#anyway. enough about that

[seoulmatez]

hi hi, i hope everyone is having a wonderful day! ദ്ദി(｡•̀ ᗜ^) ♡

[corellianhounds]

“The Jedi” AU

Media: The Mandalorian

Word Count: 4.1k

Rating: Gen.

Warnings: None

Art Credit: Anton Grandert

Summary: What if Ahsoka wasn’t the Jedi on Corvus?

Mando doesn’t go through with Bo-Katan’s heist after she changes the terms of their deal midway through the mission and instead jumps ship prior to the full takeover, leaving her and the Nite Owls to the consequences of their deception. Since he does not receive intel about a Jedi from Kryze, he researches the Jedi and other followings of the Force himself, hoping for any clue that might guide him to a mentor for the child. His findings direct him to a settlement on Corvus known for having disciples of a religion that may give him some answers.

The figure moves like a wraith through the smog. The hired guns whip around at every crackle of foliage, every snap of a branch that might relay their adversary’s location. They fire at shadows in the mist, hearing nothing but singed wood and the screams of their fellow men echoing around them. Still they find nothing in the swirling dark until a bright, iridescent light streaks through the air and another mercenary falls. Humans, Kubaz, Geranites— each of them as different from the last and none of them stand a chance of escape or victory while the Jedi hunts.

Lang stands atop the watchtower to the left of the magistrate. Elsbeth watches impassively as the light darts impossibly between the geography of the wastes, steadily drawing closer to the gate. Another mercenary’s cry is silenced and a hush falls over the night watch.

Slowly a hooded figure emerges from the smog, their cloak rolling back in an unnatural wind so Elsbeth can see them clearly without mistaking who they are and why they are there.

Elsbeth watches, and she waits.

Slowly the figure lowers their hood and finds the eyes of the magistrate.

“Your reign over these people has far outlasted my patience, Elsbeth. Surrender yourself and I’ll consider sparing your life.”

Elsbeth sniffs in derision. “You won’t receive the information you seek, Jedi, and I have as many guns as I do civilians within these walls. How many of their lives is your mission worth?”

The Jedi doesn’t waver. Elsbeth can feel their presence lurking on the outskirts of her mind, but she has had nearly triple the time and experience they have to hone her psyche, and the resistance they meet is impenetrable. The Jedi’s reputation means nothing to her, regardless of their rumored origin and past.

The men around her are more easily suggestible though, and she can feel their mounting trepidation as they try not to fidget in place, their mental fortitude wavering under the Jedi’s intimidation.

The figure speaks again in a tone that brooks no argument. “You have one day to surrender, or you and the lives of your men will be considered forfeit. I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”

And with that the Jedi turns and disappears into the wastes.

“Double the guard,” Elsbeth tells Lang. “Track their movements. When you’ve subdued them, bring them to me. Jedi or not, they’ll bleed all the same.”

“At your command,” Lang says, and then he leaves.

The Mandalorian passes the capital city of Calodan, finding a clearing in the ashen trees out beyond the city walls to land the Crest. Corvus, though a terrestrial forest planet, appeared to be the site of major manufacturing and exports, the toll of the factories affecting the surrounding landscape and atmosphere. He didn’t have a rebreather small enough for the child and was loathe to take him out in the haze, knowing how detrimental the brown smog of industrial refinery planets could be, but he was hesitant to leave him onboard the ship without knowing how long the roundtrip back to the Crest would take.

Sighing and feeling like he was making yet another compromise to the kid’s overall safety, he picked the boy up and slid him into the satchel at his side, making a mental note to look for a filter while he was in the market.

As Mando trekked through the dead forest towards Calodan, he couldn’t help but feel a mounting sense of unease at their surroundings. Shadows shifted between ashen trunks, the unseen wings of unseen things displacing the smog beyond what his sensors could pick up in the helmet. His hand tightened on the satchel and he made note of each landmark, hoping they could make a quick return back the way they came.

The Mandalorian arrived at a thick stone and iron wall with a gate guarded by a dozen men carrying heavy repeating blaster rifles. A thirteenth stood at the center bereft of a rifle but wearing armor not unlike Guild hunters or retired-soldiers-turned-mercenaries. Mando came to a stop several meters from the door.

“State your business,” the captain of the guard called.

“I’m here to restock supplies,” Mando said. “Just passing through.”

The guard looked him over. “You Guild?”

“I’m not on assignment.”

The guard watched him a moment longer but gestured for the others to open the gate as he spoke into a comm, and the Mandalorian went through. The level of heightened security was concerning: he hadn’t found anything during his search to suggest Calodan was under a military occupation. The guards on the wall and inside the gate weren’t uniform in appearance or armament though, and his suspicions grew the farther he traveled into town. Though there were market stalls set up and people milling through the streets, it was too quiet to suggest this was the regular atmosphere of barter and trade. Even Nevarro had a climate of conversation and busyness to the average working day despite the most common trades there being in black market goods and bounty hunting.

Vendors avoided his gaze as he passed. Windows were shuttered, homes and businesses boarded up or padlocked from the outside. Guards were stationed nearly every other street, not even conversing with one another. He was able to buy a few necessities, but any small talk or questions about the town were rebuffed or dismissed with a grunt. “Best not to ask questions,” they said, swiftly pocketing the credits and refusing more in his attempt to gather information.

The unsettling disquiet only thickened with the draw of dusk. He hadn’t seen another child the entire time he’d been on the planet.

Eventually the Mandalorian passed the stoop of what used to be a healing house, looking down the alley to an older man with short black hair and deep lines etched into his face. Out of everybody Din had passed that day, he was the only one others of the city had collectively drawn to, and the only one whose eyes followed the Mandalorian in the crowds besides the guards. Din saw no market goods or exchange of coin, no ledger recording appointments for services. Nothing except a walking staff and the bearing of a weary man who had once been in a position of leadership.

The man watched him from the corner of his eye as he spoke in hushed voices with a younger man and a Twi’lek woman. Upon seeing the Mandalorian stop at the mouth of the alley, he waved them away down the other end, folding his hands into his sleeves on his approach. The knotwork lotus trim edging the collar and foot of his robe was worn from excessive time spent outside and walking the streets, and his shoes were worn thin enough the soles were coming loose.

The kid perked up, shifting in the satchel as he looked out over the edge.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the man said quietly in greeting. “Be gone by sundown.”

Mando held up a hand. “I’m looking for somebody. I won’t be long.”

“You shouldn’t have come in the first place,” the man said. “Assume everything you say in this city is under suspicion. Don’t speak with anyone else or that suspicion will be cast on them when you leave.”

Din frowned. “Can you tell me what’s happening here? Where is everybody?”

Before the man had the chance to answer, Din heard footsteps behind him.

“The magistrate would like to see you.”

The Mandalorian turned to see two of the city guards. He didn’t think their statement was a suggestion.

As he turned to leave he could still feel the eyes of the older gentleman on his back. The rear cams of the HUD in his helmet revealed nothing but the man’s retreating figure as he took his staff and slipped back into the shadows of the buildings and disappeared.

The estate the magistrate resided in was at least another kilometer into town by foot, an escorted walk Mando didn’t have much choice in making. He knew he could still jet out of range and head back to the Crest if things broke bad, but it would make any visible return to the city near impossible, and the Armorer had said the governor of the capital would be his best source of information anyway; she’d said they were a former member of the old religion themselves before giving up their place of service for a position in politics. If the magistrate reported to them, he might be able to negotiate a meeting.

The guards didn’t speak beyond giving blunt directions from behind him. The child shifted in the satchel, and Din knew he had to be restless from the long afternoon spent mostly people-watching, unable to stretch his legs. Din rested his hand over the bag, willing the boy to be patient a while longer.

He the buzzing in the air before he even saw them. As they turned down the brick street he could see the tops of trees and a manor house peeking over a thick stone wall, but more noticeable was the street itself leading to the gate boasting several gibbets forcing prisoners to stand upright inside electrical cages. All had thin clothes and were in varying stages of exhaustion, their feet blackened and skin dirty. Every face spoke to more than a few days of misery.

Two of them tried to speak as he passed by, but the croaked out words were almost indecipherable. They might have been asking for help.

As they wavered on their posts the red electricity sizzled and crackled across them, gasps of pain following. Din’s stomach rolled, his guarded opinion of the magistrate dropping to nothing. The smell of burned hair and skin followed as he passed.

Upon his entry to the magistrate’s property, several things became clear to him:

First: Two HK-47 assassin droids stood sentry outside the manor door, freshly oiled and looming.

Second: The magistrate could either devote enough time to tending the gardens of the palatial dwelling herself, or had enough money to pay an expert in horticulture and animal maintenance. Eel koi were notoriously delicate and dangerous animals to keep, and they were, at present, being fed by hand by the woman he assumed had issued his summons. The writhing mass of eels sent ripples across the pool, rocking water lilies and reeds.

And lastly: the crest on the keystone of the archway didn’t match the stylized pattern of the magistrate’s dress, but it did match the brooches on her cloak.

The magistrate looked him over with the eyes of a cat. Her apparent deliberation came to a consensus and her approach over the stone bridge made no sound. She almost seemed to glide, her bearing regal and authoritative. If she’d ever been told No in her life it was when that was the answer she wanted to hear.

“Thank you for coming, Mandalorian,” the magistrate said warmly. The smile didn’t reach her eyes and Din thought it wise not to point out his lack of say in his arrival. “Forgive my escort, but we have had some local trouble as of late. I’ve been told you might be able to help.”

“I’m not currently taking commissions,” the Mandalorian said. “I’m just passing through.”

“I think you’ll find my proposition interesting,” the magistrate said. “And my lieutenant tells me you are the best there is at what you do. I have been plagued by a rogue assailant terrorizing my city, and I want you to kill them.”

“Like I said, I’m only passing through.”

The magistrate hid a smile in the corners of her mouth, and with a gesture one of the assassin droids disappeared behind another archway. “My lieutenant also tells me you may be persuaded by means other than credits. It might interest you further to know that the target is a Jedi.”

Din shifted, his left hand resting over the satchel.

“The historic enemies of the Mandalorians were once thought to be extinct, but this target has proven they can be none other than one of their kind. Kill them, and in exchange I offer this.”

The assassin droid returned while the magistrate was talking, carrying a long, gleaming weapon it handed off to the woman, who in turn held it out to the Mandalorian in upturned palms.

Carefully, Mando stepped forward until he could reach out and take the spear the magistrate held. The weight in his hands was immediate and familiar, the polished sheen of the metal flawless. It had been masterfully crafted, artfully formed, and spoke to years of dedicated workmanship behind the forge. Mando held the spear up, feeling the perfect balance at its midpoint before he lifted his left arm and struck the spear against his vambrace.

The clear ringing tone of metal on metal sang in the twilight, spreading throughout the garden like the reverberations of a bell.

“Beskar,” he said quietly.

“Pure beskar,” the magistrate said. “It is yours in exchange for proof the Jedi has been terminated.”

The Mandalorian considered the spear a moment longer, then returned it to the magistrate. “What do I need to know?”

“… What is that thing?”

Lang was an ex-military gun for hire the last time Mando had heard of him and it didn’t appear as though anything had changed. A seasoned spec-ops mercenary, proficient survivalist, tactical ranger, and hand-to-hand fighter, he’d risen through the ranks of the Guild with aplomb nearly a decade before Din was initiated himself. He was known for being fairly unassuming, quick and clean about his work and good with money. He worked alone more often than not but ran point when crews were needed on jobs infiltrating and extracting Guildsmen, civilians, and criminals alike from whatever walls they’d found themselves trapped behind. He ran a tight ship and never left a job undone, calculating and lethally efficient in a number of proficiencies, and he expected nothing less than perfection from those placed under his command, as severe a hunter as he was a soldier. He didn’t stand out in a crowd and he made his business clear with each target he acquired, no performance or intimidation needed beyond his presence alone.

He was also one of the most brutally efficient gunmen the Guild had seen in recent history and cared little for what happened to the people under his employers’ thumbs, provided he was paid at the end of the day. His indifferent disregard of the civilians in the electrified cages outside the magistrate’s manor told Din all he needed to know about Lang’s position there in Calodan under Morgan Elsbeth’s command.

Mando glanced at Lang from the side, seeing him eye the kid.

“Business associate,” he grunted.

Lang snorted, amused. “Well, you’ll need all the help you can get, where you’re headed. Keep your wits about you— The mist does strange things to your mind.”

Dusk fell as the Mandalorian left the walls of Calodan. Once they passed the sickly treeline beyond sight of the gate he pulled the child out of the satchel and let him stretch, but carried him all the same as he trekked out into the wastes. He didn’t trust the look of the ground, poisoned by industrial smoke and dampened by acid rain. According to his recent archival searches, the planet’s vegetation had only succumbed to the effects of the industrial runoff once Elsbeth arrived and set up shop some years before, but the details were vague on what she produced or who she sold it to. If he had to guess based on the readout of the smog’s chemical makeup, heavy arms and munitions were a strong contender, and factories and shipyards of the size he’d seen on their circuit through the northern hemisphere bore a striking resemblance to those of Kuat and Corellia.

Every crackle of foliage and shifting stone had him on high alert. Shadows bent and twisted in unnatural ways, the outlines of rock faces almost blurred around the edges. Din kept a steady stride, but couldn’t help but feel like there were figures lurking between the trees, watching them in the mist. He could see no lifeforms on his scanners, but it was a big galaxy; there was no way for technology to account for every phenomenon beyond human understanding. He turned down a path around another rock formation and continued forward.

The child, undeterred by the mysterious fog, perked up as he took in their surroundings. The trees were beginning to cast long shadows in the setting sun, and the Mandalorian tread carefully to avoid the fallen branches. Southwest, the magistrate had said, until he crossed over into the natural cairns that bordered the rocky wastes at the edge of the black forest. The sun was setting fast though, and without knowing what or who to expect, Din was uneasy at the prospect of coming face to face with them in the dark. All the magistrate had told him was that they were inhumanly fast and had torn her men to shreds with the aid of a lightsaber.

When he’d spoken to the Armorer on Ceredo, she’d told him of the preferred weapon of the jetiise: a hilt of a sword without crossguard or sheath housing a beam of pure light powered by rare, archaic crystals, a blade capable of cleaving metal as easily as bone. She’d never encountered one herself and was unsure of their exact construction, the craft typically only undertaken by those who wielded them, but she told him beskar was stronger. That didn’t mean the heat transfer couldn’t seep through the metal, but if their people’s historic enemies still bore a grudge against the Mandalorians, having the armor on gave him a better chance of survival if he ever wound up on the wrong side of the blade.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long.

When Mando and the child stopped to rest, Mando pulled the strap of the bag containing the boy over his shoulder and set him to the side, following the move with his rifle. The boy wiggled out, inspecting the stone beneath his feet as Mando scanned their surroundings. Night was falling fast, and just as the Mandalorian stepped away and turned the bend to scope the horizon, a shadow registered on the HUD and he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps behind him.

Whipping around, Din drew his blaster, and his eyes widened in horrified recognition as the silhouette of a cloaked figure emerged from the fog. Clad in black from head to toe, his face obscured, all Din could register was the blinding light of a blade streaking into existence in front of his very eyes.

No, Din thought desperately, No it can’t be, he’s— he’s dead, he’s supposed to be dead—

Mando brought his left arm up on reflex, blocking the strike of the sword with his vambrace and feeling the heat behind it as his adversary bore down on him two-handed. He twisted, knocking the blade to the side before decking the Moff in the face— His adversary grunted in pain but kept his footing, darting around him and twirling the luminous blade to strike again as Mando fired.

How did he survive? How did he find them?

The Moff’s deflection sent the bolt of Mando’s pistol back at him and shot the gun from his hand.

Where did he get a lightsaber?

The Mandalorian growled in fury, blocking each blow in quick succession. He had to lead him away from the kid, he had to put space between them—

Mando ducked and the Moff’s sword carved through the dead tree behind him, sending it to the ground in smoldering pieces. Mando grabbed his gun. He heaved himself up out of a roll and raised his fist, firing a volley of whistling birds, only for the Moff’s saber to skillfully sweep through the air faster than Din could even see, a spray of shrapnel blowing past either side of his body. Din’s eyes widened and he had half a second to block the next strike, gritting his teeth as his mind raced, driving the Moff back with all his might.

He shoved his gun back in his holster, needing both hands to block the lightsaber’s blows. A plume of fire ejected into the air, forcing the figure back even farther as he exhausted the first reserve of his flamethrower. His vision cleared as a streak of light swiped through the smoke to hit his pauldron, sparks flying as he dodged, rolling to the side and thrusting his right fist forward: with a sharp *thwip* his whipcord wrapped around the biceps and chest of the presumed-dead Imperial, banding his arms to his side, and the Mandalorian ignited his jetpack and shot upward into the air. Mando jerked him to the side before the saber could slice through the cord, feeling the housing run hot in his bracer at the combined force and speed with which he reeled the Moff up; he dropped heavily over the branch of a tree, snarling as he swung down and met the other man’s momentum square in the chest with both feet.

The Moff grunted, sailing back, but then, in what Din thought was an uncharacteristic display of grace, he twisted upside down and deftly cut through the whipcord, landing in a crouch. His opponent’s hood fell back and confusion flickered in the periphery of Din’s mind, realization staying his hand as he landed, and in that split-second hesitation the swordsman lunged. Din deflected the blade, blocking again and again as the man caught him on the backfoot, forcing his boots to skitter over loose rocks and earth back towards the rock formation he’d first started from, the rifle and empty satchel within arm’s reach. The blade cracked off the rocks behind him, and as the man struck again Din crossed his bracers in front of his visor and yelled:

“Wait!”

The swordsman shoved off several feet but otherwise remained still, the lightsaber humming with unearthly energy in front of him. His stance was controlled and ready, his cowl down around his neck. A flicker of scrutiny passed over his face and he narrowed his stance.

“Sorry,” the other man said, lowering the glowing phantasmal sword enough to see the Mandalorian. “Thought you were somebody else.”

Blood dripped from his opponent’s nose and chin as he watched the Mandalorian, standing almost eerily still, and Din uncrossed his arms but kept his hands raised in a show of good faith. “Are you the Jedi?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you’re here to kill a Jedi or not.”

“I was hired to.” Mando slowly straightened, keeping his hands steady. “But I wasn’t going to follow through. I’ve been told you may be able to help me.”

“What kind of help would you need from me?” the swordsman asked evenly.

Din gestured behind himself. He knew the child had to have hidden at the first sound of conflict, but now he could feel the boy come up behind him from wherever he’d crawled out of hiding as the noise died down. His ward scooted closer to his back, clinging to his cloak as Din tried to regain his breath. “The child. I’ve been looking for someone to train him.”

At the mention of a child the Jedi straightened, relaxing almost completely, though his frown deepened. “You have a Force-sensitive child?”

Din didn’t know what a Jedi was supposed to look like. The Armorer’s description of the historical sorcerers conjured up images of drawings in children’s stories, the long robes and mystical lights swirling around spindly, gnarled hands. The man in front of him looked like a commoner out of place on the corroded forest planet. If he weren’t dressed entirely in black, Din wouldn’t have singled him out in a crowd.

The boy behind the Mandalorian finally peeked around his arm, and the Jedi’s look of amazement was visible even from a distance. His immediate extinguishment of the saber startled Din as he hooked it to his belt and strode forward, and Din’s hand reflexively went back to his holster.

The Jedi halted, hands raised, surprised. He continued to approach, slowly this time after Din relaxed and then, of all things, apologized. “Sorry. I’ve met very few others sensitive to the Force, and I’ve only known one other—” (He gestured to the child) “— Who looked like him.”

“You… recognize his species?”

The Jedi stopped a few feet away. “One of my own Jedi masters.” He tilted his head to get a better look at the kid and smiled warmly before looking back at the Mandalorian. “May I?”

Mando carefully stepped aside, allowing him to see the boy. The swordsman came forward and crouched down, holding out his left hand in greeting as he smiled, and Din’s stomach lurched as the child took hold of it with both of his own.

“Hey, kid,” the Jedi said. “My name is Luke.”

Notes

The phrase “the unseen wings of unseen things” is a direct pull from The Last Basselope by Berk Breathed.

[beetleandfox]

obsessed with the Helena and Irving parallel and what it says about the aspects of our identity we think are fundamental (but aren't)...

Like Outie Irving assumes his Innie is just as radically anti-Lumon as he is. He assumes his hatred of Lumon is something ingrained in his personality! That's why he stays up at night drinking coffee and making paintings, because he hopes that when his innie dreams about the testing floor, he'll say "okay bet" and start exploring. That's what Outie Irving would do, after all. But he miscalculated! His hatred of Lumon isn't inherent--- his desire for meaning and art and spirituality is inherent. That's what his hatred for Lumon is built on. But in a world where there's no meaning outside of Lumon propaganda, of COURSE his innie would become ridiculously devoted to the company.

And Helena!! She is the corporation, that's her whole identity. She presumably assumed that Helly would be just as pro-Lumon as she is. But she miscalculated too! Her devotion to the company isn't inherent, her headstrong and entitled nature is what's inherent! And in a world where she's denied any agency whatsoever, that manifests as rebellion.

It's the same dynamic flipped on its head. They both sent their innies in there with opposite intentions--- one to take down the company, one feed the company's expansion--- only to realize that rebellion and devotion aren't inherent characteristics. Their innies have become the exact opposite of their outie selves, while still being exactly the same!! Because even though your personality is inherent, the values you hold are determined circumstantially. OUGH IT'S SO GOOD.

[nemesis-is-my-middle-name]

that article going around abt firefox's new ad program is annoying bc it's phrased as though "mozilla has finally TURNED on its people and is SELLING YOU OUT for cold hard cash!!" when. that's not what's happening. it is specifically being implemented to discourage tracking behavior, and literally all the data they are giving to advertisers is aggregate and anonymized, which is like, the opposite of what that post wants you to worry about, lol

[owlpero]

free will is all about headcanoning your faves as autistic

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[stemmmm]

more people gotta try this shit where bill has not improved and will not change but he's just chilling so its fine probably. its great

[qvert]

Refuge at the Firelight Hideout

[creekfiend]

something that drives me insane on a relatively regular basis as a body jewelry understander is talking to people who have sensitive skin who are like "oh well I just can't wear any earrings without my ears getting inflamed" and I say "well what have you tried" and they say "well I've tried sterling silver and I've tried gold..." and it's like. ok. I don't know how gold and sterling somehow got spun by the jewelry industry as being especially good for sensitive skin but whenever I'm like "well have you tried implant grade titanium" they're always like "no....... but I've tried sterling silver... and it didn't work ..." like. I don't know how this narrative about sterling silver somehow got so strong but when they put pins in your fucking legs when you snap your leg in half are those pins made of sterling silver or are they made of implant grade titanium or surgical steel????????? HELLO. HI. YOU MIGHT BENEFIT FROM TRYING IMPLANT GRADE TITANIUM I AM JUST SAYING

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

"you should wake up early to watch the sun rise!" is actually the dumbest possible way to guilt trip people into getting up early. hello, the sunset? exists too? every day even. and is equally gorgeous. and fits into many people's free time. you're awake, work's over and holyshit--THATSA SUNSET BABY!!!

[hoshizoralone]

reflection

[silosbears]

i think alphonse would still experience depersonalization and dysmorphia even after getting his body back

[dovewingkinnie]

where was yarnaby when the doctor got snatched

[hinamie]

morning glory

[digitalmyyth]

Shenanigans ensue

[squshymarsh]

DcxDp brain worm #6

Okay. The usual Danny is related to a Batfam member. This time it’s Tim.

The twist, they both know of each other and that Danny was practically pawned off by the Drake parents to the Fentons then legally adopted. But for some reason or another the rest of the bats have no idea and Tim ain’t dragging Danny into this either so he ain’t saying shi to anyone.

Not Danny and definitely not the Batfam. Neither know about either.

That is until Tim gets onto Ra’s radar. Ya know the whole obsessed old man who keeps his spleen in a jar. Only when the demon head realizes he’s not getting to Tim through the usual means he goes for a different approach.

Stealing his little detectives younger brother. Either for creepy this is the next best thing to Tim or to try and force Tim’s hand for something or other.

Cue Danny being super confused as to why yet another crazy old dude is going on about detectives and heirs while having him tied up precariously and dangerously close to a massive puddle of the most putrid ecto ever. It’s so bad it’s making his eyes water and skin itch.

Then he gets even more confused when his brother comes in dressed to the nines in vigilante garb followed by the Funeral Furries of Gotham.

Danny just wanted to go home.