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imgeekgirlfan · 1 month

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The Curse of Cassandra [EP : V]

Read in Ao3 : here

Pairings: Qimir x f!reader(SEA Reader) [The Acolyte]

Content waring: a lot of blood, mind manipulation, referenced violence and murder, mention of killing killing killing and also killing

tags/themes: Alternate Universe - Dune & Star wars, Partners in Crime, Strangers to Lovers

Summary: Today is the last day of your life. That is what you have seen in your vision. You prepare yourself and accept the unchangeable fate, unaware that your destiny has already been altered. and you cannot predict what kind of fate awaits you ahead.

Status: work in progress (This is a long fanfic that will be about 10+ chapters.)

A/N: still bummed about The Acolyte being canceled and unsure if I should continue this fic. However, Thanks to everyone who’s followed along—this fandom is amazing, and I love you all.

➡ Intro // EP : I // EP : II // EP : III // EP : IV // EP : VI // EP : VII

[Episodes 5] When you have lived with prophecy for so long, the moment of revelation is a shock.

Everything happens for a reason.

Your mother once taught you this, speaking of how fate works from the perspective of a seer.

The words suddenly come to mind again as you follow Qimir up onto the Fallon, the ship hidden in the darkness of Tatooine's vast desert—your home planet.

"The desert is your home and your tomb," you murmur absently. A sudden realization dawns in your consciousness. It’s happening, you think with dread, your pulse racing erratically. You’ve seen this scene a hundred times before, yet it still feels surreal as it unfolds before your eyes.

Four months—precisely. No more, no less. This is the exact time Qimir has to deliver you to his employer, as stipulated in the contract.

And it might just be the last stretch of your life, along with everyone else on this ship.

A new alertness grows rapidly within you as you step forward into the unfamiliar cargo ship. Everything is pristine, modern, and expensive. The air inside is cool, courtesy of the automated climate control system, yet you feel anything but comfortable. Partly because of the thick, heavy metal cuffs clamping down on your wrists, and partly because of the piercing gazes of the three guards, who look identical in their matching gray uniforms. They follow close behind, laser guns in hand, watching your every step without blinking. If you make even the slightest suspicious move, they won't hesitate to shoot you down instantly.

For a brief moment, your mind retreats into a temporary calm—a sense of resigned acceptance of a fate that can no longer be altered.

You shift your focus to the figure ahead—the tall, familiar man walking a short distance away. Qimir’s expression is as unreadable as a statue, devoid of any emotion. You can’t tell what he’s feeling at this moment. Perhaps he’s relieved, finally rid of the burden that is you.

A soft, cynical laugh escapes your lips. You can’t help but pity yourself.

So this is your reward for saving his life. In the end, he still sells you out for the bounty.

Before you could take another step, Qimir suddenly halted, causing you to stop as well. He turns to face you as if he had known you were watching him all along. It seems like he wants to say something, but the words never come. So, you decide to speak first.

"I should have left you to rot there," you say. The words sound harsh, but your tone lacks any trace of resentment.

A part of you wants to be angry at Qimir, but you know you deserve to be angrier at yourself. Who else could you blame? You chose this path willingly. It was your own weakness, your own foolish attachment, that led you to this pitiful end.

You notice Qimir's brow furrow, a look of surprise on his face, but you have no chance to hear his response as the barrel of a gun presses hard into your back, forcing you to move in another direction. The guard behind you roughly pushes you forward, guiding you toward the ship's holding cells, where you will await whatever fate has in store for you next.

Before you are taken away, you glance back at Qimir one last time. That was when you caught sight of the person who had hired him. The other man stepped out from the opposite door of the ship and approached Qimir with an air of authority.

The man was an elderly Neimoidian, his skin mottled in shades of gray and green, as was typical of his species. Tall and thin to the point of looking like a matchstick, he was dressed in luxurious dark silk robes with the peculiar headdress common to the Trade Federation. His large, piercing red-gold eyes, sharp as a hawk's, met yours in return, studying your deep blue irises with a hint of satisfaction before nodding to Qimir.

You didn’t know the name of this old stranger, and you were certain he didn’t know yours either. But he knew who you were and what you were capable of. That’s why he had gone to such lengths to obtain you.

Death was drawing near. You could feel it in your bones—the malevolent intent of something hidden, something that would soon be revealed.

The dark metal box was opened, revealing a collection of rare and priceless materials neatly arranged inside, their surfaces gleaming as they caught the light. Qimir picked up a Nova Crystal, inspecting it briefly before setting it back down with little interest. He had no desire for it, but he was compelled to take it as part of the reward specified in the contract.

But in truth, there was only one thing he had ever truly sought—only one object that mattered to him.

At the bottom of the box, lay a large piece of Cortosis. It had been carefully concealed, meant to be seen only by the bag’s owner and those granted permission to open it. Qimir reached for it next, examining it closely, his fingers tracing the subtle lines of the dull gold metal. It was genuine, he thought, the finest quality he had ever encountered.

The Neimoidians hadn’t exaggerated when they claimed their people could find anything in the galaxy, no matter how rare or scarce it might be.

“Is this all you wanted?” Blex, the branch manager and captain of the Fallon, asked with a hint of uncertainty. He had worked for the Trade Federation for decades, and this was the first time someone had specifically requested Cortosis. Though rare, it wasn’t particularly valuable compared to other metals, minerals, or energy sources that fetched far higher prices.

“Yes, that’s all.” Qimir nodded, carefully placing the cortosis back into the chest and locking it securely. He was well aware of the Neimoidians' curiosity regarding his unusual request. To most, Cortosis seemed like a worthless scrap, its softness making it nearly impossible to forge into weapons or armor. But Qimir knew its value far exceeded what others might assume.

“You’ve done well.” The old man wasn’t stingy with his praise. He had a particular fondness for bounty hunters who weren’t foolish and didn’t greedily demand more than they deserved. “I expect we’ll be working together often in the future.”

Qimir responded with a broad grin. For a moment, Blex felt an odd discomfort at the sight of that grin, but the feeling quickly passed. In the next instant, the human’s face returned to its usual friendly demeanor.

"I have a small question," Qimir began, his voice casual and still smiling. "You’re not planning to kill that woman, are you?"

The elderly Neimoidian let out a snort, as if he was on the verge of laughing. "Kill her? What nonsense are you spouting? Why would I kill something so useful?"

"Useful?" Qimir echoed, raising an eyebrow in curiosity. "What use could she possibly have?"

Blex hesitated, realizing he had let slip something he shouldn’t have. "Nothing," he waved dismissively. "You’ve got what you came for, so be on your way. Don’t waste my time with unnecessary questions. My time is money, boy."

Normally, Blex would be quite irritated by anyone prying into his business affairs. But this time, he was in too good a mood to bother with an ill-mannered bounty hunter. The old man could hardly wait to leave this place and present that woman as a gift to the head of the Trade Federation.

This is an incredibly worthwhile investment. Blex thought gleefully, considering what he stood to gain from his superior. That woman was worth more than a hundred Nova crystals or Aurodium ingots combined.

Qimir, however, remained still, even after being told to leave. His gaze drifted out the ship’s window, where nothing but the faint glimmer of distant stars, silent and desolate. The Neimoidians were a cautious and paranoid race. They had chosen the rendezvous point carefully to ensure there were no outside witnesses and minimize the risk of any unexpected dangers.

How ironic he mused with grim amusement. A race so paranoid, and yet not a single one of them realized that the real danger wasn’t outside the ship—it was inside.

"You don’t need to answer my question." Qimir's voice suddenly turned chillingly cold, the smile vanishing as quickly as his demeanor shifted, as if he were an entirely different person. "Because I can extract the answer from your mind anyway."

He raised his hand, and with a single flick, the Neimoidian’s body seemed to be constricted by some invisible force, lifted into the air, and violently yanked toward him. Within seconds, Blex's throat was clutched in Qimir’s grip. The Neimoidian’s greenish face darkened as the grip around his throat tightened.

In that instant, Blex felt a sharp intrusion of the force, penetrating his cerebrum and dissecting his memories piece by piece. The pain was excruciating, as if a real blade were slicing into his brain.

Blex's eyes widened even further as he stared at Qimir. The realization of truth in this moment between life and death brought a mixture of surprise and terror beyond words. "Y-you... You have the force. Are you a Jedi?"

"Not exactly, but close enough," Qimir shrugged, a mocking laugh escaping his lips—a laugh that could easily send chills down anyone's spine. "If I had more time, I'd let you guess again, but unfortunately, time is money."

Blex didn’t even get the chance to beg for his life. As soon as the mind-reading process was complete, the Neimoidian merchant’s neck was snapped with swift precision. Qimir discarded the lifeless body like a piece of trash, throwing it to the ground before glancing up at the ship’s ceiling. He noticed the lights abruptly turning red, followed by the shrill blare of the alarm echoing throughout the spaceship.

Qimir began calculating in his mind.

There were about three minutes before every guards on the ship would storm his position, and it would take at least another five minutes to kill anyone who stood in his way to reach his second target, who was now securely locked in the holding cell on the lowest level of the ship.

Eight minutes is too long he thought, quickening his pace, not wasting any more time.

As he walked, his thoughts drifted to you—the somber expression on your face, your strange mannerisms and words, and those blue eyes that always seemed to carry a hidden burden, as if you were harboring a crucial secret.

Qimir had never understood you, not even a little. He always thought of you as a living enigma, a puzzle he would never be able to solve.

But now he finally understood everything.

Eight minutes.

You think as you peer through the bars, noticing the two guards stationed outside your cell—a surprisingly small number, likely because they see you as nothing more than an ordinary woman, harmless and lacking the strength to retaliate.

“I don’t see why I have to waste my time guarding her too. One of us is enough. What could she possibly do?” One of the guards, whom you’ve privately nicknamed 'Scarface' because of the large scar on his face, grumbles to his companion. Despite the distance between your cell and the guards’ station, you hear every condescending word with crystal clarity.

These men underestimated you, and it was likely that many here, except for the Neimoidian merchant, didn’t even know who you really are or what you’re capable of. Their negligence in handling your imprisonment was unforgivable—like locking your arms tightly but forgetting to gag you.

You know this is your chance, slim as it may be. But it’s better than sitting idly in your cell, awaiting death. You must seize every opportunity and struggle with every ounce of hope left.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep, controlled breath, following the calming techniques your mother taught you. You steady both your body and mind, preparing for what needs to be done.

You know what you need to do. You've trained for this situation before, but the results were often less than successful. It’s an ancient technique that's difficult to learn and even harder to execute. During your training, you failed countless times, leaving you uncertain if you could actually pull it off when it matters most.

In the brief moment of calm, you focus your thoughts, replaying memories of your mother’s teachings. Her voice played in your mind, reminding you of the details you had once studied so intently.

Words, tone, and thought must align as one. For it is the forceful will, distilled from the vocal cords and heart, that becomes a command no one can resist.

You suddenly open your eyes, your thoughts halting as your heightened senses catch the presence of death creeping in from above, gradually drawing nearer.

There's no time left.

The realization sends a tremor through your body. You quickly leap to the bars and shout, "Let me out, now!"

Both guards turn to look at you, puzzled at first, before breaking into loud laughter. “You must be crazy if you think you can command me,” Scarface sneers.

You grit your teeth, knowing you have failed. Your panic made you pitch your voice too high; those men would feel nothing.

You refocus, breathing in rhythm as you had practiced. Your blue eyes gleam with intensity as you fix them on Scarface. This time, your voice rings out clear and unwavering, reverberating through the air—a blend of sharpness and depth that fills the room.

“Take your gun and shoot your friend. Then, release me and kill yourself, you bastard.”

The scarface jolts, his expression suddenly turning to one of impassivity, his eyes empty and emotionless. At that moment, you know you've succeeded.

You wait calmly for the outcome as the scarface turns his laser gun to shoot his own colleague, walks over to unlock the cell door and handcuffs, then lifts the gun to shoot himself in front of you.

It’s as difficult as it is easy you think. An inexplicable feeling takes shape inside you. You're unsure whether it's the sorrow of killing someone for the first time or the thrill of manipulating someone's mind for the first time.

You clench your fists, your palms sweaty, trying to suppress the strange feeling before stepping over the bodies with distaste and quickly moving on to find a way to escape.

However, as soon as you climb up to the top, everything in front of you turns into a nightmare you’ve seen before.

The ship is bathed in red from the emergency lights, and the blood is scattered across the floor and up the walls of the corridor. The more steps you take forward, the more you see corpses strewn across the floor. You smell the blood clearly and hear the moans and cries growing louder after the alarm has ceased. It indicates that some are still alive, but not for long. You've seen it in your dreams. These people will all die, and soon it will be you—the last one alive here.

For a moment, you consider retreating back to the cell, locking yourself away from the outside world, and hiding quietly behind bars until everything is over. But you know that the cell won't help. It will only make you an easy target. You need to get out of this ship before it finds you.

Suddenly, your determined thoughts abruptly stop as you feel a chill run through your entire body.

It’s coming. You can feel it.

Not from the front, but from behind.

Fearful instinct freezes your body like a deer in front of a lion, but curiosity compels you to slowly turn around, just to see it with your own eyes.

What you see leaves you confused rather than scared.

"Qimir,"

You utter it in bewilderment, addressing the man standing there, the one you always thought you knew well. But today, everything is different. His face is cold, and blood was smeared all over his body and face, making it difficult to determine if it was from his own injuries or those of others.

Your eyes widen in disbelief as you look at Qimir, both fearful and astonished.

It can’t be.

You remember the vision vividly. The one who should have appeared here and killed everyone, including you, was the mysterious Sith with the cracked metal helmet. But in reality, Qimir is here, and he is the one who has killed everyone instead of that Sith. This has never appeared in your visions before, not even once.

You and Qimir lock eyes, frozen as if time itself has paused. But finally, it's Qimir who makes the first move. He begins to take a step toward you, but suddenly, you shout, your voice firm and echoing through the air, "Stop. Don't move."

At first, Qimir thinks you’re speaking to him. But as he observes more closely, he notices that your gaze isn’t on him at all but focused somewhere behind him instead. When Qimir turns around, he sees one of the security guards aiming a laser gun at him at a distance close enough to be fatal. Yet, the guard doesn’t pull the trigger. He just stands there, motionless like a statue, except for his eyes, which dart back and forth in terror.

Qimir swiftly raises his knife and slashes the guard's throat, the blade cutting through the major artery with ease.

As the guard's body collapses, you also fall to the ground, blood gushing from your nose down to your chin. You can feel your strength ebbing away, replaced by a sharp pain. It’s the side effect of using your power so abruptly, damaging part of yourself in the process.

You wipe the blood from your face, smearing it across your skin, then slowly force yourself to stand just as Qimir reaches you. He grips your arm, helping you to your feet. You want to pull away, but you have no strength left. Standing on your own is a struggle in itself.

You look up at him, countless questions on the tip of your tongue, but the only words that escape your lips are a faint whisper, "Why?"

Qimir remains silent, and suddenly, he raises his hand. You flinch, the image of being choked by that Sith in your dream flashing through your mind.

But Qimir doesn’t do that. Instead, he gently places his hand on your cheek, his thumb tenderly wiping away tears you hadn't even realized were falling.

In that moment, something deep within you sends a warning, alerting you to the significance of what's happening—a twist in the thread of fate, altered by an unknown variable, changing the course of events at the last possible moment.

You’re unsure and unable to comprehend what is happening until Qimir leans in, so close that your foreheads touch, and answers all your unspoken questions with a kiss.

As your lips meet, breath merging with breath, tongue with tongue, and soul with soul, intertwining and becoming one, you understand. Qimir is everything to you—whether it be the beginning...or your inevitable end.

#star wars #qimir fic #qimir x reader #the acolyte fic #qimir #qimir x y/n #the acolyte #the curse of cassandra #star wars fic #the acolyte x reader #the stranger x reader #qimir x you #the acolyte fanfiction #qimir the acolyte #star wars qimir #qimir the stranger #the acolyte qimir #dune fanfiction #dune fanfic

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emira-addams · 7 months

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Hazbin Hotel - Carmilla x Rosie - The Devil is a Part-Timer - Headcanon

Carmilla gets trapped on Earth with her daughters and Rosie and Velvette, and they need to pretend to be family so as not to attract any attention among the humans as them being demons until they can return to Hell...

The last thing Carmilla could remember was her arguing with Velvette and Rosie knocking on the door

The Overlord-Meeting had just been over, an exhausting meeting and the main topic had been that weird hotel of Lucifer's disillusioned daughter and the probability of the end of the annual exterminations as a result of Adam's death

With the help of her daughters, Carmilla had been packing up her things, Velvette still sitting in her seat with her feet on the table, engaged in a very heated discussion with Carmilla while she tried to get home as soon as possible

Velvette was convinced that they had to fight back and bring down Heaven now while they still had the chance

Suddenly there had been a knock on the door and Rosie was standing in front of her

When Carmilla opened her eyes, she was lying on her back, damp green grass beneath her and the silhouettes of trees and shadows of skyscrapers above her, the red horizon of Hell had been replaced by a dark blue sky, planes and helicopters imitating shooting stars

The noise of the city was terrible, the volume unbearable, shrill sirens and car horns, she had to cover her ears and when she sat up, she realized that she was sitting on the ground in the middle of a park in a big city

Carmilla was not alone

Less than a meter away from their mother, her daughters lay unconscious in the grass, Rosie found herself on her side under a tree and a good distance away, in the mud on the edge of a small lake, they saw Velvette

"W-What happened?" Slowly Rosie came awake, shaking, her balance faltering, and Carmilla needed to help to her feet before the worried mother could go and check on her daughters

"Where are we?" Rosie also seemed completely overwhelmed by the volume, the bright lights and the sheer size of the city; she and Carmilla had never experienced such centralization and automation in their lifetimes

"We're on Earth..." Velvette tried desperately to rub the mud from her clothes, more concerned about her appearance than the fact that they had somehow escaped Hell and were now trapped on Earth

"Why are we on Earth? We have to go back to Hell!"

"What do we do now?" Velvette asks in confusion as they leave the park and stop in front of a large shop window, all of their images appearing strangely human in the reflection

"We'll blend in," Carmilla concludes. "We look like humans, so we act like humans..."

She has a plan and explains to the group that they need to be as inconspicuous as possible, they need to blend into the everyday life of a normal person as much as possible, they shouldn't attract any attention until they have found a way back to Hell and their first step in implementing their plan is to find a place to stay and food to eat

At the city library, Odette forges the right faked documents for them on a computer while the rest of the group searches for ads for cheap housing in newspapers spread everywhere

Odette chooses the obviously simplest option and makes their group into a family that has just moved here from abroad, Carmilla and Rosie playing married parents and Clara, Odette and Velvette becoming sisters on paper

"I'd also need your name for the records, Miss..." requested their landlady.

"Rosie!"

"Your full name with your surname, please, Miss..." replied their landlady, shaking her head.

"Oh... Please excuse me, my full name is Rosie Carmine! We're married!" Rosie pointed to Carmilla with a proud grin, while Carmilla quickly averted her eyes, desperately trying to hide the blush that was now creeping inevitably into her cheeks. Although Odette had already warned her mother that Rosie would be playing her wife, saying it out loud was another matter that inevitably made Carmilla's heart skip a beat. How was she supposed to get used to sleeping in the same bed with Rosie any time soon?

"You really do have three wonderful daughters!" their landlady enthused as she showed them their tiny apartment, which was a one-bedroom unit with an open kitchen and an adjoining bathroom with a shower.

"Don't get the wrong impression, I'm just adopted!" Velvette interjected.

"We still love her just as much as our other two daughters..." Carmilla pressed through gritted teeth as she pulled Velvette into a halfhearted hug. "Play along..." she hissed lowly as Velvette struggled unsuccessfully in her arms.

Carmilla gets a job at a fast food restaurant to make the money for rent and food. In addition, she enrolls her daughters and Velvette in school to maintain their cover. Rosie stays home most of the time, taking care of the household and her family, while she spends her free time researching on the internet and in the surrounding museums and libraries to find out more about their situation and a possible way to get back to Hell.

Velvette is very less than thrilled that she has to live under the same roof as Carmilla, play their daughter and go back to school.

Even though their cover is indeed very convincing, their every move is watched by agents in black suits and black SUV's, which park in the street and near their apartment more and more frequently as the plot progresses. Carmilla is followed on her way to work, Rosie can't go to the supermarket alone once without agents following her through the aisles and Clara, Odette and Velvette are being tailed at school. Who are these people and what do they want from them? Are they well aware that they are from Hell?

I'm still working on this idea, it's in my WIP's and I'd love to write a full fic about it soon. It's more or less a slow burn Blooming Gun fic playing on Earth, with a lot of pure domestic bliss and fluff and some action (involving some secret demon hunting agents from the government), and Carmilla and Rosie secretly crushing on each other.

Carmilla thinks that Rosie is merely playing her role as her wife very convincingly and doesn't dare to explore her feelings much further, while Rosie desperately tries to give Carmilla the hint without actually having to say the words.

Clara and Odette have long since accepted Rosie as their other parent and are enjoying their second chance to live a semi-normal life outside of Hell with their mothers, more or less accepting Velvette as their sister.

After some time, several conflicts and some heartfelt conversations, Carmilla actually adopts Velvette as her daughter. The turning point in their relationship is a situation at school in which Carmilla takes Velvette's side as her mother and defends her as her daughter.

What do you think of this idea for a fic so far?

Do you have any suggestions or any wishes for scenes or content that I definitely need to include?

Masterpost:

Chapter 01:

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herearedragons · 1 month

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Dawn Strider (Pillars of Eternity Pacific Rim AU)

AO3

content warnings: major character injury, major character death, sibling loss

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"C'mon, Edér, lights on!"

Two hands grab him by the shoulders and shake him awake, not stopping until Edér pushes his hands forward blindly and shoves the offender away.

"The Hel you doing?" he growls and sits up, bleary-eyed.

The room is lit up. It doesn't feel even close to morning.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

"Got a kaiju alert," Woden says, and throws a balled-up shirt at his face.

Edér catches it, pulls it on, shakes his head and jumps to his feet.

The annoying beep, beep, beep is catching up to him now, and so is the announcer lady's automated voice, except he's too sleepy to make any sense of what she's saying.

"Next time I'm gonna dump my water bottle on you," Woden says, pulling his pants on.

"Do that, see what you find in your pillow later."

"So you want ice water?”

"Shut up." He's not awake enough to have a better comeback. "What're we fighting?"

Woden zips up his jacket.

"Type 3, codename Saint."

Edér grumbles and runs a hand over his face, willing himself to fully wake up.

"...Yeah, I ain't calling it that."

They step out of the room, head for the elevator.

"Gotta call it something," Woden says.

"That's a dumb-ass name. It’s a monster, not a saint .”

"Well, you name it then. What’s it called?”

Way too early for this.

"...I don't know. Shiny Head."

Woden barks out a laugh, claps a hand on his shoulder.

"See, that's why you're not in charge of naming them," he says. "Now let's get to the dock before Shiny Head wrecks half of Defiance Bay."

Edér doesn’t need to be linked up to his brain to know Woden won’t let him live down Shiny Head for a couple weeks at least.

Their suits are all white plates and black joints, with Dyrwood's stag engraved on one shoulder and Dawnstar Corp’s three-star logo on the other. Can’t really protect you from teeth longer than you are tall, but they're a comforting reminder that soon you'll be way bigger than those teeth, and most anything else that could come at you.

As a side benefit, they also look awesome.

The familiar cold yellow-white-blue lights and the hum of machinery welcome them as they step into the pilots' cabin, and now Edér is wide awake. Awake in the way he's never really been before he first set foot inside of a jaeger; before cheating death over and over again with his brother became routine.

They step into their places: Edér's on the left, Woden's on the right. The machinery shifts; braces click shut around their legs, control discs rise up to meet their hands. Cables come down, attaching themselves to their suits.

The comms go live.

"Good morning, Dawn Strider."

A voice that's also familiar, and not the worst one to hear first thing in the morning. Edér's kind of glad she doesn't see him, though; he's never sure what to do with his face when he talks to her nowadays, whether he should smile or not.

One thing he's certain of, though, and it’s that he can never leave her hanging.

He pushes the comms button.

"Morning, Elafa. How're the kids?"

Her laugh floats through the speakers, a little amused snort.

"Asleep, if they know what's good for them."

Her boys and her husband are far inland, miles and miles away from whatever they'll be dealing with in a second. She doesn't have to worry for them, at least.

Not if Edér and Woden do their job right, which they always do.

"Well if I know anything about you, you run a tight ship," Edér says.

"Damn right I do," Elafa answers.

Woden shoots him a look, half grinning.

"Good thing she can't see inside your head," he says.

Edér grimaces.

It is good that she can’t see. She's married, happily, with kids.

Elafa's voice comes through again; the smile gone, all business now.

"Marshal Webb on deck."

And then:

"Engaging drop."

"Dawn Strider ready for drop," Woden confirms over the comms.

The gravity in the room shifts as the pilots’ cabin – Dawn Strider's head – is released from suspension and dropped down a chute as deep as Defiance Bay's lighthouse is tall.

Even with braces holding them in place, there’s no escaping the weird floaty thrill of free-fall as their insides stop experiencing the pull of Eora for a few seconds.

Edér whoops; Woden echoes with a laugh and a "yeah!" as they fall and fall and fall, until, with a thud that rattles the entire cabin, the head connects to the body.

Even with most of the shock absorbed, it's enough to give them a good shake; if there was still any sleep left in either of them, it's gone now.

The cabin turns left, right, tilts to one side and then the other, the freshly assembled jaeger cracking its neck, testing the security of the connection.

"Coupling confirmed," Elafa reports.

And that’s when Strider’s core kicks into full gear, a steady hum beneath their feet. They’re being transported to the bay exit right about now, but up in the pilots’ cabin, that’s a movement they don’t really feel.

Elafa's voice over the comms again.

"Engaging pilot-to-pilot protocol."

"Dawn Strider ready and aligned," Woden says.

Another voice responds to him: older, harsher.

"Dawn Strider, this is Marshal Eydis Webb. Prepare for a handshake."

"Starting in fifteen seconds," Elafa says, and begins to count down:

"Fifteen. Fourteen."

Woden looks over at Edér, grinning:

"Put all your dirty laundry away?"

"You put away yours?"

"Thirteen. Twelve."

Woden shrugs:

"Don't got any.”

Edér snorts:

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

“Eleven. Ten.”

It's all a bit, obviously. Can't hide anything from the other person when you're drifting.

“Nine. Eight.”

Fears, insecurities, petty grudges, Woden's guilt about sending their parents away, Edér's dumb crush – it's all getting out there. But it's nothing they haven't seen before; both of them have always known what the other was about, long before their brains got hooked up to a computer for the first time.

“Seven. Six.”

That's why they've always had each other's backs. That's why they're good at what they do now.

"Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Engaging neural handshake."

Woden gives him a nod – and then he's gone, and so is Elafa's voice, and so is the pilots' cabin.

Edér's standing in the kitchen of their old house, barely as tall as the table.

Then he's outside, chasing Thuris, and then the scene melts into another and he's in the kitchen again, wrestling the dog down and yelling at him to drop whatever's in his mouth as someone laughs in the background.

Then he's elbow-deep in a tractor's engine, peering up briefly to receive a wrench and some stupid-ass unsolicited advice from himself , about ten years younger, seen through Woden's eyes as he snaps at him to help or get out of the way.

Then they're somewhere else, surrounded by people – enemies – fighting. One of them goes down and the other pulls him right up, nodding in a direction to point out an opening they can use. They lock on, and they go to work.

Then they're seeing their parents off in the airport.

And then they're back in the pilots' cabin, wearing their Dawnstar suits, the shared experience of twenty-seven years lived together circulating between their minds and Strider's mainframe.

"Neural handshake strong and holding," Elafa reports, and her voice stirs up joy and repressed affection and amusement and a tinge of pity towards themselves, and then they gather it all up and put it away, clearing the channel, centering themselves each in his own body again.

"Left hemisphere calibrating."

But aside from their own bodies there's also Strider, alive with its roaring core and joints the size of a car and supplementary engines in every limb.

They raise an arm, flex their fingers. Outside, tons of metal move to match the motion.

"Right hemisphere calibrating."

Armor and pipes and cables and pistons and computers and plasma cannons. That's them too, now.

"Calibration complete."

Marshal Webb's voice comes through the comms again.

"Gentlemen, your orders are to hold the Saint down a mile off Ondra's Gift. Copy?"

Edér pushes the comms button; usually they have Woden do the talking, but right now his brother's distracted, looking something up on his part of the display.

"Copy that, ma'm."

Just as he finishes the sentence, Woden finds what he was looking for: a little ping on the radar, a ways off from their destination.

"Ma'am, there's still a civilian vessel in the gulf," he says.

"Gentlemen, you're protecting a city of two million people; you will not risk these lives for a boat that holds ten. Am I clear?"

Sharp, cold, and making it incredibly clear there'll be no further discussion.

Edér grimaces, once again glad that the control room has no view of their faces.

"Yes, ma'am," Woden says. He's not happy either; knowing exactly how many people there are on that vessel has only made it worse.

He's the one who starts getting the idea; Edér just finishes the thought by saying it out loud.

"Y'know," he says once the comms fall silent, "It's kind of on the way if you squint. You thinking what I'm thinking?"

Woden grins.

"Well, you know what they say: don't take a farmer fishing."

The display in front of them changes, giving them a view of the outside world: waves whipping up, shattering against Strider like they're nothing, like it's one of those kids' sprinkler toys and not the entire ocean throwing its weight against them.

There are things in the world you can't fight; acts of god. You see a storm, you take shelter; you see a tidal wave, you get out of the way.

But when you're in a jaeger, you can walk through the storm; you can fight the tidal wave.

And you can win.

A fishing boat with a ten-person crew is tossed about in a storm.

The captain, an older Dyrwoodan, wrestles his way into the cabin, soaked by rainfall and sea spray despite his neon yellow raincoat.

"How far to the mainland?" he shouts over the roaring of water above and below.

"Seven and a half miles to Defiance Bay, sir!" a crew member shouts back.

"We won't even make it back to shallows," yells another one.

"No, we won't – " the first crew member begins to say, and stops, eyes wide as he stares at something way ahead.

"Can't be," he says. "That's the lighthouse."

The radar says they're miles off, but the rest of them see what he sees: a tall motionless shape among the waves, shining a beacon of light into the storm.

Defiance Bay's lighthouse. That's the only thing it could be; this tall and bright, there's no mistaking it for another ship or an oil rig or anything else, really.

That's what they think for a second, at least – but there is one more thing it could be.

The captain works it out first. He grips the shoulder of the man next to him with a strength that is half urgency and half horror, and says:

"That's not the lighthouse."

It's then that the beam of light turns towards them and locks on, following the boat across the waves like a projector, as the lighthouse itself takes a step forward.

It has limbs: strong legs that allow it to cut through the waves as if they’re thin air, and long arms, held flat around its torso as it was lying in wait and now unfurling, bristling with spikes and fins with their own little lights on the end, like nightmare wings slowly moving forward to swat the little fishing boat out of existence.

The captain pokes his head out of the cabin, pelted by rainfall and sea spray, and yells at the top of his lungs:

"KAIJU!"

The rest of the crew have seen it too, by now; his shout is a barely needed confirmation.

They huddle on the deck, clutching railings and ropes and each other, knowing there’s nothing else they can do. A few of them turn to look at the roiling sea, wondering if throwing themselves into it is a better alternative – and that’s when they see it.

A second light beneath the water’s surface.

Getting closer.

“Oh, fuck, there’s another one – “

“Think they’re gonna fight each other?”

“Fuck, shit, fuck , we’re gonna die – “

And then it emerges from the sea: tons and tons of metal, armor and floodlights and plasma cannons waiting to be fired, shedding seawater in sheets, not as tall as the kaiju, but broader than its thin lizardlike frame.

A jaeger.

Quicker and closer to the boat than the living lighthouse monster, it snatches the fishing vessel from the waves before the kaiju closes the distance, holding the entirety of it in one armored hand.

The crew scream with joy and terror, and hold on for dear life.

“Ship secure.”

As the automated voice announces this, a hologram of the boat rests snugly in Woden’s right hand. At the same time, they can both feel the weight of the real thing in the jaeger’s palm; it’s barely anything to them, but that’s exactly why they have to be careful.

Kinda like carrying a kitten, Edér thinks.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but Woden hears anyway. Edér gets a ripple of his thoughts back, something between amusement and anxiety and irritation: be serious, we’re holding ten lives in our hands.

Edér’s just about to say that he is serious when Woden sees the kaiju moving in, and whatever banter they were both thinking up gets discarded immediately.

“Adjust the torque!” Woden calls out, using his voice to say the important part; Edér picks the rest out from the drift.

The lighthouse-head – he’s not calling it Saint – is about to swing at them, and it’s coming for their right, where the boat is.

“I’m on it!”

Edér reaches for his side of the screen, makes the adjustments, and then he gets ready: half a step back, one arm up in a guard, eyes on the opponent.

To his right, Woden does the exact same, except he’s also busy keeping the boat upright and making sure they don’t squish it or drop anyone into the sea, which means Edér will have to guide them through the rest of it.

It’s nothing they haven’t done a hundred times before.

A silent countdown ticks down in both of their minds at the same time, three-two-one , and, just as the kaiju swings, they duck under – the boat stays unharmed, nearly all of Woden’s focus is going towards that – and turn; as they do, the very end of the kaiju’s arm catches the back of their shoulder, but Strider’s armor takes that just fine.

Now would be a great time to punch back, but they’ve got that boat still, so instead they keep turning and set it back down onto the waves, getting it as far as they can from whatever’s about to happen in the next couple of seconds.

The tide’s in their favor with this one; the sea picks up the boat and immediately whisks it away.

Hope they’ll make it, Woden thinks.

Then they turn back to face the kaiju and use the rest of their momentum to punch its stupid shiny face in.

It doesn’t go as well as they’d hoped; it stumbles back, but immediately goes back in, now completely focused on them for lack of other prey.

Not a glass jaw, that one, Edér thinks at his brother, and gets the thought equivalent of an annoyed grunt in response.

A clawed limb moves in to grab them; Woden lets it take the right arm – they both grind their teeth as the claws dig in – and uses it to drag the creature in close, giving Edér an opening to come in from the left.

The kaiju might have tanked a punch to the skull, but it turns out to be way more receptive to two plasma shots to the midriff.

Gaping blue holes open in its body, and the thing goes limp in a way that lets them know this time it really hurt. Its hold on Strider’s right arm slips and it loses its balance, tumbling backwards and sinking into the water as the light in its head goes out.

They follow its body with Strider’s projector for a few seconds; then, the waves swallow it, and there’s nothing left except for a bloom of kaiju blue in the white seafoam.

Then –

“Strider, what the Hel is happening?”

Marshal Webb’s voice over the comms.

Edér decides to let Woden catch his breath for a second – it was his side that got clawed up, after all – and answers:

“Job’s done, ma’m; lit it up twice.”

“You disobeyed a direct order – “

“Respectfully, ma’m,” Woden chimes in, “We intercepted a kaiju and saved everyone on that boat.”

Edér glances over just in time to see Woden give him a wink; same kind he’d give him back in the day whenever they both got in trouble. Let me take point on this, I’ll smooth it over.

Edér’s more than happy to let Woden do his thing; whenever he tries to do the charm thing, it has an even chance of either working or making things worse.

“...Get back to your post, now .”

“Yes, ma’m,” Woden answers, and grins at Edér, as if saying: see?

They’re probably still in trouble, but that’ll be later. For now, they’re off the hook.

They glance over to where they’ve left the fishing boat; it’s still in sight, seemingly unharmed by their brawl with the lighthouse-head.

And then they hear Webb’s voice again; sharp, urgent.

“Strider, we’re still getting a signature. That kaiju is still alive; grab the boat and get out of there –“

An eruption of seawater fills their entire field of view, and the thing bursts out of it, its head glowing again.

It gets its claws into their right side and bites down on their left arm –

bites down on Edér’s left arm –

and it pulls –

bending and snapping the metal of his bones and tearing his cable sinews and leaving thousands of sensors screaming in pain, alarms blaring as the automated voice calmly informs them that the left gun has gone offline –

and then he can’t feel the left arm anymore.

It hurts so much and it doesn’t hurt at all and his knees are buckling and thinking is hard.

And it hurts.

And he’s probably screaming but he can’t hear himself or Woden or anything else, just the noise of Strider’s alarms going off.

He’s felt it once before, in training. They did a simulator run to teach them what losing a limb feels like. There’s a tiny part of him that manages to recall that despite the pain, and to register that his own left arm isn’t actually gone, it’s just the jaeger that got hurt, and that Woden’s already reaching for him through the drift to stabilize him, just like they’ve been taught.

Edér holds on to their connection, and breathes, and finds his footing, and pulls his mind back from Strider just a little, just until the initial flare of pain passes.

It won’t keep hurting for long, it’s just a false alarm, his brain confusing Strider’s body for his own. And Woden’s there to catch him, the way he always does.

In the time it takes for Strider’s torn-off arm to hit the waves, they’ve stabilized and regrouped, and they’re ready to go again.

They charge up the right gun, aim for the torso again. This close up, there’s no way for them to miss, and the kaiju doesn’t have time to move out of the way.

It doesn’t.

Instead, it grabs their head and digs its claws in around where Strider’s right eye would be. Woden doubles over, clutching the side of his face, groaning through clenched teeth.

Sparks rain down on them as a claw pushes through the hull of the pilots’ cabin.

Edér freezes, midway through trying to pull his brother out of the pain the way Woden just did for him.

He feels Woden pull himself out, pushing himself to straighten up, looking at the puncture and then over at him, taking deep, heaving breaths, his right eye bloodshot.

“Edér,” he says, “listen to me – ”

The only thing coming from him through the drift is fear.

Then, something gives. The hull buckles inward, rain pouring into the pilots’ cabin.

And then –

Claws rake through. They grab Woden. His suit is crushed inward. The broken plates dig into his chest. His shoulder pops out of its socket.

He screams. He screams Edér’s name.

He screams, and

And then

And then there’s no one piloting on the right side.

There are torn cables and a hole in the hull. There’s the kaiju.

There’s no one on the right side.

There’s no one

There’s

no one

There are torn cables and a hole in the hull. There’s the kaiju. There’s Strider, and it’s heavy, it’s impossibly heavy. There’s pain.

And Edér’s alone.

And the right gun is charged up.

Moving it doesn’t feel like moving an arm or aiming a weapon, it feels like lifting all that metal with his own two hands; like the kind of effort that’s only maybe possible if you’re fine with letting it kill you.

It moves. It wedges itself right into the thing’s mouth as it goes to bite down on him.

He can’t feel the control disk in his hand, or his hand, (but he can feel a buzz in his spine and in his teeth and his chest caving in and his shoulder popping out of its socket) but it has to be there, so he clutches it so hard he feels something crack.

And he tells Strider to shoot.

“...The second discharge fried all the comms; I’m not getting any signals.”

Elafa hears her own voice as if it’s coming from far, far away.

It’s steady, maybe just a little shaky at the end. She’s not letting the – the whatever it is that’s happening to her – take over. Her hands keep moving over the keyboard and her eyes keep watching the screens and her mouth keeps saying words. That’s what she’s here for.

But her mind is watching all of that happen from some distant place.

She realizes that it’s been a second and the marshal hasn’t replied. She turns around and sees the woman’s back, her rigid shoulders and her short white hair, as Marshal Webb walks away from the control station.

Elafa calls after her:

“No signature, ma’am!”

That’s what her job requires her to say, even though what she really means is are they dead, they’re dead, aren’t they, tell me there’s a way for them to not be dead.

Jaegers fall. It happens. But Strider, it can’t be Strider, it shouldn’t be them.

Webb says nothing.

Elafa tries again, and now her voice cracks; blazes, she thinks, tell me something, you’re supposed to be the one keeping it together.

You’re not the one who had dinner with their parents.

You’re not the one who knows the name of their family dog.

You’re not the one who just watched a man she used to love blink off the radar like it’s nothing, and maybe he’s gone now, and if he is then it was probably horrible, because that’s the only way jaeger pilots die.

“What do we do now, ma’am? Ma’am?”

But the marshal doesn’t say anything back to her.

Somewhere on the Pearl Coast, a few miles off Telaneir, a family walks along the beach: a mother and three of her children, all carrying bags or baskets. The children run around, picking through the sand and bringing back pieces of driftwood, rocks, seashells and anything else that looks like it could be fashioned into something interesting, or even sold as it is.

Not everyone thinks it’s a good idea to go down to the water these days, but as far as Clara – the mother – is concerned, on quiet days it’s just fine, and so far, it has been the very definition of a quiet day.

Still, she keeps an eye out.

“Antonio! Antonio! ”

Her six-year-old freezes and turns to look at her; he’s standing ankle-deep in the ocean, and she doesn’t like it.

“Get out of the water! Do you want a kaiju to come and eat you?”

He shakes his head fervently.

“Then get back on dry land! Vielo, vielo!”

He stumbles back onto shore, pulling his feet through the soggy sand as fast as he can.

Clara feels a tug on her sleeve, and turns to see her eldest, Gianna, looking up at her.

“Mamma,” the girl says, and points in the direction they came from.

Clara looks.

She’s only seen jaegers on TV before, but from what she knows, this one doesn’t look good. Its left arm is gone, and it’s dragging its feet worse than her six-year-old son wading through wet sand.

She shouts at her children to get closer to her; they huddle around her, and the four of them watch as the metal giant steps onto the shore.

Then, its knees buckle, and it collapses, face down, and it’s hard to see from this distance, but Clara is pretty sure that she sees something spill out of its helmet.

Like brains from a split skull, she thinks, and then grimaces and tries to stop thinking about it, because the comparison unsettles her.

Then she realizes: there are people in there.

Oh, merla.

She sets her basket down, grabs Gianna by the shoulder, and tells her:

“Take your brothers to Caffè Vulpi; tell Luciano to send people down here. I’m going to look.”

As soon as her daughter nods, Clara sets off towards the jaeger.

The jaeger looks scarier than they do on TV, and scarier than it was from far away.

When they’re small on a screen, or far in the distance, it’s easy to focus on the way they look and move like people – but up close, you can’t see all of it at once anymore, and then all you can think of is how big it is.

And it smells. Clara has never thought that a jaeger would have a smell at all, let alone a bad one, but it does – it smells like burning plastic and fuel and… almost like cleaning products? Whatever it is, it’s bad enough to make her eyes water.

She pulls her shirt over her nose and mouth and keeps going, because there are people in there.

She circles around the head – a round cabin with a windshield-like pane of glass that’s been broken on one side – and tries to figure out what exactly she saw spilling out.

There are cables, metal plates, long shards of glass scattered across the sand. She’s glad, like never before, for her habit of wearing closed shoes to the beach; vindication for all those years of being afraid of stepping on a treacherous piece of glass in the sand.

Something moves in the wreckage, and her heart jumps – for a moment, the shifting debris makes that movement into something unrecognizable, a creature, a monster �� and then sunlight falls onto a bloodstained white suit of armor, and a man crawls out of the jaeger’s head.

He pulls himself forward with one arm; the other one hangs limply at his side, the armor broken and singed, a deep gash in his flesh.

By some stroke of luck, she spots the stag on his shoulder. He’s from Dyrwood.

She conjures her loudest and clearest Aedyran, and calls to him:

“Sir? Sir, do you need help?”

He pulls himself up to his feet, and she catches a better glimpse of his face through the glass of his helmet.

There’s blood running down the side of his face and from his nose, sticking to his beard. His expression is wild, wide-eyed; he looks around, looks straight at Clara at one point, but it’s like he doesn’t see her at all.

Now that he’s standing up, she can also see the other bloodstain on his suit, running down his side, and the piece of metal stuck between the plates of his armor.

That’s probably bad.

“You need help,” she says; asserting rather than asking, now. “You are very hurt.”

He walks right past her. She hears him muttering something inside of the helmet.

“...Woden.”

It’s not a word she knows. A name or a place, maybe, but not one that’s familiar to her.

She hesitates for a moment before going after him, gently reaching for his shoulder:

“You are hurt – ”

But he stops before she ever touches him.

“Woden,” he says again, and from the way his voice breaks she can guess that it’s probably a name.

He makes a noise that might be a sob or a sharp inhale of pain, it’s hard to tell with his voice muffled like that – and then, like the jaeger, he falls to his knees and down onto the sand, and doesn’t move anymore.

Clara knows that there should have been two people inside, but no one else comes out of the jaeger.

It’s probably too late for the other one, then.

She kneels next to the wounded pilot, tries to remember everything she knows about first aid, and hopes, for this man’s sake, that more competent help comes soon.

#pillars of eternity #edér teylecg #woden teylecg #pacific rim au #herearedragons writing #project: pacific rim au

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buckyalpine · 2 years

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Dear, I love your writing so so so much!!! Like everytime I see you posted, you automated make me happy ! Thank you so much for doing what you're doing!

I'd also take this to my advantage and ask you for an imagine for my birthday *blush*. It would be something where the reader (fem) is staying in Wakanda when bucky is there to be freed from the words, and at the night he’s finally healed (like the poor gif where he cries) she is with him and holds him and he clings to her and just really fluffy (cause of course they have feelings for each other). Then at the attack of Wakanda they get separated but he finds her, just to see she got badly hurt. Then he stays with her till she’s better and they finally get together. I hope that’s okay 🥺

OH MY GOSH YES THIS BREAKS MY HEART. AND HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVELY ❤️❤️❤️ This is sooo adroable.

“I-t, it worked”

Bucky stood at the door of the hut, his eyes puffy and red with tears that continued to stream down his face. He’s hardly able to hold himself up, taking two steps before collapsing onto the floor, sobs wracking his body. You rushed to his side, pulling him into your lap, your arms wrapping around him protectively while running your fingers though his hair. You blink back your own tears as he clings onto you, crying into your chest, he’d waited so long for this.

To have control over his own mind. For some sense of freedom. To have a fraction of himself back.

“You’re free” You whisper, as he clings onto you tighter, never wanting to let you go. You had been his lifeline the entire time he spent in Wakanda to be freed from the words that held him hostage. In the few months he’d spent with you, he fell for you more and more each day.

The more he tried to bury his feelings, the stronger they got. It was impossible. Everytime he’d try to pull back, he’d find himself even closer to you. Long walks. Nights under the stars. Holding hands. Long hugs. It was never enough.

He loved you.

*****

Bucky’s heart was thrashing out of his chest, he couldn’t see you anywhere. His body was moving on its own, all of his super soldier training helping him slash through bodies, but his mind was occupied with you. He ran through the motions while searching for you, his eyes catching a flash of your tac suit in the distance.

He sprints as fast as he can, only to find you slumped over on the floor, blood streaming from your forehead, gashes covering your body. He’s inconsolable seeing you like this, but he can’t lose focus now.

“Y/n? Wake up angel” He’s pleading with you while putting pressure to your wounds, cradling your body close to his. You don’t respond, your breathing reduced to shallow breaths. Bucky can’t take it, he just wants to see you open your eyes and hear your voice.

“Y/n? y/n, please, please baby wake up, don’t go”

He’s carrying you as fast as he can, trying to find Shuri. When he finally gets you to the lab, all he can do is wait while you’re rushed to the medical wing. Its been day’s and you still haven’t woken up but he’s by your side each day and night, talking to you in hopes that you can hear him.

“I miss you baby, please wake up y/n, I-I have so much I need to tell you”

“Want to cuddle you, I can’t sleep when you’re here” His hand are softly tracing over your features, his tears dropping onto your skin. He wants to so badly crawl into bed and hold you but he’ll be patient and wait as long as he has to.

It’s been a few more days and his heart is breaking further but he won’t leave.

“I’ll always be here angel” He hesitates before saying the next part, he wanted you to hear it, to see him say it but he can’t help himself. You need to know. He leans his head on the hospital bed as he always does when hes exhausted, holding your hand in his while his head is close to your lap.

“I love you”

“I love you too”

Bucky eyes shoot open as he looked up to see you awake, your tired eyes gazing down at him. You give him a weak smile, your hand going to rest on top of his, giving him a reassuring squeezing.

“I love you Bucky”

“Angel?” He can’t believe you’re actually awake, tears immediately streaming down his face. He carefully cups your face, your hands wrapping around him to pull him closer. You heard every single thing he’d said to you even though you were unconscious. “My angel” He’s kissing you all over your face as softly as he can, his forehead resting on yours.

You hesitate before pressing your lips against his; your heart racing when he deepens the kiss, his tongue moving with yours. You shift over so he can crawl into bed with you, holding you close to his side while he continues to kiss you, his hand slipping under your robe to stroke your waist.

“I love you baby, I-

“Let her rest white wolf”

Shuri snorted, watching Bucky cling onto you, refusing to let you go. You giggled into his chest, snuggling into his warmth. Bucky continued to rub his hands up and down your back, softly kissing your forehead. His hand lifted your chin, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

“I-I love you a lot and I you just make me complete, I understand if you feel differently but-

“I’m yours bubba, I love you”

Bucky felt his heart piece back together, all the pain he’d harboured in his chest slowly melting away, he knew there was still so much he’d have to work through but he’d get through it with you by his side.

“You really do?”

“Always”

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13thdoctorposts · 7 months

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You're so right about the Millie Gibson stuff

I keep seeing RTD sycophants grrr at the tabloids but like, if he or Bad Wolf or the BBC made a fucking statement to support her or even just a five sentence statement confirming the character arc was finished and nothing else then they wouldn't be able to write the shit about her that they are. It is fucking suspect that they're hanging her out to dry. And so damn clumsy too, his little cult keeps saying filming in advance is soon smart but I'm not seeing it.

And it's always the working class actors being treated like shit. Ecclestone and Gibson, but Whittaker and Capaldi also had a lot of weirdness from the BBC especially once they were on the way out.

Honestly I think the situation with the tabloids and Millie is disgraceful. The fact an employer can let that happen and take no action seems like a violation of duty of care since it’s about the work. And this is a 19 year old woman you just let multiple papers smear in print and across the internet completely unchecked, it’s beyond my understanding how that’s ok.

What has been interesting is seeing all the people who have been attacking Chibs from the left for years now trying to defend RTDs actions, and acting like everything RTD does is no big deal everyone is over reacting but Chibs is the devil incarnate.

Whether it’s in the show, I’m sorry but I don’t know how dead naming a character because you want the audience to know their dead name because it means ‘doctor’ of which how many people would have even got the reference is somehow anywhere near as bad as 13 talking about the Kerblam automation system not being the problem the people using it, like the serial killing terrorist intent on mass murder she trying to stop is, they claim that’s way worse?

Or if it’s real life where BW and the BBC just let those horrible stories run rife in print and on the internet and even when asked for comment gave none just hung the 19 year old they hired out to dry and didn’t care if it ruined her career. Vs Chibs who when the papers came calling saying the crew said Jodie was making them work into the night etc. he was like it was night shoots show them the schedule everyone was rostered on and having a great time they love Jodie.

People say Chibs had no idea how to Show run, yet there wasn’t this level of horror stories or leaks in his tenure, fans may have wanted more but he had that place running like a well oiled machine and everyone who’s come out about working there has only had positive things to say about it Vs RTD who either can’t or doesn’t want to control leaks no matter how much harm they may inflict on the people he show be protecting most the ones the spotlight, and his stars of the show.

#13th doctor #thirteenth doctor #thirteen #13 #Chibnall #chris chibnall #anti rtd

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writergeekrhw · 1 year

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Since SAG-AFTRA is asking its members to vote for strike authorization, and there have also been rumors of DGA considering doing the same, I was wondering: what's at stake for actors and directors in comparison to writers in terms of the issues the strike is focusing on like residuals and AI? Do you think it's likely those groups will strike too? (Sorry if you're not the person to ask about this)

Well, the problem with slowly working my way through a long queue is that this question is now well out of date. The DGA took a deal, like they always do (no surprise). SAG-AFTRA has a strike authorization. As to what's at stake:

FOR DIRECTORS: AI can potentially create shooting schedules, shot lists, call sheets, all straight from a script, taking away work from ADs and UPMs. The DGA says they've gotten protection from this. I'm a little skeptical. I'm not sure their language is bulletproof, but we'll see. Of course, if the actors, sets, and scripts all end up being generated by algorithms, there won't be anything for directors or other DGA members to do. Studios will be able to automate the entire content process. As to residuals, the DGA used our strike as leverage to get some gains. Less than I think they could have gotten if they'd walked, but DGA gonna DGA.

FOR ACTORS: So-called AI is already coming for actors. Voice actors are looking at a doomsday scenario where computer generated voices could take away their voice acting jobs completely, and very very soon. If a CG character doesn't need an actor to voice it and give a reference performance, that's the end of hiring actors for animation. And once CG becomes completely photo-realistic, that'll be the end of acting. Actors will be replaced by either completely computer generated "characters" or digital recreations of today's stars will end up acting in everything going forward forever, which means no new jobs for anyone else. That's an existential crisis for them, so if they can't get protections from CG "actors," I predict they'll strike.

At least that's how I see it.

Singularity coming.

Unless we stop it. It's now or never.

#tv writing #ask me anything #ask me stuff #wgawest #wga strong #wga strike #support the wga #dga #sag aftra

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promptling · 6 months

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STAR TREK VI: THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY ( 1991 ) change pronouns as needed.

don't tell me that was any meteor shower.

do you require assistance?

do we report this?

are you kidding?

what are we doing here?

that's not in any of the data i saw.

this is a terrifying idea.

i have personally vouched for you in this matter.

that's an arrogant presumption.

they are dying.

let them die!

you should have trusted me.

you must be very proud.

you could have knocked.

it is an honor to serve with you.

i always wanted to try that.

you must have faith.

logic is the beginning of wisdom, not the end.

nature abhors a vacuum.

guess who's coming to dinner?

i see we have a long way to go.

please let me know if there's some other way i can screw up tonight.

i'm going to find a pot of black coffee.

i find this curious.

i'm really tired.

do you read me?

it's very hard to make out.

have you not a shred of decency in you?

we come in peace and you blatantly defy that peace.

i give you my word, i don't understand what's happened.

you dare to feign ignorance?

i've got a pulse.

don't let it end this way.

i'm placing you under arrest.

i don't know what to believe.

four hundred years ago on the planet earth, workers who felt their livelihood threatened by automation flung their wooden shoes, called 'sabots', into the machines to stop them. hence the word 'sabotage.'

you have a singular wit.

do your hands shake?

i was nervous.

you were incompetent.

on occasion, i have disobeyed orders.

i am responsible for the conduct of the crew under my command.

better to kill them now and get it over with.

what are we looking for?

there is a reward for your death.

somebody up there wants you out of the way.

why not simply vaporize them?

some people are afraid of what might happen.

try not to be too hard on yourself.

don't disappoint me.

come on, we're in the clear.

give a girl a chance.

couldn't you have waited two seconds?

can i talk to you?

you have to shoot.

what you want is irrelevant.

you cannot prove anything.

i tried to tell you but you would not listen.

neither of us was hearing very well that night.

did i misinterpret you?

i do not remember.

i've been dead before.

how many of those things are there?

do you hear that?

i prefer it dark.

peace is worth a few personal risks.

i'm a great one for rushing in where angels fear to tread.

would that constitute a joke?

don't crucify yourself.

it wasn't your fault.

do you want to know something? everybody's human.

i find that remark insulting.

you do prefer it this way, don't you?

i'd give real money if he'd shut up.

we've got a full confession.

people can be very frightened of change.

they don't arrest people for having feelings.

if i were human, i believe my response would be 'go to hell!'

#star trek sentence meme #star trek rp prompts #star trek rp meme #rp sentence starters #rp memes #rp prompts #sentence prompts #sentence starters

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gazs-blue-hat · 1 year

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Whumptober Day 3: “Make it stop” (Kyle Garrick x Reader)

Summary: After being considered MIA for three weeks, the 141 receives a CD, where Kyle must face his worst nightmare.

Word Count: 1,084

Tw: Mentions of torture, Brainwashing, Emotional Abuse (LMK if I missed any)

Gaz was beside himself with anger when the rookie told him that you had been left behind. It was a simple mission, not even the most dangerous one you’ve been on! But the rookie was spooked and saw you get shot in the vest and fall. They had run to exfil and said you were lost.

Your radio still worked and there was a whole slurry of messages left by you after the exfil team had left. Because of one stupid mistake of a rookie too fresh for the field, you were now considered MIA.

When he had gone to the place you said you would be, there was the note. It was scribbled in poor English but the message was clear enough.

“Five hundred thousand Euros or she dies.” There was a written on the bottom of the page, a bank account they could wire the money to. Of course…141 doesn’t make deals with terrorists, much less petty pirates. They trusted you to escape them.

Big mistake.

141 wasn’t the only group they had messaged. AQ units were more than happy to pay the pirates their ransom for a great prize such as yourself. A member of 141 and someone they knew helped put down their old leader, Hadir.

They worked as quickly as they could to find you, calling in favors and pulling on threads. It was week three of you missing that the CD came to base. There was no address on it, no clear sign of where it had come from, but it was clear WHO it came from.

The team all knew what was on the disk. It was pretty clear what horrific thing was etched on that little silver circle.

Price brought everybody into his office, the monitors turned around to face the room. A small ‘play’ button was etched on the screen. Kyle felt his heart drop into his stomach.

No…not his star. Not his shooting star.

These videos were reserved for political figures and tragic prisoners of war. Not…you.

“Kyle…you don’t have to be here for this son.” Price said in the most gentle voice 141 had heard from him. Kyle shook his head, he had to be there. He had to see you. Just…one last time.

Simon put his hand on Kyle’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything but he didn’t even have to. Kyle understood what the man from Manchester was trying to say. He understood, what it was like to watch someone you love fade away. He would stand with Kyle until Kyle couldn’t anymore.

Simon squeezed gently on his shoulder as Kyle took a deep breath and pressed the play button.

The video was done with startling quality. Cinematic lighting illuminated your face and Kyle had to take a step back at the sight.

Your face was bruised and broken so badly it didn’t even look like you anymore. One of your eyes was swollen completely shut and your nose looked more like someone had smushed ground beef on your face.

“141…Captain Price. I never expected one of your pets to be caught so easily. I also never expected you to NOT want them back. Usually, masters are protective over pets as well as they are. The Spectre…almost as good as having the Ghost, no?” The voice was automated, sent through a scrambler to warp and shift the voice. However, the Russian accent was clearly understood even through the tech.

Kyle was trembling, his fists balled at his side. He could see how weak you were, how much they had hurt you. Scabs and half-healed scars covered your exposed body, marking it so deeply that hardly any of your original skin color was visible.

The skin he loves to touch, to caress, and to kiss. Skin he once marked with hickeys and love bites where nobody else could see. It broke him deep inside to see various marks on your body that would look like the ones you begged HIM to give you.

Your torture had been extensive.

“Well…any last words for your companions?” The voice warbled behind you. You firmly clamped your jaw shut and it was obviously out of place.

“Kyle…” Johnny’s voice, another hand on his shoulder. Kyle didn’t move, didn’t look away from the screen. He had to watch. He had to.

“They could have made it stop…” The words spoken from your mouth were slurred and exhausted. You looked utterly broken, tired, and done.

“That’s right Angel. They could have made it stop. But they didn’t, and for that…you’ll make them pay..” there was a shift in your demeanor then, a loosening in your body as a shadowed figure came behind you, running their hands over your weary shoulders.

Kyle bit his cheek so hard he tasted copper. Simon’s hand tightened on his shoulder as Kyle shook with hardly-contained rage. He had his brothers next to him, he would be able to get through this.

“Son…if you want to step out, nobody is going to “

“I have to, Sir. I owe it to them…” The response came out sharper than he intended it to but Price didn’t comment on it. He knew about the relationship he had with you, and he knew how Kyle needed this experience no matter how much it was going to hurt.

It was then that you looked up at the camera and started to blink. It seemed rather nonsensical at first but after a while, he was able to make sense of it.

“They’re…blinking in Morse…” he said softly. Price nodded, already writing down your message.

“Murmansk. Facility in the ice. Brainwashing.” Before Price could continue, Johnny had already stormed out of the room, making a verbal list of all the materials he would need to ‘blow that place sky high’.

The shadowy figure caressed your shoulders, pressing kisses along your neck. Kyle felt his nails pierce his palms. He didn’t like anybody looking at you, much less TOUCHING you.

“Easy…they’re still talking…” Simon grumbled in his ear. Kyle looked up at the screen and his caramel eyes met yours.

“Love you. See you soon, K.G.G.”

That name made butterflies flutter in Kyle’s torso. You weren’t broken, you were just pretending to be. He could see the fire burning in your eyes and that fire sparked his own.

He would get you back. He would get you back and remind you how much he loved you.

He was coming, and you knew he would get you.

He always came to get you.

#whumptober #kyle gaz garrick x reader #call of duty

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midwinterhunt · 5 months

Text

Notice: Hostiles inbound. All non-combatants evacuate.

The automated evacuation notice only ever meant that all the humans were too busy to give real instruction. Did we have time to evacuate? Hell, did we have enough manpower to hold off the Imps long enough for the others to escape?

I was on my feet and sprinting through our temp base to thrown on some armor and grab a weapon faster than anyone else could even head to the rear escape. I couldn't have been much more than fourteen at the time. Just a kid who was armoring up next to the adults of Phoenix Squadron.

A hand wrapped around my wrist and stopped me reaching for a blaster, "What do you think you're doing?"

I looked up, "Commander." He was a full head taller than me, "Cadet Parsco, reporting for duty!"

From the look of disbelief, irritation, and concern on his face, this isn't the answer he wanted. "I made you a cargo pilot because you're smart! That doesn't make you a cadet! Get out of here with the civilians!"

And I just stood there gaping at him like a fish. A fish whose voice cracked when he tried to argue, "But Sir! I'm as good a shot as anyone! I'm a fighter! I can help!"

"You're not a real-"

On pure reflex I bared my teeth, "A real what?"

The ground shook and rocks fell from the ceiling above. A woman, a pilot of one of our few stolen fighters, slid to a stop behind the Commander, "Phoenix Leader! They're here! The civilians are in the tunnels, we need to lead the Imperial units away."

"I'm on my way!" The Commander said, and he crouched to be just shorter than me. "We're out of time. You're not really a soldier yet, but I can't let you get killed. Stay close to me, shoot the enemy, get my ship ready to fly by the time I get in. Got it?" He gave me a blaster rifle and sprinted toward the fight.

That was my first battle. And it was chaos. Well, okay, it was one of the easier battles I've lived through, but at the time I was scared shitless and overwhelmed with confusion. I only took one shot, to the leg, and Phoenix Leader had to finish our way to the ship carrying me. It was also my first time shooting a man. A Stormtrooper tried to drag me out of the ship while Phoenix Leader got us in the air. And we both learned the reason the Alliance never stole Imperial Imperial armor. When I shot that man in the helmet visor it went right through and into his face.

My Commander praised me, but I'd felt sick. I couldn't eat a full meal for weeks, and that was the first time I really had a bad nightmare flare up.

I wouldn't say it got easier to kill, but I learned how to deal with it. When you're in a war, you don't have time to process the guilt of everyone whose life you take. Instead I became a better shot, a better pilot, a better thief. I made buddies who went with me to liberate prisoners, supplies, and ships. We hit the Empire any chance we got. And some days, like today, we end up in a bigger fight than we expected.

This was shortly after losing Purple squad. And only days after losing Rin. I... wasn't in the best headspace. I was keeping watch while other Alliance members landed on a small moon to mine some raw fuel, since buying it wasn't an option atm. Unfortunately, in Imperial space, even mining it yourself isn't entirely safe.

Three Imp scout ships picked us up on scans and closed in. "Bogies inbound! Wrap it up and move out!" It was me and three other fighters escorting a freighter. We outnumbered the Imps, we were all confident we could get out without trouble.

Never be confident.

I won't bore you with space battle details. It was really standard distraction stuff to let our freighter pilot and crew escape with the fuel. Right up until the Imp reinforcements arrived. We had to switch to a defensive position on a dime, TIEs overwhelming and blocking us in.

Whatever commander was in charge of this sector must have heard Rebel ships were here and assumed we were a serious operation because no one brings in an entire star destroyer for a squad of five small ships.

I saw one of us shot down and another break free before my fighter took a hit to the left engine. I lost control and careened into a TIE fighter. With the way my head snapped, I was pretty sure I had whiplash. However, that was not high on my priority list. I had a much bigger fucking problem; namely: Me and that TIE were spiraling toward the planet entirely out of control.

Oh yeah.

And I had crashed into it and we were now stuck, so I couldn't even crash gently.

I got my systems back online as we entered the atmosphere. My systems promptly starting screaming warnings at me. Like, no shit dipstick, I don't need told about my imminent demise I need my remaining engine to-

Oh yeah that's better.

My thruster fired up enough to get some control over my downward spiral.

Yes that was literal, but it was also applicable to my mental state.

I managed to get my ship in a strong enough spin to break off from the TIE, which was good. But the ground was still on a fast approach, which was bad.

I pulled up hard, and leveled out just enough to aim my crash into a small lake, which was great.

Even in the water, the impact slammed me forward again and now i was sinking into the water, which massively sucked. Namely because I never learned how to fucking swim.

Yeah I know shut up, I grew up in space alright?

This is why I keep a rebreather on me.

I put the rebreather in my mouth and unbuckled my harness, and before I could think better of it I opened the hatch. Water rushed in and tugged me in a spiral before it settled.

Something they don't depict in holotapes: opening your eyes under water is fucking hard. And even if you manage it you can't see shit. Oh, and on top of that a rebreather goes in your mouth only, and you have to learn to keep water from going up your nose so I still almost drowned anyway before I managed to get my fingers to hold my nose closed.

Yay me.

I blindly dragged myself along the lake bed with one hand for however long that took until I finally crawled up to shore and just flopped onto my back in the mud. And in an ideal world I would just be stranded. But this is me, and I've never had an ounce of good luck in my life.

"Letting them escape is NOT an option! Sweep the area again!" That was the voice of some bucket head captain. Wonderful.

I got to my feet like a drenched loth cat and made my way into the trees. (And if you say I should have gone back into the water I will shoot you I swear.)

Apparently while I was submerged several other troopers had landed and recovered the crash survivor and were now looking for me. And I was fairly certain they figured out where I crashed because they hovered over the lake for a scan. I went the opposite direction.

I assume the Imps picked up my footprints because a squad of them tried to pin my down and capture me.

Emphasis on tried.

I still had my blaster pistol on me which was more than enough to take out five bucket heads. The idiots hadn't even thought they needed to call in backup.

The sun set and it began to grow dark and chilly. It almost felt like this portion of the planet was in early autumn. That wasn't ideal for someone who was still damp from a swim a couple hours ago. I found an outcropping of rock to shelter under. Above me I heard TIEs make sweeps of the area. I flipped them off.

It's normal for me to be sleepless, even more so when I'm in hostile terrain. So I was instantly alert when I heard footsteps above me on top of my rocky roof. I readied my blaster, and barely breathed.

I heard a branch break, then the sound of loose stones giving way, then a scream, then a body came crashing down not two meters away from me. He groaned, we made eye contact, he jumped to his knees and fumbled his blaster before managing to point it at me with shaky hands.

"Don't move!" I barked, my barrel pointing at his face.

And I got a good look at him. He was wearing TIE pilot armor, his badly damaged helmet lay nearby. From the bruise on his head I could tell the damned thing hadn't protected him like it should. He was probably the pilot I had dragged into a crash earlier. He looked younger than me by a few years.

There was a moment where we just pointed our blasters at each other. I hesitated, he hesitated. He clearly didn't know how to handle a standoff, I did. I knew I should shoot first. My breath hitched. I shouldn't hesitate. Young or not, he was a soldier for the Empire. They had taken everything from me.

A glint in the edge of my vision tore my attention for a split second. A silvery bird landed on a branch just above us, its feathers reflecting the moon so brightly it was like a little star.

And then, our little outcrop echoed with a gentle tune. The bird sang softly, both of us were uneasy, but we didn't surrender or break are stares.

Then more of the same birds settled in and joined in harmony. Soon there was dozens of voices, singing to us as if this was a warm summer day and not a chilly dark night waiting for blood to spill.

And then I saw it. He wasn't just a kid, he was barely a cadet. Probably the age I was in my first battle. He looked like this was his first time facing an enemy in real life. And he looked terrified. I remembered that feeling. That fear of being scared to die, but scared to kill. The feeling when you realize a fight to the death isn't like the motivational speeches of your leaders. That being here changed who you are forever.

Sometimes I still get that feeling.

Like right now.

A chorus of birdsong embraced us and carried through the trees. It felt like we were falling again, spiraling together from someplace high into our inevitable deaths. But we had survived it once, and standing there with nature itself coming to soothe us, I knew that we could do it again.

This boy wasn't personally responsible for anything I'd gone through. I knew I didn't want my own anger and grief to bait me into mutual destruction.

I slowly lowered my blaster and he tense, his finger twitching on his trigger. I crouched down onto one knee and held my hands out, "I don't want to kill you."

I could see him trembling, his breath picking up pace. His eyes darted around at all the warmly singing birds, then he lowered his rifle and took a faltering step back.

I released a tense breath. "Thank you. You don't belong to the Empire. They will make you kill until you grow numb to it, they will make you hate anyone who is different, they will strip you of who you are. Believe me, you don't want to go back."

He had tears in his eyes, then we both heard more troopers getting closer, talking into their comms. I whipped my head and blaster behind me to make sure we weren't in sight, and when I turned back to convince that pilot to join the Rebellion, he was already almost completely gone through the trees.

Maybe he was running, but I believe running toward your freedom is an acceptable reason to flee.

I still haven't seen that boy again, but I hope he's living a peaceful life somewhere. He taught me an important lesson that night. He showed me that I can't imagine my enemy as a purely evil faceless monster. No. They are many fairly average people who buy into the propaganda and choose to fight for what they think they deserve.

[song]

#this was supposed to be a single short scene how did it get so long????#mid drabbles #sol #star was oc #song fic

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