#anyone remember the post about how you benefit from living in the imperial core even if you are in other ways marginalized

[lgbtlunaverse]

I think a lot of people's perception of "US centrism" on this site is "americans assuming us-specific problems are universal" but i've found it just as often if not more often manifests as the opposite. Usamericans thinking a problem people deal with worldwide (food deserts, late stage capitalism, bigotry) or a problem that did start primarily in the US but has been exported worldwide via cultural imperialism (this particular example is not the us but canada, but I sure did looooove having trucker protests in my country after they got 'inspired' by those in north america /s) are things only they have to deal with. I regularly get tags on this post that say something like 'blame the puritans for ruining american society' or will straight up go '#usa #fuck this country #i bet the rest of the world doesn't have this problem' I am from the Netherlands and have never set foot on the american continent.

[crimson-dxwn]

At Odds: Chapter 3

Summary: Hey all, so I decided to change this from a Reader Insert fic into third person (?). Tbh I hate this chapter but it sets up some necessary things. Decided to just bite the bullet and just post since I’m probably gonna die in a snowy ditch in MT tomorrow.

Kal thinks about some things, Laseema gets the deets, and doc comes back to Kyrimorut

Warnings: Sexual harassment? idk there’s not much to warn for here. Slight mutual pining

Words: 4040

Kyrimorut, Northern Mandalore

Spring

Kal suspected the situation with Parja had been a lot hairier than the doc had let on; it was just a feeling really, he didn’t have any knowledge about anatomy or birth or babies. But he did have a keen eye for how people worked under pressure, and that woman had nerves of steel. Like he told her before, she was mandokarla, she had that rare combination of daring and compassion that he’d once seen in Etain. The right stuff. People didn’t realize that the right stuff was different in everyone. Besany had proven it when she chose to commit espionage against her own government, Parja had showed it every tough day with Fi when he couldn’t even remember his own name, let alone walk. Laseema raised Kad without even a question, because she loved the boy and Atin.

She had raged at him, managing to hit him in that well of self-loathing that he usually kept carefully covered with his hatred for the Empire. Etain and Darman, the men and boys he’d lost, being disowned by his own sons, all of it he could bear, but he couldn’t - wouldn’t - seem to forgive himself for anything. He felt like a failure in every way that mattered. He wondered when it would break him.

If he dwelled on his failures too long, he would drown in their sheer volume, and he realized that when Kal watched the doc work, he simply couldn’t recall any of them, or at least they didn’t weigh so heavy. And then somehow they’d fallen into bed together like two teenagers, practically ripping each other’s clothes off. It turned out that her sharp mind and nimble hands were good for more than just delivering babies. He didn’t think he could recall the last time he’d gotten that hard that fast - definitely before Kamino. A mistake, she called it. Maybe it was, but he couldn’t deny that there was an undeniable attraction between them. 

“Buir?” Ordo’s voice rings out behind him and Kal turns to meet his eyes, finding concern there. Ordo had always been protective of him, more so the older they both got. His mind had a hard time reconciling how fast his boys grew up with how much time had actually passed. 

“What is it, son?

“I...uh,” he says, “wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Fine, Ordo. Just seeing the doc out. Let’s get back to breakfast before it’s gone.”

They walk in companionable silence down the hall, though Kal can tell that something is bothering Ordo. By now, he knew all of his sons’ anxious tics and twitches as if they were his own.

“Something on your mind?”

Kal wasn’t able to wheedle it out of him, as they’d reached the door to the karyai and the chaos that made up breakfast time in the huge household. Ordo made his way back to Besany’s side, where Mird was still chirping and wagging his tail furiously and Walon was considering the scene with a shit eating grin on his face. Oh. 

Guess he’d get to see the doc again after all. 

Laseema, sitting with Kad on her lap, just rolled her eyes knowingly and shoveled a bite of food into her mouth. The blue twi’lek seemed to know everything before the rest of them, as if all the news and gossip of the family flowed through her first and then filtered out to the rest. Kal decides he can’t bother to try and comprehend women. It isn’t a new feeling for him. 

He thinks on the hurry that the doc left in and what she’d said when he caught up with her. Kal was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything to upset her, after all she was just fine when he left her in his room. No, it must have been something else. 

Walon Vau finally breaks the awkward silence. 

“Mird seems to think you two have something to announce,” he says, an amused look still on his patrician face. Vau sips his strig as if he has all the time in the world and Kal half expects the man to rest his boots on the table, only his manners are too good. 

Ordo looks at his wife with a bewildered expression - he’s at a loss as to what to say, that much is obvious. The null is trying in vain to shoo Mird back to where Walon is sitting. 

Laseema raises a tattooed eyebrow, still bouncing a silent Kad. Scorch and Sev are at the table in their shorts and undershirts, and they glance between their buir and the null ARC expectantly like two vultures. They’re ready for a fight. 

“Spit it out, Ordo,” teases Scorch, oblivious.

“I’m pregnant,” Besany blurts out tearfully, and stands so fast her chair tips over behind her. Mird scrabbles backwards as she storms past it and out of the room. 

If there wasn’t going to be a fight before, there certainly was now. Ordo, unable to stand seeing Besany upset in any way, rounds on Scorch. Kal does see a flare of contrition on his face, but Ordo’s imminent anger flips a switch in the commando and he clamps down, readying himself for what comes next. Vau’s boys always did have skewed self-preservation instincts. They were all feeling cooped up lately, and it was obviously making tensions run high. 

“Enough,” he says, from the vantage point of his appointed chair. A harsh word from Kal is typically enough to make just about anyone who lived in the vicinity stop what they were doing, even two oversized grown men fighting over nothing. Ordo and Scorch remain standing, but their postures have relaxed, if only marginally. 

“She wanted to wait to tell people,” Ordo growls, looking from Vau to Scorch to Mird and back. 

“Ordo, son, why don’t you go make sure Bes is okay.” Maybe he wasn’t the best with emotion, but Kal could infer that she probably didn’t want to be alone right now. And it had the added benefit of keeping at least a few solid stone walls between Ordo and Scorch until the tension simmered down. 

They ate in silence until Sev and Scorch traipsed off to get ready for the day and Walon decided to open his mouth again. 

“Men need a good fight,” he says, staring into his strig, “been cooped up too long.”

 “I think for once, you and I agree,” answers Kal. 

“You may get what you wish for,” Laseema pipes up. Her mouth is set in a grim line. Never one to underestimate, Vau considers her with another vaguely amused look. “When I was in Keldabe, there was talk of an Imperial garrison being set up there.”

Vau’s amused look is gone. It was a surprise to both of them. Imperial transports had been making their way in and out of the system for a while, that they already knew. Mereel had been monitoring transmissions, but an occupation of the Mandalorian capital hadn’t been in the list of encrypted messages they’d managed to decipher. The Empire had been smart enough to ditch the dead Republic’s encryption after Order 66. Smart, he thought, but really kriffing inconvenient for them. Jaing and Mereel were only able to make out a word or two, rarely full sentences from the transmissions they were able to intercept. Nothing about a garrison.

He kicks himself for not utilizing Laseema’s skills earlier. Women could go where soldiers, even ones trained to infiltrate, could not. Twi’leks especially. As unfortunate as it was, the fact that her species was an oft-chosen one for slaves and servants had a sort of advantage. And something about Laseema made people want to tell her things. It might do for her to make another trip into Keldabe soon. Atin wouldn’t love the idea, but Kal had a feeling that Laseema would be on board.

“I believe it’s time for a proper recon mission.” Vau stares intently at Laseema, who returns his sharp gaze. She’s come a long way from Qibbu’s. 

The mood on the planet, or at least what Kal had gathered from their excursions to Enceri, was becoming increasingly grim. Even more unsettling was the news trickling in from the core and the inner rim as Palpatine’s new Empire gradually tightened its hold. And to top it all off, the last time Kal had seen Mij Gilamar his old friend hadn’t cracked a smile the entire time. There was an outbreak in Sundari, something like Candorian Plague, sweeping through the shelters of people left unhoused after the Republic had taken back the city from Maul. It was the first time Kal had seen the man look his age. It was just another worry to stack on top of all the others. 

----

Two weeks later, Keldabe, Mandalore

Spring 

Keldabe is a mash of buildings and dwellings of various ages. Pale brick, duracrete, steel, even wood and thatch mix together on the blocks. It makes for good hidey-holes, places to meet in secret, in the shadows thrown by the rooms stacked on top of one another lining narrow alleys. Keldabe is the unofficial capital of the planet, and the oldest city, older than Sundari by far and located in a much more hospitable location. 

Laseema is on Baker street, one of the oldest in the city, pretending to be just another citizen doing their shopping for the day, comparing prices and quality. It’s Keldabe’s market day, and the crowds make for good cover and good listening; the vendors are always eager to trade gossip for business. She even buys a pan of the sweet rolls that she knew Atin likes. Baker street, near the outskirts of the city, is one of the most popular and packed avenues, and every so often Laseema can see the gleam of a pure white helmet over hair and beskar-clad heads.

She still finds it hard to call them stormtroopers. They’re clone troopers, her brain tells her, you’re safe, it’s Atin’s brothers under there. But she is wrong, and these stormtroopers would haul her off to goddess knows where if they knew who she was connected to. A rush of cold comes over her and she burrows back into the crowd, away from the nearest white helmet. There are more this trip, almost twice as many as her last time in the city, some on patrols and others on leave, weaving through the throng of people with their helmets off, chatting with their buddies. Some are nat-borns, as Atin called them, and others are clones. You can tell the difference by the way they carried themselves. The nat-borns are sloppy, slouching, the ones who joke with their friends and flirt with pretty girls whether they were on leave or on duty, and more often wearing officer uniforms. The former clone troopers walk in solemn silence, forever in sync, without even their painted armor to distinguish them. 

She has a mission here. She’d offered because she wanted to help and because Kal had asked, though he’d never make her do anything she didn’t want to do. But Laseema wanted to feel useful outside of making food and taking care of Kad. It felt like everyone else was in danger constantly and she felt horribly guilty being the one who got to stay safe at home.

She can handle playing the dumb twi’lek role. At Qibbu’s it had always been the most reliable way to get the best tips, and she played it well, even now, years after she’d danced around a pole. The downside was that it made her seem like an easy target, which is why she always approached the slimiest, fattest, slowest-looking officer she could manage. Laseema wasn’t big, but she was fast and now she had her knife hidden on her person for anyone who decided to try something. She hoped it didn’t come to that.

She already has good intel from the merchants she’s seen so far. But she wants more; to get it she’ll have to take on a proportional amount of risk. She is on Baker Street for its popularity, but also for its proximity to the bathhouse positioned on the corner at the end of the street. She has...unpleasant memories associated with such establishments that try to bubble up, despite knowing that this wasn’t that sort of place. 

It’s old, made of cracked creamy yellow brick, with a domed top and big wooden doors. Surreptitiously, she brushes her hand up against the credits Kal had given her in an inside pocket of her tunic, and makes her way up the stairs and through the great doors. The old woman at the desk smiles warmly at her.

“Su cuy’gar,” the woman greets.

“Su cuy’gar,” replies Laseema. She can tell they are alone in the atrium out of the corner of her eyes, but gets up close to her nonetheless. With any luck, Kal had been able to contact her and smooth things along. If not, she’s prepared. Fortunately, few Mandalorians in the North, including Keldabe, were sympathetic to the Empire. Yet. 

“A towel for you,” the owner says, handing the article to Laseema. 

“Thank you.” She moves to press the credits into the older woman’s hand, but the woman pushes her fist back. 

“There’s no need. Tell our friend Ayati says hello.” Ayati jerks her head towards the locker room on her right. “You’ll be working steam room two today.”

Laseema only nods and heads to the changing room, and quick peek reveals a worker’s uniform hidden within the folds of the towel. She stashes her old clothes and quickly dons the new tunic and cropped flowy trousers that were unisex and ubiquitous throughout the facility. Steam room two, she reminds herself. That must be where the good pickings are. It would be officers, preferably; the grunts never got the full scope of information, let alone plans for the future. 

Grabbing a stack of towels, she exits the locker room and heads past the pools and baths, down a long hallway at the back of the complex that houses the private steam rooms. Numbered doors are cut out of the paneled wood wall. Laseema is alone in the hallway, standing outside steam room two, towels in hand. She positions her ear cone close to the crack between the door and its frame, listening. 

Four voices, maybe five come from inside. Her heart beating is making her blood rush in her ears and she wills it to slow, unable to hear much over the sound of her anxiety. Finally, she can hear more of the conversation from inside. 

“- not the worst place I’ve been stationed.” 

“Me either.” 

“You never know what you’ll get with these Mando girls with their helmets and armor on though”

“Just keep the helmet on!” 

They laugh.

“- more troopers coming in a month,” one says, “Should add a little variety that won’t stab you in the back when you’re taking your pants off.” 

More laughter. A bench creaks and Laseema holds her breath. 

“New barracks better have nice beds than what they’ve got us in now-“

“Beds on the floor, what kind of savages-“

“It’s 1500. Better get back, boys.” 

“Aye, captain,” come echoed voices

Laseema makes for a quick exit and then changes her mind. She can handle a little risk, after all, this wasn’t the worst situation she’d been in. And if it helped Atin and their family, the risk was worth it. A hand rattles on the doorknob as it opens and Laseema scampers to position herself where they’ll see her, a little down the hall, holding fresh towels in outstretched arms. 

Four men exit the room and she keeps her eyes down, praying they’ll ignore her and keep talking. She thanks the goddess they’re in shorts and not naked. Atin had been...less than keen of this plan for multiple reasons, this being one of them. 

Three take a towel without a word or second glance. Laseema is not so lucky with the fourth, who takes a towel and pauses to look her up and down. He’s one of the younger ones, tall with a forgettable pinched face. 

“Now here’s something you don’t see every day.” She dares look him in the eye, remembering the knife in its sheath around her waist, hidden by her tunic. 

“A Mandalorian tailhead?” The man’s lips twist into a smirk and he directs his attention back down towards her, amused by his own cleverness. “How much?”

“How much what?” Laseema knows what. She’s been asked before, many times. It’s a phrase men like him keep at the tip of their tongues, because in their minds anything can be bought, including - especially - people. 

“For you.” He looms over her as the other men watch from a distance. 

“I’m not for sale,” she spits out, barely containing herself. If she starts something here, she won’t be able to finish it, not four against one.

The man runs his knuckle down one of her lekku and she yanks it away, scandalized, and shudders. The man laughs under his breath. Laseema lets her eyes focus on a bandage that hangs half off his upper arm instead of on his face. 

“I have to get back to work,” she says, still avoiding his eyes, “please excuse me.” And she walks away, slowly and calmly, barely able to restrain herself from breaking into a run. Atin would’ve broken his fingers one by one, she thinks, and I would help. It was probably best her husband didn’t know about her run-in with the tall imperial.  

It was worth it, even for the small amount of information she’d gleaned. New barracks. More troopers. One month.

Back at the compound, Kal, Walon, Ordo and Laseema digest the information. 

“Sounds like an invasion,” says Ordo, his mouth full of food. 

Kal knew Laseema would pull through for them. Initially Atin had seemed a little put out by the notion but had said nothing, only shooting Kal an angry glance when she came home in one piece, if not a little shaken up.

“We knew it was only a matter of time.” Walon Vau somehow looks even more grim than usual. He runs a hand through his grey hair, thinking. “A month…”

“You know there aren’t enough of us,” Kal says, and Vau nods in agreement.

“I know,” he replies. 

“Then we’ll just have to get creative.” 

———

The long speeder ride from Keldabe to Kyrimorut gives her time to think. 

She’d been lonely for a long time, at least as long as she can remember, the short sorry course of her dating life culminating in a few brief relationships that ended sourly. Long, punishing hours were usually the answer to any painful thoughts, and it had worked well for her, at least until Kyrimorut, where every emotion she’d worked so hard to ignore had threatened to spill over and drown her.

And there was Kal. At first she was sure he hated her guts, but the way he watched her work during Parja’s delivery and the absolute awe in his voice and on his features was as sincere as she’d ever seen. It touched a part of her that she’d thought was long gone, deadened by years of loss and rejection. Somehow she feels they had forged a small connection, that he understood in some small way that she couldn’t quite put a finger on. 

She’d left the foolish hope of her twenties behind, and with it the illusion of finding someone who would and could keep up with her long hours and nights away. So far she’d been disappointed, but not surprised. 

Kyrimorut was remote and well hidden, though not too far from Enceri, the nearest trading post, by speeder. She’ll have to face Kal again, but any apprehension would be easy enough to hide behind the real reason she were at the compound. 

It feels like almost no time has gone by since she’d stormed out two weeks ago. Gently, she reminds herself that she is here for business and not to fall back into bed with the patriarch of Clan Skirata. 

A familiar face answers the door when she knocks. Fi stands in the open doorway, looking much too chipper for a new parent.

“Sorry, baby factory’s closed.”

“Feels like I never left,” she replies, wishing she hadn’t. 

“Come on in. You should stay for dinner, Atin and Laseema are cooking tonight and it’s bound to be something good. If you want your tastebuds burned off, that is.”

She laughs. “I’m Mando, how could I not?” Loving spicy food was practically a cultural requirement. 

Fi leads her through the halls and they chat about he and Parja’s little one. Lael was a quiet little thing, much to the chagrin of his talkative father. They reach Ordo and Besany’s pod of rooms and Fi takes his leave, giving her a little hug and a peck on the cheek as he goes. 

The couple is sitting inside, Ordo looking both elated and horrendously nervous at the same time. She wonders if he needs a garbage can nearby and make a mental note to have him sit in the delivery room when the time comes. Fainting husbands were a very unwelcome addition to the stress of a birth. 

The appointment goes well, with the exception of Ordo’s constant questioning and Besany’s futile attempts to calm him down. She suspects some of his anxiety is compensation for the guilt of putting her in this situation. She’s been sick, and these soldiers aren’t suited to sitting around and watching people they love suffer. 

“Only a few more weeks to go and you’ll probably be feeling better, cyar’ika.” Besany smiles weakly back at her, unconvinced. 

A normal sonogram later, they’re both happy and relieved, fawning over the sono printout and she leaves them to it. 

Much to her displeasure, Kal is waiting outside Besany and Ordo’s door. He’s wearing his armor, the gold of the beskar gleaming subtly in the morning light. Her stomachs drops into her feet at the sight of him, having to face him again. 

“We’d feel better if you were here instead of alone in Keldabe,” he says. Kal’s hand is wrapped around her upper arm, gently pulling her back towards him. She can feel her heart pick up at his hand on her bare skin. “There’s some osik going on with the Empire and we’re not sure what it is yet.”

“I can take care of myself, Kal. Kyrimorut is too far from my patients and the hospital to make it work.” Never one to take no for an answer, he tries again. 

“I don’t think you understand. They’re planning something big.”

“Why me?”

“What?” He stares at her, annoyance plain on his face. It’s always easy to get Kal riled up, but today it takes no effort at all. He must truly be concerned about what’s going on with the Empire; it gives her pause for the first time that day. 

“Why do you want me to stay?” 

“Bes is going to need you,” he replies. 

“So what you’re telling me is that you’re gathering up all your tools and closing up shop? Besany isn’t the only person who needs me, Kal. I can’t just quit my job and come live here, as attractive as that might sound right now.” 

She can tell his frustration is mounting as his expression sets on his lined face. A tired, lonely part of her brain is begging her to just say yes, to let someone else take care of her for once instead of the other way around. She wants to stay with him, wants to feel protected, wanted, valued outside of her work.

What if the Empire did dare invade Mandalore? For some reason it seemed unfathomable until this point, having lived on the planet her whole life with the exception of medical school, she’s used to being surrounded by warriors; the idea of occupation has never even crossed her mind. 

She’s seen the stormtroopers in Keldabe, but so far nothing has transpired. Talks with the Empire’s representatives were going well according to the Mand’alor - Fenn Shysa still believed that Mandalore could avoid occupation. 

Taglist: 

@clonewarslover55 @leias-left-hair-bun @cherry-cokes-world @wolfangelwings

@nelba @passionofthesith @808tsuika 

[thehiddenlawyer]

A Brand New (Complete) Doctor Strange Fic!

At the request of @tsukuyomi011, I whipped up some more strange for all y’alls enjoyment!! Because of time constraints on my part, I simply posted all the chapters at once!!

Here, in allllllll it’s glory, Spells and Wild Abandoned Stars!

Summary:  Doctor Malick is giving a lecture in New York at a neurological society function when she sees Doctor Stephen Strange in the crowd. After 20 years of silence, 20 years of no contact between lovers, how did time disappear between them? How did 20 years of distance simply cease its existence with a simple touch of his lips to her cheek, a touch of his hand to hers, a smile? 20 years, and she was under his spell again.

A Taste:

When the lecture was over, Dr. Rayna Malick smiled at her colleagues, nodding her thanks at their applause as she gathered her notes from the lectern, her eyes easily finding him.

In her entire life, she had only ever had one him. A him that she could identify by just those three vague letters, without the necessity to properly identify him using a distinct first and last name. Just…him. Or he, depending on grammatical need.

And he was walking towards her now as she shook hands with the people on the dais, who congratulated her on her talk, on her empowering presence, on the way she had illuminated so much for them about emergency medicine in faraway places, in regions wracked with natural and man-made disasters. She didn’t know how and what she responded with to the people that complimented her, she was sure she said the right things, smiled and nodded the way she was supposed to, her notes clutched in her hands, her smile pasted on her face as he walked towards her. As always, he seemed to suck all the energy out of the room, a walking talking blackhole, she used to call him, because whenever he walked into a room, nothing else existed for her.

He always consumed her, always occupied her, always stretched himself within her very skin and scrambled her thoughts. It was a good thing she hadn’t spotted him during the lecture or he would have made her sound like an incompetent, nervous ass. Or whatever the opposite of accomplished neurosurgeon turned WHO ambassador was these days. Or the simple opposite of a composed, graceful, literate woman.

He turned her into a cavewoman, reduced her down to the most common denominator of biology. She always liked to entertain herself by imagining all her diplomas and commendations burning in a sacrificial pyre in front of him while he looked on imperiously with that tilted chin and big body that exuded arrogance and confidence.

He was a few feet from her now, looking more handsome than she remembered. And she was convinced that it had been impossible for him to look even more tantalizing than he normally did, than he did when she had first known him lifetimes, ages, eons ago. Age had settled into his features with a grace that made her envious, that had her eyes tracing the laugh lines and crow’s feet around his eyes and mouth, that had her looking at the gray at his temples with an appreciative smile. He looked more severe, more austere with the whitened temples, as if his physical form was finally catching up to the brain, the talent that he was known for. And in that black suit that fit his body like a glove, she wondered vaguely if he’d worn black on black because he’d remembered her weakness for it. Or if he’d worn a simple black tie instead of a bowtie because he’d remembered her preference for it.

Stephen Strange was aging like fine wine, and as she stood talking to the head of the neurological society that was throwing this little party, she wondered she looked like to him. Her hair was a deep red now from a bottle, cut short to a manageable length around her shoulders, now pulled back in a professional bun. She wondered if he saw the age lines on her face, saw them through the make-up she’d used to hide them, suddenly feeling shy that day about her age when she’d realized he was going to be at the dinner. Would he see how her body had changed with time, with age, with motherhood? Would he trace her features the way she had his? Would he even notice the black dress she wore with the velvet jacket over it, in her attempt to look elegant when she felt frumpy?

“Dr. Malick,” he grinned, his voice the same, incredibly soothing baritone that lived and breathed in her dreams, that haunted her and woke her up in the middle of the night, aroused beyond explanation, panting for him, and knowing there would never be a substitute for him.

“Stephen,” she grinned, shaking his hand, his long, eloquent fingers swallowing her hand whole, “must we stand on formality?” she murmured, looking into those cat-like, mercurial eyes, that beautiful, chiseled face that she had sketched with her pencil and with her fingertips, her lips, her tongue…so many nights in his arms, so many hours…

“I thought you’d prefer it,” he grinned at her, “if we’re dropping the titles then, I can greet you properly,” his eyes flashed as he leaned down, kissing her cheek even as he held her hand in his. She tried not to moan, not to react, not to weep or turn her face into the familiarity of his lips. How was it possible? After all these years, to still become breathless in his presence, to still remember the texture of his lips?

“That’s better,” she laughed, “how are you, Stephen? I must say, I’m surprised to see you here!”

“I make it a point to come to functions featuring an old friend,” his smile was the same, wondrous to behold, transforming his entire face into light even as it melted his perfect jaw line to multiple chins of mirth.

“Old friends,” she rolled her eyes.

“Polite term,” he grinned.

She vaguely wondered what that impolite term for them would be. Lovers? Fuck buddies? Friends with benefits? She looked deep into his eyes and couldn’t make herself reduce their relationship to callus words and phrases that didn’t quite reflect what they’d shared. They had been each other’s rock, she knew that, but she’d never fooled herself into thinking they would be anything else. It had been the strangest relationship she could imagine, physically demanding, emotionally taxing and simultaneously satisfying her to her core. But they had lived together with the knowledge that there was a temporariness to everything between them, that the peace they found together was just a brief lapse in judgement.

Her thoughts were momentarily interrupted as a pair of surgeons walked up, introducing themselves and looking at Stephen in wonder. She felt grateful that she could melt into his shadow for just a few moments, knowing that anyone would be overshadowed by the Great Stephen Strange. Rayna didn’t mind standing next to him, listening to the confident way he accepted praise, knowing fully well he deserved every single one and making no qualms about it.

“How do you two know each other?” Dr. Simpson was asking, looking at Rayna.

“We did our residency together at New York Gen under Dr. Walsh,” she answered the elderly surgeon, accepting the glass of wine the waiter offered them.

“I didn’t realize!” Dr. Simpson looked astonished, her eyes on Stephen, and Rayna could relate to the feminine appreciation she saw.

“Rayna was always the better doctor,” Stephen was saying, one hand casually in his pocket, his long fingers wrapped around the squat class of whiskey he’d had the waiter bring him, “always gave me a run for my money. Thank God she didn’t stick around or I’d have serious competition,” they all chuckled at the comment and she saw the astonishment that flared in the eyes of the doctors in the little circle that had convened around them. To think that there was another doctor, another surgeon that Dr. Stephen Strange would admit to being inferior to.

But then, whatever impermanence they’d shared, she could at least say they stripped each other of ego.

Rayna’s thoughts drifted as she listened and responded mechanically to the conversation around her, catching his eye every once in a while, watching those crinkles at the edges of his eyes when he smiled for her, winking at her in the secret way he always did. Back in the old days, he would wink at her like that at parties too, or even while they were in class or at work, and she knew it would mean he was going to catch her alone somewhere and devour her. And oh, how she loved it when he feasted on her.

She remembered their little crappy apartment in New York, the cramped space somehow seeming infinite when he was around, every surface seemed to be covered with medical textbooks and notebooks, a pair of scrubs always on display somewhere, announcing to the world that two medical residents lived there. Rayna, a neat freak, would work tirelessly to make sure their place was clean but it always looked disastrous, an inexplicable, permanent hurricane seemed to live in their place. She remembered the warm nights when she’d be studying outside, sitting on the fire escape, listening to the sounds of the city as she studied and strived, the way he’d crawl nimbly out of the window and sit next to her. She’d always put the book and highlighter away and lean back in his arms, and they’d simply breath together.

Looking back now, older and wiser, with enough life experience under her belt to last a regular person thousands of lifetimes, she realized they’d been happy because they knew it wasn’t going to last between them. They had held each other, made love to each other, breathed for each other with the knowledge that there was an end date. And she’d been the one to say good-bye, signing up with Doctors Without Borders not long after she’d completed her residency, and she would forever remember the way he’d kissed her good-bye at the airport.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asked her now, leaning down, his words for her alone, “catch up a little? Talk about the old times? Unless you’re too much of a hot shot right now and can’t be bothered with an old friend.”

Old friend.

She laughed, “sure!” she smiled, “I guess I can make time for you if I must,” she looked at the other doctors they’d been talking, “excuse us.”

*cough @sobeautifullyobsessed cough*

[skybird13]

Some clarifications...

Okay, wow. So apparently the Thrawn-turns-traitor theory has caused quite the disruption in the fandom. And while I love discussion and spirited debate within a fandom (that’s one of the best things about being in a fandom, imo), upset fans is not a good thing. So.

As far as this theory not fitting in with Thrawn’s character, numerous posts have already been made on this point. Check out @inkstranger, @cystemic, and @moomkin92 for a few good arguments on why Thrawn turning traitor actually does fit well into his new canon character. Because of that, I’ll address this as briefly as I can, starting with the main protests from those who don’t like this theory.

First off, Thrawn is a highly logical and complex character. And I think we can all agree that he is nowhere near petty or vindictive enough to target the Death Star simply because it’s getting more attention than his TIEs. I never meant to imply otherwise, and I don’t think anyone else did either. But I’ll get more into why that part of the trailer sparked the return of this theory in a little bit.

Another point of contention seems to be the loss of life. It’s true that Thrawn is significantly bothered by collateral damage and the loss of innocent life. This, too, has been established. However, the keyword here is innocent. As @moomkin92 said, facilitating the deaths of thousands of Imperial military officers and personnel is very different from facilitating the deaths of billions of innocent civilians. Which is the purpose of the Death Star.

Now, keep in mind that Thrawn’s core loyalty, his strongest loyalty, is to his people. If it comes down to the Empire or the Chiss, Thrawn is going to choose the Chiss without hesitation.

So here’s where the theory comes in. Assisting in the destruction of the Death Star, however indirectly, does carry a heavy cost: the loss of every Imperial life on board the station, including people Thrawn respects. However, allowing it to exist carries the following dangers: the loss of billions of lives and entire planets, one of which might eventually be his own. For an analytical person like Thrawn, one of those outcomes is clearly far less desirable than the other. Neither outcome is great, but destroying the Death Star does more ultimate good than bad, and Thrawn is all about “the ends justify the means”. 

That being said, his intentions in helping Galen Erso plant a weakness in the Death Star would be similarly complex. And while doing so would help out the Rebellion, I believe that Thrawn would see this as more of an unavoidable side effect than an actual goal. Remember again that his primary motivation, his reason for living almost, is to protect his people, and this brings me to the strongest argument in favor of this theory.

Thrawn would not weaken the Death Star for the benefit of the Rebellion. He would do so to protect his people. Because if the Empire ever decides to go after the Ascendancy, he would want to give the Chiss a way of combating the Death Star. Because there is no defense against it. The only way to stop it is to destroy it. And rather than wasting time trying to find a way to destroy it after it’s already been turned on them, it would be a very Thrawn thing to do to plant something in advance as a sort of safety switch. Because this is what Thrawn does. He plays the long game. And he’s not stupid. He certainly knows that the Emperor would dispose of his people in a heartbeat if he thought it necessary.  

Also remember that Thrawn is in the Empire because he needs its strength to defend his people. Giving the Rebels this weakness serves as a sort of test of this strength, because if the Rebels manage to destroy the Death Star, the Empire is not, in fact, strong enough for his purposes. And, hearkening back to his conversation with Nightswan, if the Empire and Rebellion are squabbling, it could provide a more appealing target for that unknown evil, thus buying himself, his people, and Eli more time to figure out how to defeat it.

Planting a weakness in the Death Star is, in my opinion, classic new-canon Thrawn. It serves multiple purposes at once, plans for the long term, and ensures that his people have a defense against it if necessary.

Now let me address why the Rebels S4 trailer in particular brought this theory back up for me. I came at this with my original post not from the perspective of a viewer or a fan, but from the perspective of a writer. I’ve been writing and studying stories since I was a kid. I am intimately familiar with their construct.

In order to pull off a twist as massive as Thrawn being involved in the destruction of the Death Star, you must foreshadow the hell out of it. The interesting part of this is that the foreshadowing is, in fact, there. His conversation with Nightswan about weakening a lesser opponent to distract a larger threat is one form of foreshadowing. The other is the fact that the Death Star was a recurring focus for Thrawn throughout the novel, and he had an obvious dislike for it. Even Eli’s distaste for it is another piece of the set up.

Now we have the Death Star being brought into Rebels S4. From the perspective of a writer, it wasn’t so much the context in which it was brought in, it was the fact that it is brought in at all. And specifically, that it is brought in as a plot line for Thrawn himself. It is a direct continuation from the book, which is where all that foreshadowing lies.

I’m not saying this is going to happen. I’m not even saying it’s likely. I’m saying that, from the perspective of a writer, it’s possible. It’s feasible. Because the set up for it is there. If the Rebels team wanted to use it, all of the groundwork for this twist was laid out in the novel. They would have had to do a little more foreshadowing in this upcoming season of the show to really make it a strong, believable turnaround for Thrawn, but they really wouldn’t have to do a lot.

So there it is. My reasons for why I am partial to this theory. It works for the character: his motivations, his loyalties, and his MO all line up with him taking this action. It also makes my writer’s senses tingle, because I love massive set ups like this.

Hopefully this helps mitigate some of the upset caused by this theory. You are more than free to disagree with everything I just said. Again, that’s the beauty of a fandom: being able to discuss and debate and challenge one another in a respectful and civil fashion over something we all love. And that can’t happen if we all agree on everything. So disagree. Debate. But have fun with it, allow others to have fun with it, give others the respect for their opinions that you also deserve for yours, and remember that at the end of the day, we’re all here because we love Thrawn.