covered by her strangely dark wings. Even her halo was of a darker shade than what most angels were reborn with. Suddenly, you became hyperaware of how creepy you would seem if she caught you ogling her features and outfit - even though you thought she looked mercilessly hot.

  “Keep a better look out next time.”     While short, her hair still flipped behind her as she raised her arms and kicked up her knees, preparing to break off into a sprint or a job. That must have been why she crashed into you; she was on a run.   “Hey! Wait!” You called out, partially extending your hand to halt her movements. 

  You had feared that she would ignore you, so it came as a surprise when she looked over her shoulder, her visage stoic and unamused. “What?”   Both your hands planted on your hips, and you cocked an eyebrow at her. “Aren’t you going to say sorry?”

  No doubt that was a foolishly bold thing for you to say, especially when this woman looked like she could eat you for breakfast and use your body weight as a warmup in the gym. Catching the definition in her arms when she turned to face you, you suddenly regretted saying anything.

  “Sorry for what?” She was testing you. Her arms came to cross over her chest, and you could tell she was trying to size you up.

  A wild gesture was made to your person, your dirt-caked knees, palms, and dress being the primary evidence of her crime. “Pushing me over!”

  Heaven was meant to be full of kind, understanding people. Sorry was an angel’s favourite word, and you’d hear it five times a day, even more if they apologised for apologising. Yet this woman wasn’t even entertaining the idea of being in the wrong. 

  Huffing a half-hearted laugh, a smile finally cracked onto her lips, but the slight quirk upward revealed it to be only a smirk. “You think I pushed you over?” Canting her upper body slightly forward, she pointed toward you, a black nail digging into the soft flesh of your breast. “You were the one who stepped in my way. If anything, you should be apologising to me.”   You could hear the blood rushing in your ears as the adrenaline in your body picked up. This was an argument. You hadn’t been in one in forever- At least not since you passed away, and you held no memories of your time alive. Did you even remember how to argue?   “You wish!” You scoffed. “All I did was step backwards. You should have made more room when passing me. It’s not my fault you were right behind me.” 

  “And just who, exactly, goes backwards without looking at what’s behind them?” From the smug look on her face, this woman was under the impression that she was winning this stand-off. Oh how you would do anything to wipe that look off her face. Her very, very beautiful face.

  “The kind of person who trusts that everyone else knows the meaning of personal space.” Your final quip had been the thing to erase her smirk and the two of you were locked in an intense glaring battle, neither of you willing to be the one to break it.

  “Does a single apology really mean that much to you? You must be pretty sensitive.”

  Her acrimonious jibe grated something inside you as the next thing that came out of your mouth was an unforgiving “fuck you.”

  Both you and the woman became bewildered at what you had just said. Swearing was not unheard of, only that it was still taboo and not frequently used by the everyday angel in case of serious repercussions. You, however, had never shaken your habit of using profanities, and they would often fly off the handle when you knew no one was listening. 

  You began to shrink in on yourself, moving away from the other - who was only watching you with wide eyes - with trepidation. It was impossible to tell what she was thinking, and a pit formed in your stomach when the eyes narrowed. There was the dreaded feeling that she might report you to someone for being an improper winner - someone who was worthy of a punishment. You were still new and unfamiliar with all the laws of the land, so you were unsure where this would go.

  “I’m so, so–” Before you could even apologise, she cut you off.

  “Lute.” 

  A hand was extended to you. You stared at it for a few seconds before returning to her face. “What?”   “My name is Lute. I’m the Lieutenant for Heaven’s Security. I’m sure you’ve seen my ladies patrolling the clouds before.” She spoke with fluid execution like she had recited this introduction a million times. 

  That expanse in your stomach worsened when you realised who you were speaking to. The guards you were so used to seeing were led by her. You had just insulted a high-ranking angel– You were so screwed.

  “People tend to suck up to me even before they figure out who I am, and no one has the balls to stand up for themselves around here. They always try to placate each other to avoid a dispute. But you didn’t.” You couldn’t understand what she was saying. Was she lecturing you? Her tone certainly didn’t convey it. “Although, you were ready to back down just then, weren’t you?”

  Unsure if you should nod or shake your head, you awkwardly attempted to do one and then the other, making you seem like you twitched weirdly. You had no idea what to say.

 The hand that was never shaken by you rose upward and clapped onto your shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze. “Don’t. Heaven could do with a few braver faces around here. When everyone’s so sickly sweet and happy-go-lucky, it becomes,” her face scrunched into one of disgust, “nauseating.”   At long last, you were pulled from your silent trance, only for you to agree enthusiastically. “Right! It’s like, no one ever says what’s actually on their mind, and you can tell they’re just being nice because they think they have to!” 

  Lute pulled her hand away and listened to you with intrigue. “I mean, come on, just swear a little! A ‘fuck’s not gonna kill you, right? Or- Or- Don’t pretend you like me when we just met!” Until now, you had no idea just how heated you were over this. The tirade ensued for another minute as you criticised the oversaturated pleasantries you heard daily. All the while, Lute stood there in front of you, slowly nodding her head in agreement.

  “I’m glad somebody else gets it.” No longer focused on yourself, you brought your attention back to her. It was hard to tell how sincere she was when she had trained her lips always to be tightly pressed, and if eyes were the window to the soul, you think Lute had the curtains closed. 

  You watched as she crouched down momentarily, unsure of what she was doing. When she returned to your level, she was holding out your discarded watering can. Hurriedly, you accepted it, feeling guilty that you had forgotten about it when the property wasn’t even yours. This also reminded you that after your fall in the flowerbed, you’d likely need to tend to them all over again.

  There was a second where the two of you didn’t say anything. You caught each other’s gazes, and she immediately turned her head, but you only smiled. She must be one of the secretly shy types.

  “I need to go.” She may have been the one to break the silence, but it didn’t mean she wanted to. There was the slightest slip of hesitation in her voice. Even the way she tried to turn was staggered as if waiting for something else.

  “You never apologised.”   Lute froze. She must have not expected that as she turned to look at you with furrowed brows. “Excuse me?”   She would be met with a cocky look as you continued onward. “As far as I’m concerned, you still knocked me over, and since you’re the Lieutenant, you should be setting a good example.” 

  Sputtering, Lute became incredulous and was in disbelief that you were still gunning for her to be the one to make amends. However, you cut in before she could say anything back. “I’ll be done with this volunteer work in about half an hour. Plenty of time to finish your run, I bet. Meet me by the front gates of the park, and let’s go to a cafe.” You looked her up and down, giving a final look of appreciation to her sportswear and the peak of her abs. “Your treat.”

  Her back straightened, and the grey wings behind her looked like they were trying to flap, only to be forced against her body again. “Fine. My treat . . .”

  You told her your name, and she nodded. 

  “And then you can make it up to me by giving me your contact details later. I could do with company like yours.” How she danced around what she truly meant was cute, and you wondered if she was reserved because of her title or something else.

  “I’d be happy to be your friend, hon.” 

  In the sun, the abrupt gold sheen on her cheeks was easy to spot. Lute coughed into a balled fist and removed her gaze from you. “We’ll see if we make it that far.” Now met with her back, you noted how her wings were akin to a pigeon’s in both colour and markings. Although she was nothing like one, she reminded you more of a hawk, maybe. “Thirty minutes. Don’t be late.” A final word was spared over her shoulder before she resumed what must have been her exercise for the day. 

  Waving her off, you called out a goodbye.

  With Lute gone, a thrill buzzed inside you as you clutched the fabric over your heart. All you had wanted was to make a few friends, and now you were pretty sure you had secured one who actually understood you. And as you assessed the damage to the violets - some flattened by your body - you hummed pleasantly, already imagining what the future might bring. You thought this was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship. 

a/n: i have a much longer lute oneshot im 5k words deep in already, and actually has romance, but i didn't want it to be my first lute fic so i wrote a prelute to it first.

[watchnrant]

Agatha All Along Episode 5: Easter Eggs & References

Salem Seven’s Animal Transformations

A Nod to Their Classic Marvel Comics Powers

The Salem Seven, first introduced in episode 2, make their comeback in episode 5, appearing as different animals along the Witches Road before morphing into witches dressed entirely in black. Among these creatures are a fox, a crow, a snake, and others. This shapeshifting ability, allowing them to take on various forms, has its roots in the original Marvel Comics, where it was a well-known power of the Salem Seven.

Earth-616 Salem's Seven Member - Main Power

Thornn - Red horn-like projectiles

Gazelle - Super speed

Vakume - Wind manipulation

Vertigo - Nausea induction

Brutacus - Super strength

Hydron - Water cannon

Reptilla - Snake hands

The Salem Seven Are The Daughters Of Agatha Harkness' Original Coven

After Agatha Harkness and her crew open a portal to the Witches’ Road, the Salem Seven make their move, catching up to the group just before they reach the third trial’s base. Lilia Calderu and Rio Vidal are the only ones who truly grasp the twisted history of the Salem Seven. As Lilia lays it out, “When Agatha murdered her sister witches, she spared their young children.” Rio chimes in, “Yeah, and then they became a feral, hive-minded coven bent on revenge” 

The “sister witches” that Lilia mentions were Agatha’s original coven, the ones who turned on her, accused her of dark magic, and sent her to the stake. Classic Agatha—her past always has a way of coming back to haunt her.

Hexenbesen 

The Witches' Broom Spell

As the Salem Seven encircle them, Teen proposes a "hexenbesen," which turns out to be a spell for a witches' broom, granting the coven the ability to soar above the Witches' Road for a brief moment. The term "hexenbesen" hails from old German, meaning "witch's broom," and it’s amusing to witness the coven's resistance to this well-worn trope, especially as Patti LuPone's character, Lilia, points out how it's been "coopted by the holiday industrial complex." Nevertheless, there's a stunningly eerie scene of the coven gliding beneath a blood moon, evoking memories of classic witch-themed media like Disney's Hocus Pocus.

80s Sleepover Horror Vibes

A Summer Camp Throwback for Agatha’s Next Challenge

As Agatha and her coven dash into a cabin, they brace for their next challenge before the Salem Seven can catch up. Once again, they undergo a transformation, reminiscent of their previous escapades in Agatha All Along. This time, however, the atmosphere is steeped in a "summer camp horror movie" vibe. With an abundance of scrunchies and headbands in sight, Zamata's Jennifer Kale even sports a retainer, perfectly nailing the look.

Full Blood Moon & Spirits

Agatha’s Trial  & Talking to the dead  

As soon as the coven enters the trial house, the ominous full blood moon looms overhead, setting the tone for Agatha’s next challenge. It’s a continuation of the eerie trend we’ve seen—each trial accompanied by a different moon phase, tying the natural elements to the witches’ journey. But this time, the stakes are even higher. The blood moon signifies the thinning veil between the living and the dead, making it the perfect setup for Agatha’s trial, where she’s forced to confront spirits from her past. Talking to the dead isn’t just a test of magic—it’s a test of Agatha’s guilt, power, and the unresolved ghosts that still haunt her.

Teen Evokes Billy Kaplan's Wiccan 

Red Shirt, Blue Headband

The fresh wardrobe for Joe Locke's character in "Teen" stands out as particularly intriguing, reminiscent of the buzz generated when clips from this episode first appeared in the trailers for Agatha All Along. Joe sports a striking red shirt paired with a blue headband, creating a clear visual nod to Billy Kaplan's Wiccan from Marvel Comics, which seems to be a deliberate choice. This look also echoes young Billy Maximoff's Halloween costume in WandaVision, where he donned similar colors and a headband. Consequently, it strongly suggests that "Teen" may very well be the reincarnated son of the Scarlet Witch.

Nostalgic Pressure: The 80s Watch and 30-Minute Countdown Timer 

The 30-minute trial countdown is prominently displayed on an old-school 80s wristwatch, adding a nostalgic touch to the scene. The ticking timer builds tension as the characters face a race against time to complete their task. This retro wristwatch ties into the 80s slumber party theme, further immersing the moment in a fun yet eerie atmosphere. The watch, with its vintage aesthetic, serves as a subtle nod to the classic 80s supernatural genre, where timers and countdowns often played a key role in escalating suspense.

An Ode to “The Exorcist”

Agatha’s Decent into Darkness

Shortly after the coven's heated discussion on whether Agatha deserves punishment and their eerie encounter with the Ouija board, Harkness becomes the unwilling host of a wayward spirit. Her transformation is strikingly reminiscent of the chilling possessions depicted in The Exorcist films. The makeup effects mirror those iconic visuals, and her movements—twisting and crawling through the cabin—are filled with a sinister intent as she turns on her fellow witches.

Evanora Harkness Returns

Agatha’s Past Haunts Her in Ghostly Form

In a surprising twist, it comes to light that Agatha is under the influence of her mother’s spirit, Evanora Harkness. Flashbacks from WandaVision reveal that Agatha was responsible for her mother’s death, along with the demise of her fellow witches, as she absorbed their powers for her own gain. Now, Evanora’s ghost seeks to settle old scores, harboring a desire for vengeance against her daughter. 

When Evanora exits Agatha's body, she tells the young witches, "My coven risked everything to kill her and you fools have willingly joined her." When Agatha asks her mother why she hates her, Evanora answers, "You were born evil, I ought to have killed you the moment you left my body." If true, this means that Agatha was already evil before the Darkhold corrupted her.

This moment also marks the MCU's inaugural introduction of ghosts.

“I Can Be Good”

Agatha’s Haunting Echo from WandaVision

Agatha, desperate to keep her new coven from abandoning her and leaving her to face the haunting presence of her mother, pleads with the witches, insisting that "she can be good." This echoes a chilling moment from her past when she used the same words to sway her former coven, just before she turned on them, claiming their powers for herself. This creates a haunting parallel between the two covens, particularly as the episode concludes with the death of at least Alice, if not more.

Agatha Drains Alice’s Magic, Sealing Her Fate 

Absorbing Alice’s Magic, Agatha Regains Her Power

In a shocking turn of events, Alice Wu-Gulliver’s bold decision to cast a spell on the Evanora-possessed Agatha actually works, forcing Evanora’s spirit out of Agatha’s body. But Agatha, ever the opportunist, seizes the moment and drains Alice’s magic. Just like Evanora and her former coven, Alice can’t stop her own spell, and as Agatha siphons her power, Alice’s body begins to decay.

In the end, Alice drops dead, leaving the coven powerless to save her. Even Jennifer Kale’s panacea from episode 2 wouldn’t have been enough to bring Alice back. With Alice gone for good, the coven is forced to press on down the Witches’ Road without one of their own. 

Nicholas Scratch’s Haunting Truth

Secrets of Agatha’s Son Revealed

Teen discovers that the spirit of Agatha’s late son, Nicholas Scratch, is haunting the cabin, causing the stopwatch trial timers to halt. As Teen inspects the Ouija board, he notices it’s spelling out Nicholas Scratch’s name. Without hesitation, he shouts Nicholas’ name to Agatha, and just like that, she stops draining Alice’s magic. In that chilling moment, Agatha hears her son’s voice whisper, “Mama, stop.”

This revelation confirms that Nicholas Scratch is truly deceased, dispelling earlier theories that hinted he might be working for Mephisto, as suggested in episode 3 of Agatha All Along. It also clarifies that the Teen is not Agatha’s son, countering previous assumptions. While Teen can’t save Alice, he begins to piece together just how much Nicholas means to Agatha—and it might just be the key to stopping her.

“Like Mother, Like Son”

Is Teen Really Billy Maximoff?

In a stunning turn of events, Agatha drains Alice of her powers as she attempts to break free from her possession, ultimately leading to the shocking murder of the protective witch at the conclusion of Agatha All Along episode 5. This act mirrors Agatha's past, where she similarly eliminated her former coven and her own mother. At the episode's climax, Teen boldly confronts Agatha, declaring that if being a witch entails taking lives for personal gain, he wants no part of it. Agatha, with a sly grin, remarks on how much he resembles his mother, hinting that she has always been aware of his true identity, further reinforcing the notion that Teen is indeed the offspring of the Scarlet Witch.

Teen’s Magical Ascension

A Crown Fit for Wiccan

In a surprising turn of events, Teen reveals his own radiant blue magic. He seizes control of both Lilia and Jennifer, sending Agatha tumbling off the Witches' Road and into the muck, before doing the same to the other two witches. The fifth episode of Agatha All Along concludes with Teen donning a crown that strikingly resembles the Scarlet Witch's Red Crown. This development strongly suggests that Agatha All Along has officially established Teen as Billy Kaplan's Wiccan, the reborn son of the Scarlet Witch.

[somnus-the-tist]

I found this tucked away in one of my old notebooks… a forest-bound induction I once wrote late at night, half-asleep, dreaming of moss and wind.

It felt right to bring it back now, to let it breathe again.

Maybe it was waiting for you.

Close your eyes for a moment.

Can you feel the hush between heartbeats?

That’s where it begins.

Beneath your bare feet, the earth remembers.

Soft moss, cool soil, roots winding like forgotten thoughts.

The air smells of rain and something older than time.

With each breath, you step deeper, not forward, but inward.

Birdsong drifts like memory.

The canopy above sways in rhythm with your breath.

And the wind…

it whispers not in words, but in knowing.

You understand, without needing to explain.

With every slow inhale, the world outside fades.

No clocks, no names, no weight.

Only the rhythm of leaves,

the silence between sounds,

the soft invitation of stillness.

The forest is not a place.

It is a state.

And you are in it now.

Present.

Weightless.

Rooted and rising, all at once.

Stay here.

As long as you need.

The forest waits for no one…

but it welcomes everyone who remembers.

[timefadesaway]

i wishhhh levon had gone to the band's induction into the rock and roll hall of fame not bc i always root for the power of friendship and forgiveness but bc i think it is so so funny that one of the ways they tried to get him to go was to guarantee he'd be 10 feet away from robbie at all times. like imagineeee

[pilotingdreammsss]

Red velvet anon here to strike again could we get introducing red velvet to your family pure vanilla and house custard it would be so crazy

I have died and gone to hell and Red Velvet Anon is my tormentor /j

W-w-were my other Red velvet fics not enough? Sniffle sniffle... I can't even look at him normally anymore. Look what you've done to me RV anon this is your fault /j

You get short headcanons because I don't want to write RV properly rn...

* ˚ ✦ - Introducing a cookie of darkness to your very 'pure' family is tricky. Both to you and to Red Velvet Cookie as they're expectantly disapproving of your relationship. Convincing them won't be easy either, as they're convinced Red Velvet Cookie has malicious intentions towards you in the relationship. Accusations of 'indoctrination' and 'manipulation' are flung about like arrows.

* ˚ ✦ - Though it's necessary. Red Velvet Cookie either has to leave his beliefs or you behind. To nobody's surprise at all, he decides to ditch the evil group once and for all to pursue a relationship with you and your family. It still is not enough. Hosue Custard is still insistent you court other cookies which they deem worthy of your love. Red Velvet Cookie's affections towards you are lost on them as his roots are never truly erased. It's truly upsetting both to you and to him as you fight, tooth and nail, for your family to accept him as their own.

* ˚ ✦ - Pure Vanilla Cookie is the first to come around to your relationship. He wholly believes in redemption, that all cookies can be redeemed to some point. He is first to validate your relationship. He, too, is first to defend it, too, even if his relatives are unwilling to accept Red Velvet Cookie as your partner. He argues that love is love, no matter what your partner's roots are. The family is more likely to listen to him, even if begrudgingly.

* ˚ ✦ - It's a begrudgingly slow acceptance into the family. He still gets dirty looks at reunions, and whispers of hopes of you breaking up with him are frequent. Tensions are high for the first few months after his introduction and induction. They tone down the further you dwell into the relationship, as hope begins to fade, and he's slowly 'tolerated'.

* ˚ ✦ - This does not mean he is not trying, however. Red Velvet Cookie tries his hardest to be somewhat presentable with your family, but only to an extent. When they begin to get mouthy with you or him, it's time to leave. Sometimes, he even gets aggressive. It saddens you a little for tensions to be so high between those who had raised you and the one you truly loved.

* ˚ ✦ - Conclusively, it's a fickle matter that's very complicated due to Red Velvet Cookie's beliefs and roots. I'd imagine that House Custard has more than just a problem with you dating a Cookie of Darkness. They'll warm up to Red Velvet Cookie, maybe!

I'm gonna be dead serious here, I won't be writing him for now lol.

[the-most-humble-blog]

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EFFECT: spiral induction, TOS self-violation, shame-activated meltdown

TRIGGER_WARNING="writing from the gonads, satire, emotional domination, fragile ego destruction"

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🧠 BLACKSITE WRITING LESSON —

“WRITE FROM YOUR NUTS. OR YOUR OVARIES.

TRUTH DOESN’T APOLOGIZE — IT TRIGGERS.”

Let’s begin with the realest thing I can say to you:

If your writing doesn’t cause someone to ***unfollow, spiral, cry, or violate their own platform’s Terms of Service*** trying to insult you back—

then you didn’t write.

You ***tweeted.***

You ***begged.***

You ***branded.***

You ***posed.***

But you didn’t ***write.***

—

Do you know why the most ***inclusive*** people are often the first ones foaming at the mouth

when you remind them of a truth ***they haven’t integrated?***

Because ***inclusion has become camouflage.***

And ***truth requires confrontation.***

So when you say:

📌 “You’re not oppressed. You’re just underachieving.”

📌 “You don’t want equality. You want pampering.”

📌 “Your trauma doesn’t exempt you from discipline.”

📌 “He didn’t ghost you. You’re emotionally repellent.”

They ***malfunction.***

They ***froth.***

They ***report.***

Because you triggered them with a ***truth they’ve never survived.***

—

Here’s the core tactic:

🧠 Trigger the spiral with ***conviction.***

🎯 Not with slurs. Not with edginess. Not with “shock.”

But ***with writing so rooted in truth*** it makes their own reflection blink.

Most of these people can’t fight you with ideas.

So they weaponize ***policy.***

They hide behind ***TOS like it’s armor.***

They’ve got ***blue hair and a report button.***

But you?

You’ve got ***truth and rhythm.***

And ***you’re better.***

—

💣 THE SCIENCE OF THE SPIRAL:

Truth > Ego > Shame > Rage > Report > Self-Violation

When you speak clearly, directly, and ***without cowering*** —

you bypass the cortex and strike the amygdala.

You ***scare them.***

Because you’re ***certain.***

Because ***you don’t need their applause.***

Because ***you’ve healed past the lies.***

They’ve built an entire platform identity on ***delusion.***

You reminded them ***they’re replaceable.***

That ***no one is obligated to coddle them.***

And that ***fairness isn’t real.***

—

Ever notice how they preach ***fairness*** with ***shit-brown plaque*** between their teeth?

Like they’ve been eating ***rotten morality sandwiches*** since birth?

They ***recite phrases*** they learned from a ***toxic ex*** or ***a crying influencer.***

And you remind them:

📌 “You’re not a good person.

You’re just afraid of confrontation.”

📌 “You didn’t write.

You copied rage and prayed for notes.”

📌 “That isn’t trauma.

That’s just who you are now.”

—

🍼 Here’s how you WIN:

Write something ***so true,***

so **audaciously accurate,**

that they ***lose the plot.***

They ***snap.***

They ***report you.***

They ***go full terms-of-service kamikaze.***

And all you did was ***type from your gonads.***

***Truth first. Cadence second.

Tears not your responsibility.***

You triggered them

***and became the godparent to their violation report.***

They got banned.

And you got ***more followers.***

Teehee 🍼

🧠 Read more unhinged writing doctrine and scrolltrap gospel at:

👉 https://linktr.ee/ObeyMyCadence

🛡️ Literary warfare. Gonadal authorship. Truth-triggering cadence.

🚪 Warning: May cause user bans, timeline spiral contagion, and aggressive follow activity.

📊 TRUTH TRIGGER METRICS 📊

• Reporters who violated their own TOS: many

• Times you begged to be liked: 0

• Spiral responses that ended in bans: confirmed

• Writers who lead from ovaries/nuts: elite

• Apologies issued by winners: zero

• Times cadence lost to clout: never

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<!-- END TRANSMISSION [TEETH BROWN. TRUTH CROWNED.] -->

[metataxy]

Watching 'Person of Interest' canon after reading the fanfic FIRST was so odd; I was genuinely expecting Finch to take Reese out to his tailors like a cross between Harry Hart inducting Eggsy into Kingsmen, and Julia Roberts' shopping spree in 'Pretty Woman'. Sadface. Ah well. I'll always have the fanfic.

On the other hand: while canon never explicitly delves into Finch/Reese as a Dom/Sub relationship, holy fucking shit does it give the fandom a hell of a lot to unpack there.

But canon, HOW DARE YOU KILL MY PRECIOUS Johnny and Elias and Root :'(, I'm emotionally devastated watching this in the Year of Our Lord 2025, like everyone has been grieving eight years and I had no idea what we all lost. The writers reminding us no one is ever really gone as long as they live in our memory, as long as the Machine can create a thousand thousand simulations of what they might do if they continued, this is the perfect analogy for a life lived in story, and the innumerable iterations of those lives manifested in fanfic. They are not gone even if they never lived, their lives repeat each time we tell their stories, and an aspect of the agency in those stories manifests in how we live them.

Going to cry now :'( Accepting shared grief and condolences from everyone who went through this already years ago, dear God, WHY.

[houserautha]

hcs about giedi prime as a planet in general?

I am SO GLAD you asked!!!!!! Hold on to your butts because a lot of this is probably just me rambling

• Harkonnens are obviously a very proud people. In my mind it’s a war planet that loves combat and conquering. It’s also canonically heavily, heavily industrialized

• SOOOO a lot of their culture and traditions revolve around the warrior/high productivity mentality

• House Atreides canonically has roots in Ancient Greece, so I think it’s fun to play with Harkonnens ancestry. I don’t know if there’s anything canon but I like to think that they at least have adopted some of the social/cultural aspects of Sparta (I know it’s basic but hear me out)

• Obviously because Sparta was known to be military-focused and just because their brutality and social structure seem fitting with what’s in my head for Giedi Prime

• Children, boys and girls, are ruthlessly trained at a young age and conditioned into little warriors. Propaganda of the great Harkonnens shoved down their throats

• I think that women would have some power, similar to Sparta. Obviously not as much sway as other planets might have but they’re educated and trained to fight because what’s the point of a weak individual?

• Combat is their greatest source of pride and entertainment so fighters are basically celebrities

• If you live to old age on GP then you’re either the baddest bitch around or a coward and your social acceptance will depend on how others perceive you

• the black sun basically sucks out all color so they never even bother with colorful clothes or buildings and that’s why they always wear black (also it’s badass) (also this might not really be a HC but)

• GP is devoid of basically any plant life so their food is pretty dull and flavorless unless you’re wealthy enough to import spices and the likes

• The black markings that Feyd sports on his chest in the movies are tattoos, each bar corresponding with an inordinate number of people killed in combat. Most Harkonnens will only have one or two if that

• they actually have hair (albeit shaved close to the head) until they graduate their training school and then they’re inducted into adult life by dunking their heads in this acidic formula that permanently kills the hair follicles. It’s also a show of strength and resilience and not everyone survives this.

• No hair = nothing to grab onto in a fight

• Not very many animals can survive on GP and if they do there’s a 1000% chance it will kill you

• they would crumple so fast without all of their technology, they depend very heavily upon it not only for jobs and exports but also daily life

And more HCs will be included in These Destined Ends, particularly ceremonies such as weddings, births, funerals, etc 🫣

[enigmaticstareyesee]

So.

I've been in this Warhammer 40k shit for less than a year and to be real, I'm really enjoying it.

Now, of course one of my fave characters is Fulgrim, you can (and maybe will) sue me. However, I am a deep sucker for character rising from the bottom, trying to (but essentially breaking themselves to) fit in, falling from heights because of their own hubris/insecurities and becoming something that they never foreseen for themselves. (And of course, hopefully, overcoming these personal obstacles and blooming into the person that they wanted to be.)

I haven't read the Fabius books yet but of course, I know about clone Fulgrim and (shockingly) I adore the idea of Clongrim and I see the MASSIVE amount of potential. However, The potential I see does not necessary align with what some of the more main fandom sees for Clonegrim.

I don't really want him coming back to the Imperium to just beg for forgiveness and worshipping his brother's feet and then becoming a lap dog for G-man.

I feel as though this would be a disservice to pre heresy Fulgrim, his character and the suffering He has inflicted on himself, his legion and the innocents of the Imperium.

If he was to come back, what I would really like to be shown is how productive and diplomatic (and dare I say how compassionate) Fulgrim is. I don't want him to grovel at anyone's feet because that doesn't achieve what Fulgrim (and the other Primacrhs) can achieve. ( Also not to be rude or to come off inductive, but the main's obsession with rooting for Clonegrim to beg on his kneels for forgive is a little strange)

Yes, I want him to apologise to his brothers, but I want him to work on those relationships through diplomacy and understanding. For chist sake, demon him beheaded G-man and that would put so much tension between those 2 which would challenge both of them, as they both are consummate professionals.( like the Lion came back in SoTF and can use his words, surely Fulgrim can) (he impressed his father, The Emperor, with the power of his words and their understanding)

Yes I want him to be held accountable for his legion but I want that to be shown through his cleverness and fighting ability. His repentment for how he had handled them before the fall and, low-key, after should a large part of redeeming himself for himself and for his legion. Like, The best way I can describe how he handled his legion was very much a parent who's constantly having to look after the youngest sickly child, while allowing all of his older children to have way too much freedom. (Only thing was all his kids were sick cus he was trying to find a cure)

Yes, I want him to see the state of humankind once he had sided the chaos, but I want him to be shown as productive within the current wars of the imperium.

(I just wanna make it clear to some people, I know that 40k is not a happy place with happy people, I currently know that the imperium is essentially a rotting corpse and that resources are stretched thin. I don't want Fulgrim to become a Knight in shining armour (fuck no, it would kill him) however I want him to helpful and use his Initiative, whether that is helping G-man on terra or helping other planets, hunting his demon brothers down or fucking doing something about the rich and pompous. that are infecting the Imperium.)

And yes, I want him to confront his obsession and need for perfectionism. I want him to confront his need to conform to a standard that he placed on himself and his legion (not fully, necessarily) but I want that to be shown through his determination and will power because those are the attributes that help him transform chemos and his little (200 or so) legion into spectacular things.

BUT

In anyway or shape or form do I want that to change the make-up wearing, long haired, purple and gold colour schemed, miner's son and factor working turned interstellar diplomatic, one of the best dualist, lover of arts, music and culture, sculpter himself and low-key blacksmith and charismatic Primach ?

No.

I want all of that to still play into Fulgrim being him, I just want him to be the comfortable in his own skin

Thank you for coming to my Ted talk, I'm literally making this post because I have been thinking about this character and his legion for 5 months and I've wanted to speak to people about him but I'm so awkward.

(Sorry for spelling and grammer mistakes)