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doodledraw · 4 years

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Return (Of What Was Cherished)

Cody crash lands on Tatooine. He doesn't really know why, but there's nothing left for him in the Empire. Little did he know there's a lot waiting for him this far out in the Outer Rim.

(thanks @katanrocksketches for the title idea!! and for being my sounding board ily)

Today for @commandercodyweek I decided to write a fic I’ve been wanting to try my hand at for a while!! Post-Order 66 reunions are just...the BEST so here’s my shot at it!

Read on AO3 here! Or under the cut!

He didn't know who he was. He didn't know what he was doing. All he knew was that it was kriffing hot and it had been over 24 hours since he had crossed paths with another being. Granted, 12 of those hours had been in space and then another 5 had been spent unconscious in the desert, slowly baking under the hot suns. Most of his armor had quickly been removed and fastened to a small sled using a piece of debris from his now absolutely trashed ship. Dragging that along, he began to wander the desert (it was just his luck he managed to land as far away from civilization as possible).

After two hours, he felt like he was going in circles.

After three, he spotted a ridge in the distance and started to make his way towards it.

After four, the ridge was still firmly in the distance and he was starting to think it was a mirage and that he was going to die out in the middle of nowhere.

He never realized that he was thinking clearer and more him than he had been for the last five years, like taking a breath after being underwater.

He finally reached the ridge on hour six and allowed himself a small rest. Clones were built for endurance but not for invulnerability. Besides, he needed to tend his wounds and the shelter he had found was the most he was going to get.

It was only once he'd stopped that his brain, no longer preoccupied with moving his legs through the rapidly shifting sands, caught up to his situation. That was when the panic set in. He was all alone, on a planet that very well could be the death of him, and yet at the same time he was feeling more alive than he had in a good long time.

After he gave himself a moment to panic, the rational part of his brain kicked in and he looked through the pockets on his toolbelt to see what he had with him.

Unfortunately, his black armor did nothing to help him from the heat of the suns, and he curses his competency for that. Why couldn't he have been forgettable?!

None of you are forgettable to me, my dear. You're all so very important, the memory surfaced unbidden. Obi-Wan would reassure him like that whenever he or his vode felt inadequate.

Cody's breath caught. He tried the name out in his head again. Obi-Wan. Then out loud: "Obi-Wan," he whispered to the wind.

He can say his General's name!

For the first time in years, he can say the name of the man who gave him everything and asked for nothing in return. It made him want to cry. But water is precious on Tatooine. Even he knows that. So he stashed that grief with all the other grief he'd piled away into a corner of his mind and then he left it be.

He's got a bacta patch, some tape, two painkillers, a spare comm that's broken straight in half, a ration bar, and nothing else. He split the ration bar in half and ate one of the halves along with one painkiller. Then he set to work making bandages out of part of the sleeve of his blacks and secured it around the cut on his head with some tape. Luckily he could still think rather clearly, so he didn’t think he was in danger of anything worse than a concussion, and the blood had stopped hours ago.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he woke up the next day. Sighing, he decided to conserve his painkillers and food. He wanted to make it out of this canyon...gorge...thing...whatever it was, if he even could and make it to some sort of civilization. So with a groan of pain, he set off again.

He focused on the fact that he was no longer burning under the suns constantly due to the slight shelter the ridge provided, and told himself that he could make it. He was Marshal Commander Cody turned Purge Trooper, the sun was not going to be the thing that killed him. Kriff it all, he was going to live. For his vode. For his General. He would live.

Civilization was a sight for sore eyes. After almost having fallen to his death multiple times, and having definitely aggravated the wound on his abdomen, he had made it out. He wanted to fall asleep. No wait, he wanted to eat something other than the expired ration bar and then fall asleep. And food required civilization.

The citizens of the town had apparently had a good amount of half-dead beings stagger their way into town because he was barely even given a second glance. The town, which he later learned was Mos Espa, was located in the north across from the Dune Sea, where he'd crashed. The barkeep was helpful enough to direct him to somewhere he could trade in some of his armor and scrap for some credits and get new clothes for it. He traded everything except his vambraces, greaves, blaster and toolbelt, and got a hooded jacket and a pair of patched-up spacer's pants in return. Freshly outfitted and feeling lighter than he ever had, but also more exposed than ever, he wandered back outside and through the town.

He had no working commlink, not that he would want to call the Empire anyway, better they just assume he died, and no credits and nowhere to go. Credits, he obviously needed. Shelter could come later.

Cody spent three weeks in Espa. He picked up odd-jobs here and there, and with the credits, bought some medical supplies, treated his wounds, and then did more odd-jobs. He had no purpose but also no reason to leave. The townsfolk weren't so bad once you got to know them and Espa was quiet, out of the way. No one could find him there.

At least that's what he thought.

Brown robes weren't uncommon on Tatooine. The first time he had seen one, he nearly killed himself by looking away from the box he was supposed to be catching. But it wasn't him, how could it be? The second and third times, he had been no less surprised, but this time he knew it wouldn't be him. It couldn't be him.

Now, being the tenth time, he barely even glanced at the stranger on an eopie wandering into town. But he felt the eyes on his back anyway.

Cody knew he was recognizable. He was one in a a few billion, obviously there would be people that had seen his face before. Some of the townsfolk asked about that at the beginning, but not for long. They stopped asking soon enough. So this stranger would realize soon enough that he wasn't who he thought and move on. They all did, everyone had for as long as he could remember, except for one. Cody couldn't escape the slight feeling of relief that filled him when the stranger's eyes were gone. For some reason, that stare had felt more piercing than normal. He shivered despite the heat, then turned back to his work.

He forgot about the stranger until that night, when he made his way into the bar for a refreshment after his day of work. They were there, at the bar, almost as if they were waiting for him. But that was crazy, and Cody resolutely placed himself as far away from them as possible. They made no move towards him, didn't even notice him, as far as he could tell, and they mutually ignored each other for the rest of the night.

Until Cody left to make his way back to where he was staying. Noticing his brown hooded shadow, he made his way through alleys and then stopped. "Whoever you are, whatever you want, why don't you just leave me alone. We'll both be happier that way."

The figure made a choked noise and took another half step towards Cody, who had spun to face them.

"What do you want from me?" the clone demanded.

"I don't know."

"Who are you? How did you find me?"

The figure lifted their hands to remove the hood, and Cody immediately tensed towards his blaster. Moonlight illuminated silver threaded copper hair and Cody's eyes widened.

"My dear, I think you know the answer to that by now. It's not an expression you've particularly liked me to say," Obi-Wan Kenobi said, tears streaming down his drawn face.

Cody stumbled back against the rough stone wall. "No. No, it's not you. It can't be. I...I killed you! I watched you fall! That should have killed you!"

"You of all people should know I am rather good at surviving things normal mortals should not be able to," he chuckled wetly and his gaze moved off into the middle distance. "It was a specific point of anxiety for you during the war. Oh Kote. Ner'Kote...what have they done to you?"

"More like what have they done with me," Cody remarked bitterly. He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Is this real? I need you to tell me right now if this is real, General."

"Not your General."

Cody gave him a withering glare. "Yes you are."

The Not Apparition took a step forward. "May I?"

Cody nodded slowly, and then General Kenobi was gently, carefully, cradling his hand in both of his like it was the most precious thing he had ever held. "I'm here, Cody."

Cody broke right there. In the middle of nowhere on Tatooine, Cody fell to the ground and sobbed. He grieved in his General's arms, the man he was not allowed to even think of until earlier that month. The man he thought he had killed. The man he loved.

"Ni'ceta! Ni'ceta, Obi-Wan! I should have fought it harder, I should have escaped earlier, I should have looked for you, I should have--"

Obi-Wan shushed him. "You should have nothing Cody. You did everything you could. It was not you. I forgive you. I've forgiven you. I'd forgiven you as I was falling. It was not you, my dear."

They sat there, two broken pieces slowly healing each other in the middle of an alley in the middle of nowhere in Mos Espa until Obi-Wan pulled away.

"Let's go home cyar'ika," he murmured.

Home. The first true home he would ever have. "That sounds perfect."

#codyweek2021 #day 2 post order 66 #Post Order 66 #codywan #obi wan kenobi #commander cody week #commander cody #the clone wars #writing #my writing #doodledrawsart #listen i love them a lot okay #star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #my fanfiction #clone wars fanfiction

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finitefm · 3 years

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WILL YUN LEE / / have you met TARRE VIZSLA yet ? THEY are a 50 year old NONBINARY HUMAN. they’re originally from MANDALORE and now show loyalty to THE MANDALORIANS. they are best known for being a MAND’ALOR / JEDI, and i hear they’re pretty THOUGHTFUL yet also INTENSE at times ; i hope they survive the galactic civil war.

❛ just follow the simple instruction if you ever come here. it’s easy to remember -- any idiot can do it. don’t cry, the world has ABANDONED us. ❜

THE PAST.

legends begin in little moments. before tarre vizsla stood for anything, there was a lone mandalorian without her armor, standing at the entrance of the coruscant jedi temple and setting her baby down. clan vizsla had no power, no influence, no PROTECTION for a young force sensitive. she knew her child deserved to live with those like them, despite those who would say she broke the resol’nare. her only hope was that one day, they would find their way home. tarre never met their mother. still, the original colors of their armor were black -- JUSTICE, always -- and red -- HONORING A PARENT -- for the first mandalorian willing to name their child jetii with love.

tarre was raised in the jedi order of the new sith wars, before their complete militarization ; they were scrambling for solid footing, jedi lords leading their sectors with no unity against bands of sith. these were early days of the conflict that would span two thousand years -- things had not reached their desperate peak, and so tarre wasn’t QUITE a child soldier, gained a little more time. they were good, but they were not exceptional. their talent for violence seemed almost INHERENT.

they met their first mandalorian at the age of fifteen. hearing their surname had given the old man pause when tarre and their master met him during a scouting mission to the outer rim ; they learned their first scraps of HERITAGE, returned to the temple with snippets of mando’a humming on their tongue. at seventeen, their trial of knighthood sent them to the surface of mandalore, undercover, tangling with local sith attacks for several months. tarre had always been a terrible liar, and they would not deny the truth that was their family. they met their grandmother, the head of their clan, and by the time they returned to the jedi, they had a heart of BESKAR.

becoming the go to jedi for mandalorian problems, they earned respect within in the order, trained a padawan, fought the war. more IMPORTANTLY : they earned respect within the mandalorians, learned their language, their history, and bit by bit, gathered their beskar. when they were thirty, they could no longer walk the line. they left the jedi order, and they swore full allegiance to clan vizsla. their people were without a manda’lor. the sith continued to target them, and they would not ally themself with either jedi or sith, many high ranking mandalorians being slaughtered throughout the fighting as they defended their homes. the clans were SCATTERED, fragmented, allied only loosely, the ongoing threat barely enough to keep them from infighting. tarre served clan vizsla, and began to dream, to PLAN.

the crystal of the darksaber was a secret that they would take to their grave. if they found it, if they built it -- they told no one. there were stories, whispers, they did not comment. the tale went as such : tarre left mandalore to forge their blade. when they returned, they found their family in RUINS. clan vizsla had sacrificed to protect others, had lost many. tarre had not been there to defend them. and so the darksaber was born with a price, a bloody one. they set their mind to justice, to vengeance, made their loss a RALLYING CRY.

it was not easy. they fought sith, they fought other mandalorians, they fought themself. but in the end, they built a legacy that would endure forever. all of mandalore united under their darksaber, under their NAME. vizsla. ( whispered dar’manda, dar’jetii. ) mand’alor. they turned their focus to ending war, driving the sith out of mandalorian space, ESTABLISHING mandalorian space. building a strong people who they hoped would live together, thrive together. who would never let go of their culture, of their warrior path, but could still enjoy peace.

betrayal can break even the strongest foundations. they were an unknown variable, an unpredictability to the jedi, even a traitor. they had slipped away with so many who defected to the sith, but they had done something DIFFERENT, something DANGEROUS. they had raised their old enemy from the ashes into something great, and what would they do with that strength ? and of course, there were always those who wanted more for themselves, more power, more control. even in death, tarre found a way to bring jedi and mandalorian together : they KILLED tarre together, after all.

that was not how the story was remembered. the jedi did not have one. it was not spoken of. the mandalorians mentioned no personal betrayal. they spoke only of jedi trickery, jedi jealousy, jedi FEAR striking down their mand’alor. millennia later, the long hushed story was yelled as clan vizsla broke into the jedi temple to seize the very darksaber that tarre had NEVER wanted them to have.

THE PRESENT.

with their last memory being overwhelming warning in the force as the shadows turn on them, tarre is surprised to find themself alive, breathing, standing on mandalore. it is the same home they had known, but it is not, fragmented once more. they have their beskar. they do not have their blade. they are unsure as to what is going on, as to what time they find themself in, but they want what they always have : justice and unity for the mandalorian people.

PERSONALITY.

tarre wears armor of black with cracks of gold shining through. JUSTICE has always been their focus, their driving force ; it is their darksaber, it is themself. but VENGEANCE has its place too, seeds of anger in their heart, of viciousness. it has been very hard for tarre to toe the line between light and dark in the force during their years as mand’alor, as an unstoppable warrior and general, but they have managed it, have not fallen. they meditate frequently, have an unshakeble moral code, carefully consider every move that they make.

they bring an intensity to everything that they do, an absolute drive that can feel like staring directly into a SUN. when they set their mind on something, they will work themself to the bone until they achieve it, be it mastering a lightsaber form or brokering diplomacy between warring factions. they are a natural warrior, but they know the importance of words, always willing to find the nonviolent solution. they want PEACE, see war as inevitably destructive even with good intent, but they do not flinch away from conflict. it is a slight contradiction, but they contain multitudes ; they have grown used to occasionally contradicting themself.

they are a philosopher too, purposeful in all of their decisions, pondering problems of the force, the resol’nare, conflict, duty. they want balanced scales above all, no harm unanswered for, but HOW far is TOO far ? where is the line ? they will question everything silently, endless intelligence hidden behind dark eyes. they are often quiet, but it is not a cold thing, not distant. they seem too focused on the moment for that, carrying with them such a PRESENCE with such piercing gaze that it is hard to imagine they could ever be anywhere else.

tarre is keenly aware of the line between mandalorian and jedi, the impossibility of building that bridge. both sides have some dark in them, have some light. they are mandalorian before they are jedi. they cannot be mandalorian without being jedi. they HAVE to be both. they cannot, will not, split themself into two.

#galactics.intro #t.intro

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crimson-ace · 3 years

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Basewarming Party

Archive of Our Own Link

It’s been a few months, but here’s another Miraculous Transformers AU story! This time with some backstory.

Adrien, Alya, and Nino were leaving school when they saw three familiar vehicles nearby.

Nino ran over to the green dump truck and got in, planning to play some new songs for Stoneheart.

Alya headed over to the yellow sports car and groaned as Queen Bee told her to not mess up anything inside her.

Adrien got on the red motorcycle and smiled when Ladybug asked how his day was.

The three headed off and separated for a little bit to not draw suspicion as they soon met up on an empty road.

“So we spent the last solar cycle setting up an area of the base for you.” Ladybug explained to Adrien while they drove. “It’s normally used for human liaisons to present top-secret information when they need our help, but Pegasus thinks we did an okay job setting it up.”

Ladybug, Queen Bee, and Stoneheart soon made it to a road in Fontainebleau Forest and drove to a secret area that led to the location of the Autobot base. After giving their security codes, the three Autobots drove into the base and let the humans out, immediately transforming to their robot modes.

They noticed there was a banner hung up near one of the base’s computers that depicted the faces of Adrien, Alya, and Nino, as well as the Autobot insignia, with something written in an incomprehensible language.

“Uh...what does that say?” Nino asked.

Stoneheart tapped Ladybug’s shoulder lightly. “Ladybug...” He pointed to the banner, causing Ladybug’s optics to widen.

“Oh, scrap!” Ladybug hit her own head in frustration. “I forgot to write that in your language, not mine! Sorry!” She replied. “I meant to write ‘Welcome, Humans!’.”

“You made this?” Adrien was impressed with the level of detail in the banner.

Ladybug nodded. “Uh, yeah. I used to be an artist back on Cybertron. It was more of a hobby I picked up while I was in the Autobot academy. Why don’t you check out what we set up for you?” She added, realizing she was rambling on, and pointed to a staircase for the humans to walk up.

Adrien, Alya, and Nino walked up the stairs and were surprised by what they saw.

There was a couch set up in front of a small television which looked like a model from the mid to late 2000’s, and in between those was a “table” made from a board of wood on top of four cinderblocks. There was also a minifridge nearby, though most of the Autobots didn’t know what the humans ate, and planned to ask them later before getting snacks.

“So? What do you think?” Stoneheart asked as he walked over to the area and looked over them.

“Dude, this place looks awesome!” Nino chimed. “You guys did a great job!”

“I still think we should have put a cage here.” Queen Bee snarked, earning a glare from her fellow Autobots.

“So. what do you guys want to do now?” Alya asked the others.

“Well, earlier today, Stoneheart asked me about what Earth’s greatest warriors are like, so...” Nino took out a Blu-ray player and a container of the original Star Wars trilogy in the same format. “I said I would introduce him to Luke Skywalker.”

So the three humans sat down on the couch with Ladybug, Queen Bee, and Stoneheart sat down behind them to watch the movie. Even though they asked if this was based on Earth’s actual history, the Autobots were surprisingly invested in the film. When Obi-Wan Kenobi was killed by Darth Vader, Stoneheart cried out in despair, surprising everyone.

Apparently, the noise was enough for Pegasus to walk down, wondering why everyone was being so loud. “Can you all please keep all that noise down? I’m busy performing system diagnostics here.”

“Okay, C-3PO, we’ll be quiet.” Ladybug snickered as soon as she finished the sentence. “Did I say it right?” She asked Adrien, who nodded with approval.

Pegasus let out a sigh of frustration at the commotion. “I wasn’t built for this…” He grumbled. “What exactly are you doing anyway?”

“We’re learning about Earth history, obviously.” Queen Bee smirked. “Optimus said we need to familiarize ourselves with the planet.”

Pegasus scoffed. “We came here for a reason other than to watch human entertainment, Queen Bee.”

“Hey, why exactly are you here anyway?” Adrien asked. “I know you guys fought a war over control of your home and its energon, but why did you come all the way to Earth for it?”

Queen Bee smirked. “Well, as Optimus Prime’s second-in-command...”

“You mean acting second-in-command” Pegasus added, earning a glare from the Autobot.

“I, uh... I can explain what happened and how we got here, provided you don’t tell anyone else...” Queen Bee started to explain

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The civil war between Autobots and Decepticons had lasted for a very long time, so both sides were forced to abandon the planet Cybertron to find new sources of energy. For some reason, our ship’s scanners found your planet to have an a lot of raw energon. Like, we've never seen a planet with this much energon before.

Unfortunately, we weren’t the only ones to find out...

"Hull breach on Decks 3 to 5! Shields are also damaged!” Ladybug cried out.

“We’re taking heavy fire, sir! We also just lost one of the thrusters!” Pegasus added.

While the Decepticons had a majority of their resources with them on their ship, which they called the Nemesis to show how friendly they were, it was only the five of us on a much smaller ship not nearly as armed as what the Decepticons had.

After another onslaught of fire from the Nemesis, a majority of our systems were knocked offline.

“Brace for impact!” Optimus ordered as our ship plummeted to Earth. It was a miracle we managed to survive.

We all came back online after about a few of your Earth hours and assessed the situation with our ship.

“Diagnostics say the ship is beyond repair with our current resources.” Pegasus said solemnly. “Some of the computers are still online, but we don’t have a lot of working parts right now.”

“So, now what? What can we do now?” Ladybug seemed to be the most nervous about our predicament. Then again, she had the least amount of experience out of all of us. (Hey!)

“We came to this planet in search of energon, but it seems we have an additional mission now: to protect it from the Decepticons.” Optimus stated. “Is the ship’s probe still online?" After checking the systems, Pegasus nodded, causing Optimus to walk over to one of the ship’s control panels. “Teletraan I, scan the area for local lifeforms. We will take on their appearances to blend in to avoid suspicion from the Decepticons.”

So the ship’s probe flew around for a little bit and not only came back with data on forms we could take, but also an image of an energon mining site the natives had set up.

“Carbon-based lifeforms?” I scoffed at the idea of these inferior lifeforms being able to harvest energon. “Do they even know what they stumbled upon?”

Pegasus continued to browse through the footage and gasped. “I’m detecting Decepticon signals converging near that area. They must have noticed the energon too.”

“Nevertheless, we must scan an alternate mode and try to obtain this energon in a discreet manner before the Decepticons. We must disguise ourselves as what these lifeforms view as vehicles.” Optimus declared as a mechanism on the ship popped up while we all browsed through ideas for possible alternate modes.

Ladybug saw something with two wheels and smiled “Ooh, that looks nice.” she said as the ship’s systems reformatted her so she was able to transform into that.

Stoneheart saw what looked like a green vehicle designed to carry heavy objects. “So is this supposed to be like one of Earth’s more powerful vehicles? Either way, I like it”. Soon, he was reformatted as well.

Pegasus saw a yellow and white vehicle with brown highlights and emergency lights, reminding him of the Rescue Bots on Cybertron. “This seems like a suitable form to take.” He was the next to be reformatted.

(AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, I couldn't really find anything like this in brown, but the motorcycle isn't spotted either, so just work with me, alright?)

Optimus chose a large red and blue vehicle with a trailer attached to it without saying anything as he was reformatted.

I on the other hand, had looked through the options for a form to take for a few nanoclicks. Naturally, a bot as beautiful as myself needed an appropriate form. Thankfully, I found something just as interesting, and one of the few good things about this planet. It was one of your Earth cars with a sleek design and yellow paintjob. I stood still as I eagerly waited for the machine to finish reformatting me.

“Remember, we must keep a low profile and only reveal ourselves unless absolutely necessary.” Optimus ordered. “For now… Autobots, transform and roll out!”

With that familiar command, we all transformed into our new vehicle modes (except Pegasus, who stayed to see if anything else on our ship was working) and left for the excavation site the humans had set up.

Granted, it took us a couple of run-ins with some other Earth vehicles to get the hang of this planet’s traffic laws, but we eventually made it to where the energon was. There was also a sign written in your language that said something like “GOPHER-MINT PROPERTY/NO TREE-PASSING”. In hindsight, we really should have familiarized ourselves with the language before we headed out.

It didn’t seem like the Decepticons had attacked yet, although we were in trouble with a different form of opposition.

“This is Officer Raincomprix! Step out of the vehicles right now! You have violated several traffic guidelines, and are now trespassing on government property.” Someone from your planet’s law enforcement had apparently been following us. The strange thing was that he had a human partner who looked much younger than he did, almost like she shared genetic qualities with the man. “I’m going to give you until the count of ten to get out of the vehicles. Wait… where are the drivers? WHY DO NONE OF THESE VEHICLES HAVE DRIVERS?!”

Before we could really say anything, a stray shot from the distance hit the ground, signaling the Decepticons were here. The officer ran back to his car and tried to drive away as the Decepticons made their way to the surface.

“So, Optimus Prime. I see you and your little band of Autobots managed to survive the trip to this planet.” That raspy voice taunting us belonged to only one Decepticon. The very same Cybertronian who started the Decepticon cause behind the civil war that had caused so much suffering across the galaxy for megacycles. The Emperor of Destruction and leader of the Decepticons, Megatron.

“I see you’re trying to maintain cover on this strange planet rather than simply harvesting all the energon the local life forms have managed to discover for us. Typical Autobot weakness.” Megatron smirked as he and his Vehicon troops opened fire on the mining site. “Take the energon, and see if these lifeforms found any more locations with it. If you find nothing, leave no survivors.” He gave that last order with a sadistic grin.

“What should we do?” Ladybug asked nervously.

“Even if it means exposing our cover, these organic lifeforms need help. Autobots, transform!” With that order, we all transformed into our robot modes and activated our weapons. “Autobots, make sure none of the local lifeforms are hurt. Now, split up!”

So we all scattered to engage the Vehicons. I armed my stingers and fired off electrical blasts at some of the Vehicon forces. Of course, the organics were afraid of a superior being like myself, so they ran away like cowards… or maybe that was because another Decepticon was right behind me.

“Reckless as usual, I see.” That stoic voice came from my Decepticon counterpart, the (actual, not acting) (shut up, Pegasus!) second in command of the Decepticons, Malediktator. I slowly turned around and saw he was armed with his signature weapon, a rocket launcher.

“Maybe, but at least I know I’m fighting for the right side.” I quipped as I aimed my stingers at Malediktator.

Malediktator began to open fire, shooting several heat-seeking rockets at me. I tried to blast some of them, but there were some rockets that still managed to hit their target. I was knocked to the ground and struggled to get up.

Malediktator was going to fire again, but he was hit in the head by Ladybug’s “weapon”, her yo-yo, causing Malediktator’s weapon to misfire. It was probably the only time she actually helped out in a fight before. (I’m standing right here, Queen Bee!)

One of the stray missiles went towards the human law enforcement and his genetic experiment in the distance, until Optimus ran over and covered the two, taking the hit in the process. I think they talked a little, but my auditory processors couldn’t pick up their conversation.

Ladybug and I kept fighting to disarm Malediktator, but even though it was two on one, he still managed to overwhelm us. We tried our best, but it was really hard to keep up with the second in command of the Decepticons. While we were fighting, I noticed Optimus fighting Megatron one on one, but it was hard to make out who was winning.

Malediktator knocked both me and Ladybug to the ground and took aim at us with his rocket launcher. He was about to open fire when we all heard a crash to the ground. We turned around and saw Megatron slowly getting up after presumably losing to Optimus.

“If you are to harm the humans, Megatron, know that I will do everything in my power to stop you.” Optimus said, raising his ion blaster and pointing it at Megatron.

Megatron simply laughed in response. “Very well. If you’re so determined to protect this pitiful race, I’ll let you have this victory. But be warned, the next time we meet, I won’t have such mercy.” He stated grimly as a ground bridge appeared behind him. “Malediktator! We’re leaving. You can scrap those two another time.” He said as he turned around and walked into the portal with the remaining Vehicons.

Malediktator lowered his weapon and nodded. “Yes, Lord Megatron.” He said before walking away into the ground bridge. I tried to blast him, but Optimus raised his arm, silently ordering everyone to stand down.

As soon as Malediktator entered the ground bridge, the portal closed.

We all got up and collected ourselves as the humans swarmed around us. Strangely, the law enforcement unit and his experiment were the closest to Optimus. It was like everyone was afraid of us except those two.

“Did you really mean what you said back there? That you’d protect us?” The law enforcement unit asked.

Optimus leaned down so he could look the human in whatever optics were for him. “Of course. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings.”

The unit was amazed by how serious Optimus sounded. “Is there anything we can do to hel--what am I doing? W-Who’s the highest ranking officer here?” Another human ran up, calling himself a “Colonel”, or something along those lines. He said he would talk to his superior about what happened.

After a mega-cycle or two, some vehicles I assumed belonged to this planet’s government arrived. One man came out, who was referred to as the “Prime Minister”. I didn’t really see what made him a Prime and I certainly didn’t know Earth had their own Primes, but everyone still listened to him.

“So, from what I’ve heard you’re at war and have come to our planet.” The Minister said. “What exactly are these ‘Decepticons’ you’re fighting after?”

“They are after a powerful source of energy and the lifeblood of our kind, energon. Your planet seems to have an abundance of it for some reason.” Optimus explained.

“And your ship crashed so now you need a new base of operations?” The Minister asked, earning a nod from Optimus.

“That is all that I ask for.” Optimus replied. “You kind need not interfere in this war. Even depleted of their resources, the Decepticons could lay waste to your planet if you aggravate them enough.”

This made the Minister sigh. “We can have some of our best men work on helping you construct a new base. Other than that, we’ll try and let you fight this war as long as you keep it a secret. If things heat up, we inform the United Nations about these... Decepticons. We’ll also expect status reports from you to make sure things are okay.”

Optimus nodded and stuck out his hand. “Understood.” He extended it to shake the human’s hand, but because the human was so small, he could only shake Optimus’ finger.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“But yeah, after a few orbital cycles, the humans helped us set up this base in the forest, and we keep in contact with them through a liaison.” Queen Bee said, finishing her story.

“Wow...” Adrien was impressed by everything Queen Bee had told about their journey to Earth. “And you really can’t get back?”

“Not unless we fix our ship or create a working space bridge.” Pegasus sighed.

“Oh...” Adrien felt bad for all the Autobots. “I’m so sorry...”

“You have no need to apologize.” Everyone turned around to see Optimus Prime entering the room. “Although we were forced to abandon Cybertron, Earth is not a prison. We are more than willing to protect any world from the Decepticons.”

“R-Really?” Adrien asked, earning a nod from Optimus. “Are you sure we can’t do anything else to help you get used to the planet?”

“Can we, Optimus?” Ladybug got up and asked. “It’s a good learning experience.”

Queen Bee got up next to her. “Ladybug has a point. Learning about Earth culture can help us better understand these strange organic lifeforms”

Optimus took a few moments to think about it and smiled in response. “Very well. Maybe this can be the humans’ way of repaying us for protecting them.” He said, making them all cheer.

“This is so lit!” Nino cried out, which only confused Stoneheart.

“What does ‘lit’ mean?” Stoneheart asked.

Ladybug shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it has something to do with lighting things on fire?”

“Maybe we can teach you all about memes first! That’ll be fun!” Alya suggested. “Ooh! Let’s teach them about Rickrolling!” She took out her phone and started to look something up.

Queen Bee rolled her optics. “This isn’t what I meant when I said I wanted to know about Earth culture.”

“And now you know how I fe--” Before Pegasus could finish his sarcastic comment, they were all interrupted by a song playing on Alya’s phone that all three humans were dancing to.

We’re no strangers to loooooooove~

You know the rules, and so do I!

“Welcome to Earth!” Alya and Nino cried out to the music while they kept dancing

Optimus sighed. He had a feeling he really should have put more consideration into letting the humans educate the Autobots.

Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down!

Never gonna run around and desert you...

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takerfoxx · 4 years

Text

Blood Island, Chapter 7

With apologies to those in it for the dinosaurs.

...

The rain continued on.

Two times Nuriel had fallen asleep for an unknown length of time only to reawaken to the sound of its patter. Two times she had drank from the bottle and eaten the fruit, leaving her with enough for only one meal left. Once she had crawled over to the far side of the ship to find a space to relieve herself. She was going to have to find a clean way to go about that once the rain stopped, but for now she had few options.

Now she was sitting slumped in her dark corner, hand closed around the bottle’s neck, sullenly looking out at a small crack in the ship’s hull across from her. Beyond she only saw the flicker of raindrops. Not even the light of the moon pierced through.

Sighing, she leaned her head back and stared up at the dark. She was miserable, she felt a little queasy from eating nothing but fruit and drinking wine, she was slightly disappointed in herself for accepting the red-eyed demon’s offerings, she was bored out of her mind, and she was fairly certain that her horribly bloody death had only been postponed, which made being cooped up in the boat’s hull all the more aggravating.

Strangely though, the one thing she wasn’t was afraid. Oh, sure, she had been absolutely terrified when fleeing from the razor-birds and the massive crocomonster. But now, having been yanked back from the precipice of death itself, she felt strangely neutral about her continued survival. If anything, she was mildly annoyed.

She took another pull of the wine. It was okay, but not the best drink she had ever had. To tell the truth, she had never much cared for alcohol. It dulled the wits, and the last thing Nuriel needed to be was off her guard, and the taste had never meant anything to her.

Still, there had been one drink that she fondly remembered…

…Nuriel yawned wide…

…one that she never expected to enjoy again, but sometimes found herself longing for…

…Arroyos is an odd town. Nestled in a bay just off the coast of the island of Cuba, it is not built upon dry land, but instead raised up above the water on wooden slats and connected by bamboo bridges and wooden walkways, expanding outward until it was twice the size of the meager slice of dry land it had grown from.

It even boasted a decent dock, letting the Periwinkle finally find mooring after weeks at sea. The crew was all worn down and exhausted, and are looking for to some measure of shore-leave, to just having something beneath their feet than the ship’s swaying timbers.

Frankly, Nuriel half-considered just staying with the ship. More people means more possibilities of being discovered, and the town isn’t the sort she can just walk into and disappear.

But like the rest of the crew, she is tired and restless. Besides, the men all were insisting that she come ashore, eager to show Ned the silent cabin boy a good time.

Unfortunately, it isn’t the fun times she had been promised, at least not at first. First comes the mooring of the ship, the tying and checking of ropes. Then comes the back-breaking part, the unloading of the cargo that they had been commissioned to deliver to this particular town, and of course, though she is easily the smallest and weakest member of the crew, Nuriel is expected to shoulder her fair share of the load. And even after all that, she is given little time to rest, as next comes the loading of supplies, from the new stores of food and water to cloth, wood, and metal for repairs to other bits and pieces that had been depleted by the voyage.

But then, with the ship watered and victualed and the repairs well underway, it is finally time. The sun is dipping down below the horizon, night is coming, and normally that would mean lights’ out, time to sleep, but tonight it means something different.

Tonight it is time to play.

Any crewmember not needed aboard loads into a pair of rowboats and heads out to the larger island, following the cliffs until they come across a wide beach. And once there, scrap wood is gathered and set alight into a massive bonfire. Bottles are passed around, freshly caught fish and rabbits are scaled and skinned and set alight, and the soon everyone is gathered around the fire, drinking, eating, singing, talking, and laughing. Several locals join the fun, some of them dockhands known to the crew, others are ladies of the town interested in making sure that the crew’s time spent with them is memorable.

Everything about that night remains seared into Nuriel’s brain. The warmth of the bonfire as it crackles beneath the stars. The sound of the black waves mingling with the cries of the gulls. The laughter of her crewmates and the songs that they sang, the first time any of them experienced joy in weeks. The humming of the ship musician’s accordion as he leads the crew through their favorite shanties. And though Nuriel can’t join in, she still grins and claps along, enjoying a rare moment of comradery in her life of lies and fearful solitude.

But most of all, she remembers her.

Nuriel’s eyes snapped open. The dream had been so vivid, so realistic that even after awakening, she could still the burning wood. She took a deep breath and glanced about.

It was still dark, and outside, the rain had not subsided. Whether that meant it was night or that the clouds were so thick that they choked out the sun, she had no way of telling.

Nuriel ate the rest of the fruit and drank the last of the wine. Wiping her mouth, she settled back, folded her hands over her belly, and closed her eyes.

They first see each other on the docks.

Though Nuriel is curious to see the town, there is little time to stand and gawk. Nuriel has a job to do, and to slack would be to invite unwanted attention. She kneels down, grabs onto the sides of a box packed with glass jars filled with seasonings and spices, and lifts it up.

The box isn’t that heavy, but its contents are fragile, so Nuriel has to take it slow as she makes her way out of the cargo hold, up onto the deck, down the rampway, and down the dock, until she finally comes to where the cargo is being stacked.

Placing the box down, Nuriel straightens up, wincing at the complaining of her knees. This is the fourth such box she carried out, and it is starting to get to her.

As she wipes her palms on her trousers, she glances down the dock.

And then she sees her.

There, standing at the other end of the dock, is a local girl, one that seemed to be about Nuriel’s age. But while Nuriel took great pains to hide any trace of felinity, this girl seems to rejoice in hers, from the way her white blouse hangs loosely around her slender shoulders to the flowers in her shimmering black hair. Though she isn’t doing anything particularly provocative, nothing more than stand with a basket tucked under one arm as she speaks to an older woman, there is a sensuality in her every movement that Nuriel cannot ignore, from the way she curves her hip outward to support the basket to how her face lights up as she laughs.

Nuriel feels her breath leave her. She used to scoff at sailors who would describe the madness that would take a man who had been at sea too long without the touch of a woman. After all, sure, women were pretty, and kissing them was probably fun, but have some self-control, man!

But now that she too had been away from civilization on a small boat filled with ugly men with no pretty girls to look at, Nuriel finally understands, and she cannot help but stare.

The girl finishes her conversation and turns away from the woman. In doing so, she catches sight of Nuriel staring at her. Nuriel feels her heart leap and tells herself to look away, but for some reason cannot tear her eyes away.

The girl’s perfect brow furrows, and her bright eyes roll with what was no doubt annoyance with another slobbering sailor unable to keep from ogling pretty girls. She starts to turn away, but then pauses.

And the next thing Nuriel knows, the girl is staring right back at her, her lovely mouth curving up into a smile of delight.

Nuriel’s cheeks flush, and she finally turns away to hurry back to the ship.

As she rounds the corner to head down into the cargo hold, she hears someone chuckle. “I saw that, lad,” says a gruff voice.

It’s Mr. Gagne, the ship’s quartermaster. An older, roguish man with close-cropped black hair and a cleft in his jaw, he always struck Nuriel as someone not to suffer fools, so Nuriel always did what she could to avoid upsetting him. During the whole of the voyage, he probably spoke less than a dozen words to her that weren’t short, gruff instructions.

So why was he speaking to her now?

In answer to his comment, Nuriel merely blinks up at him in confusion.

Mr. Gagne smirks knowingly. “I saw you staring at that pretty girl. Been a while, ain’t it, lad?”

Damn it, was she really that obvious?

Blushing with embarrassment, Nuriel turns to leave, for once thankful for her inability to speak, as it provides an excellent excuse not to answer.

But rather than let her go, Mr. Gagne clamps a hand down on her shoulder, stopping her.

“I also saw the way she was looking at you,” he says. He gently pushes his fist into her shoulder. “Maybe you should do something about that.”

Nuriel winces, and, without looking up to meet his eyes, miserably shakes her head.

Mr. Gagne sighs. “I know not speaking is kind of a problem. But just because you’re dumb don’t make you useless. You can find a way to charm her without words. And you should.”

Then Mr. Gagne pats her shoulders and is on his way.

Nuriel mulls over his words as she goes and finds another box to carry out. Of course she ought not to go seek out the girl. Even if she could speak, the girl thinks that she is a boy, and will likely not take kindly to the truth.

But…

But what if she doesn’t? What if she doesn’t reject Nuriel? What if she is still interested?

Nuriel shakes her head. No, that is a silly line of thought. Even if the girl is that…open-minded, how would Nuriel even begin to woo her? She didn’t have any experience with that sort of thing, even if she could speak?

Regardless, when Nuriel walks back onto the dock, the girl is gone.

Nuriel’s eyes again opened. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the fear, maybe it was the solitude, but she felt flushed, almost feverish but without illness. A smoldering warmth was growing within her, heat building deep within her gut.

She licked her dry lips and turned over onto her side. She knew what it was, of course. It had been years since she had first bled, and was quite accustomed to feeling the warmth of arousal, especially during whatever brief moments of peace she happened to encounter.

Nuriel usually ignored them. She lived life on a razor’s edge and could afford neither distraction nor exposure. The temptation was sweet and seductive, but she knew better to give in, not because of sin, because let us be frank, what those stuck-up cloth-wearers liked to proclaim sin and blasphemy was no less than what they enjoyed behind closed doors, but because it would cause her to drop her guard, making her vulnerable. She had seen grown men, many of them smarter and more experienced than her, end up losing everything because they could not resist a woman’s wiles, and she would not let it happen to her.

But it had to be admitted that there had been a few times, only a scant number, when the burning had become too much to ignore, and she had found herself slipping her fingers down the front of her trousers in the dark of whatever secluded hole she happened to be hiding in at the time. And ever since that night and that girl, those moments of weakness were ever harder to push away.

With a long, slow breath, Nuriel curled up into a ball and closed her eyes. She tried to think of something else to take her mind off the fire that was starting to burn inside her loins.

Maybe she ought to think of what to do about the Santa Carmilla. Sure, it was an ideal base camp, but there were improvements that could be made, alterations to make it a little more homey. Perhaps she could figure out how to make some kind of rope ladder, or patch up the holes, maybe even do something with the now-abandoned captain’s quarters, such as cover up that broken window, do something about the smell, and make some kind of bed so she didn’t have to sleep on a hard, cold floor…

And the girl is there, lying with her in the captain’s cot, hand roaming over Nuriel’s cheek while Nuriel’s own fingers explore her curves. They kiss each other sweetly in the dark, while the gentle sound of the rain outside lulls them both to sleep…

Again Nuriel’s eyes snap open. She let out a low whimper of frustration and, well, arousal, as her thighs squirm against each other in discomfort.

This wasn’t working. She couldn’t come up with a way to distract herself that wouldn’t turn toward the burning need that continued to grow inside of her.

Maybe it was the boredom making her restless. Maybe it was the long solitude, being trapped in the ship’s hull. Maybe it was the general fear and unease of her predicament keeping her on edge. Maybe whatever the red-eyed monster had used to heal her had some…interesting side-effects. But she just couldn’t shake free from the boiling lust clouding her head and setting every inch of her aflame!

Then Nuriel frowned.

Why resist? She was in no danger of being discovered. She was on a forgotten island of monsters and mysteries, and the only other “person” with her already knew where she was. And with the rain being what it was, she was going nowhere for a long time. Why not indulge?

Because it would be wrong. Because succumbing even once to temptation, even in a moment of relative peace and safety, would make it more difficult to resist in the future. Because she had to stay ever vigilant and not give in to-

The feel of the girl’s soft lips as they brush her own, the burning trails in Nuriel’s skin left by the girl’s fingertips as she slides her hands up under the hem of Nuriel’s shirt…

Fuck it.

Swallowing, Nuriel reached down with one hand. Her fingers were trembling and clumsy, but she managed to hook into the ties of her trousers and loosen them. From there, she slid her hand down her trousers’ front. The small, thin patch of hair tickled her palm, and she closed her fingers down over her aching womanhood.

The touch is enough to send shivers ripple over her skin, eliciting a small gasp. Taking in one deep, shuddering breath after another, Nuriel started to move her fingers, caressing the moistening folds as she closed her eyes again.

A hand comes down on Nuriel’s arm.

Startled, she pulls back with a small squeak of surprise, whirling around to face her assailant.

Then she sees dark eyes and gorgeous smile. The girl is there, the same one from the docks, now wearing a simple wraparound garment that leaves her shoulders bare.

But how? Why? How did she get there? How did she know how to find Nuriel?

“Surprised?” she says. Though she pronounces the word well, her inflection and accent tells Nuriel that English is perhaps not her native tongue. It does not matter, as her voice is sweet and rich and full of promise.

“I saw you at the docks,” the girl says by way of explanation. “And I know you saw me.” Tilting her head, she lets one hand slide down her side. “And I think you liked what you saw, did you not, cabinboy?”

Swallowing hard, it is all Nuriel could do to nod.

“Hmmm.” Then the girl nods over to one of the local men, who is laughing raucously at something the first mate said. “That is my cousin. And I told him, well, you will go be with your friends from that ship, yes? Well, there is a pretty cabinboy with them I want to see. And my cousin, he understands. Many men would not, but he does, and he says to me, the cabinboy will be gone tomorrow, why go see what you cannot keep? And I say, all more the reason to go see the cabinboy now.”

Then the girl moves her hand to Nuriel’s, squeezing her fingers. She gives it an insistent tug and tilts her head toward the shadowed part of the beach, her impish smile gleaming even in the darkness.

For a brief moment, Nuriel has no idea what is being offered. The girl wants her to go with her…why? Where? To do what? Puzzled, she tilts her head, her brow furrowed.

Rolling her eyes, the girl tilts her head again, with greater emphasis this time.

And then Nuriel gets it, and the realization causes her breath to catch and her spine to froze. No. Sure the girl couldn’t mean that, could she?

Seeing the look on Nuriel’s face, the girl’s wry smile becomes amused. She chuckles, a light, throaty sound that is honey-sweet to Nuriel’s ears.

Excitement mixing with panic and uncertainty, Nuriel glances around, hoping for some direction. The quartermaster is sitting nearby, an older, roguish man with close-cropped black hair and a cleft in his jaw, and to Nuriel’s chagrin, he is watching Nuriel slyly out of the corner of his eye.

But how long had he been watching her? Does he know what is going on?

Catching Nuriel’s eye, he slowly nods and inclines his head as well. The message is clear. Go with her, you daft idiot.

Nuriel’s eyes widens, and she looks back to the girl, who is now looking quite smug. She stands up and tugs once again on Nuriel’s hand, and this time, Nuriel goes with her.

Nuriel winced as her stomach clenched up. Just the act of indulging in the memory of that night was stoking the fires in her loins as much as the movement of her fingers was. Biting down on her lower lip, she squeezes her thighs together, pressing her hand down harder.

One hand wrapped around Nuriel’s and the other holding the neck of a rum bottle, the girl leads Nuriel away from the bonfire, away from the voices, into the night.

There is a cluster of large boulders splitting the beach in half. The girl takes Nuriel past the boulders so that they give the two of them some privacy, cutting them off from any prying eyes. As soon as they had climbed over the rough rocks and touched down onto the soft sand beyond, the girl suddenly turns around and pushes herself into Nuriel. Startled, Nuriel backs up until she is stopped by the rocks, but the girl doesn’t stop pressing into her. She leans in, planting hot, wet kisses onto Nuriel’s neck and shoulder, and Nuriel, who never had been kissed in her life, is so stupefied that she can do nothing but stand still and let her.

Then with a soft sigh, the girl backs away. “You are quite the blusher, you know that?” she murmurs. “Even in the dark I can see.”

Nuriel nervously swallows.

“Come.”

The girl gently pulls on Nuriel’s wrist, drawing her away from the rocks. She then releases Nuriel’s hand to press a single finger against the top of Nuriel’s chest, guiding her down. Nuriel tries to sit, but she seems to have forgotten how to properly move her legs, and they give way from under her, causing her to drop roughly onto her ass.

The girl laughs. She then kneels down and leans forward, laying one hand in the sand next to Nuriel while the other moves toward Nuriel’s chest.

It is then that a surge of horror breaks through the smoldering desire muddling Nuriel’s brain, and she freezes in fear. Oh fucking Christ, how could she have been so stupid? The girl thought that Nuriel was a boy! And if this kept up, there was no way Nuriel wouldn’t be exposed! She is taking her own life into her hands! Literally!

She panics, jerking away from the girl’s touch and scrambling back on her elbows. But before she can get to her feet to flee, she heard the girl sigh. Then a hand grabs onto the leg of her trousers, stopping her.

Nuriel glances back, eyes wide and heart beating fast. The girl had one lovely eyebrow cocked, her lips lifted in a wry manner. “I know,” she says. “Of course I know. You think I cannot tell another girl when I see one?”

Wait, what?

“You are not the first girl to come through here, trying to pass off as boy,” the girl continues. She reaches up to brush the back of her fingers down Nuriel’s trembling face. “I knew from the second I saw you.”

She did? Was Nuriel’s disguise really that bad? But that would mean-

“Those men you sail with only see what they want to see. They see what they expect to see: a soft boy to order around and do what they do not want to do. But I see what is.” Tilting her head, the girl slides her hand down to rest it on the back of Nuriel’s neck. “You are like me, yes? Not just girl, but girl who likes pretty things, yes?” She smiles that beautiful smile, the one that catches the breath in Nuriel’s throat and sends her heart pattering. “Girl who cares not for the touch of man, girl who shivers at the touch of other girl, yes?”

There is a pause, and Nuriel slowly nods.

“I thought so. Well then, little cabinboy, let me give you a moment of honesty.” Her hand pulling Nuriel’s head forward, the girl closes her eyes and leans in, her lips parted and ready.

Nuriel’s hand paused. Tears were starting to well up in her eyes. As beloved as that night was to her, this part of the memory hurt the most, and yet was the part she most treasured.

Nuriel finds herself responding, leaning in as well. But when she feels the girl’s soft lips brush her own, suddenly the floodgates within her mind are opened, unleashing a torrent of darkness and pain.

The cold steel is forced into her mouth, holding her jaws apart.

Nuriel jerks back with a gasp, her hands clapped over her mouth. No, no, no. Not this. Not now.

The crushing grip of the pincers that are squeezed down on her tongue and yank it out of her mouth.

“What is wrong?” the girl asks. “Did I frighten you?”

Shaking her head, Nuriel turns away so that the girl won’t see the look of grief and shame on her face.

The agonizing feel of the heated steel blade, both cutting and burning as it slices through Nuriel’s tongue and sears the back of her throat. She screams and screams and screams, but the pain doesn’t stop, the cutting doesn’t stop, until-

Sobbing, Nuriel covers her face as the useless stump in her mouth throbs with ghost pain. Why did it have to happen now? Was it because she dropped her guard? Was this her punishment for not being more careful.

And then a slender hand gently lays itself on her shoulder. “What is wrong?” the girl says. “What happened to you?”

Oh God, she knows. She may not know exactly what had happened, but she knows of the hurt Nuriel was carrying around. Damn it, damn it, damn it! That is what she gets for letting herself become vulnerable!

The girl touches Nuriel’s cheek and draws her face around so she can see it. “Please, tell me,” she insists. The sultriness in her eyes is gone, replaced by nothing but concern and compassion.

Nuriel almost turns away again, almost pushes her away. She already went too far, opened herself up too much. To expose herself any further would only make her even more vulnerable. Father would give her one hell of a tongue-lashing were he alive.

But instead, for reasons even she doesn’t fully understand, Nuriel just stares deep into the girl’s dark eyes. Then, with a harsh swallow, she opens her mouth and pulls her cheeks apart to show her.

The girl frowns in puzzlement. Tilting her head, she leans in for a better look, something that is no doubt difficult in the dark.

But then she sees.

“Oh, sweet Lord,” she gasps, covering her mouth. “Your tongue!”

Closing her mouth, Nuriel swallows again at the lump in her throat and nods.

“What…Who would…” Then the girl’s eyes narrow, and she looks back to the bonfire. “Did they do that to you?”

Oh God, she thought the crew were responsible! Nuriel hastily and emphatically shakes her head.

“Then who?”

Oh, that was a story too long, too complicated, and too painful to tell even if Nuriel could speak. She slowly lets out a long, shuddering breath, and then spreads her hands apart.

“Large…No, long. It happened a long time ago?”

Nuriel nods.

Sighing, the girl leans back on her haunches and shakes her head. “I am sorry,” she says simply. “I did not know you had been hurt so. It must have been a very, very evil person.”

A small sob shakes Nuriel’s shoulders. A very, very evil person indeed.

There is an awkward pause, and then the girls asks, “Would you like to stop? Is it too painful?”

She ought to say yes. Nuriel ought to stop things now, to compose herself and return to the ship. That would be the safer course of action.

Instead, she finds herself shaking her head. Safer, perhaps, but she doesn’t want to do that. Instead, she wants…she wants…

“I understand. Then, shall I comfort you?”

That. She wants that.

Nuriel sniffs and nods.

The girls says nothing in response. She merely leans in, and instead of caressing or kissing her, she wraps her arms around Nuriel and holds her tight. Nuriel clenches up a bit at the unfamiliar touch, but she doesn’t draw back. Part of her is scared, yes, and part of her wants to run away and hide. But so much of her wants this and wants this badly, yearning to hold someone warm and kind and be held in turn.

Nuriel gingerly and stiffly encircles her arms around the girl, clasping her hands behind the girls back. It takes her some time to work up the nerve, but she tightens her arms around the girl’s middle.

It is Nuriel’s first time being held like that. Though she knows that Father loved her and did his best to take care of her in his own way, he wasn’t one to show it like that, the few times he actually hugged her being few and far between. He did hold her tight the night that her tongue was cut out, and more times afterward. But his death came not long after, and Nuriel was left alone.

She thought that she had everything under control. She thought that she recovered and was steady in her mind and heart.

Clearly, she knew nothing.

Nuriel clings to the girl, the stranger whose name she doesn’t even know, holding onto her as if doing so could save her. Tears continue to stream down her face, tears that she normally would push back but now simply let run free. A reservoir is being emptied, one of pain, of grief, and of loneliness, one that she didn’t even know she was carrying around.

And the girl lets her. Though she doesn’t know Nuriel, though they probably won’t even see each other again after tonight, she continues to hold onto the strange girl without a tongue, letting her cry.

Then the girl parts from her. She draws her hand down the side of Nuriel’s face, brushing away her tears, and cups her cheek. “Maybe you won’t taste this,” she says. “But you will feel it.”

As the two lock eyes, the girl lifts up the bottom of rum with her other hand, pulls out the cork with her teeth, and takes a long drink. Despite everything that is going on, Nuriel is impressed, as the strong drink doesn’t even make her wince.

Lowering the bottle, the girl smiles, the mischievous twinkle in her eye visible even in the dark. It is clear that she did not swallow, as her cheeks are puffed out.

This time, when she moves in to kiss Nuriel, Nuriel doesn’t pull back or resist. The reflexive tightening of her gut and the urge to flee again rise up, but she fights them, letting the girl press her lovely mouth against her own.

Though there was much about that night that Nuriel held dear, it was that first kiss that burned the brightest in her memory, a moment of intimacy that still left her lips tingling to that day. Warm pleasure rippled out from her core from the memory alone, causing her back to arch.

Shivering with feverish delight, Nuriel pulled her hand out from her trousers and braced her back against a wooden beam. She loosened her trousers’ bindings even further and pulled them down off her hips and past her thighs. Then, settling back on her bare buttocks, she again pressed her hand back onto her yearning sex as she let the echoes of the best night of her life wash back over her.

As their mouths make contact, Nuriel feels the strength leave her, and she lets the kiss melt into, leaning back onto her elbows as the girl presses her body into Nuriel’s.

At first Nuriel really isn’t sure how to properly respond, so she tries to copy what the girl’s mouth is doing with her own. The movements of her lips are clumsy and amateurish, but the girl doesn’t seem to mind.

Then Nuriel feels something slick and warm slip in-between her lips. It’s the girl’s tongue, pushing and probing its way into Nuriel’s mouth.

Was this a normal part of kissing? Nuriel didn’t know, and with no tongue of her own she surely couldn’t respond in kind. So she did the only thing she could do: lean back and let the girl do whatever she wanted.

The girl’s tongue parts Nuriel’s lips, and then Nuriel feels warm rum flood from the girl’s mouth into her own. The harsh alcohol burns her mouth, and of course Nuriel can’t taste it. And yet, it is somehow sweet.

She swallows. It burns, yes, but it also warms, giving Nuriel courage to press on.

Then the girl places a hand on Nuriel’s chest, right over her heart. She gives a gentle push, and Nuriel is more than happy to comply, letting herself be pressed down flat on her back in the sand. She stretches her torso across Nuriel’s, heart-to-heart, and kisses her again. Nuriel lets out a small groan of pleasure.

The girl then sits back on Nuriel’s lap, legs straddling her to either side, her sensual smile reflecting the moonlight, her midnight-black hair like a veil framed by the stars in the night sky.

In that moment, she looks like a goddess.

As Nuriel stares in awe, the girl reaches up to take the edge of the wraparound garment she’s wearing. A few tugs, and it loosens around her torso.

Nuriel’s heartrate quickens. Oh, it’s happening, it’s really happening.

Not taking averting her eyes from Nuriel’s and without even a hint of shame or embarrassment, the girl gives her garment a small push from the top, and it down, sliding down off of her, unveiling the perfection beneath.

Nuriel can’t keep from gasping a little. She never even dreamed something like this could happen to her, and yet here she is, lying back beneath a starry sky as a beautiful girl undressed for her.

Obviously enjoying Nuriel’s reaction, the girl lounges back a little, turning so that her breasts, small but perfectly shaped, are silhouetted against the stars. Nuriel’s fingers involuntarily clench, digging furrows in the sand.

Sighing, the girl leans forward, lowering her body back down onto Nuriel’s. “You can touch me, if you like,” she murmurs as she nuzzles her face into where Nuriel’s neck met her shoulder, planting small kisses on Nuriel’s freckled skin.

Nuriel’s nods, and she gingerly lifts her hands and settles them on the small of the girl’s naked back. Her skin is silky smooth, with a slight covering of sweat. She moves them upward, finally clasping them behind the girl’s shoulders.

“That is it?” the girl says in mock-disappointment. “Why do you not touch me…here.”

And then, before Nuriel could fully comprehend what is about to happen, the girl grabs Nuriel’s arm and rises up, pulling Nuriel’s hands around and pushing them into her breasts.

Nuriel sucks in air between her teeth. Oh. Oh yes. This was nice. This was very nice. She squeezed her hands in, digging them into the soft mounds, and judging by the throaty moan, it was clear that the girl quite enjoyed the experience.

And then the girl lays her hand on Nuriel’s own chest. “Hmmm,” she says. “This feels…ah. Of course you would?”

She would? She would what? What was Nuriel doing.

“Please keep doing what you’re doing,” the girl says as she coyly fingers the top button of Nuriel’s shirt. “This will not take long.”

Nodding, Nuriel continues to knead the girl’s breasts, squeezing the flesh while the girl unbuttons Nuriel’s shirt, starting from the top and working her way down, uncovering her little by little.

She reaches the bottom and slips her fingers in under hem. Leaning forward again, she places another kiss on Nuriel’s lips as she slides her fingers up, parting her shirt to either side.

Then she sits back, her hands coming up and gently pushing Nuriel’s hands away from her breasts. Taking the hint, Nuriel lets them fall to either side.

“A shame you have to hide like so,” the girl murmurs as she reaches down to slide a single finger over the linen binding Nuriel’s chest. “I understand, but tonight, no disguises, yes?”

Nuriel slowly nods.

“Good. Now, sit up a little, please.”

Nuriel struggles to obey, propping herself up on her elbows. The girl runs her hand over Nuriel’s belly, sending shivers across Nuriel’s skin, and reaches behind Nuriel’s back, arms going into her shirt. Her fingers find the edge of the linen wrapping, and she works to loosen it.

Remaining perfectly still, Nuriel stares up at the beautiful girl as she is slowly unwrapped. Finally the girl finishes peeling the linen off from Nuriel’s chest and sets it aside. Then she smiles down at what she sees.

Given her lifestyle, Nuriel never gave much thought to her own breasts, save to find them annoying when she had to tie them up. They weren’t large; in fact they were smaller than the girl currently undressing her, but it did not pay to become complacent.

But now, as the girl looks appreciatively down at her exposed chest, Nuriel suddenly finds herself quite fond of them. No one ever looked at her like that before.

The girl playfully drags a finger over Nuriel’s chest, circling around one breast and then the other. Then she takes the slight mount in her hand and bends over to close her mouth over one tiny, pink nipple.

Nuriel squirms and gasps in ecstasy. The girl sucks and kisses the hard nub, swirling her tongue around its base and kissing its peak. Then she moves her mouth over to the other breast and does the same.

Nuriel is again on the verge of tears, but not from any buried pain or shame, but from the waves of hot arousal surging through her young body. She never felt anything like this before, never imagined that it could be so good.

When she woke up that morning, she was a girl pretending to be a boy. And soon she would have to go back to being that. But for now, for this brief moment of pleasure, of vulnerability, of exposure, of naked honesty, for the first time in her life she is a woman.

The girl again sits up and wipes her mouth. Nuriel blinks her eyes, trying to clear her head. As wonderful as that felt, she doesn’t want to miss a thing.

The girl reaches down and takes the hem of the garment lying around her waist and slowly opens it up, revealing the rest of her.

Then the girl slides back off of Nuriel’s lap down between her legs. She gets onto all fours, the curve of he rear sticking into the air, and lowers her top half down over Nuriel’s waist. Running her fingers over Nuriel’s lap, she mischievously played with the laces, flicking them back and forth, before finally untying them. One they were loose, she grabbed onto the waistline and pulled them down.

Unable to wipe the silly grin off of her face, Nuriel craned her neck to watch as her trousers were tugged down past her thighs, down to her knees. Leaving it at that, the girl then runs her hand over Nuriel’s thighs and traces the contours of her groin.

Nuriel’s abdominals clench up in anticipation. Sweet Jesus, this is actually happening. This is-

Her eyes closing, the girl lowers her head down between Nuriel’s legs.

“Nnngguhhh!”

Nuriel’s hips bucked as she came, warm arousal flooding her palm. She hissed sharply, her back arching, thrusting her sex into her own hand, riding out the first orgasm she had been permitted in months.

The waves of bliss rise and crash, rise and crash, until finally the beautiful torture subsides, leaving a comfortable ache in its wake. Panting, Nuriel removed her hand and let it drop to the floor.

For a time it was all she could do to just lay there, feeling drained, sticky, but relieved. It was like finally being able to scratch a persistent itch at the bottom of her foot, one she had been unable to reach because she never had the opportunity to remove her boot. It feels like heavy stones had been rolled off her shoulders, and she could finally lie down and rest.

She had felt the same that night. When all was said and done, and she and the girl, whose name Nuriel still didn’t know, had laid together in each other’s arms, basking in the afterglow, sleep had come upon her so quickly that she hadn’t even realized that she was tired until she was waking up the next morning, still sprawled out on the beach.

When she did, the girl had been gone.

Nuriel had panicked then, convinced that it had all been a set-up, that the girl had led her away, gained her trust, and seduced her only to rob her after.

And yet, upon frenzied inspection, Saint George remained in his hidden sheath, and the few coins that she had secreted upon her body were still there. The girl had even taken the time to replaced Nuriel’s bindings and button up her shirt, leaving her disguise intact.

But she was still gone.

There had been many leering grins and knowing looks when Nuriel had returned to the Periwinkle. Mr. Gagne had slapped her on the back, and some of the crew had cheered. Nuriel’s had been flushed with embarrassment, but also somewhat proud. Regardless of what they knew about her, the crew had still been proud of her, and she appreciated that.

Even so, she had never seen the girl again. But she never, ever forgot her.

Gradually the blissful haze started to dissipate from her mind, and she started to feel her strength return. Sighing happily, she lifted her ass and pulled her trousers back up, though she left the ties undone. Then she lay down flat on the ground, curled up into as comfortable position as she could, and let herself drift off, hoping that if she dreamed, it would be of that girl.

As the soft drumming of the rain lulled her back to sleep, Nuriel found herself wondering if her new red-eyed friend had been watching.

…

When Nuriel’s eyes opened again, rain no longer pounded against the Santa Carmilla’s hull, and light was streaming in from the various cracks and holes.

Blinking, she slowly straightened up. A knot in her neck made her wince, as did the looseness of her right arm, which she had apparently slept on. What was more, her head was throbbing, probably thanks to that wine. Massaging her neck with her left hand while she shook some life into her right, she looked around.

It was day, and the storm was over. Outside she could hear the sound of seabirds mingling with the surf.

She had survived.

As the rest of her body woke up, Nuriel took notice of something interesting. Her friend had again returned. The basket was once again full of fruit. What was more, it was joined by a smaller basket. She leaned forward to look inside.

Inside were several chunks of some kind of cooked meat. Fish, from the smell, though whoever had done the cooking hadn’t been very good at it, as it seemed like they had simply torn out chunks and charred them over a fire. She gingerly reached down and prodded on especially blackened piece. It was still a little warm, so it hadn’t been there for that long.

Nuriel shrugged. Who cared? Taste never mattered to her anyway.

She scarfed down breakfast, shoveling handfuls of burnt and greasy fish and chunks of wild fruit into her mouth.

As she did, she took note of the two wine bottles, now sitting upright near the baskets. She grabbed one and sloshed it around. It was full.

Good.

Nuriel swallowed her mouthful and took a sip.

A second later she coughed. She had been expecting wine, but instead it was only water.

Well, whatever. It was probably for the best. Wine was good for when she needed to rest, but water was what she needed now. Her throat was parched, and her head hurt.

Moments later Nuriel had gone through both baskets and drank a bottle and a half. She sat back, feeling better than she had in a good long while. Her hurts were healed, her belly was full, her throat was wetted, and even her headache was clearing up.

Feeling cheered, Nuriel slowly rose to her feet. They wobbled, but held.

Then she noticed that the note that the red-eyed monster had left her was still there, lying near where she had slept.

Frowning, she knelt down and picked it up. It was still very long, and though it was obviously by the same hand that had left her that first note, this one was hurried, almost frantic.

Well, reading it would be difficult enough even in the shadows of the ship’s cargo space. Nuriel ascended the steps, braced her shoulder against the hatch, and shoved it open.

The bright light of the sun made her wince, and certainly did the receding throb in her head no favors. Squinting, Nuriel walked out onto the deck and looked around.

It was either late morning or early afternoon. The sun was high, and the sky clear. All in all, it was a very lovely day, and the view was astounding.

If one were to overlook all of the monsters out there looking to eat her, of course.

Nuriel blinked until her eyes had adjusted. Then she sat down in the sunlight to try to decipher the letter.

Her reading skills were quite rusty, and never that thorough to begin with. And the hand that wrote it had done so…quickly. Still, the letters were large, so it was clear that the writer really wanted to get the message across.

After some time she managed to get the gist of it. It went a little something like this.

I am so, so, SO sorry I scared you. That was not my (here was a long word that she had to really spell out, but she felt that it was probably “intention”) at all. Please (another long word, something-“stand”) that I am not a threat. I swear by my blood (by its blood? Was that some kind of witchcraft thing?) that I mean you no harm. You have nothing to fear from me.

Nuriel frowned. That was unlikely.

But please, please, PLEASE (here the word was written so large that it was nearly the size of the preceding paragraph) never do anything that (um, what was this word? Something-less, starts with an “r”) ever again! The island is (damn it, another big word! Dan…dangger…no, danger! Dangerous!) at night! Well, it is dangerous at day, but even more at night!

Well, on that, Nuriel agreed.

I drove the birds away from the ship, and made sure they will not return. But they are active at night, and if you go out too far, I cannot stop them from hunting you! Nor any of the other (mon…mon…Mondays? No, wait, monsters! Of course it was monsters. Why hadn’t she known that? She had certainly had the word repeating in her mind over and over again lately!) that hunt in the dark.

Nuriel breathed out. It sounded like her red-eyed friend was telling her to stay put at night, to not leave the ship. And Nuriel didn’t care for that. She wasn’t one to appreciate being told to stay or stay out of anywhere.

Then again, considering what had happened the last time she had left the ship when the moon was out…

I know I have given you little reason to trust me, and I am sorry for that. If you wish for me to leave you alone, I will do so. But I have been trapped alone on this island for a very long time, and never (ex…expe..expected!) to share it with such a brave, (cutting? Did the letter just call her cutting? No, wait, those were n’s. Cunning. Was that even a word?), and, if you do not mind me saying, (here was another long word, but Nuriel recognized it immediately, and it made her groan a little) beautiful young fighter such as yourself.

Despite everything, Nuriel couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Great, flattery.

I have been watching you from afar, and you really are quite (another long word that started with “ex,” one that Nuriel couldn’t even begin to guess at. Probably some kind of silly compliment)! Please, it would break my heart to see you come to harm especially in response to me.

If you wish for me to go, then I will do so, never to step foot near the Carmilla's Fancy ever again. I would not blame you if that were to be the case. There would be no hard feelings.

But, if you would permit me to continue to keep watch over you, I think you would find me very useful. You needn’t even see me. I will stay out of sight, bringing what you need while you sleep and keeping the monsters away.

Again Nuriel frowned. She didn’t like the thought of anyone or anything strange doing stuff while she slept, regardless of what it was.

But again, if you’d rather I not, then I would understand.

Just please promise me that you will stay safe.

Please.

And at the bottom was a flourished signature, one that Nuriel couldn’t even begin to decipher, other than it also began with an “N.”

Breathing out, Nuriel slowly lowered the paper. She sat down cross-legged on the deck and thought.

Clearly the red-eyed monster was a strange one. It was not human; that much was obvious. But Nuriel was no longer convinced that it was some kind of malicious demon. She still didn’t trust her unsettling friend, if that truly what it was, but she didn’t feel as threatened by it either.

But what to do? What if she grew complacent, came to rely on the red-eyed monster’s gifts, and it cost Nuriel her soul? What if in accepting its help she ended up damned?

You already ate its food, came the reply from the back of her mind. You already drank its wine and accepted its gifts. In for a penny…

Nuriel shivered, but she had no retort.

You tried to flee, and it almost got you killed. It was only because of the demon that you still live. And if your stubbornness kills you, then what good would your purity do? You will be burning in Hell regardless.

That was true. That was very true.

Nuriel looked down at the letter. It was true, there was nothing more dangerous than the attention of another person, and whatever this thing was, it was clear that Nuriel had its full attention. And yet, if it weren’t for that attention, she would be dead.

But what if that was the point? What if the red-eyed monster was lulling her into a false sense of security, to make Nuriel reliant on its help? What if she became too accustomed to its gifts and protection? She might as well put the collar around her own neck for it!

On the other hand, there was literally nothing stopping it from taking her by force if it wanted to. Anything capable of driving off the razor-birds and keeping the other monsters away would have no trouble subduing one small girl. It wouldn’t need to get her to drop her guard; it only needed to act, and she would be helpless to stop it.

Still, there were many stories that claimed that for all their power, creatures such as demons, the Fair Folk, spirits, and the like were bound by certain rules, and could only act according to those rules. That was why so many stories were based around them disguising themselves and engaging in some kind of trickery in order to steal souls, because they would be unable otherwise.

But again, what good would her soul do her if she were torn to pieces, if she were to starve to death, if she were to be fall sick to infection or some strange, exotic disease?

It was a puzzler, one that Nuriel had to be very careful in solving. She sat down and thought for a very long time.

Then, after nearly an hour, Nuriel stood. She walked over to the captain’s cabin and looked inside.

It was still empty, bereft of bloodthirsty birds, but the chest remained. Squatting in front of it, Nuriel perused its remaining contents until she found what she was looking for: a piece of charcoal, a hammer, and a nail. Then she turned the note over to where there was still some blank space and with unpracticed hands jotted out two rough words.

That done, she pressed the note to the side of the ruined mast and used the hammer to drive the nail through, pinning the note in place. The red-eyed monster was sure to return, and when it did the note would be waiting for it.

Nuriel’s message simply read, “THANK YOU.”

#blood island #original writing #original fiction #pirates #vampires #dinosaurs #lemon #smut #yuri

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snowdice · 4 years

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Gaps in His Files (Part 4) [Relabeled; Refiled Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton

Appear: Remy, Virgil (but only in the epilogue)

Summary:

Logan Berry has learned many things the last 10 years: a lot of math and physics, a bit of humility, and how to be a hero being just a few. Through his education, his experience teaching, and his exploits as the superhero Bluebird, he’s changed in a lot of small and large ways. He has recorded these changes in well-organized documents and files. He’s even had to create two new file designations: a red one for files about his moonlighting at Bluebird, and a light blue one dedicated to his boyfriend, Patton.

When Bluebird is targeted by a memory device and all of those 10 years of progress suddenly disappear, Patton Sanders and Logan’s extensive files are left as his only resource to get those memories back. But what is Patton supposed to do when there are clear gaps in his files? And what does he do when he is one of them?

This is set 25 years before Sometimes Labels Fail though it’s story is completely independent of it and it is not necessary to read that one first.

Notes: Superhero AU, memory loss, past child abuse, past child neglect, unhealthy ideas about ones place in relationships, emotional suppression, self-deprecating thoughts, medical procedures mentioned, very brief unhealthy views of sex

Does anyone see the Easter Egg in here? Probably not. It’s pretty vague...

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Patton did not like driving Logan’s “special car.” It didn’t matter what position he put the seat in, he still either couldn’t reach the pedals or he felt like he was too scrunched up; the radio was (somehow) only set up to receive the local news station as well as some weird station that only ran a program detailing crop growing strategies which Patton thought must be some sort of cover for a channel sending messages in code (at least he really hoped it was because otherwise its existence was an affront to humanity); and he’d accidentally zapped himself with electricity while trying to adjust the temperature twice in the past and he still didn’t know if that was a feature or faulty wiring and Logan had refused to give an argument that convinced him either way. Not to mention, the car didn’t legally exist. If Patton got pulled over in this thing, what was he supposed to tell the police? Sorry, my boyfriend doesn’t have insurance, I’m pretty sure he built this death trap himself out of scrap metal because I can’t even discern the make and model.

“The corn! THE CORN,” the radio spewed.

“Yes, the corn,” Patton spat back. “I know. I heard you the first time.” Unfortunately, today, listening to the corn channel was better than listening to the news. The local news station continued to discuss and theorize what had happened earlier that afternoon over and over until Patton couldn’t take it anymore.

A memory gun had hit Logan. It had been a theory at first considering the things Lightwave and Logan had said along with the fact that Logan hadn’t seemed to remember how to fly, and had been all but confirmed a couple of hours ago when news that the police had investigated the dropped weapon leaked. Which all meant Logan was out there floundering with no idea what was going on or who he was. Patton wondered how much was gone. Had it erased all of his memories? Did he even know his name? He’d known enough to be able to use his powers, but was that instinct and muscle memory?

The theorizing on the local news station just made Patton’s blood pressure spike more with every passing second. Not that turning off the radio and being left alone with his own thoughts was much better. So…

“Crop rotation!”

Patton was the only person who knew Bluebird’s secret identity (at least, as far as Logan had told him.) Well… Remy might have guessed, but he hadn’t been officially told, and Patton doubted he’d be any help anyway. So, Patton was the only person who could really look for him. Sure, he was certain the police were searching (as well as some doubtlessly more dangerous people), but Patton was the only one who knew Logan.

You don’t know this Logan.

His Logan would have gone back to his apartment or maybe Patton’s if he were injured.

Patton gripped the steering wheel tighter. Okay. Maybe this Logan didn’t know where his apartment was. Maybe he didn’t know who Patton was. But he was still Logan, and Logan was rational and, more importantly, predictable. Patton would bet that in a circumstance where he knew nothing about what was going on, he would default to general survival tactics and what had he ranted and ranted to Patton about when they’d watched that one survival movie? Follow the water. Water is where you find food and shelter and almost certainly civilization if you follow it downstream. Sure, that was for when someone was lost in a forest or something, not already in a city, but Patton hoped he’d fallen into that strategy despite that, at least until he thought up something else better.

That’s why Patton had been driving up and down the river for the past few hours looking for anything suspicious and listening to someone blather on about corn. He pulled up underneath a bridge. It was a little bit away from the hustle and bustle of the city, but near enough to get to a more populated area quicklym and it had some good shelter around because there were trees. Patton bit his lip. If he thought like Logan, this would be a good place to stop. He decided to get out of the car and go out on foot for a bit.

Before exiting the car, he checked to make sure the mask was still in place. It felt strange on his face; he never really wore one. He clicked the locking mechanism which made the lights flash once but didn’t beep. He turned and froze when he met eyes under the bridge. The stranger didn’t speak but watched Patton intently from what looked like a makeshift house under the corner of the bridge. Patton edged out from beneath the bridge and headed toward the riverbanks. His shoes sunk into the mud a bit. It was starting to get dark which made it hard for him to search for things that looked out of place, especially when he was unfamiliar with the area. He was just running on blind Logan behavior instinct at this point. It was also starting to get cold. Patton hoped Logan had chosen to wear the winter super suit or he’d found a coat or something.

He wandered, looking into dark places and listening for any sounds beyond the river crashing into the banks. Around 15 minutes into his walk, his eyes caught on a large rock in front of a drainage pipe. Perfect, Logan’s voice said in his head. Patton crept over to check it out. No one was there, but it looked like someone had been recently by a smear of mud near the base of the rock that looked like someone’s foot had slipped there. Okay. He peered around him carefully, walking back toward the river. He had the sudden feeling of being watched. Up. He looked up at a small ledge along the bank and sighed in relief. “Thank god.”

Logan stumbled back a step when he realized Patton had seen him and turned tail to run again.

“Wait, L-” he cut himself off. He couldn’t risk it just in case someone was listening. There was a reason he had the mask and the car after all. Patton was the only one who knew his identity and Logan wanted to keep it that way. He thought quickly, head latching onto a story he’d been told one night curled up against a half-asleep Logan. “I’m Devora the Mood Goddess?” he tried.

Logan paused and turned to face him. “You know me,” he said peering at him from behind the mask still on his face.

Patton nodded, shoulders dropping in relief. “I do.” He offered a hand. “Come with me?”

He looked at the offered hand and then at Patton’s face. There was a moment of silence and then he nodded slowly and took a few steps down toward Patton. Patton grabbed hold of his arm when he got close enough, loosely so as not to startle him even though he wanted to latch on and never let go. Something loosed in Patton’s chest at the contact.

“Who are you?” Logan asked, accepting the touch, though he looked at Patton’s hand on his arm in confusion.

“In the car okay,” Patton requested. He nodded after a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I have body aches and from context clues, I assume memory loss,” he said, “but otherwise I feel well enough.”

“Good. Let’s get back to the car.”

They picked their way back toward the bridge through the muddy riverside. Patton groaned softly when there was an unmarked police car parked next to Logan’s car.

“What?” Logan asked at normal volume.

“Shh,” Patton scolded, but it was too late. A flashlight flared to light and turned to them the next second. “Hello Detective,” Patton said wryly. Patton had met Detective Silvia a couple of times, but of course she didn’t know that since Patton was wearing a mask. Logan knew her a bit more as Bluebird. She gave him a very suspicious look that grew almost hostile when she saw Logan was with him.

“Bluebird,” she said.

“So, I’ve come to understand,” Logan replied.

“I’m his friend. I’m here to help,” Patton said.

“Every villain in the city is looking for him, excuse me for not believing your word.” Patton sighed.

“He knows the code word,” Logan said.

She considered him and then shook her head. “I’d still be more comfortable if you came down to the station.”

Logan tilted his head at her. “No,” he said firmly. Then the detective yelped as her feet left the ground.

“Bluebird no!” Patton hissed. “The detective is our friend.”

“She is not my friend,” Logan replied with a frown. “I don’t know her.”

Patton rubbed his temples. “Just get in the car and put her down gently when you do.”

He went without compliant and Patton rounded the car. His eyes fell on the man he’d seen earlier, backed up against the wall with wide eyes. “Thanks for being concerned for him buddy,” Patton said.

They both got in the car and Patton drove away. He saw the detective being placed back on her feet in the rearview mirror. “Well, I’m going to have to send her a fruit basket,” he mumbled under his breath.

Want to read more? Click below!

AO3 Part 5

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #logicality #tsss #superhero au #memory loss #past child abuse #past child neglect #emotional suppression #self deprecation #gaps in his files #labeled universe #relabeled; refiled #adriana writes #medical procedures mentioned

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xtruss · 4 years

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Diggers, Denial and Despair: The Macabre Story of the Srebrenica Cover-up!

“A Genocide of Muslims By the Criminal Christian Serb Forces!”

— Alastair Sloan, Peter Oborne | 6 May, 2017 | Middleeasreye.Net

Bosnian Serb genocide deniers are being courted by the Trump White House. Could rising anti-Muslim hatred in Europe lead to another killing spree?

TUZLA, Bosnia-Herzegovina — There is no ventilation in the room where they keep the bodies. There is no central heating in the room the forensics team work in. The cleaners were laid off long ago because there is no money to pay them. The plumbing in one of the lavatories is bust. The rent has gone unpaid for 12 months. The building is a dreary industrial unit with uncleaned windows and broken shutters.

Welcome to the International Commission on Missing Persons in Tuzla where earnest and stretched forensic anthropologists try to identify the victims of the Srebrenica genocide.

'He said he wanted to kill me, he chased us across the field cursing my dead children ... The police did nothing; this is Srpska now'

We had blithely assumed that the international community - and the governments of both Bosnia-Herzegovina and Serbia - would have ensured that the organisation working to find mass graves, painstakingly identify the bodies and then inform the families, would be adequately funded until the very last victim was found. We were wrong: "We wanted to get sniffer dogs to find the remaining graves," the only staff member in the building told us, "but we couldn't afford it."

The rundown building is a perfect metaphor for a genocide that is forgotten by many, ignored by others, and completely denied by many of those most closely involved.

Dragana Vucetic, a 36-year-old Serb, is the director of the centre. A forensic anthropologist by training, she was a child in Belgrade during the terrible civil wars that ripped apart the Balkans in the 1990s.

Dragana joined the International Commission on Missing Persons straight after university and has worked tirelessly in the 13 years since.

Bida Smajlovic, 64, survivor of July 1995 massacre in Srebrenica, stands at a memorial center in Potocari, on March 24, 2016, while pointing at the name of her husband, engraved among names of other victims of the massacre. (AFP)

She showed us half a skeleton in a room next door to the mortuary, laid out on an aluminium table. She holds up a "skeletal inventory" in which they track the bones. Most of the diagram is red, indicating the bones that are missing. "It's a relief every time we identify someone," said Dragana. She described what she knew about the human remains in front of her. They belonged to a male, who was probably killed with a gunshot to the head.

Thanks to modern DNA techniques, the International Commission on Missing Persons has been able to identify him, even though much of his body is missing.

His family have been informed, and they are now ready to bury the remains. Many families, however, delay for years, waiting for more bones to be found. The reason for the majority of these delays is macabre.

Mass Graves Dispersed With Diggers

As Serbian paramilitaries found themselves hounded by international investigators intent on bringing the murderers to justice, they would carve up the mass graves at night with diggers, move the soil and bones to secondary sites, and then perhaps move them again for good measure.

The skeletons of Srebrenica were therefore spread across mass graves up to 20 kilometres apart.

It dawned on us that the genocide had actually worked

In the mortuary we see half a jaw with five teeth left in a semi-translucent plastic bag. On the shelves above each set of remains are corresponding brown paper bags containing whatever clothes, wallets or other scraps of belongings may have belonged to that person.

Most of the mass graves are now thought to have been found, but Dragana tells us there are one, "perhaps two”, still to go. Now that funding has dried up, they may never be discovered.

From Tuzla we drove towards Srebrenica, some 32 kilometres to the southeast, a haunting journey through villages that had been ethnically cleansed by Bosnian Serb forces and Serb militias during the war. Many Bosnian Muslims have left forever, while newly built churches mark Bosnian Serb possession of the territory.

We also realised that that we were taking the same journey – only in the reverse direction – as the so-called "Death March" of 11 July 1995 when 10,000 Bosnian Muslims fled Srebrenica towards Tuzla after UN forces refused to protect them. Of those 10,000, some 7,000 were killed by Serbian forces.

Eventually we reached Srebrenica, the site of the only genocide in Europe since the Second World War. The UN camp, which failed so terribly in its task to protect, has now been turned into a museum.

As at Tuzla, we were in for a very nasty shock. We had come to Srebrenica to learn about the events that led to the genocide. Chillingly, we learnt something else as well. It dawned on us that the genocide had actually worked.

Act of Defiance

With most of the town's former Muslim residents dead or emigrated, Srebrenica is now controlled by Bosnian Serbs, the majority of whom refuse to accept that that genocide took place.

We met a survivor of the genocide who moved back to Srebrenica in an act of defiance, marrying a fellow survivor and having three children.

'They are being taught that the genocide never happened. You turn on the TV and it is like the war never ended'

"For a long time I thought we could make a life here," he told us, but now they want to move away. "Our first child is starting at the local school. They are being taught that the genocide never happened. You turn on the TV and it is like the war never ended."

Nedzad Avdic cannot doubt the genocide took place because his uncle and father, and many other male relatives, were also killed (only the bodies of his uncle and father have been found so far). His story is horrific: he himself survived after crawling away badly wounded from a mound of defenceless men who had been shot dead by the Serbs.

Nedzad Avdic survived the massacre by crawling away (Rooful Ali/MEE)

"The denial of the genocide hurts," said Mejra Dzogaz, whose sons were murdered in the hills around Srebrenica. The elderly lady told us her story in the United Nations base from which refugees were expelled by Dutch United Nations peacekeepers in the hours before the killings began.

"We are still hoping the deniers will turn round finally and think about us and all the other mothers, but all they want to do is deny. If you turn the TV on all you can hear is them denying. We cry and cry and they still deny."

The mother told us that the first time she returned to her home, a neighbour threatened her. "He said he wanted to kill me, he chased us across the field cursing my dead children. Luckily my neighbour came. The police did nothing; this is Srpska now."

Srpska is the semi-autonomous northern and eastern region of Bosnia-Herzegovina which includes Srebrenica and borders Serbia. Since the war ended Srpska has been dominated by Bosnian Serbs.

Mejra Dzogaz told us that many of the same men she remembered carrying out the killings she now sees around the town, some holding offices at the local council or senior ranks in the local police force.

"I put so much sugar in my coffee every morning," she added, "but no matter how much I put in, it still tastes bitter."

Every year, the international community gathers in the cemetery at Srebrenica to commemorate the genocide.

The ceremony remains an important reminder that a genocide in Europe has happened since the Second World War, and that leaders should always be on their guard to avoid it happening again.

Mejra Dzogas says that she still sees people responsible for the genocide walking freely in Screbenica (Rooful Ali/MEE)

This year, the preparations for the memorial must be in doubt. Last October a Bosnian Serb nationalist politician, Mladen Grujicic, was elected mayor of Srebrenica. “When they prove it to be the truth," Grujicic has said, "I’ll be the first to accept it."

Like many Bosnian Serb nationalists, he still refuses to use the word genocide about the atrocities of July 1995 - even though Srebrenica is now regarded as the most well-documented and best evidenced war crime in history.

"I always said that what happened in Srebrenica was a terrible crime against the Bosnian population and that there were also terrible crimes against the Serbian population." Grjujicic has said, adding that "I leave it to competent institutions to qualify it."

Genocide Denial

This is genocide denial. He ignores the fact that the International Court of Justice and the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia have both clearly ruled the killings "genocide".

A United Nations Security Council motion proposing to condemn the Srebrenica killings as genocide in 2015 was vetoed by Russia, Serbia and Republika Srpska's ally, but both the US Congress and the European Parliament have also passed resolutions calling the massacre a genocide.

The chairman of Remembering Srebrenica, Dr Waqar Azmi, said: "It is a cruel irony that the election of a new mayor of Srebrenica, who is a genocide denier, was made possible only because of the ethnic cleansing of its Muslim population." In Serbia itself, one 2015 poll showed 54 percent people do not question the crime's brutality, but an extraordinary 70 percent still deny it was "genocide". In November 2016, Serb legislators excluded Srebrenica from a new law forbidding genocide denial more widely.

Grujicic does not hold a minority view among political leaders in both Srpska and Serbia, and Bosnian Serbs who now live in the Republika Srpska.

Once 2015 poll showed that in Serbia, 54 percent of people do not question the crime’s brutality, but 70 percent still deny it was "genocide". In November 2016, Serb legislators excluded Srebrenica from a new law forbidding genocide denial more widely.

Boak Bollocks Mladen Grujicic, mayor of Srebrenica, with Zeljka Cvijanovic, prime minister of the Republic of Srpska, at the 65th National Prayer Breakfast in Washington on 2 February 2017 (Republic of Sprska Government)

With such a palpable atmosphere of denial everywhere we went, one question lingered on - could such a crime happen again?

It is as if European Jews who survived the Holocaust had found themselves being ruled by the same criminals who denied the gas chambers existed, and who themselves had ordered the killings.

There is more than a little crossover between the anti-Muslim Chetnik Serb nationalist ideology, and anti-Jewish German Nazism.

"It was genetically deformed material that embraced Islam," Biljana Plavsic, the president of the Republika Srpska from July 1996 to November 1998 - regarded as the ideologue who provided the pseudo-intellectual underpinning for the genocide - once said.

She was later sent to The Hague and convicted of war crimes. "And now, of course, with each successive generation it simply becomes concentrated," she continued.

'It really hurts when people deny the murder of your family. It is just like a dagger to the heart, as if they never even existed'

- Lilian Black, chair of the Holocaust Survivors' Association

"It gets worse and worse. It simply expresses itself and dictates their style of thinking, which is rooted in their genes. And through the centuries, the genes degraded further."

Plavsic was a former Fulbright scholar and acclaimed biologist, lending a chilling air of scientific callousness to the "Greater Serbia" ideology of Slobodan Milosevic.

Lilian Black, the chair of the Holocaust Survivors' Association and director of the Holocaust Heritage and Learning Centre for the North, was also on the trip.

Black was shocked by the culture of denial in Srpska, and drew comparisons with her own family's experiences.

"It really hurts when people deny the murder of your family. It is just like a dagger to the heart, as if they never even existed. When we got the Nazi records from the International Tracing Service in Germany of our family’s persecution it was a truly cathartic experience," she said.

"It was like saying yes they were here and this is what happened to them. It doesn't change their fate, but it is somehow a means to helping us accept what happened."

Bosnian Serb Nationalists' Trump links

Hungary was only a few hours drive from where we were standing, where Prime Miniser Viktor Orban has recently framed his own anti-refugee policy on distinctly religious grounds.

"Those arriving have been raised in another religion, and represent a radically different culture," Orban wrote in a commentary for Frankfurt Allgemeine Zeitung, a German newspaper.

"Most of them are not Christians, but Muslims."

In December, Slovakia banned public authorities from allowing Islam to be recognised as a religion.

Potocari cemetery overlooking the old United Nations base (Rooful Ali/MEE)

In the recent Dutch election, Geert Wilders described Islam as "possibly even more dangerous than Nazism". During his election campaign, US President Donald Trump called for a "total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States".

One of the most disturbing aspects of our trip was the discovery of links between the new Trump administration and the genocide-denying tendency amongst Bosnian Serb nationalists.

Mayor Grujicic, who denies Srebrenica was a genocide, was invited to attend the prestigious National Prayer Breakfast event in Washington two weeks after Trump was inaugurated.

Grujicic said he hoped it would be "an opportunity to make contacts with some important persons, and I will try to do something useful for Srebrenica's residents".

Milorad Dodik, the president of the Republika Srpska, also received an invite to the Trump inauguration ceremony, extended by his transition team (before it was knocked down by a concerned US State Department).

'Nobody tries to argue that the Holocaust wasn't so bad because the allies also committed some war crimes'

Dodik has called Srebrenica "the greatest deception of the 20th century".

Our trip, which was organised by the British charity Remembering Srebrenica, was hosted by Bosnian Muslims who had fought or suffered greatly during the war.

Systematic Atrocities

None denied that crimes by Muslim fighters had also taken place against Serbs, but there was an important and qualitative difference between the two.

According to Azmi, who is now working on plans for a Srebrenica memorial centre in Britain, "Nobody tries to argue that the Holocaust wasn't so bad because the allies also committed some war crimes.

"Bosniak [Bosnian Muslim] war crimes were sporadic and isolated, and Bosniaks were fighting for a multi-ethnic, multi-religious society. Serb war crimes were organised and systematic, and Serbs were fighting for a mono-ethnic 'Greater Serbia'."

It is clear when you visit Srebrenica that what happened there in July 1995 was by far the greatest atrocity of the Yugoslav conflict.

It was also not an incident that can be understood simply by tracing out the mechanics of what took place minute by minute, hour by hour, on those particular days.

Srebrenica was the culmination of years of increasingly explicit anti-Muslim hate speech in the Serbian media, and in the speeches and rhetoric of figures like Slobodan Milosevic, and the Bosnian Serb political and military leaders, Radovan Karadzic and Ratko Mladic.

Milosevic, who was overthrown in 2000, was extradited to The Hague and accused of genocide and other war crimes but died before his trial concluded. Karadzic and Mladic were both captured in Serbia, in 2008 and 2011, respectively, with the former found guilty of genocide and sentenced to 40 years in prison. Mladic's trial, in which he faces two indicted for two counts of genocide, is ongoing.

Yet the strength of their anti-Muslim ideology clearly lives on in Serbia and Republika Srpska. It is this that made us wonder - could a Srebrenica-style genocide in Europe happen again?

— Alastair Sloan focuses on injustice and oppression in the West, Russia and the Middle East. He contributes regularly to The Guardian, Al Jazeera and Middle East Eye. Follow Alastair's work at www.unequalmeasures.com

— Peter Oborne was named freelancer of the year 2016 by the Online Media Awards for an article he wrote for Middle East Eye. He was British Press Awards Columnist of the Year 2013. He resigned as chief political columnist of the Daily Telegraph in 2015. His books include The Triumph of the Political Class, The Rise of Political Lying, and Why the West is Wrong about Nuclear Iran.

— The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Eye.

— Photo: A Bosnian woman mourns over a coffin of a relative at the Potocari Memorial Center near the eastern Bosnian town of Srebrenica on 10 July 2015 where 136 bodies found in mass grave sites in eastern Bosnia will be reburied on 20th anniversary of the Srebrenica massacre. (AFP)

— This article is available in French on Middle East Eye French edition.

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weareallfallengods · 5 years

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LOTR Post-apocalyptic one shot

When Middle Earth gets to like- the idk, sixth or seventh age? would it be more of a futuristic setting but like with hobbits in space suits and dwarfs crafting radioactive machines and stuff.

(Shhhhh.... i know that like the elves disappear and man becomes really the only one that stays after awhile but I WANT A FANTASY FALLOUT SETTING!

From @pippinstook

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Endless Winter was the Elves' fault.

Like all the Great Calamities of Middle-Earth, the best and worst times were ushered in by Elves.

And they wonder why we hate them.

We Dwarves remember the Silmarils War. We stayed out of the War of Sauron's Return because the Elves created that mess to begin with, and it was theirs to clean up. We saw the Halflings get roped into it, and there were some who argued we should go to their aid, remembrance of a debt owed by our people to them. But there were only 4 of them, so we remained apart.

And so, when the Burning Wind, a storm of flame like a hundred score dragons scorching the land and sky came, we stayed underground. We saw it sweep in from the East, and we knew that once again, the Elves had doomed us all.

We stayed underground, our trading partners gone, our surface holdings buried under a white ash that burned and blinded as it rained from the sky. We delved deeper, broader, sealed all but a few entrances to the surface behind gold and lead. Entire boulevards bricked up in stacks of now useless gold.

They thought we were ostentatious with our wealth before. If they could only see us now. Admittedly, we flaunted our wealth in the 4th Age- and why wouldnt we? We worked and slaved and toiled for generations of men to build it. Of course we were going to enjoy the fruits of our labors.

Our grandfathers survived once the King discovered that only he, in his gold-covered armors, remained sunburnt by the Elven Ash. The King ordered the gates sealed, the treasury turned over to the armored and craftsmen as gold suddenly became not a luxury, but something necessary to protect our people from the folly of the Elves.

Our people still got ill, still died long before their time. Some had strange growths, babies were born with extra limbs, or none at all. Mothers wept at not being able to feed their newborns, and fathers felt tears dampen their beards as they carved tomb after tomb for children that should have been the ones to carve theirs instead.

But we survived.

We learned to cover every bit of clothing, every scrap of leather and cloth in gold. Every chamber, every street, every cavern lined in it. No longer was lead cast aside as nothing more than a tinker's tool. Now every drop of it was precious, beaten flat and covered in gold, used to line the halls of our kingdoms.

So my great-grandfather told my father, as he told me. As I will tell my sons and daughters, so they never forget.

It's truly amazing what we Dwarves will create when left to our own devices. Every hundred years or so, the King will send a group of volunteers to the surface, to see if the Endless Winter showed any signs of abating, if the burning ash burns less.

As the centuries passed, little changed on the surface. But there were many who grew tired of our isolation, and longed for the fresh wind and the companionship of our brothers in other kingdoms.

Rather than repress them, our king, in his wisdom, appointed those who still longed for the outside world to create ways to survive in the hellish land the Elves had rained down upon us.

And so our skills increased, our machines becoming ever more complex as our Creatives strive to find ways to lessen the impact of the Winter, and make our lives more comfortable and productive.

We discovered the expansive properties of steam, we harnessed the fires of the earth itself to warm our homes, and light our streets. We created artificial sun and starlight, not with the magic of the Elves, or the primitive tallow fires of men, but with ingenuity and clever machines. Balls of glass that glowed like the sun, and drops of sapphire that shone like stars.

We created lightning, and stored it in jars. We built the power of the ancient gods ourselves. Columns that shone bright to light the day, and tiny blue stars of light in the carven ceilings to make the night less black. We took those jars, and fashioned gears and wheels and wire to drive our mining carts and lifts. We created hammers driven by the heat of the earth and the explosive power of water. We made glass, coated in gold so fine you could see through it, and for the first time in a generation, had windows to bring sun and moonlight down to the kingdom. What little there was.

We made great mirrors, and reflected that light to our farms, and homes. The Creatives made giant mirrors and lenses, and used them to see great distances from the Sightglass they built on the top of our mountain. The first time they were able to look through it, and see for hundreds of leagues was looked forward too with such anticipation! And met with such bitter disappointment. For as far as the eye could see, even with the Sightglass, there was nothing but more of the burning ash blanketing the world.

So we stayed below, as we have always done. And another generation passed.

And the Creatives made another leap forward. They created glass that could be layered with transparent gold, and made helmets and armor and boots and gloves that were finally able to withstand the burning of the Winter on the surface. They created carts, driven by the heat of rocks they found on the surface, that when enclosed properly, and cooled with water, powered those carts, and enabled us to finally start exploring the surface again.

And so we finally emerged after all this time. Dwarves, covered in gold, driving carts that glowed and shone like the sun that could no longer be seen. Dwarves, with golden gears clicking about them, steam rising from their shoulders as the armor made by the Creatives did it's work of making the air breathable, and keeping out the ash and dust. Dwarves with golden-hued glass helms, leaving virgin footprints in the ashen plains around the mountain.

Dwarves, had finally managed to reclaim the earth.

And we explored. We searched for any sign that other life had returned to the surface. We traveled long and far, always finding nothing more than half-buried ruins of ancient civilizations; giant statues and crumbling walls, trees turned to stone, rivers nothing more than vast trenches filled with powdery ash that we sank in as if it was actually water, long petrified bones serving as the only memorial to those who once filled the cities of men.

More and more of us migrated to the surface, our new Technics affording us the same protections of our ancient caverns. We started to realize as a people that our love of caves stemmed primarily from a desire to be left alone as a people, a way to avoid being interfered with. And now that the surface was empty, there was nothing dissuading us from enjoying it.

And then the world as we had come to know it changed.

Reports from the Foragers came back that they had found a place untouched by the Endless Winter. A place where green still existed.

No one believed them at first, but then the silverplate images started coming back. Plates that showed trees. Rivers that held water. A deer. Things no one alive had ever seen with their own eyes. And most still didn't believe.

Until one day, the Foragers brought back an oak tree. A sapling, green and lithe, rooted in black earth, set in a pit of solid gold, a dome of golden glass shielding it from the ash.

Not long after that monumental revelation, our entire town mobilized. Great carts with wheels of chain to move entire houses were built. Flexible bridges covered in golden glass wove between them, domes of gold creating a sea of glittering bubbles that floated across the plains as an entire Dwarven city slowly crept across the fields and hills of ash.

Ten years it took for our city to make it to the eastern mountains. Ten years of waiting impatiently to see what the Foragers had been promising us.

And then we finally saw it with our own eyes. We saw the ash fade into brown grass and weeds, and those give way gradually to actual grasses, and bushes, and finally, a single tree at the top of the ridge.

But what we saw from that ridge left even our most effusive poets speechless.

Green. Nothing but green as far as we could see. An emerald jewel of a vale set apart from the ashen wasteland behind us. And birds. A young one claimed they spotted a deer. The sound of a small stream twinkled through the air like a long forgotten melody of hope. A single, thin spire hung in the air, and only the Eldest was able to remember what it was called or what it meant.

Smoke! Specifically, chimney smoke. It rose from the forest like a beacon, a sign that we may not be the only ones to have survived.

As we were debating the best way to approach whomever may be there, we were all shocked to the bone to hear a small voice right behind our Elder.

"'Ere! Wotcha 'bout then? Not from 'round 'here, are yous?"

Of all those who could have survived, of course it had to be the Hobbits.

===================================

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#lotr au #fantasy #post apocalyptic #one shot #story

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themockingcrows · 5 years

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Companionship Through Circuitry Ch. 1: Outset

Ship: Bro/Hal This is available on my AO3 as well! This chapter is: SFW

The wasteland wasn’t fit for humans, wasn’t fit for raising children in, wasn’t fit for living in comfortably unless you knew what you were doing. Luckily, Bro knows precisely what he's doing out there, though finding a back sassing artificial intelligence in a blown open bunker may be pressing the limits of that self assurance.

Raising a kid in the world after was a fucking challenge, but Bro had managed it in what he hoped was a decent enough way to prepare Dave for the world and all its hostilities. The war had ravaged the landscape a few hundred years ago, but the people who survived in the aftermath now had to be tough to make it in the dog eat dog world that was left behind. Maybe he'd been a bit rougher than needed, but considering how many things wanted people dead on a daily basis, it was surely for the better. The day Dave had packed up and set out for one of the bigger settlements instead of the isolated cityscape they'd spent his childhood in had been a sad day but Bro was proud of the man he’d become, and looked forward to seeing what things he’d accomplish as he made his way in the world.

Some months later he was still proud, occasionally hearing from Dave by letter, and dealing with the bittersweet sensation of suddenly being completely alone for the first time in almost twenty years. There was nobody but the radio to keep him company now. Well, the radio, a pile of puppets, some really obnoxious electronic programs he’d manufactured on his own and the massive irradiated insects that liked to try climbing the buildings along with other mutated creatures that wanted to get into his supplies. He'd kept one of the mole creatures as a pet for a while, but it hadn't worked out in the end. Captain Nibbles would forever be missed.

The persistent isolation wasn't as comforting as it was when he was younger, before Dave had been around. When he’d been on his own, wandering around and then setting up his home bit by bit out of the fallen city, it had been like a game. Now it was survival, but the kind of survival that was typical, almost boring routine. Monotonous without other humans around. It made him wonder if, perhaps, it was finally time to leave his home and go around what was left of the world, make a bit of adventure for himself and enjoy what was left of his adult life. People before the war had traveled to exotic locales far from their homes to see what life was like elsewhere, and now people post-war traveled for adventure, for riches, for supplies. The city could only hold so much after so long. The rest of the wasteland was calling, though Bro did not answer yet.

After another letter from Dave, confirmation that he'd made it to the far settlement and was not only comfortable in his new housing but getting along well with the others there and with the work he was doing, Bro finally made up his mind. Now that there was a place to reach Dave, the letters could be delivered there for a while, give him something to look forward to any time he found a settlement or a trader willing to pass along mail at the next place with a courier. He cleaned out the apartment of debris and locked up the supplies he was leaving behind behind some self patented boobytraps before packing up the remainder onto his back. He was traveling fairly light, already knowing the general area well enough as far as animals went and how to make use of different creatures and plants without getting sick.. not to even mention how much else was probably untouched this far out. The further from civilization, the fewer humans wanted to travel save for those like himself who’d just keep moving. Maybe he’d wind up finding some big pre-war cache of goodies to come home with, expand his setup to some of the other buildings, link them all like they were in the old days.

Hey, a man could dream.

This would be easy. So what if it'd been years, he had this shit on lockdown. He'd done it when he was younger and he could do it now. He hadn't lost his polish in the goddamn slightest, and this expedition was just going to prove that. Checking the sun after leaving the building that had been home for so long, he decided to walk North, leaving the Eastern and Western settlements in his long gaited dust.

It was not easy, but the masochist in Bro liked it better this way. Oh there was enough to eat and he wasn't dehydrated, but there wasn't much peace to be had at first. For some reason the further North he went, the more robotics he found. Rogue creations built to last before the war were guarding different locations that would make perfect sleeping or scrapping sites, hiding whatever secrets lay within with lasers that he didn't feel like tangling with.

There were also more wanderers than he'd anticipated, which was where the masochism kicked in. Plenty of opportunities to bust someone's face up for trying to fuck with him and his belongings, chances to get some aggression and energy out taking someone off the face of what was left of the Earth before anyone else could do the same to him first. It was kill or be killed out here, and it made him feel comforted in how he'd raised Dave. Even settlements could be raided or attacked, and if he could handle himself out here then his kid could handle himself in an emergency too.

The only down side of the scuffles was how much blood was usually involved, both from others and occasionally his own. Well aimed strikes and slices made for easy enough cleaning of his blade to keep rust away but it usually wound up with spray to the face or the clothes. Not many people would want to trade with someone who looked like he'd walked through Hell, but then again if they'd set foot up here too.. maybe they'd understand and take a bit of pity on an older guy who decided traveling the world alone was the best option to take as a newfound empty nester.

On second thought, perhaps there were two down sides. He'd prepared for injuries, but he hadn't prepared for this many this early. Cuts of a certain depth needed to be disinfected and stitched, bandaged to protect them from the elements since he was stuck sleeping a bit rough. Bro had stitch supplies aplenty and the stomach to do his own without much flinching, but bandages were another issue entirely. He couldn't resort to using clothing as bandages yet, not unless there was a true emergency due to the contamination risks, but the urgency was high enough that he started being less picky about the directions he chose to walk each day in hopes he’d find some replacement material to restock his supplies with.

Fuck it, get lost on purpose, he'd find his way eventually either home or to Dave or to someone who knew where other landmarks were to get him started on an actual path. Strider homes were where they fucking made them, not in specific locales, even if those locales had been pretty damn cushy as far as post apocalyptica was considered. If he wandered far enough there'd be a trader or a spare campsite that wouldn't shoot at him immediately or even an empty house that wasn't picked too cleanly of things like bedsheets. There always was. Humans before the war had spread far and wide, and everywhere that didn’t seem like a house wound fit inevitably had at least one or two sites set up and a rusted out car beside it or somewhere in the overgrown mass that had once been a yard.

Luck finally came, or at least he hoped it was luck, in the form of what looked from a distance like a blasted open bunker site. Something built into the side of a cliff that had long since been torn asunder, partially left open to the elements. No doubt there'd be some things living inside, maybe even people, but that didn't look like it had originally been public property. Private property, especially old government property, usually had some useful shit lying around if you knew where and how to look.

Bro didn't want to toot his own horn, but one of the reasons they'd been so cushy at home had been specifically because of his hard earned prowess with electronics and old computers. It made security easier, made traps more effective, and made finding the occasional goodies in the city ruins that made up their back yard easier. Big fully armed bots? No, not face to face could he fuck with those, he had a bit of sense in his head. But someone's computer at a formerly benign desk inside, if there was any kind of reserve power or a way to hook up reserve power? Oh, yes. Those things could be dropped like flies and whatever they were guarding could be his.

Just.. needed to hope others hadn't been there before him and done all that already. Or that they weren't super thorough in their picking through things. Raiders wouldn’t give two shits about the electronics, and scrap traders would just be after easily accessible metal and food and odds and ends rather than higher risk or higher energy items.

He prayed for lazy scrap traders to have been there instead of anyone else.

The place had certainly been broken into before, vandalized more than once judging by the layers of graffiti on the walls and the garbage strewn about, the vague scent of old urine and feces from some hall or another that he didn’t plan to go down.. and otherwise left in tact in a lot of ways. The buildings location was sturdy enough that whatever blasts had rocked it during the war didn't destroy it entirely or drop floors into one another. Storage areas were picked absolutely clean to the surprise of nobody, but a lot of the desks weren't touched in the office sections Bro checked. When he tried to check computers, a few of them still weakly glowed and flickered to life before growing stronger behind the layer of dust and grime, the plugs securely holding onto generators that were more than meant to withstand time.

Old messages from people long since dead, most of them useless but interesting all the same, greeted him. Talk of office gossip and happenings, disciplinary meetings. Nothing of interest till he'd nearly given up.

AR. That's the base of what the project was supposedly called, some kind of artificial intelligence meant to become the brain of a new wave of bots that was still being tested. Bro's fingers itched with interest as he scrolled downwards, revealing more of the information in the file he’d found. The capabilities of this thing were supposed to be vast, but it never went into production before the bombs fell, and the tests were supposed to be taking place on one of the lower levels, with the finished product planning to be sent further North to be united with a prototype body.

After double checking which floor, Bro decided to go ahead and check it out. Couldn't hurt. Hell, if this AI, or AR, was as intelligent as he was being led to believe then maybe it'd at least be someone to talk to once he could find a voice box for the thing. AI's were hit or miss though, especially pre-war ones that was supposedly the Next Big Thing. Risky. ...But fuck the curiosity was strong, and since he wanted to look around anyway, why not? Maybe there'd be some supplies he could snag from down there if nothing else. Another reason to look around had been found.

This area too had been picked pretty clean, much to Bro’s dismay, until he reached a set of doors that bore the same types of screens as the office computers, with them each asking for prompts and passwords, for proof of identity, for clearance to access the room they were standing guard in front of. Other versions of these doors had long since been deactivated or never activated in the first place, damaged and hulking open like a gaping maw for him to wander through to get down here at all.

Annoying. Not impossible, but annoying. Bro had to actually take his bag off and rummage through it for some tools to pry the front off of the screens input sections, using clips and his fingers to carefully compress different portions of circuit boards inside till he finally set off a controlled spark. The screens remained lit, still asking for their password, but the doors mechanisms had lost power. All it took was a solid pry and..

"Bingo,” he said, smirking to himself and licking a sore spot on his thumb from the earlier circuit fuckery before pulling his bag on, whistling, and sauntering on inside.

Untouched except by traces of dust, what looked like a basic lab setup lay beyond the doors Bro had pried open, with all the supplies left behind and functional lighting. The bombs had fallen during the day, it explained why there were some skeletons in here, better preserved than out in the more open areas, but it didn’t bother him. This was just how life was: the living rummaging amongst the dead, trying to find use and sense in what was left behind as best they could. He dug in with both hands after side stepping the remains, a kid in a candy store of untainted pre-war technology.

Some new tools? Why, certainly. Circuitry paste? Christmas came early. Solder? Yes, please. He managed to find an old first aid station and raided the bandages and bandaids, as well as an old snack cabinet which mostly wound up inside his backpack once he'd crammed it into place. A bottle of rubbing alcohol also joined the rest of the things, though other chemicals and cleaning agents were left behind. Saline seemed appealing for a quick wash.. But again, maybe later. There were more important things to do right now, and now that the doors were open it wasn’t safe forever. He was on a timer, even if it was self imposed, for his own safety.

Now... where was that AI at. Bro trailed his fingertips along the counters as he stalked different stations, trying to guess where it would be stored. Would it be in the system still? Would he need to download it and jury rig something to put the fucker into? Would it even fit into a standard download? He didn't exactly have a plethora of supplies to work with, just whatever happened to be around.. and then he'd spotted it.

What looked like a strange pair of sunglasses, sharp winged and shimmering black, rested on the rubber face of a test dummy with wide glass eyes behind a simple plexiglass stand shield. Slim wires and cords ran to the sides of the arms of the shades, reaching back towards one of the larger computers in the room, giving Bro an idea of where to go to next with his fuckery, though his touch was more delicate now. At least with these bigger systems they could be negotiated with an-

Oh. No need. The last user, likely one of the unlucky souls in the room, had left the access point logged in instead of working on a logout timer. Christmas AND his birthday had come early when Bro saw the words AR: Auto-Responder, Artificial Intelligence Unit emblazoned at the top of the screen. The name Dirk Strider rested below it as the creator, making Bro doubletake for a moment. ...Huh. Weird name, but seeing a pre-war Strider was entertaining. Wait till he told Dave he might have found some ancestor who was as big of a nerd as he was with this shit.

A bit more clicking around and Bro had a sense of how they were meant to work, or sense enough that he decided to go ahead and disconnect the cables gently before lifting the shades up to put them on his own face. The testing phases had gone well apparently, and while this was just one of the forms they'd tested the AI for aside from the eventual body, it was one of the most effective formats available. There was hope that, with some tinkering, he’d be able to transfer the AI to another item in the future.

He just kind of wished the current shape wasn't so...

"God these're stupid lookin' .."

Welcome new user. Please indicate a name.

Oh.

"Ambrose," he said aloud, eyes flicking around to try tracking on the target that kept moving, aligning to his pupils and honing in on the accuracy.

Name is stupid. Please indicate another name.

..The fuck.

"Ambrose," he said again.

Name still stupid. Please indicate another name.

"I don't know what to tell ya, that's my name," he insisted.

I don't know what to tell you either, your name is unfortunate.

Great. It was a very realistic, sassy AI. It felt like arguing with a teenager. A really annoying teenager.

"Either accept my name is Ambrose or tell me what you will accept as a user name," Bro said. "What about Bro. Will Bro work?"

There was a soft chime sound as the eye tracking finally finished honing in and the application started to work, zooming in on different things when he squinted and pulling back when he widened his eyes enough, the soft ghost of the letter t following both of his eyes like a target.

Ambrose still sucks. Bro can be worked with. Welcome, Bro.

"You worked with a guy named Dirk but you won't work for another Strider. Pfft. Typical. You'd prolly work for Dave easy as pie."

Dirk? the voice said.

For a split second Bro swore he was staring into a pair of eyes instead of the vague traces of target t's in front of his eyes, red as Dave's with dark sclera that made them pop bright as glowing rubies. Then, just as fast, they were gone from sight and all that remained was the glow of the lights overhead and the dusty lab equipment.

"...The fuck."

Dirk?? the voice said again, sounding confused this time.

"Yeah, your file said Dirk Strider was your original creator?" Bro said. "My name's Ambrose Strider. Small world, huh. Gettin' smaller all the goddamn time too since the war."

The targets disappeared and were replaced by what looked like loading signals, a small bar off to the side fluctuating and flashing numbers as it searched for something in its files. Another flicker as it checked for a signal repeatedly, then came back to the t format in front of his eyes.

The war has happened then.

"Yeah."

You are not Dirk.

"Pretty obviously not."

Another pause. I thought...

"Thought what."

Your eyes are nearly identical to my creators. Different though. Older.

"So he was young then, huh?" Bro asked, grabbing a few of the cords that had worked for charging the unit and hooking it up to things in case they came in handy later on. Then, just as leisurely as he'd entered the lab, he left with his newfound prize on his face to scavenge the rest of the building. There hadn’t been much in the main rooms, and he knew to avoid anywhere that smelled like waste, but another quick look through the offices couldn’t hurt.

Yes, quite young. The last time I saw him directly he was about to turn twenty five. He created me when he was much younger though. Thirteen.

Bro whistled, impressed, and continued to listen to the voice that spoke just in front of his ears as he explained some of the process his creator had used to make him in the first place as a child. This was nice actually. The voice was human enough that it was comforting, had personality. He wondered if this was what that Dirk guy had sounded like, or if they'd picked a random voice box for the testing periods. He didn't feel alone, but he also didn't have that overpowering sense of urgency to keep someone protected at the same time. It was soothing.

He didn't feel alone anymore OR as stressed as he would have been.

When the entire area had been combed as finely as he cared to look, Bro decided to call it good enough and prepared to leave the building the same way he’d come. Night would be coming eventually, and putting some distance between himself and here would be a good plan for sleeping. AR stopped him however, blaring a short burst of sound in warning that made Bro wince and reach his hands up to clap them over his ears.

I'm not permitted to leave the premises. You are not authorized to remove me from the building.

"Look. I'd love to get authorization but the skeleton whose thumbprint I'd need is prolly dust by now. You're comin' with me, alright? Keep cool."

You're an idiot.

"And you're a pair of fugly lookin' sunglasses," Bro snapped back immediately, rubbing his ears with his thumbs to get rid of the ringing sensation.

You're the one wearing me, what does that say about you then. Where are you even taking me.

"Outside. I'm goin' a bit further North I think.. Your files said you had a body prototype, yeah?" he asked, remaining inside to make certain that he wasn’t about to get another surprise earful from this thing.

Dirk was working on creating a body for me, yes. There was going to be mass production eventually.

Not for something with this much personality, Bro thought. Nothing this smart would be allowed to fight or function untethered. Maybe a lobotomized version was going to be mass produced, or whatever wrinkles ran this thing were going to be steamed out.. but if he could find the main prototype..? The concept of an android with this much intelligence being with him as a companion was appealing. Sturdier than a human, could care for itself, didn’t need to eat or drink, and would run with the maintenance he already knew how to give or could figure out how to give.

Sounded like a perfect travel buddy, once he got past the wiseass attitude it had.

"Wanna come with me to find your body then?" Bro asked. "If it's still there it's prolly on a king’s ransom worth of electronics, I'd be sittin' pretty for years." New house, new setup, get to build his own shit more often, maybe rig up some nice solar again, make a computer to send to Dave, ge-

Why are you doing this.

"Why does anyone do anything?"

There was silence again, another loading screen, before the chime sound happened again, soft and accepting.

I don't feel like discussing philosophy right now. But I would appreciate not being glasses anymore.

Bro left the building behind without much thought. It wasn't a home, it wasn't a base. It was special in its own way though. For the time being, it had given him something to do. A goal. It had given him some hope, new projects. For the first time in a long while Bro felt excited again about something, something that only he was doing, something for himself. Something only he could do, now that AR was currently living on his face at least. Wandering the wasteland was all well and good, but this was a step up in the right direction.

The wasteland wasn’t fit for humans, wasn’t fit for raising children in, wasn’t fit for living in comfortably unless you knew what you were doing.. But now he had to be grateful to it. It had given him a friend, even if that friend was a bit annoying so far.

All in all? Not that bad of a scavenging expedition. Bro ranked it a solid 5/5 hats, would probably ransack again.

#Bro Strider #Lil Hal #BroHal #Stridercest #Homestuck #my fic

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all-things-are-nothing-to-me · 5 years

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A Critique, Not a Program: For a Non-Primitivist Anti-Civilization Critique

So the anarchist individualist as I mean it has nothing to wait for [...] I already considered myself an anarchist and could not wait for the collective revolution to rebel myself or for communism to obtain my freedom. — Renzo Novatore

I conceive of anarchism from the side of destruction. This is what its aristocratic logic consists of. Destruction! here is the real beauty of anarchism. I want to destroy all the things that enslave me, enervate me, and repress my desires, I want to leave them all behind me as corpses. Remorse, scruples, conscience are things that my iconoclastic spirit destroyed [...] Yes, iconoclastic negation is most practical. — Armando Diluvi First of all, there is nothing inherently primitivist about a critique of civilization, particularly if that critique is anarchist and revolutionary. Such critiques have existed nearly as long as a self-aware anarchist movement has existed — and not always even connected to a critique of technology or progress (Dejacque felt that certain technological developments would allow human beings to more easily get beyond civilization; on the other hand, Enrico Arrigoni, alias Frank Brand, saw civilization and industrial technology as blocks hindering real human progress). The real question, in my opinion, is whether primitivism is any help at all to an anarchist and revolutionary critique of civilization. The word primitivism can mean two rather different things. First of all, it can simply mean making use of what we know about “primitive” societies[1] to critique civilization. This form of primitivism appears relatively harmless. But is it? Leaving aside the obvious criticism of the dependence on those experts called anthropologists for information about “primitive” societies, there is another problem here. The actual societies that we call “primitive” were and, where they still exist, are living relationships between real, living, breathing human beings, individuals developing their interactions with the world around them. The capacity to conceive of them as a model for comparison already involves a reification of these lived relationships, transforming them into an abstract thing — the “primitive” — an idealized image of “primitiveness”. Thus, the use of this method of critiquing civilization dehumanizes and deindividualizes the real people who live or have lived these relationships. In addition, this sort of critique offers us no real tool for figuring out how to battle against civilization here and now. At most, the reified, abstract conception of the “primitive” becomes a model, a program for a possible future society.This brings me to the second meaning of primitivism — the idea that “primitive” societies offer a model for future society. The adherents to this form of primitivism can themselves rightly be called primitivists, because, however much they may deny it, they are promoting a program and an ideology. In this form, I actually consider primitivism to be in conflict with anarchic thought and practice. The reason can be found in the Novatore quote above. Simply replace “communism” with “primitivism” and “collective revolution” with “industrial collapse” and everything should be pretty clear. As I see it, one of the most important differences between marxism and anarchism is that the latter is not essentially an eschatological vision of a future for which we wait, but a way of confronting the world here and now. Thus, revolution for the anarchist is also not something historical processes guarantees for the future, but something for us to live and create here and now. Primitivism is no more livable now than the marxist’s communism. It too is a program for the future, and one that depends on contingencies that are beyond our control to bring about. Thus, it has no more to do with anarchist practice than Marx’s eschatology.I have already pointed out how the very concept of the “primitive” reifies the real lives and relationships of those given this label. This manifests among primitivists who seek to practice their ideology now in the way this practice ends up being defined. In a way far too reminiscent of marxism, “primitive” life gets reduced to economic necessity, to a set of skills — making fire with a bow drill, hunting with an atlatl, learning wild edible and medicinal plants, making a bow, making simple shelters, etc., etc. — to be learned in order to survive. This might then be spiced up a bit with some concept of nature spirituality learned from a book or borrowed from new age bullshit perhaps referring to a return to a “natural oneness”. But the latter is not considered necessary. The totality of the life of the people labeled “primitive” is ignored, because it is largely unknown and completely inaccessible to those who were born and raised in the industrial capitalist civilization that now dominates the world — and that includes all of us who have been involved in the development of an anarchist critique of civilization. But even if we only consider mere survival skills, the fact is that even in the United States and Canada, where real, fairly extensive (though quite damaged) wilderness exists, very few people could sustain themselves in this way. So those who learn these skills with the idea of actually living as “primitives” in their own lifetime are not thinking of the destruction of civilization (except possibly as an inevitable future circumstance for which they believe they will be prepared), but of escape from it. I won’t begrudge them this, but it has nothing to do with anarchy or a critique of civilization. On a practical level, it is much more like a more advanced form of “playing Indian” as most of us here in the US did as children, and, in reality, it is taken about that seriously. Nearly all of the people I know who have taken up the development of “primitive” skills in the name of “anarcho-primitivism” show how ready they are for such a life by the amount of time they spend on computers setting up websites, taking part in internet discussion boards, building blogs, etc., etc. Frequently, they come across to me as hyper-civilized kids playing role games in the woods, rather than as anarchists in the process of decivilizing.An anarchist and revolutionary critique of civilization does not begin from any comparison to other societies or to any future ideal. It begins from my confrontation, from your confrontation, with the immediate reality of civilization in our lives here and now. It is the recognition that the totality of social relationships that we call civilization can only exist by stealing our lives from us and breaking them down into bits that the ruling order can use in its own reproduction. This is not a process accomplished once and for all in the distant past, but one that goes on perpetually in each moment. This is where the anarchist way of conceiving life comes in. In each moment, we need to try to determine how to grasp back the totality of our own life to use against the totality of civilization. Thus, as Armando Diluvi said, our anarchism is essentially destructive. As such it needs no models or programs including those of primitivism. As an old, dead, bearded classicist of anarchism said “The urge to destroy is also a creative urge”. And one that can be put into practice immediately. (Another dead anti-authoritarian revolutionary of a generation or two later called passionate destruction “a way to grasp joy immediately”).Having said this, I am not against playfully imagining possible decivilized worlds. But for such imaginings to be truly playful and to have experimental potential, they cannot be models worked out from abstracted conceptions of either past or future societies. In fact, in my opinion, it is best to leave the concept of “society” itself behind, and rather think in terms of perpetually changing, interweaving relationships between unique, desiring individuals. That said, we can only play and experiment now, where our desire for the apparently “impossible” meets the reality that surrounds us. If civilization were to be dismantled in our lifetime, we would not confront a world of lush forests and plains and healthy deserts teeming with an abundance of wildlife. We would instead confront a world full of the detritus of civilization — abandoned buildings, tools, scrap, etc., etc.[2] Imaginations that are not chained either to realism or to a primitivist moral ideology could find many ways to use, explore and play with all of this — the possibilities are nearly infinite. More significantly, this is an immediate possibility, and one that can be explicitly connected with a destructive attack against civilization. And this immediacy is utterly essential, because I am living now, you are living now, not several hundred years from now, when an enforced program aimed toward a primitivist ideal might be able to create a world in which this ideal could be realized globally — if primitivists have their revolution now and enforce their program. Fortunately, no primitivist seems willing to aim for such authoritarian revolutionary measures, preferring to rely on some sort of quasi-mystical transformation to bring about their dream (perhaps like the vision of the Native American ghost dance religion, where the landscape built by the European invaders was supposed to be peeled away leaving a pristine, wild landscape full of abundant life).For this reason, it might be a bit unfair to call the primitivist vision a program (though, since I have no use for bourgeois values, I don’t give a shit about being unfair...). Perhaps it is more like a longing. When I bring up some of these questions with primitivists I know, they often say that the primitivist vision reflects their “desires”. Well, I have a different concept of desire than they do. “Desires” based on abstract and reified images — in this case the image of the “primitive” — are those ghosts of desire[3] that drive commodity consumption. This manifests explicitly among some primitivists, not just in the consumption of books by the various theorists of primitivism, but in the money and/or labor-time spent to purchase so-called “primitive” skills at schools that specialize in this.[4] But this ghost of desire, this longing for an image that has no connection to reality, is not true desire, because the object of true desire is not an abstract image upon which one becomes focused — an image that one can purchase. It is discovered through activity and relationship within the world here and now. Desire, as I conceive it, is in fact the drive to act, to relate, to create. In this sense, its object only comes to exist in the fulfillment of desire, in its realization. This again points to the necessity of immediacy. And it is only in this sense that desire becomes the enemy of the civilization in which we live, the civilization whose existence is based on the attempt to reify all relationships and activities, to transform them into things that stand above us and define us, to identify, institutionalize and commodify them. Thus, desire, as a drive rather than a longing, acts immediately to attack all that prevents it from forcefully moving. It discovers its objects in the world around it, not as abstract thing, but as active relationships. This is why it has to attack the institutionalized relationships that freeze activity into routine, protocol, custom and habit — into things to be done to order. Consider this in terms of what such activities as squatting, expropriation, using one’s work-time for oneself, graffiti, etc., etc. could mean, and how they relate to more explicitly destructive activity.Ultimately, if we imagine dismantling civilization, actively and consciously destroying it, not in order to institute a program or realize a specific vision, but in order to open and endlessly expand the possibilities for realizing ourselves and exploring our capacities and desires, then we can begin to do it as the way we live here and now against the existing order. If, instead of hoping for a paradise, we grasp life, joy and wonder now, we will be living a truly anarchic critique of civilization that has nothing to do with any image of the “primitive”, but rather with our immediate need to no longer be domesticated, with our need to be unique, not tamed, controlled, defined identities. Then, we will find ways to grasp all that we can make our own and to destroy all that seeks to conquer us.

#Wolfi Landstreicher #anti civ #insurrectionary anarchism #primivitism #anarchism #extinction rebellion #anti politics #green anarchy #nihilism

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naturecoaster · 5 years

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History of the Yulee Sugar Mill Ruins

Florida’s Nature Coast is rich with history, from the earliest known aboriginal inhabitants who settled near our rivers and springs 14,000 years ago, to the colonization by the Spanish in the 16th century, to the Civil War and beyond into the 20th and 21st centuries. As the histories of all places conquered and settled by humans, the history of the Nature Coast is replete with industry and innovation, toil and perseverance, loss and suffering, and no small amount of blood. Throughout Hernando and Citrus Counties many links to this history remain and one such gateway to the past are the ruins of the Yulee Sugar Mill in Homosassa. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afGDBhFAxGY David Levy Yulee built the Sugar Mill As interesting as the ruins themselves is the story of the man who built the sugar mill, David Levy Yulee. Born David Levy in 1810 on what is now the island of St. Thomas in what was then the Danish West Indies, Levy immigrated to Florida with his parents when he was eleven years old. Levy’s father, Moroccan born Moses Elias Levy, had made a fortune in lumber in the Caribbean and wanted to build a Jewish eutopia in Florida. The elder Levy purchased 60,000 acres of land west of St. Augustine and moved his family to Florida in 1821. David Levy was sent to preparatory school and college in Virginia, returning to Florida as a young adult to study law. He was admitted to the bar in 1832. While David’s father was an abolitionist, the younger Levy soon established himself as a pro-slavery man and politician.

David Levy became a politician, elected in 1836 to the Territorial Legislature. Image by Matthew Brady, Brady-Handy Photograph Collection. David Levy becomes David Levy Yulee He was elected in 1836 to the Territorial Legislature, then in 1841 was elected a delegate from the Florida Territory to the U.S. House of Representatives. In 1845 Florida was admitted to the Union as a state. The next year, Levy convinced the state legislature to do two things: Elect him as the state’s first senator, and enact a law forever changing his name from David Levy to David Levy Yulee. David Levy Yulee had political ambitions, and, in 1846 Florida, one could not be perceived as a Jewish abolitionist and hold public office. This name change effectively distanced Yulee from his abolitionist father and his Jewish heritage. He married the daughter of a former Kentucky Governor and together they raised their children in the Christian faith. Yulee had irons in a good many fires during the years leading up to the Civil War, including the development of a railroad connecting Fernandina on the east coast of Florida to Cedar Key on the west coast.

Old Homosassa has changed quite a bit since David Levy Yulee developed 5,000 acres of wetlands into a sugar plantation by the hands of his 1,000 slaves. Image Diane Bedard David Yulee develops Homosassa In 1851, he purchased 5,000 acres of wetland just south of the Homosassa River, drained the swamp, built his sugar mill, planted sugar cane, and began a successful sugar operation. He owned over a thousand slaves who labored on the plantation and in the mill which he oversaw from his home on Tiger Tail Island, just west of the ruins of his sugar mill. Sugar crystals and molasses produced at the mill were loaded onto barges on the canal next to the ruins, floated up to the Homosassa River where they were loaded onto ships which then sailed up the coast to Cedar Key. At Cedar Key, the sugar and molasses were transported by rail all over the United States, earning Yulee a fortune.

This canal was used to transport the sugar crystals and molasses up to the Homosassa River for transport to Cedar Key. From there it was shipped throughout the U.S. Image by Barrett Hardy. In the years and months leading up to the secession of the southern states and subsequent Civil War, Yulee publicly discouraged Florida’s secession, but quietly he and the junior senator from Florida ordered an audit from the War Department inventorying all munitions and supplies held in Florida forts.

The boiling vats and a smokestack from the Yulee Sugar Mill can be seen at the Yulee Sugar Mill Ruins State Park in Old Homosassa. Image by Barrett Hardy. Yulee Sugar Mill supplies Sugar to the Confederate Army In 1860, knowing that war was coming, Yulee wrote to a friend in Florida “the immediately important thing to be done is the occupation of the forts and arsenals in Florida.” It seems clear that Yulee’s financial interests depended upon the labor of his 1000 slaves and welcomed the war when it came. Yulee’s sugar mill supplied the Confederate Army with sugar and molasses, and in 1864 Union troops burnt his home and the plantation to the ground. All that remains of his enormous operation are the ruins standing today. Yulee’s legacy in Florida history is mixed. Following the Civil War, he served time in prison for treason for his role in helping Jefferson Davis escape. He was ruined financially by the war and ultimately died penniless in New York City in 1886.

David Levy Yulee created the first trans peninsular railroad in Florida, crossing from Fernandina Beach, where this statue was erected, to Cedar Key. Image by Michael Rivera. David Levy Yulee contributed to Florida's early Economic Development Though tarnished by the stain of slavery, Yulee was responsible for much of Florida’s early economic development. The town of Yulee, Florida and Levy County are named for him. What was once 5,000 acres of sugar cane is now a combination of oak hammocks, scrub palmetto, restaurants, and houses. A modern, two lane highway cuts directly in front of the ruin of the smokestack. Some of the older oak trees arch over the highway where the Florida State Park Service has cleared a small parking lot for visitors to the ruins. The park service has created a self-guided signage tour through the ruins so visitors can visualize the sugar mill of the past and the various stages of production that took place here 175 years ago.

What remains of the sugar mill today are the giant rollers and the enormous gears that turned them. It is difficult to imagine these huge pieces of equipment inside a building, where Yulee's slaves would process the sugar cane into salable goods. Image by Barrett Hardy. Visiting the Yulee Sugar Mill Ruins today What remains of the sugar mill today are the giant iron rollers that the raw cut sugar cane was fed through to extract the liquids and the enormous gears that turned the rollers. Those gears were turned by a jackshaft attached to the piston of a steam engine. The jackshaft and piston are gone, but the steam engine remains, along with the locomotive size boiler. The extracted juices from the raw sugar cane were heated to boiling in stages in a system of copper vats of varying distances from the heat of the furnace. The foundations of the vats have survived but the copper vats themselves have long since been scavenged for scrap metal. Several subsurface structures remain through which waste liquids were collected. The cane syrup would be allowed to cool in barrels until crystallized, then loaded onto barges and shipped to the river located only a few hundred yards to the northwest of the mill.

Imagine the Times and People of this Place It is 65 degrees and sunny here at the sugar mill ruins on this November day. The weather is as perfect as any could be here in the Nature Coast. It is difficult to imagine the conditions endured by Yulee’s slaves on this plantation and in the sugar mill 175 years ago. By this time of year, any sugar cane growing in this area would have been harvested and processed. Imagine what it would be like to work those cane fields in the sweltering Florida summer heat and humidity. Even more deplorable would have been the conditions within the mill itself. The ruins are open to the air, but the sugar mill of 175 years ago was enclosed. The heat within its walls must have been oppressive.

African American workers at a sugar cane mill in 1879. It was hot, dangerous work even after slavery had ended. The Yulee Sugar Mill was quite large with over 5,000 acres to grow the sugar feeding the mill. Image from FloridaMemory.com Sweltering Heat was part of the Job The poor ventilation from the furnace and the boiling hot syrups from the sugar cane presented a constant danger for the slaves that worked in the mill. It is said that many slaves lost limbs while feeding the raw cane into the heavy iron rollers and suffered terrible burns. Indeed, one of the signs on the self-guiding tour pictures slaves moving the boiling hot syrup from one stage to the next as a baby crawls across the floor. It is difficult to visit the site of the ruins without thinking about the lives of the slaves who labored there. History must be viewed not only in its beauty and glory but also in its brutality.

Though tarnished by the stain of slavery, Yulee was responsible for much of Florida’s early economic development. The town of Yulee, Florida and Levy County are named for him. Image from Julian Vannerson, 1827-, photographer Homosassa's Yulee Sugar Mill Ruins provide a wonderful local opportunity to consider the whole picture, blemishes and all. Read the full article

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ruinousrealms · 5 years

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Turka’Ko

It was dark inside the antechamber of Kala Du'n, the greatest and most ancient temple constructed by the pygmy lizard men of Venus. A faint blueish-green light shone through the great doorway, but Corrigan could barely see his hand in front of his face, let alone the famous traps that made this place so feared among Earthmen. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a wriggling thing that, after a bit of shaking, emitted a faint green glow from bioluminescent sacs along the length of its body.

The glow was sufficient to illuminate a few feet ahead, forcing him to take it slow as he advanced into the chamber. He was a tall man, and he had to hunch over slightly to keep from banging his head against the ornamented ceiling tiles. His bomber jacket was soaked from the endless rainstorm outside, unzipped and loose over the loose-fitting cotton garment that Earthmen had to wear in the sweltering humidity. A leather holster hung around his waist, containing an automatic pistol and enough ammunition to halt a pygmy warband in its tracks.

Holding out the living lamp, he could just barely make out a bump on the floor nearby, some sort of raised surface against the otherwise flat floor, worn down by centuries of rainfall leaking through cracks in the roof. Here and there, fallen chunks of stone stood beneath gaping holes, though between the darkening sky and the forest cover, very little light shone through. This wasn't just an errant piece of roof, however – The light was weak, but the hollow-eyed skull of a pygmy tribesman was instantly recognizable.

Tiny eye sockets, a wide mouth full of teeth, a head covered in razor-sharp spines – He hated the little bastards. To him, they resembled nothing less than a loathsome throwback in evolution, a forgotten 'what-if' scenario, if the reptilian domination of the Earth hadn't ended, if mammals found themselves edged out entirely by an ever-diversifying array of cold-blooded creatures. He was hardly the only Earthman to hold such a view. The wriggly creatures were forbidden from stepping within fifty miles of any human settlement, so far away that not even a Guatha bird-thing could fly over undetected.

Swallowing his disgust, he glanced across the skeleton – The green tint came not only from his light source, but from the moss slowly creeping across the bones. This, surprisingly, was a bad sign. Venutian flora grew at an alarming rate, and if these bones were any more than a few days old, they would already be nothing more than mulch beneath a patch of undisturbed moss. None appeared to be broken, though it was hard to tell with their level of decay. He did spot a rusted speartip, and a small piece of blue stone carved in the shape of the Great God Turka'Ko, head of the pygmy pantheon, who the Earthmen called The Father of Toads.

The temple of Kala Du'n was built in the honor of Him, the guardian of the jungles that ringed the equator of the greenhouse world. Ten thousand years had passed since then, and the civilization that built this place – Medieval by human standards, but the most advanced the planet had ever seen until the arrival of Earthmen in the early 20th century – Had long since vanished into myth, while their descendants flopped around in the swamp, sunning themselves on stones and eating raw bloatworms beneath the midnight clouds.

Plucking one of the little fetishes from the floor, he rolled it over in his hand, his fraying gloves leaving a faint residue on the stone. He didn't believe in spook stories, and certainly not in ancient alien gods – But then, creeping through the dimly-lit ruins, listening to the ever-present pounding of the rain outside, it was easy to fall into superstition.

“Turka'Ko Sada,” He muttered the good-luck charm, then tossed the icon aside, hearing it clatter in some unseen corner of the room.

A better equipped explorer wouldn't need to rely on prayers to non-existent gods. If he'd just reported his find to the Venus Colonization Authority, he would've been here with a cadre of armed guards, lighting their way with chemical lamps and exterminating anything in their way with gyrojets. But that would've meant splitting the bounty with others, and forfeiting his right to profit from the sale of the artifacts found therein. Most of the intact ancient temples had already been looted a thousand times over, the artifacts sold or melted down for scrap, the very stones torn apart to build defensive fortifications around remote settlements. Kala Du'n, however, remained undiscovered and undisturbed, even by the pygmies, who only spoke of the place in whispers. Just tracking the place down was an adventure in itself, but now that he was within the crumbling walls of the complex, everything would be worthwhile. All the struggle, all the sacrifice...

Just then, a hissing sound made itself distinct from the background noise, and Corrigan's hand fell to the butt of his pistol. The gun's metal casing was orange with rust, but the internals were made of a plastic composite that was nearly indestructible, and the bullets were caseless explosive charges – One was enough to blow a fist-sized hole in a pygmy's torso, and two could stop a rampaging Gla'a'a in its tracks. Something moved in the darkness, and he let off a shot, the flash nearly blinding him, the sound momentarily reducing his hearing to a low whine. Stone chunks flew up from the floor, pelting his lower legs, and as the glare faded, he thought he caught sight of something long and thin wriggling across the floor, just at the edge of his vision. He didn't panic – He'd faced down jungle critters many a time, and none of them were immune to bullets. It was just a matter of patience, following the sound with his ears rather than his eyes. His finger slowly tightened around the trigger, so that the smallest twitch would loose an explosive bullet straight ahead into the darkness.

He'd been on Venus for the better part of a year, and hadn't had a single cigarette in that time; Tobacco got soggy in the damp climate and lighters rusted away. He hadn't felt a craving in months, but now, the old familiar hunger welled up in his chest. He stuffed the lampworm back into his pocket; In the darkness and tight quarters, a free hand was more valuable than a light. The noise moved around the room, and he followed it, listening to it getting closer until, with a sudden flash, a fireball erupted on a nearby stone tile, a doubleheaded snake found itself separated for the first time. The lone surviving head limped away into the darkness, leaving a trail of acrid-smelling blood and the twitching remains of its fellow. Venom dripped from its fangs. He wished he'd brought a few sample kits; All it took was some basic chemistry to turn it from a deadly poison into a powerful hallucinogen, and it was all the rage with intellectuals and beatniks back on Earth. As it was, he drove his heel down on the head, as he'd prefer not to poke himself on those venomous fangs in the dark.

With that danger out of the way, he was free to continue his exploration. He followed the walls of the room going counterclockwise, his gun at the ready to face any new threats, but none presented themselves. The walls were covered in mottled lumps that had once been carvings, worn away by the eons until they resembled a topographical map of an asteroid. He didn't like them; The water constantly flowing over them gave them a strange, undulating quality that drove a shiver up his spine. About halfway down the farthest wall, he came across an opening, and stepped into a narrow corridor. This was a good sign – The ancient Venutians built their corridors narrow to force religious processions to move slowly and in single file. Just beyond would lay the ritual chamber, and within it, the boundless treasures of a long-dead culture.

He wasn't some vulture, come to strip the bones of the long-deceased – He was only here for a few choice pickings. Ritual masks always sold for a decent amount. Statues of Turka'Ko were also a prized relic, assuming they were in good enough condition and small enough to fit in his canvas army pack. A place like this, undisturbed by Earthmen nor native alike, was bound to be full of treasure. And since he was the only living person who knew the location – The very last, since the old pygmy who initially told him had been slaughtered with the rest of his tribe in retribution for a recent raid on a supply convoy.

This modern-day conquistador adjusted his holster so his gun hung directly in front of his groin, providing easy access and a modicum of protection for his vital parts. He came out of the hallway into a wider room, though his light remained too weak to see much of anything. He caught sight of mottled carvings on the floor stones. Though they were worn, he could still make out a few lines of ancient writing. It was a more refined version of the language the pygmies still spoke, and he was able to read a bit of it.

“Tra'ha d'rl Turka, marnis d'rl zahn,” He read aloud, “Eating-Room of Frog, Hunger Sacrifice.”

The floor slanted upward slightly as he approached what he assumed was a dais or an altar of some kind. There was certainly something ahead of him – He could just barely make out a shape looming up in the darkness. For safety's sake, he drew his gun and fired into the air, using the advanced weapon as an improvised flare gun.

In that momentary flash of light, he saw the vast green mass stretching out before him, rolls of scaly undulating blubber caked in slime. It must've been twenty or thirty feet across, filling a good quarter of the large room. It was only when he saw the head perched atop those stacked chins that he recognized it for what it was. Those bulging eyes, the twin elongated tongues – It all bore a striking resemblance to Turka'Ko, whose visage was unmistakable to any who had spent an appreciable amount of time on the jungle world. This, however, wasn't a mere icon of the ancient Venutian god, but a thing comprised of living flesh!

As the light of the flare died down, Corrigan caught sight of something wiggling free of one of the creature's folds – A snake with a patch of shining scar tissue along the side, which was already beginning to bulge with the first growth of a replacement head. The single remaining head still had fangs. Already paralyzed by fear, Corrigan failed to dodge the leaping serpent, and he let out a howl as the teeth sunk into his leg. His pain was only temporary, however, as the venom's psychoactive effects took hold, and the Earthman found himself sinking into the depths of another nightmare altogether.

The Great God Turka'Ko, Father of Toads, reached down from his pedestal and crushed the Earthman's head like an eggshell. Then, his voluminous stomach grumbling, he pressed the still-twitching body between his lips, and returned to his vigil. In a century or two, the Earthman's soul would be reborn in the form of a wriggling doubleheaded snake, and perhaps lay low one or two of his former fellows. For now the temple fell silent, except for the eternal pounding of the rain.

#short story #science fiction #pulp #raygun gothic #horror

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inveesible · 6 years

Text

sorry it took so long @derelict-blade , and sorry if it's not what you expected >///<

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- the date on this thing says "October, 13, 2287", and all the clues lead me to believe that... the prototype 0078-yh...

- one of the functions of this thing is a journal on which I can write and save in a flash drive similar to a mini-disk (who uses mini-disks anymore?).I've decided to take note of everything that may help me understand what happened and to sort things out; if it's true that it's been 270 years since the day of my test on myself... no, I don't want to think about "that" question, now it's of no use to me.

- I managed to get out of this "vault", finally, only to come back with my tail between my legs. The scenery presented to me outside makes me believe that, at some point, during my hibernation, that atomic war finally happened.The state of the surrounding vegetation suggests that at least 50 years have passed.

- I think I killed all the giant cockroaches that infested the vault and I was able to make some terminals work, at least those are still intact... The hacking was so outdated that it was literally the last card I played. I found the diary of one of the scientists who worked here, and with it the confirmation of a nuclear strike occurred in date October 23, 2077; so they brought me here with the prototype between 2017 and 2077 and they used us to develop other cryopods, in which they locked twelve people against their will... those people survived the bombs just to be imprisoned here, maybe forever… or at least until the reactor stops working.

- I've had enough for today, I'll try to sleep and continue tomorrow. It's so cold here, but it could be me...

- 10/16: I decided to try to explore the surroundings once more, at the first giant spider that I meet I'll shoot myself straight in the head. I brought with me the gun I found, 22 bullets, no, 21... I’ll keep one for myself.

- before I left I checked the vital signs of the twelve hibernates, they are fine, as long as you can feel fine in a cryogenic induced coma... I promised (to who?) that every once in a while I'll be back to check on their conditions. now let's see how I handle this shit…

- I stopped almost immediately, at a gas station (?) a few steps from the vault. From the hillside you could see a hamlet, very small, maybe ten houses, but for now I prefer to avoid - I was going to write "population centres". I… I'm too scared of who or what I could find there, but here I was lucky, I met a dog, an healthy and friendly-looking German Shepherd... REGULAR SIZE. Good boy.

- from here you can see what looks like a water supply, and if it’s telling the truth, we are (meaning the dog and I) near Concord, meaning, we are not too far from Cambridge... I wonder if it wouldn't be better to… all I had was there... I need to see with my own eyes that... now...

- a few hours after leaving the gas station (??) it started raining, the dog and I (yes, he’s following me, and I must admit that I feel safer now), we found a shelter in an abandoned tool shed. I set up a bed and I locked myself in, now I want to take advantage of this time available to learn how to use this... wrist-computer (?); "pip-boy 3000" is says here, yeah there's no way I'm saying that...

- 10/17: I fell asleep while "playing" with this minicomputer, I were fooled by the puppy's body heat, or maybe it was his smell… but if it keeps away the beasts then it's worth it. I had breakfast with some canned water, I found old boxes of processed food that I don't trust to eat, I keep them aside for when I have no other choice... that could be a matter of hours, since I have not eaten in four days... oh right, 269 years, 10 months and 6 days, thanks a lot brain.

- the dog (I wonder if I should give him a name) hunted down a couple of birds to feed himself, I got a good look at them, he's so lucky he’s not a fussy.

- The dog is much smarter than many people I've met, he helped me find some medicines and A RIFLE! 38 caliber, telescopic sight, silencer, and 34 cartridges in a hip bag. Now I'm less afraid of meeting a giant spider... or nearly... He also brought me a can of Cram, regardless of the expiration date, I never liked it, but if I want to keep going with this experiment I'll have to come to terms with it, sooner or later.

- 10/18: I had to stop my entries because, like an idiot, I attracted a dogs pack with that goddamned Cram and... I had to... I've never shot anything alive before yesterday... I had never killed voluntarily... but those dogs were... I've never seen them so aggressive, they looked like those birds with which the dog (the friendly one) feeds occasionally, spot baldness, purulent sores, I managed not to get bit by the skin of your teeth. Who knows from what kind of bacterial mutant disease they were infected... they were five and... I shot three of them in the head after the dog (the friendly one) broke the first two's necks... then we had to run, I feared that the shots could have attracted something, or someone, even worse. Now we are safely locked in a wrecked bus, I cried for an hour and slept for another.

- it's an oddly beautiful full moon night, I can see the silhouettes of the buildings in Cambridge, if I leave at the first lights I could get to my old apartment by nightfall, if it works for everyone…

- in order to get my shit together I made an inventory of my "equipment": the clothes I'm currently wearing - a scarf (now in the bag) - my glasses - other sunglasses (now in the bag) - my pager (broken) - wallet - money ($ 518 in cash, $ 11 and 57 cents in change) - my I.D. did not survive the freezing, the data is illegible - 10mm gun - 17 ammo of the abovementioned gun - caliber 38 sniper rifle - 34 cartridges of the abovementioned rifle - 6 units of canned water - 1 unit of half eaten Cram (it sucks, but edible) - 2 units of Pork n’ Beans – 2 units of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes – a blue jumpsuit, new, too big for me (now in the bag).

- the food preservation industry has made tremendous strides while I was sleeping ... bah, America.

- inside the vault it didn't work properly, but I noticed that the radio of this minicomputer has intercepted some frequencies; as soon as I find a shelter I'll try to tune in. It's surely an indication of post-apocalyptic civilization, I don't know yet whether to rejoice or not.

-oh, this minicomputer also has a built-in thermometer, according to it I've a bit of fever and I'm almost dehydrated.

- I would give my left arm for a hot bath...

- … and the right one for some not 300-year-old cigarettes.

- I can't get those dogs out of my head... among all that happened to me, those dogs...

- it becomes increasingly difficult to avoid thinking of "that question"...

- 10/19 part 2: while I was having breakfast with the leftover of that Cram (ugh) I saw a person pass by, a woman, along the way nearby: she was alone, if we don't count the naked cow loaded with stuff (it had two heads?? Perhaps my dehydration is more severe than I expected), and she was armed, if we can consider weapon a gun made out of twigs and scrap metal (???), the dog was not alarmed, I was about to go and talk to her, but I'm a coward and I missed my chance...

- I waited to see her disappear behind a distant corner, then I waited another twenty minutes to not hear gunshots, at that point I followed her steps, we are pretty close to Cambridge, and more houses can mean more people, people who could be hostile, that's why I took the safe off.

- I wonder if it's not the case to go to the police station... I'm not stupid enough to hope to find Edward there, but maybe there’s some stock that could turn useful, weapons, ammunition, ESPECIALLY ammunition, better yet body armour, anti-aggression equipment... yes, it's DEFINITELY the case to go to the police station.

- Edward… when the war broke out he should have been 95... who knows if no fuck no, I can't think of this now, I don't want to do the same calculation for those assholes, they are dead, they are dead they are dead they are all dead I’m sorry Edward

- 10/19 part 3: I have two hours of light, I'm wasting time on this fire escape, it wasn't easy to get the dog up, he didn't want to hear of it, but I thought it was safer to try to get in from the roof, I didn't even see the main entrance... if there were people inside... if those people were armed and hostile... if that woman, that of the two-headed cow, went around armed there must be a reason... if those people were trying to kill me, how much further could I claim self-defense? Would I be able to defend myself? Would I be able to ... kill them before they kill me? This is going to be the most difficult experiment that I must ever conduct.

-OK that’s new: there are signs of recent activity, someone tried to set up a shelter in here, there’s ammo but no weapon, makeshift mattresses, FOOD, but I didn't touch anything; whoever did this could come back and I need to be ready, perhaps to fight, perhaps for a peaceful dialogue... I hope for the latter.

-10/21 I'm absolutely the most idiotic and lucky person in the world: after my last entry two days ago, due to the dog's body heat and to my belly full of 200 year old treats, I fell asleep AGAIN... I'm such a dumb shit…! The first unregistered voice that I heard in eight days woke me up, under threat and pointing to me what I later realized was a weapon, who highly invited me to identify myself and to declare my intentions. I've never been so close to wet my pants, but luckily that man was open to dialogue, maybe I'll write something about him and his group later, they are four, they know what they’re doing, and they don't want to hurt me... apparently.

- and now the bad news: when I was woken up the dog was gone. Danse, I mean Paladin Danse of the Brotherhood of Steel (?), said there was no dog with me when he found me, I looked for him a bit nearby the others warned me not to go too far because Cambridge is Ghoul infested (???)... that dog can take care of himself, he'll be fine... please let him be fine...

-Haylen wait, Scribe Haylen (oh my fucking god), is teaching me how to use the latest technology, hardware and stuff, she was nothing short of enthusiastic about my minicomputer, and advised me not to keep it inside my duffle bag, but always on my wrist (shit, it's as comfortable as a wooden underwear). She also told me to wear the jumpsuit I found in the vault, the one that was too big for me, because the fabric is made of a radiation-resistant material, has the ability to regulate body heat according as necessary and, lo and behold, it's not too big, the suit fits your size, you wear it, you wiggle in it a little bit, and it fits perfectly. I'm wearing it under my clothes, it's definitely TOO tight for my liking.

- speaking of radiations, Haylen says that the medicines I found are safe, in small doses even that pre-war food, although fresh food would be better (fresh food here???).

- I like Haylen, we share very much and I can talk to her pretty quietly, she asks a lot of questions, but can't say I wouldn't have done the same myself. Paladin Danse is doing his best to make me feel comfortable, he doesn’t always succeed, however I appreciate the effort, and his "power armor" is the coolest thing I've ever seen! Sometimes I find Knight Keane looking away from me, he hasn’t spoke to me in two days, almost makes me think he hates me, he would not be the first. Knight Rhys is dickhe

- Paladin Danse called a meeting in ten minutes, this time my presence is requested, and now that I'm writing it, I'm afraid it's because they've finally decided what to do with me...

#may #brotherhood of steel oc #dogmeat?#paladin danse #scribe haylen #knight keane #knight rhys #expect some reblogs #I put a lot of work into this shit #sorry for my shitty english

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