#but one must always make time for villainy <3

[puddleslimewrites]

Deadly Distraction 🖤

Pairing: Flirty/Playful!Supervillain x Detective (OG Pairing that I read wrong before writing c': -> Gentle Supervillain x Investigative Reporter)

Scenario/Dialogue: "I'd die for you." / "Go ahead."

Bonus: Extra scene below the cut c:

Tag List: @black-rose-events CW: Mention of/Implied murder (no details)

~

Supervillain watched Detective go over the evidence on their desk. They leaned over their shoulder, draping their arms around their neck.

"You know I did it, darling. Why don't you go ahead and call it a night?" they purred in their ear.

Detective let out a deep sigh. "I deplore you."

Supervillain chuckled. It was low, smooth - a perfect parallel to their methods. "Aw, how cute," they crooned. They took the detective's chin between their thumb and forefinger and forced them to turn their head. "Now, say it to my face this time."

The detective scoffed, twisting out of their grip as they grumbled something under their breath.

"Ooo, detest?" Supervillain repeated. "That's new. Creative today, aren't we? Perhaps it's the lack of sleep."

Detective huffed and glared at them out of the corner of their eye. "Would you just leave me alone, already?"

"Oh, but why would I do that?" The criminal circled around to the front of the desk. "Your investigation concerns me, does it not?"

Supervillain leaned in, casting a shadow over the detective's work. "Come now," they whispered, voice sultry and sweet. "Is it that hard to love a killer?"

Detective pulled the papers from beneath the villain's shadow. The picture at the very top of the pile smirked up at them in an all too familiar way. They shuffled it to the bottom to look at the other images.

Supervillain was practically sitting on the desk by now. "Hm." Their eyes traced the detective's features, patiently searching. When they didn't find what they were looking for, they frowned and hummed thoughtfully.

"...I'd die for you, you know."

Detective didn't even bat an eye at the declaration. "Go ahead," they said dismissively. "You have my permission."

Supervillain didn't seem to register the answer at first. When they did, they threw their head back and laughed - truly laughed - for the first time in ages.

~

Bonus:

Supervillain sighed and threw themself upon a conveniently placed daybed under the small window in Detective's office. "Are you always this cold to your guests?"

Detective flipped a page in the file they were going through. For a long moment it didn't seem like they were going to respond.

"...Perhaps," they said evenly.

Supervillain, who had sat up eagerly when they finally got something out of the detective, flopped back down onto the couch. "Your poor, unfortunate soulmate," they bemoaned. "Who could love such a creature as you?"

As per usual, their effort to get a rise out of their favorite investigator was useless. Supervillain sighed again and threw an arm over their eyes to block out the light. It seemed they weren't getting any entertainment today.

[snowblack-charcoalwhite]

I just want to know what Ewan meant by Aemond being gray this season as opposed to being completely black last season (which he wasn't). Aemond's "different shades" so far have only been shades we've already seen in s1, he actually had more emotions after Luke's death than he did in s2 and we saw glimpses of his vulnerability in ep9. He even felt grief for Viserys of all people (confirmed by the script). Was Ewan really talking about the two brief brothel scenes that took less than two minutes of screentime? And if Aemond does banish his mother.... That's something I can see the showrunners doing because women must always suffer from evil men, but that's so cartoonish at this point, I can't take it seriously. They can't have Alicent leaving her daughter but they have to remove her from Kings landing before the fall because god forbid show Alicent would defend the city like her book counterpart... This is insane. Why does everyone get new storylines and Emond just becomes a scapegoat for the showrunners who have to take the blame so everyone else gets whitewashed, but he can't even get proper time for his villainy? They're only turning into a boring villain. But I'm just really confused why would Ewan say that one of Aemond's motivations is to make his mother happy (in his mind) if he treats her like that? And that Aemond remembers Driftmark and how she was the only one who stood by him. Or this is another lie from Ewan just like "Aemond's redeeming quality is his loyalty"? I don't like it when the cast is setting the expectations only to subvert it on screen.

Hello!

Right, I (just like pretty much everyone in the fandom, I believe) noticed the discrepancies between the things Ewan said in the interviews and what we have (or haven't) seen on screen. To be fair, it concerns other actors as well (like Tom stating multiple times that Aegon and Aemond love each other no matter what and talking about Aegon's growing respect for Helaena, Fabien mentioning "he wants what she wants" thing about Criston and Alicent, Steve painting Corlys and Rhaenys' marriage in a better light that it actually looks in the show) with Aemond/Ewan situation merely being the most glaring example. And the reason it is the most glaring example is that Aemond IMO got the clumsiest and most meaningless character butchering of them all.

As for the reasons the actors (Ewan among them) keep misleading the viewers, there are several possibilities (that can - and IMO do - coexist):

While I don't think HotD cast are merely parroting the words put in their mouths by HBO team, the latter definitely give them some instructions with regards to the way they are supposed to talk about their characters and the things they need to/can't say. So, in some cases, the actors basically have to deceive the audience.

For some time now I've had an impression that the actors don't have full information on which scenes actually make it to the final version and which get cut before they see the show (once again remembering Matt Smith not knowing about "Daemon fighting Crabfeeder and his army" scene being a silent one for his character). And even if they are actually told beforehand which scenes are included in the show, I think that actors' perception of their characters are influenced by every scene they filmed (and even by some they didn't - but that's point number 3). So, during the promo the cast might take into account some scenes or plot points that we, the viewers, might never even learn about.

Each actor has their own view and opinion on their character - and this view is based not only on the script but on their own thoughts and even headcanons. I believe that is the case for the brotherly love (albeit a "weird" one) that Aegon and Aemond feel for each other according to Tom (by the way, he also mentioned the readiness for backstabbing between them being a mutual thing - define backstabbing) or for Aemond having some kind of love for and loyalty to his brother according to Ewan (define loyalty). In part this also might go for the "coloring" assigned to Aemond by Ewan.

There could be one more adjacent reason - and the saddest one: Ewan is not happy with the way Aemond's story is being told in the show (it could be noticed during several moments in the promo) and was trying his best to make the audience see the Aemond that he sees. And, well, I can't speak for other people (either fans or casual viewers) but I personally don't have it in me to judge him (or any other HotD actor doing the same thing) for it - even though, just like you, I'm not fond of being misled. Imagine giving so much thought, time, energy and love to a character, having high hopes for his development - only to be given... this. Combine it with the point number 1 (at best actors are not allowed to reveal much of what's actually going on with their characters during the promo, at worst they are told to tell lies or half-truths) and the fact that Ewan has very little experience in the 'doing promo' department - and we might just get what we, in fact, got.

[mamayan]

Spinner with a yandere gf

Fuck yeah, he wouldn’t even know what to do with himself tbh.

Spinner is absolutely the definition of eager to please and happy to be given attention. Even though it makes him nervous too. But still give it.

An obsessive yandere might not even rank on his red flag list. He’s incredibly self aware and highly conscious of his surroundings, so his cute little stalker wouldn’t be so much stalking if she didn’t have a quirk that could conceal her. Spinner would notice, and absolutely welcome the company! Watching him play video games? He’ll ask if you wanna join. Following him home? No you aren’t, he’s turning you around and walking you home. Catches you going through his laundry? He’s gonna blush and be bashful, and if you don’t outright admit to wanting to sniff his dirty laundry? He’ll assume you’re helping tidy up. He’ll be cleaner from then on.

Jealous and over protective? The moment you threaten bodily harm to another woman for getting too close, he’s fuming with embarrassment! You’re jealous… over him? Instant ego boost. It makes his scales itch in a good way. Threaten him bodily harm for looking at another woman though? He might take issue, because shouldn’t you already know he only has eyes for you? It could either hurt his feelings or turn into something more… passionate :3

Spinner is loyal through and through, don’t bother going through his phone, it’s either filled with surprisingly organized albums with pictures of you, or games. Likely both. He’ll delete the games for more space on his phone before he’ll delete any pictures of you.

The more head over heels you act, the more he’ll go crazy for you too. His relationship experience is very minimal, only manga and movies really to teach him. He knows all that stuff is made up or junk, so he’s pretty easy to manipulate how you like. Want to move in together after only dating a few weeks? Go for it, he’ll carry the heavy stuff. Want to get physical? He might run the first few times out of shyness, but feel free to use ropes and get physical. He’ll thank you later.

If you’re a civilian, he’ll keep you at arms length. He doesn’t want you getting hurt. If you’re a villain? He’s happy and introducing you to the League. If you love him, you must be down for the cause. A hero? He’s likely to take issue. He wouldn’t date you though, so it’d be entirely one sided, the love at least. Attraction? Debatable. How ever dedicated you are will be returned.

He’s inexperienced not stupid. If you start murdering people he likes or allies because they speak to him, he’s taking issue. That’s taking away from his cause! Don’t isolate him, it’ll hurt him deeply, because he won’t choose. You’ll always be number one after his ideology. Push him away from his villainy and he may push back even if it hurts to do so.

He’s honestly a wonderful Darling to have! As long as you give some respect to his beliefs and goals, he’s down for whatever. You don’t necessarily even need to contribute either.

[themattress]

The Three Core Tenets of Being a Good Villain

I've been immersed in fictional villains my whole life. While whether one likes a villain is always subjective, I truly believe that a successful villain only needs to follow three rules.

-1. They must have depth of character.

And when I say "depth of character", I don't mean that they have to be super complex or dynamic. I mean that you have to feel like you know and understand them. They've got to have personality, they've got to have motivation, they've got to have a distinct style or sense of dramatic flair that you always associate with them. They won't be memorable otherwise.

-2. They must commit significant evil deeds.

They can be monstrous or they can be goofy, but the evil deeds a villain commits have to grab your attention. You've got to hold some investment in seeing how their villainy plays out. Say you have a villain who's a criminal and he robs a bank because he's a criminal. Who gives a shit? That's boring! But if they rob a bank as part of a greater, more desperate need, or because it's just one step in a larger, more consequential scheme, suddenly there's interest from the audience. A villain whose crimes are meaningless isn't a good villain.

-3. They must leave a lasting impact.

At the end of the day, a villain has to impact their world, other characters (be they hero, civilian or fellow villain), and/or the real world and audience watching them. If a villain comes and goes without anything changing, then they have failed to make an impression. The villain needs to leave something different from when they found it. Otherwise, what's the point?

If you're writing a villain and they follow all three tenets, congrats! You've got yourself a solid antagonist. If not, then you might want to spend more time developing them before putting them out there, or maybe even reconsidering whether your story actually needs a villain at all.

[thepenultimateword]

Thoughts on hero x villain's henchman or villain x hero' sidekicks? Whether it's friends, roommates, lovers, enemies, etc.

This dynamic is so under appreciated, but I love it!

1. Everyone thinks Hero has really cracked down on putting Villain behind bars, what with the daily infiltrations of the criminals base and the egging on fights, and all that. But really they’re just trying to see that cute henchman they ran into a few months ago.

2. Henchman and Hero have been dating for a while now, and they have a strict no talking about work agreement in their relationship. This keeps both of them from compromising their positions in their respective organizations, as well as saving them from any physical harm—a precaution that must be considered when working for criminals and suits. It all seems to be going fine. Until Villain finds out.

3. Villain knows that Henchman has a massive crush on the Hero, so they begin planning their schemes around pushing them together. Henchman suddenly finds themself in a lot of one on one fights with Hero as well as with lots of solo guarding time whenever Hero is trapped or hostage.

4. Hero is always ok. They never get afraid or upset or panicked. If they don’t come up with a plan, they have their brute force and unshakeable will power to rely on. Henchman is used to Hero being ok. Because of this, they don’t realize that it might be bad timing to ask Hero out when they’re trapped. And they don’t notice the hero’s mask of okayness is slipping.

5. Villain Sidekick is older than the villain they’re partnered with, and they’re already insecure about it. It doesn’t help that their villain’s nemesis, Hero, is always teasing them that they’re too old and saying they should be their own villain by now, not someone else’s lackey. As if they had the means for something like that. Sometimes they wish they could just shut that hero’s mouth.

6. Villain Sidekick and Hero met first. It was a one time thing when Hero caught Villain Sidekick doing some solo thieving but still; Villain Sidekick thought there was chemistry. Now Hero and Villain are nemeses and they’re always fighting and bantering, and Villain Sidekick is getting jealous.

7. Hero breaks out of Villain’s secure holding cell. To make sure they escape completely off Villain’s base, they take one of the henchmen hostage and threaten them into giving access codes and guiding them safely to the exit.

8. Henchman tried to be a sidekick first, but had a bad experience with heroes and turned to villainy instead. They are none to happy to find out that their boss’s new nemesis is none other than Hero, the hero that put them off heroics in the first place. They’re not sure if they should hide or give the hero a piece of their mine, but…does Hero even remember who they are?

9. Henchman met Hero as civilians at a coffee shop yesterday. Now Hero has recognized them on Villain’s base and is blatantly hitting on them in front of their boss and coworkers.

10. Henchman goes to a work party with Hero at the Hero agency, and soon enough the other heroes (some more maliciously than others) start poking fun at Henchman for their job and relationship with Hero. Hero gets really protective.

11. Henchman is captured by the heroes, and through long sessions of interrogation Hero is slowly getting them to spill info about Villain. But Hero begins having conflicted feelings when they start to genuinely care about Henchman and their wellbeing. Especially when they know that Villain will not let snitches live and that Henchman’s betrayal is Hero’s fault.

12. Henchman kisses Hero on a dare. They don’t think much of it at the time, but they are soon surprised to find the hero actively pursuing them as a romantic partner, and they have no idea how to feel about it.

[beevean]

Give each NFCV and Nocturne character ratings, as in scores :P

Why must you hurt me in this way.

Trevor: 7/10. A cliché personality, but enjoyable enough, and with a nice mini arc in S1. Too bad he was turned from protagonist to silly comic relief by S2.

Sypha: 5/10. She's supposed to be the plucky innocent girl, but she's just too rude and insensitive, and not even by design.

Alucard: 1/10. A cunt with a bad boob job.

Dracula: 9/10 in S1, 5/10 in S2. He started out so well in the first episode, being actually the grief-stricken monster he was supposed to be... and then he became a Stupid Old Depressed Man for the sake of propping up Carmilla. bruh.

Lisa: 4/10. Way less likeable than she appears. She's condescending towards the peasants she supposedly wants to help and she doesn't give a single shit about her only son, even preferring to let him grieve the death of his parents.

Hector: 8/10 in S2, 5/10 in S3, 2/10 in S4. Started out as a promising character with an unique worldview and genuinely morally grey. Became nothing more than a punching bag for Ellis, losing his personality and dignity in one fell swoop. Will always be remembered as the dude who fell for vampire pussy. The way he was written in S4, which was supposed to "fix" him, makes me want to destroy a house by punching it.

Isaac: 2/10. He gains some points by being the only character with a coherent character arc, even if rushed like hell. But he's still a pretentious prick who got unfairly sucked off by the story and nowhere near as "deep" as his fans tout - he was just lucky to be the only character written with respect in the shitstorm that was S3.

Carmilla: 3/10. She's like Mephiles and Starline all rolled into one unlikable OC villain who only exists to paint Dracula in a bad light. She seems like a mastermind manipulator only because everyone around her lost IQ points exponentially. She became utterly irrelevant after S2 and had a grandiose death for nothing. She could have been much more, but this is what happens when a sexist pig writes a radfem villain.

Lenore: 1/10. That one point is because she had the potential to be an interesting, fleshed out antagonist with again an intriguing grey morality. But she had the misfortune of being written by a hack who can't give his characters a consistent personality and a sex pest with a clear dommy mommy fetish, so she became rape apologism bait and now she pisses me off at sight :D

The Lesbians: who?/10. Waste of good character designs. At least Striga was used for Berserk bait.

The Japanese not-twins: 0/10. Completely pointess torture porn fodder.

St. Germain: 8/10 in S3, 5/10 in S4. Pretty enjoyable in his first appearance, and surprisingly faithful to the game counterpart in spirit. I didn't even mind his descent into villainy, in theory. But let's just say that his motivation is... lacking. and hilarious.

Death: fuck/10. He's the ShTH of NFCV.

Richter: 6/10. Not too bad? I don't understand the hatred for him. He's perfectly inoffensive, if not bland. The only line that made me go "bruh" was him correcting the girls about the meaning of "fraternity" lol

Maria: 4/10. This is not a character. This is a parody of a communist teen on Twitter.

Annette: 1/10. As I said multiple times, she doesn't feel like a character, but as carefully engineered rage bait.

Tera: don't care/10.

Abbot: 4/10. I would care about his conflict more if he wasn't the stupidest man alive. Also his Devil Forging machine sucks ass.

Cecile: 3/10. Maybe don't teach your student that she is perfectly in the right in looking down her white French friends...?

Edouard: WHEN I'M LAID/10.

Olrox: 7/10. As for now, he's fairly interesting, mainly because of his intrigue. A bit too try hard, though.

Bara Agent Stone: bro really was shocked at the abbot having a child when he was happily sticking his dick in a male vampire/10

Sun Thundercat: 0/10. By far the worst villain I've ever seen in any kind of story.

Tiddied Isaac: 4/10. I would like her more for her unapologetic style (calling it "personality" is a stretch) if she didn't expose the sheer hypocrisy in the fandom :^)

[lord-squiggletits]

Actually one of my favorite instances of "people being dicks about IDW Optimus on posts about IDW/Optimus/MegOP" was when I saw a commentator claim with their whole ass "Megatron deserves better than Optimus" like.

Bestie.

Megatron killed billions of people.

He himself would deny the notion that he "deserves" anything bc he's incredibly depressed about wasting his life on atrocities and, by the end of the series, thinks wholeheartedly that submitting to a trial to give the galaxy its justice is more important to him than living a carefree life.

And even if you don't ship MegOP, Megatron speaks positively of Optimus multiple times and is happy, or at least more animated, whenever he speaks to OP.

It's just so funny to talk about "deserving a better lover" in reference to a blood stained imperialist who himself would admit to his own villainy and doesn't see himself as superior to anyone just because he was right once upon a time. Like bestie your own blorbo would not agree with your take that Optimus is just The Worst and completely unrespectable. So funny.

Actually wait no. My FAVORITE (and imagine I say "favorite" with intense scorn and disgust) instance of someone being a dick about IDW OP in a space about IDW OP, was someone commenting on an IDW MegOP multichapter fic-- clearly something the author must love and put a lot of effort in to write like 300,000 words about them-- to go "WHINE WHINE WHY ARE YOU WRITING IDW OPTIMUS HE SUCKS, MOAN MOAN NOBODY WRITES ABOUT IDW MEGOP BC IT'S BORING AND MEGATRON DESERVES BETTER, BITCH BITCH WHINE YOU SHOULD WRITE MEGAROD OR MEGSMAGS INSTEAD"

The sheer fucking entitlement of coming onto someone's IDW Megop fic to insult the character and ship they're writing about, then demand they write about YOUR favorite ship bc you think their ship is stupid and boring. Ough it was literally the worst thing I'd ever seen short of actively harassing and trying to get someone to quit writing (those instances weren't IDW OP related, just trolls being assholes).

Or the various times scrolling the Megop tag going "oh wow cool fanart :) " and then the tags are "this isn't IDW OP btw because he SUCKS ASS and I hate him." Or going "oh wow this artist makes a lot of megop let me check their blog" and seeing a seemingly innocuous post of them talking about G1 Megop, then out of nowhere they go "btw fuck IDW OP". Or just going on someone's blog bc they make cool content in general and seeing them go "IDW Megatron is so cool! [Sentences about why they enjoy him.] Also I think IDW OP should die in a ditch."

I kinda assumed that MegOP spaces would be safe, since y'know if they ship MegOP it makes sense that they like both characters? Plus, Megatron is sooo hated and there's so much discourse around him, but that means that Megatron fans probably guard their own spaces against hate and know what it's like to have their faves shit on constantly with tons of petty drama? NOPE literally met multiple IDW Megatron stans who would get so mad about people calling their fave problematic, then would turn around and go "lmao who would like IDW Optimus, no one likes him, I ship Megatron with dockworker or archivist OP because they're so much better than him. IDW OP is a fucking asshole I hate him." Like MMMMMMMM I kinda thought that in a space dedicated to liking Optimus/Megatron/Optimus and Megatron kissing each other, there wouldn't be people randomly shitting on the characters, but oh well. Just leave those spaces.

Well not to worry, I can always go to AO3 and look at fic, that's an archive site and not social media, and all I need to do is filter the tags to IDW Megop and I'll have everything I need!

>Fic 1: Tagged IDW MegOP, author says it's continuity soup with archivist Orion

>Fic 2: Tagged IDW MegOP. Archivist Orion.

>Fic 3: Tagged IDW MegOP. Dockworker Orion. The author thoughtfully includes a tag/author's note solely dedicated to talking about how IDW OP fucking sucks so they replaced him with a Better Optimus

>Fic infinity: Tagged IDW MegOP. Continuity soup with archivist Orion again.

>Fic infinity+1: Tagged IDW MegOP. Actually is about IDW Megatron and IDW Optimus. Posted in 2014. Has not been updated since 2018.

>Fic infinity+n: Tagged IDW MegOP. Actually IDW MegOP. I have already read them. Every single one. They were posted years ago. They were last updated years ago. The authors have long since gone to other fandoms, never to return and finish their fics.

>I give up and decide the only IDW MegOP fic I'll ever get will be my own.

So many times. <:) And that kids is why I don't talk to anyone else in the fandom unless they're mutuals or a friend of a friend. The fandom is small when you can't go looking for new, cool people any more bc seemingly all of them will randomly pop off about how much they hate your blorbo with no provocation at all.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Summary: Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

Playlist on Youtube

Chapters: 1| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48

CH 12: Silco and Vander's boyhood in a lawless Undercity.

cw: for violence, poverty trauma relating to housing and mental health, disturbing depictions of mental illness, drug use, mentions of alcoholism, and underage drug and alcohol use.

Separate tw: for csa (child sexual assault). Nothing is graphic, but there are mentions. To skip that portion, stop reading at "Topside had built the orphanage in the structural style of a military school" and resume reading at "The spring Vander was set to graduate from Hope House."

Secondary tw: for underage sex and age-gaps in relationships. Vander and Silco have a five-year age difference in this tale. They become physically intimate when Silco is sixteen, and Vander twenty-one. In some countries, this would make Silco a minor. The sex itself isn't graphically written. But please heed the warning if such content disturbs you. To skip, stop reading at: "There were other moments too" and resume at "By winter, everything changed."

As always, if I've missed something, please drop me a PM.

  Tomorrow is another day And you don't have to hide away You'll be a man, boy But for now, it's time to run, it's time to run

~ "Run Boy Run" - Woodkid

What is the sum of a man?

Take away his hardships, his mistakes, his victories. Unlock him from the cage of circumstance, so he is free to walk a dozen differing paths, become a dozen different people. Would he emerge as the best version of himself? The strongest, the smartest, the most capable? Or would he pupate in reverse? Inhabit softness instead of strength. Paralysis instead of power. Spared all of life's challenges, would he not collapse under the weight of his unmet potential, a microcosm of failure?

Hard to say.

In Silco's experience, life isn't a game of retrospect. It hinges on the choices a man makes moment by moment, and how he deals with their consequences afterward. How he moves forward, neither trapped by his past, nor forgetting the sacrifices that brought him to this point. Each step a testament of who he was all along.

So who was Silco, before his sacrifices? His worst mistakes? His sweetest victories?

Well, he ought to start with Vander. His ex-best friend. His late brother.

Since boyhood, they'd been inseparable. You'd never meet an unlikelier pair. Vander was a hulking giant, head and shoulders taller than the rest. A temper like wildfire, and fists to match. Yet his ugly pyrotechnics could just as quickly burst into charming sunshine. Silco was the opposite. Where Vander's physique was dense with muscles, his footsteps booming like thunder across the streets, Silco was fine-boned and slender, his footfalls barely making a sound. His every movement held the elusive subtlety of a blackfish in a shadowy pond. Since childhood, he'd had a cool temperament paired with a scalpel-edged tongue. But most could discern something deeply troubled below the surface.

Damaged goods was a vast understatement.

Ideally, the boys should've had nothing in common. The opposite proved true. They were cut from the same soiled cloth.

They were born to the postindustrial Undercity: a mean, hungry, lawless place that bred mean, hungry, lawless citizens. Topside's clean-scrubbed scions cared little for who manufactured the buttons on their bespoke clothes or the chassis of their chauffeured cars. Everything for them burst fully-formed from the Undercity's smoky orifice—a never-ending supply of glassware, boots, textiles.

Civilization began in the City of Progress.

In the Fissures, civilization was a myth. In its place was a grim queue of drudges devoured by the monster known as industry. Most families lived below the poverty line. Others barely kept their heads above. In Piltover, the average income for a working-class man was two thousand Hexes. A sumpraker earned about half that. In Piltover, the average life expectancy was about seventy-five. In the Undercity, it was forty-five. Per year, close to two hundred perished from water-borne diseases like cholera or air-borne pathogens like Gray Lung. The rest were consumed by burnings, beatings and bondage.

Silco's family was no different. His father was the Riverman: a long-boned and pallid specimen best described as a combination of tired and angry. Each morning, he'd put on old galoshes, and vanish from Silco's life until daybreak. He'd stumble home with red-rimmed eyes and joints stiff as rusted hinges. On weekends, he'd hit the pub, not to drink but to talk shop with the dockside laborers.

Daddy was a rarity in the neighborhood: a well-read man. He was sought out for advice on everything from unpaid wages to letters of reference. The early exposure rubbed off on Silco. He accompanied Daddy to the workmen's bars and the ballot boxes, and in the evenings sat by his knee while he read the newspaper, focusing on articles of social justice and workplace conditions. If Silco asked about his work, he'd grunt, Like dyin' by inches.

Older, Silco found it apt summation of honest trade.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

Their family lived in a suffocating one-room flat, in a warren of Kafkaesque tenements east of the Pump Station. The room, taller than it was wide, had no proper kitchen or bathroom. Instead, there was a single gas stove and a rust-pitted sink in the gloomy hallway, shared with five other families. A latrine stood at the other end: unheated, with a bare dangling bulb on which moths battered their shadowy bodies. The only way to enter the hallway was through a corkscrewing stairwell. One day, Silco imagined the bottom step would catch fire, and the stairwell would suck up the flames, the entire building combusting.

A premonition, some might call it.

The building overlooked a courtyard webbed by sagging laundry lines. Plenty of rats everywhere. Sometimes Silco tied triple-barbed hooks to a rope and jigged them through the corners. With a sharp jerk, he'd snag a furry ear, a belly, a tail. He'd drop them thrashing into a metal gallon tub, for coins from the local rat-catcher. Other times, he'd sit on the rooftop and flip matchstick-heated scraps at passersby on the streets below. The fog was densest in the evenings: people moved through it like phantoms. And the smells! He'd known the days of the week by each overbearing fug: burnt mutton on Mondays, dogshit on Wednesdays, smoked fish on Fridays.

Physically, the neighborhood was quite a different place to the brightly-lit sprawl of today. Five things spoke out within its sinuous streets. The absence of electricity and gaslight, that reduced every corner into inhospitable gloom after dark. The giant culverts along its streets, that overflowed in the rainy season across the cobblestones in a river of piss and shit. The centrality of drink among denizens male and female, young and old. The erosions of community-life to the conniving criminality arising in hidden pockets. And finally, a sense that one's place of birth served to define their station, lashing them to their 'proper' place in life.

Either the stewpot or the cesspit, as the Undercity saying goes.

Blessedly, Silco’s neighborhood was a stewpot more than a cesspit. Their courtyard, with rarity, had a water-pump.

On the hot days, mothers filled iron buckets under its fast-running flow. They'd drag their children under the shade, then strip them down and scour them with soap and water until their hair squeaked. Silco remembers the soap his own mother used: a cheap carbolic brand that smelled vaguely of candied cherry. She had lovely hands. He remembers that most. Soft hands and dark features, in contrast to Daddy's pale angularity.

A marriage of Jack and coke, as another Undercity saying goes.

They'd met when Daddy hauled Mother and a clutch of Ionian refugees off a sinking raft in the Pilt. Mother hailed from a tiny tribe of mountain-dwellers in Zhyun. A place of folklore and enchantment: Silco grew up on stories of strange creatures in the misty forests, of a girl named Şahmaran who shapeshifted into a snake, and a blacksmith named Kawe-y asinger who revolted against a tyrannical overlord. Of superstitious realms where men settled scores with axes, and women with spells cast at midnight.

He doesn't know the details of how his parents married. Perhaps gratitude blossomed into love. Perhaps it was pure pragmatism. Daddy’s interest was easy to peg: Mother was a head-turner, a classic Zhyunian beauty without a mark on her body. Mother’s reasons were likewise expedient: she spoke barely any Standard and hadn't a cog to her name. She could do worse than a surly Riverman.

They'd wed that same year. Out popped three boys. Silco was the last.

A difficult birth, or so he was told. He'd nearly killed Mother coming out—then almost offed himself by strangling on the navel string. The midwife had resuscitated him in time. Silco had thanked her by hitting her face with his tiny fists and raging at the top of his lungs.

He’d spend the remainder of his days in that state.

Raging.

Physically, he'd inherited his father's gaunt physiognomy and unruly dark hair. But his olive-toned complexion and seaside eyes were all Mother's. He had her temper too. No docile baby; he’d screamed all day and night. Barely slept more than an hour before awakening to start up again. The only thing that calmed him was Mother's singing. Her voice held a magic, a slow glide like riverwater. As Silco grew older, he’d sing along with her while she was working in the communal kitchen, ballads from her Ionian homeland.

Vander's mother was Ionian too. Her folk hailed from a neighboring highland village near the Sotka's riverbanks. It forged a bittersweet bond between the two women. They were always together, swapping gossip over the stove the same way they swapped old recipes: grilled carp, watered yoghurt stirred with salt, sweet turnip and meat-stuffed dumplings. Often, they dropped their sons off at each other's homes to go run errands at the Equinox Bazaar.

Once Silco's memories snapped on—a switchblade's click—Vander was there.

He was older than Silco by a handful of years. By kid standards, that was quite an age gap. Yet they were startlingly close. Silco's early memories of Vander resist articulation into words. They are mostly tactile. The scent of salt and woodchips. The sound of deep-rolling laughter. The sensation of scraped knees and bone-cracking hugs.

Blut, they'd called each other.

Blood would prove a mere byproduct in their bond.

For Vander, Silco was the sidekick and mascot rolled into one. In the early days, he'd do tricks for Vander's attention: cartwheels, handstands, backflips. Blut! Lookit! In later years, his thirst for Vander's approval took a different shape: I can think faster, move slicker, work harder. Lookit! 

Meanwhile, for Silco, Vander was the mythic mentor. In the early days, he showed Silco how to swim at the riverbanks, make slingshots, cheat at cards. In later years, he taught Silco how to roll cigarillos, spit tobacco quids, and throw punches.

Together, they'd navigated poverty in the Lanes: its crippling burdens and crushing blows. When Silco's family couldn't make ends meet in winter, Vander would stuff Silco's pockets with pickled plums from his own family's meager larder. When Vander didn't have enough cash because his father blew it at the alehouse, Silco would tug his sleeve and offer coins from his own pocket.

Between them, they were usually flat broke. But money was not the real security deposit on their friendship.

It was loneliness.

From the start, they'd been starved for someone to ease their inborn isolation. For Vander, it came from being an only child. For Silco, it came from his father's death.

Daddy had drowned at the docks. There were rumors of foul play at the hands of a Topside shipping baron who’d grown irritated with Daddy’s talk of unions. Rumors that pierced Silco's chest in pinworms of rage. He’d acted out; any child would. The smallest trigger set him off and he'd throw himself on the floor and howl. No words—just screaming until he'd begin to hyperventilate, lungs throbbing with emptiness.

Their home felt likewise empty; the times leaner, the food scarcer. Silco's older brothers became unknowable transients. One was apprenticed to a weaponsmith. The other went off to learn the fishermen's trade. They'd seldom dropped home except for supper and sleep.

The loss changed Mother, too. Before widowhood, she'd been a sweet as a molasses. A flash of temper now and then—but nothing worrisome.

After Daddy's death, something split inside her. She could still, on occasion, be her kindhearted self. But the rest of the time, she was cruelty incarnate: beatings that drew blood, and curses that slit throats. As a boy, Silco learnt to walk on tenterhooks. The woman he left in the morning was never the same one he returned to at night. Would he get a kiss, or a fist smashed into his teeth? Ranting with no end in sight, or crying that went on and on?

The atmosphere at home worsened his own temperament. He dared not pitch a fit and risk worse from Mother. So he learnt to keep it bottled up, a simmering rage that never boiled over.  It felt good to rage. But biting it down was sweeter, the better to unleash it in precision strikes: a mouthful of barbed words to cut her open like a gutted fish. Sometimes, he'd leave her curled on the floor, sobbing like a dying animal. Other times, she'd fall into a gut-stabbed silence, staring at him with hollow eyes.

Silco knew what she saw. She'd whisper it like a curse: "You monster. You dirty little thing."

She was right.

And it only deepened Silco's misery.

Vander became Silco’s shield against the craziness. By then, he was negotiating his passage into adolescence. A snot-nosed kid ought to have irritated him. Instead, he'd kept Silco close. Whenever he heard screaming and breaking dishes at Silco's home, he'd find Silco curled up afterward on the stoop, bruised and black-eyed. 

C'mon Blut, he'd say—slinging Silco over his shoulder before racing off to grown-up haunts.

In those days, the age for legal work in the Undercity was eight years old. Three decades later, it would be bumped up to The Big Nineteenth—although businesses would find workarounds to keep child labor in ample supply. Schooling cost money; most families couldn't spare the extra cogs. Daddy had kept a small fund for Silco's education. He'd wanted all his sons lettered in the Three R's—reading, writing, and arithmetic. But after his death, the family couldn't afford the lost income; Silco stayed home to help Mother with chores.

In Piltover, the psychickers waxed poetic about the Golden Era of childhood. Age-grading kept their progeny innocent, each stage of growth carefully regimented. Sumpsnipes were never treated differently from adults. Nor were they shielded from life's routine brutalities. The opposite: every boy and girl in the Lanes served a pragmatic utility. Bootblacks, milliners, mine trappers, couriers, domestics.

Vander was no exception.

His father, a tall Targonian Adonis reduced to a booze-soaked ruin, had lost his leg between two rollers at the dye factory. At least that was the official story. In truth, he’d been paralyzed after an illegal boxing match at the wharves by Rotten Row. To support his mother, Vander was at the shipworks on weekends, arc-welding torches and hauling crates. On weekdays, he was at the taverns, scrubbing up spills or dragging out welchers. He'd been uncommonly strong. Despite his puppydog characteristics—big bones and outsized paws—his physique already promised an unabashed breakthrough into purebred ferocity.

In the Lanes, size wasn't enough to confer respect. Vander had it because of his attitude.

Even as a boy, he'd radiated an aura of danger. He wasn't mean-spirited. But his fuse ran short, and he had a brutal willingness to pummel it into others. Same temper as his father, were the whispers around the neighborhood. Said father had also trained him since infancy in boxing. Older, Vander honed the skills in the street, smashing noses and snapping ribs with impunity. He was fond of throwing down gauntlets; few boys dared to run them. It was smarter to stay on his good side.

For Silco, Vander was all good sides. The handful of years he had on Silco conferred him with a halo of supremacy. He seemed to know everyone: the peddlers, the bartenders, the prizefighters. Later, he would know a lot of girls, too, who'd treated Silco fondly, but only had eyes for Vander. Whenever Vander was off with them, Silco had fought a suffocating sense of bystandership.

Even when their boyhood paths were running parallel, Vander's always seemed the one of least resistance. Things came easily to him: friendship, respect, love. Whereas Silco's was a rough terra-incognita: unseen risks at every corner.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

On summer nights, a heat lay trapped inside the tenement walls. Flies buzzed and infants wailed. The temperature did things to Mother; set her brain afire. Sometimes she'd be a stickysweet goo: cuddling Silco like he was a baby. Other times she'd belt him black and blue for the smallest infraction: spilled soup, dirty shoes, loud noises.

To escape, Silco often climbed with Vander over the crazy jumble of roofs to the topmost gable. They'd sit side-by-side, the cityscape spreading out into the fairytale glow of Piltover, its sky blue and translucent, their own overcast with filth. Passing a pilfered cigarette between them, they stared into the horizon, and talked of the things that mattered to them. Vander told Silco about the boxing-gloves he planned to buy in a couple of years, and the time his father had fallen down the stairwell in a drunken stupor. Silco told him about the scar he'd gotten on his knee after his mother jabbed him with a red-hot poker, and his hopes to someday visit Topside's Grand Library.

Their early days were rife with dysfunction and claustrophobia. Yet, for Silco, they always held a rare sheen of happiness.

Until the fire burned down the tenement.

Fire. Such a curious beast. So different from water. Water fits its shape to yours, a cradle of beguiling familiarity. It rocks you past the Rubicon of resistance, until the air is stolen from your lungs. That's what makes it so dangerous. It works in secret, in bewitching shapes. Like the sirens of old lore, it lures you into surrender, kiss by kiss, until you belong to it entirely.

Fire is different.

No subtlety; it is hunger incarnate. When the flames seize you, they sink in like teeth. Fire lays down marks; it boldly stakes its claim. Even at its softest, the smoke can scorch your lungs inside-out. Fire isn't a seducer; it is a showgirl with a flair for theatrics. Against your will, you are bedazzled to the flashpoint—and devoured.

Fire come for Silco's neighborhood that night. Entire floors engulfed in flames. Eighty families reduced to ash. Vander's parents. Silco's brothers.

Mother survived—but it was pure semantics. The woman left behind wore her skin, but little else. Gone soft in the attic, as the Undercity saying goes. Silco watched it happen. After the blaze, they'd taken refuge in an overcrowded halfway house. Next morning, Silco had found Mother sitting in the corner, her eyes staring unblinkingly at a fat spider crawling across the wall. Then her mouth dropped open, and out fell a half-dozen spiders, half-chewed to mulch.

The Asylum for the Irreparable took her away.

Fifteen years, she'd remained an inmate—until a brain tumor felled her in her sleep. By a sizable yardstick, Silco had found her better off. As a boy, he'd loved her with a quiet fervency despite her bouts of horribleness. But after the fire, he'd found it easier to consign Mother to the same spot as Daddy in his memory. She was little better than a rancid dead thing. Dead things belonged in holes.

Same way dirty little things slipped through the cracks.

He and Vander were sent to Hope House Orphanage. A toss of the coin. They could as easily have been thrown into the streets. Most orphans in the Lanes, fallen into destitution, resorted to begging and theft. Some formed gangs, tattooing themselves with needles dipped in old gunpowder. Others became vagrants, staking their claim in the warm kilns of the brickyards at Factorywood or sleeping under the stalls of the Black Market.

However, the tenement blaze had drawn Topside attention. To assuage wagging tongues, the Wardens took over as Paterfamilias for the surviving children.

Taking them into the belly of the beast.

Hope House was a bedlam in its own right: caged with hundreds of parasites and sickos and crazies. There was a boy on their block who'd crept into his little sister's room and slit her from cunny to throat. Another with burn scars pink as taffy on his skin and an obscene fascination with matches. A third who'd cut holes into his trouser pockets and squeezed his own bollocks until they were mangled.

Other children weren't deranged. Just damaged. Silco and Vander had fit right in.

The tragedy had knitted them closer together. They shared the same bunk, sat together at mealtimes, played at the same corners. But the shock of the fire crept through their systems in different speeds, subtly tainting them both. For Vander, his violent streak widened by a mile. He became aware of his strength, and how to use it against the other children. Most fled the radius of his swinging fists. Others were drawn to him like moths to a flame—an effect boosted by his raw physical appeal.

He'd sloughed off the adolescent awkwardness and grown into his size. He'd also taken up pugilism: a program provided by the orphanage, alongside carpentry, sewing, metalwork and writing. Whenever he'd hit the heavybag in the common room, all activity stopped. The boys and girls would creep closer to stare, whispering among themselves.

Ordinarily, Vander would let the admiration roll off him like sweat wicking off his brow. Other times, he'd catch Silco's bright eyes in the crowd—and grin.

Silco grew too, but like a crooked eyetooth. Despite a spurt in size, he'd never be handsome. His face was too lean for classical beauty, with its bladed nose, pointed chin, and a mouth crowded with teeth like a junkyard brawl. In fact, like Vander, he was usually brawling.

Unlike Vander, he used no fisticuffs. Just words.

Bullies at the orphanage had taken an eyeful of Silco's whippety body and dubbed him easy pickings. Within the year, they'd regretted it. Silco wasn't strong, but he was smart. Worse, he was naturally patient. When he was eleven, Jimmy Bierhals had busted his right arm between the iron gap of the storm grate. Three weeks later, Jimmy was found sprawled in the alleyside with first-degree burns rashing his prick. Someone had flung industrial solvent on him from the rooftop while he was taking a piss. Another time, Devo's gang of Weevils had jumped Silco for trespassing into their spot in the common-hall, busting his nose and pulping his ribs. Two months later, Devo woke up buck-naked and dangling upside down from the building's turrets after someone slipped sleeping-draft into his ginwater.

To most sumpsnipes, Silco's subtlety was an anomaly. Everyone in the Lanes spoke the language of violence as an honest one-to-one exchange. Many were downright pissed by his penchant for sneak-attacks.

If he ain't charming the scales off snakes, he's scalding 'em with snake-oil—was the complaint among custodians.

Among the children, he earned a number of monikers. Roulette, for his uncanny knack for palming the chanciest items without being seen. Rat-foot, for his talent for vanishing whenever trouble arose. Snake-bite, for the way he'd slip under people's defenses and burrow into their guts.

But no nickname stuck quite like The Scholar.

It was true enough. Not only was Silco literate—he'd enjoyed reading. At his parents' home, he'd always been encouraged in his schooling. In the mornings, Daddy often recited from the newspaper to him. At night, Mother read from a tattered collection of Ionian folktales. When Silco asked why, she'd replied that they were talismans. If kept close, they'd guard you against harm.

Silco would lie awake listening to her whispering in the dimness, feeling them like a protective forcefield.

Now, Silco devoured stories—real ones, in print. Not just porn periodicals or sixcog novellas or Mavis & Mutthead strips, either. He'd read the big books in the orphanage's ramshackle library. The ones by renowned Topside scholars. He'd read the mythologies and folklore of the Undercity. He'd read about legendary items forged by godlings to shield cities in a protective sphere. He'd read the testimonials of war-slaves and smuggled captives. He'd read the histories of great rulers and the tyrants. He'd read about wars waged for freedom and blood spilled for self-respect.

At Hope House, they'd waged war and spilled blood over the smallest things. Small things were all they had. That, and suffering.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

Topside had built the orphanage in the structural style of a military school. It was designed to control the children's wilder impulses. Teach them values, keep them obedient. In other words, abuse them. Spare the rod and spoil the child—and the custodians weren't sparing with their rods.

Figuratively or literally.

Silco had experienced it firsthand. Twelve years old and stirred awake in the infirmary, at the frozen nadir of winter, by an adult's callused fingers caressing his hipbone, crawling down his bare flesh towards his groin. Through prolonged exposure, such incidents—and worse—became commonplace. Like the violence. And the fear.

At night, he and Vander would lie side-by-side, too cored-out for tears, and whisper endlessly of escape. Big dreams; brighter days.

A future as starry as Piltover's sky.

Afterward, they'd fit their bodies together in a comfortable clasp of rustling of sheets and subaudible breaths. Vander's large hands would trace the fine bones under Silco's skin, until he closed his eyes and the tension drained from his brainpan. Their hearts beat in syncopated rhythm. And Silco felt, for the barest moment, safe.

Safe enough to dream of something more than survival.

Dirty little things deserve that, too.

The spring Vander was set to graduate from Hope House, recruiters came to the orphanage. They passed pamphlets, each one determined to prove their industry had something wondrous to offer. The goal was to lure in future laborers like lambs to the slaughter.

Vander was seventeen; Silco was twelve. They were both attracted to the pamphlets on the steel mines. A tough racket, backbreaking labor. But the promise of easy coins appealed to them.

Anything was better than another hour at Hope House.

Together, they'd signed on. So did several other children. The boys and girls at Hope House chose one monster or another, but as a group, they were devoured one hundred percent by Piltover's industries. A grand tradition. Nobody ever graduated from the orphanage without being snatched up by the mines, or the textile mills, or the factories. Each child was offered the illusion of consent, while also guaranteeing that they had no options—money, family, education—that would hinder their exploitation.

Piltover was the City of Progress. Progress demanded its pound of flesh. Children's flesh—and their lifeblood.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

The mines.

What should Silco share about them? The less, the better. It's a miracle he and Vander failed to die there.

They were in suffocating pits of Oshra Va'Zaun every day, pounding posts and stringing explosives to blast the ore-bearing rocks loose. They were out in the frigid dawn hours hauling bucketloads of metallurgical coal until their young bones ached. They were out pelletizing the rocks as the furnaces churned blistering-hot fumes in the chamber and burned their skins to pig leather. They were out in the evening pounding the sinter while the damp wind wicked metallic dust into their eyes.

Silco developed a harsh staccato cough like a submachine gun: ack-ack-ack-ack. Vander's hands grew so callused they cracked like clay; dust blackened the clefts in an inky tattoo. For months they ate nothing but gray slop served in massive steam trays. At night, he and Vander retched it back up, before sneaking to the oxbows dotting the badlands. Lacking fishing rods, they would use explosives from the supply room to make molotov cocktails. Tossing them in the river, they'd kill fish by the dozens and gorge themselves sick. Later, they collapsed side-by-side in their bedrolls, too exhausted after twelve bells of backbreaking labor to even pass a cigarette between their chapped lips.

One thing Silco will say for the experience. It was so taxing it flattened his mind of anything except survival. No thoughts bled through. Just a seething, inexorable rage. He was accustomed to occupying the lowest rung of the ladder. Most sumpsnipes lived and died hanging off it.

This was far below the ladder. This was the charnel pit.

Seventy children from Hope House were shipped off to the steel mines—Silco and Vander included. In seven years' time, sixty-one were killed. Silco saw their deaths in all their gruesome variations. Some went fast, blown to slimy bits by the dynamite in the caverns. Others took their time; Grey Lung rotting their chests and throbbing tumors sprouting in their guts.

The survivors went sick too, but in unnatural ways of the mind more than the body. Vander acquired a thousand-yard stare, as if there was a low-wattage warzone raging inside his skull. His sullen silences grew perpetual. On Silco, it had the opposite effect. Always sharp-tongued, he developed the red-hot wit of a hellion.

At the end of the month, the miners congregated to Rotten Row. Nowadays, it is a wonderland of neon-lit vice. Bars and brothels, casinos and cabarets.  A favorite of Piltovans hankering for illicit hanky-panky away from Topside's playpen.

Back then, it was just a stretch of street at the wharves between Entresol and the Sumps. A place where rough men gathered for bad business. There was a betting-house called the Rumbler's Den: a hole in the wall where mold clogged the air like a fogbank and rats skittered in the cellar's fighting pits. Next door was The Belle, a cat-house staffed with whores so greedy they'd grab your coin purse before they ever took your cock in hand.  Up the street was The Nymph, a dance hall with delusions of dignity. Its main draw was a live band, and decent drinks.

Typically, the miners pooled their wages and gravitated to a tavern next door—The Sprout. It was a scratch-assed dive. The mood-lighting and shrouded smoke favored the miner's fatigued faces. Vander would go there to shoot pool and talk shop with a colorful coterie of men and women.  His brother made friends and cowed enemies easily. Silco stayed closer to the bar, watching the crowd.

Watching everyone.

He learned much that way. Learned who was who within the Undercity's darkest circles.  Learned tricks of sleight of hand and how to spot liars in games of cards and dice. How to tell if someone was going to do you wrong. How people moved in packs and what happened when someone was left behind.

Sometimes, he and Vander would put their heads together and shark the rubes at stud poker. If they made enough coins, they'd go to The Belle afterwards and share a whore.

Don't be shocked. The age of consent was twelve in those days. The Big Nineteenth was a pipe dream. Silco and Vander were already old hands at the sex game. Often, they'd each play lookout at the mouth of an alleyway while the other went at it with a girl. Sometimes they'd make a game of it. Compete to see who got the shrillest response—Vander with his literal life-ruining splitter or Silco with his figurative forked tongue.

Among the whores, they'd had an interesting reputation. Share and share alike, as the Undercity saying goes.

Afterward, they'd buy a bottle of silver tequila, their table crowded with empty pewter mugs. At the narrow strip of stage in the corner, the tenor would play an old piano in jangling rubato: dark ballads of murder, madness and broken hearts. On Sundays, there were improv performances. Bawdy skits. Comedic plays. A chance for those with talent to entertain those without a drop of it.

One night Silco was buttonholed into a parlor piece by the bartender, in exchange for cadging off a week's free lager. He'd had no formal schooling in performance. But he had a natural gift. He'd been listening to Piltovan yarn-spinners on the radio since the orphanage days. He'd always been good at mimicking their style and accents.

When he'd climbed on the stage, Vander's brow had scrunched up: Trying to get yourself killed, Blut?

Then Silco started talking.

A silence descended in the tavern. It wasn't an indifferent silence. The miners were mesmerized. Silco had that effect. On the surface, it made no sense. He had none of the qualities that garnered attention in the Lanes: strength or size. But his perception, even as a teenager, was freakishly sharp. He never shied from ripping into the dark underbelly of the human condition: hypocrisy, failure, stagnation.

His innate empathy allowed him to see cracks in the surface. His razored eloquence reeled others in.

The details of the performance are hazy now. They'd involved both playacting and wordplay. Nothing sophisticated, but plenty of barbs hidden below the humor. He'd started off sly, with familiar jokes to coax out laughs from the audience. Then by degrees he'd shredded life at the mines, the backbreaking labor, the long hours and slim rewards. He'd done cutting impressions of the foremen, mugging their walks and talks, stockpiling their foibles and making tactical strikes.

The room erupted with laughter. The miners were responding to his words, their emotions stoked in whatever direction Silco chose to go. Soon the laughter sharpened into angry cheers. He was the one controlling the room: You want to laugh? I'll show you who to laugh at. You want to rage? I'll give you something to rage about.

When the performance ended, there was an explosion of applause. As Silco sat down at his table, men gathered around to clap him on the shoulders. You got a way with words, boy. How'd you get to be so sharp?

Vander took it in with an expression of… not pride, but unease. Maybe he didn't find it amusing, Silco disparaging the life he shared with hundreds of others. With Vander himself. Or maybe he saw something else. Like Silco's ordinary skin, so familiar, was a costume, while inside was all scaly venom.

A dirty little thing festering beneath the surface.

After that night, Silco would feel Vander's eyes on him. Always watchful, as if that thing might resurface.

Except Vander had a thing in him too.

Beneath the bonhomie lay something else. Something rageful and hungry and wolfish. It come out at nights when he'd get vipered up on sour-mash bourbon. Next thing, he'd be stirring up trouble with the tavern's layabouts, and before long either he or his opponent would go crashing through the riveted door in a creak of rusted hinges and a spray of toothpicked wood.

Silco loved watching Vander fight. His fists came down like the hammers of hell. Short of a bullet to the brain, nothing could keep him down. Sometimes, Silco would stir up trouble with his trickster's tongue just to get under some loudmouth's skin. When the exchange erupted into a brawl, he'd melt the shadows while Vander stepped in and unleashed his hellhounds.

Before crossing twenty, Vander had already broken his share of necks, most at close quarters. But unless it was self-defense, he'd invariably take his bloodied victim by the arm, then haul him back into the tavern for a conciliatory drink. That, Silco supposed, was the difference between himself and Vander.

Even then, Silco saw man and monster as different sides of the same coin.

Vander did not.

It wasn't all drudgery and darkness.

In the summers, Silco and Vander had another way to release the pent-up pressure. After a week's labor, they'd gravitate to the oxbow lakes that ringed the mines. There was a rotted railway trestle that overhung the largest unfurling blue-gray lake. A place where miners could immerse themselves for longer than ten-minute increments without lesions on the skin or parasites in the bowels. Boys would dare each other to jump off and land cannonball-style in the water.

Silco and Vander never needed convincing. They'd leap off side-by-side and shoot straight in, the acrid mineral tang filling their nostrils. Surfacing, they'd spit out mouthfuls, hooting and laughing and dunking each other. The few places Silco felt remotely graceful with his body was in the water. Swimming, his thin limbs took on an eelike grace. Hereditary, he supposes. Both his parents came from riverside towns on opposite shores of the world.

Born with gills, were ya? Vander liked to tease.

Silco's favorite trick was to somersault off the trestle and straight into the deep-end. He'd sink like stone to the bottom, no sound. A minute would pass. Two. Three. At the crux of five, he'd break to the surface, easygoing as ever, as if he'd been taking a nap at the depths. Vander would guffaw in admiration. Afterward, they'd sprawl together in the trestle's shade, Silco patching the holes in Vander's old boots while Vander picked out the soot clumps knotted in Silco's curling hair.

Funny, those meaninglessly meaningful gestures in childhood. I have your back—spoken without a word.

Other kids from the mines hung out at the oxbow from time to time. Benzo, a criminally easygoing chatterbox from the Sumps. Lika, a pale birdlike girl from far-flung Drakkengate, with clever fingers and gift for tinkering. Nandi, a silent dusky waif of Vekauran heritage, who'd be almost pretty if not for the oilslick of her long ratty hair. Sevika, her little sister, a knee-high brat with a foul stink and a fouler attitude.

Like Silco, they hated the interminable toil of the mines. But unlike him, they were resigned to their lot. Most were orphans; others were wards of the state. They'd nowhere else to go. Sharing a laugh, singing an old song, slugging a drink—these were familiarities they'd cherished, despite being few and far in between.

Silco was not so easy to please. To him, familiarity reeked of entrapment. He was determined to do better. The Fates were always conspiring to trip you up. The only way to survive was to keep your eyes peeled for a crack in the pavement, or a fork in the road.

Whatever took you off the beaten track—and into freedom.

That's how the smuggling career began. One winter, an explosion swept through the mines. It was triggered by a spark from one of the children’s' open-flame lamps, left unattended during a poker game. The methane gas fireballed into a blaze, destroying the ventilation fans, the railcars, the roof timbers. Silco and Vander barely survived, choking on the blackdamp and dodging debris.

The body-count ran into double digits. Most of the children had not yet crossed eighteen.

Jannas Segen, as is the send-off among miners. Janna's blessing.

Afterward, the moguls at Topside declared martial law. Every miner, adult and child, lost two weeks wages as penance. No more booze after work. No more gambling or card games. All mining equipment would remain locked away during shift changes. At night, Enforcers would patrol the Fissures. Any worker found guilty of breaking curfew would get the boot—or the bullet.

For Silco, it was the last straw.  For years they'd drudged in the darkness as slaves. Now they were prisoners? There seemed no end to the indignity. Worse, he suspected conditions would worsen. If the overseers wanted to make an example of a troublemaker, they needed little provocation to make it happen. The fresh supply of bodies from orphanages meant a replacement would arrive lickety split.

He and Vander needed a recourse.

In those days, smuggling was rife in the mines. Children used it to pay bribes: avoiding overtime shifts, swapping contraband, dealing in booze and tinned food. But Silco wasn't interested in petty grift. His goal was bigger: to earn enough money to leave the mines behind forever.

One night at The Sprout, Vander stopped mid-glug on his beer when Silco tossed a deck of cigarettes across their table. He was nineteen; Silco fifteen. Thin and sinewy, Silco had oversized hands like fins, and feet like flippers. Yet the adolescent gawkiness foreboded another growth spurt into something altogether sleeker. Meanwhile, Vander was nearly full-grown, six foot six and broad as a barrel. He wore his dun-colored hair loose, and his face was a chiseled slab. To Silco, he always looked like he belonged in a book: a character sprung from fiction, not flesh.

But that night he squinted boyishly at the cigarettes on the tabletop. "Ain't my brand, Blut."

"Mine neither."

Silco settled on the stool beside Vander. Two girls—Lika, and another bird—were eyeballing Vander from the corner table. Vander sipped his beer, licking the foam from his lips, and glanced over his shoulder at them. Silco heard the chime of feminine laughter. Rolling his eyes, he kicked Vander in the shin.

"Blut. Focus."

"But they're just sittin' there."

"They'll still be there later. Listen." The order rolled easily off his tongue. His voice was already developing the rich tenor that would mature in later years into a resonant force. “I have an idea.”

Vander’s sigh was careworn. “You an’ your ideas.”

“Dosh for our nosh.” Pointedly, Silco tapped out a cigarette. "Know much about rustling these?"

Vander shook his head. "Filching 'em, is all."

Silco spun the cigarette between his fingertips. "They're counterfeits. Old man Volkage keeps a stash. Taste almost like the real thing."

"So?"

"It's big money. Bigger than what we're making."

"How big?"

"Volkage says one thousand a month. They come from Bilgewater. When the Pilt freezes in winter, they slide 'em in crates over the ice to our side. Summertime, they take 'em by boat."

"The Patrolmen don't stop it?"

"They take a cut. Everyone does. The Bilgewater Reavers on their side, the distributers on ours. Volkage is looking for fresh blood."

"I want fresh blood; I'd go to the butcher."

Silco struck a match to the cigarette, and proffered it to Vander. "I can go there myself. But we might try our luck here."

Vander was reluctant. A straight-shooter, he wasn’t ambitious by nature. Nor did he revel in risk. He never needed to. His solid magnetism made him easy friends. His solid fists pounded down the rest. It was different for Silco. He never drew effortless admiration; he'd had to earn it through clever enticements.

His attitude toward opportunity was the same. In every unhooked catch, he saw a lucky break lost.

Smuggling was leagues' away from honest mining. But honesty hadn't kept the rest from death. Who was to say they wouldn't be next? If they were going to bust their bones, they ought to do it on their own terms. And Silco's gut instinct—infallible in such matters—told him they were ahead of the curve. If they hopped on now, they could ride it like a wave to brighter days.

Reluctantly, Vander gave in.

There's a saying in Piltover: Crime doesn't pay.

The Undercity's riposte: Crime pays well—if you don't get caught.

Silco and Vander started off as low-level mules. Nightly, they navigated by foot through moldering trash and twisted roots toward the Pilt. They lugged crates into a puntboat floating in the night-blackness of the river. Vander covered it in tarpaulin; Silco gave a bird-whistle signal to the lookouts. Then they'd kick off through the water in a smooth stripe.

The chill spray seeped into their bones. Yet adrenaline kept their blood foaming-hot.

In those days, Smuggler's Cove hadn't ceded to Piltovan territory. It was a no-man's land where laws didn't apply. Contraband passed its borders freely. Silco and Vander made the rounds each night: slippery as eels. In the mining bars and barracks, Vander's genial grin and Silco's fast-talking salesmanship resulted in a flurry of takers. Three months found them raking in more coins than they'd seen in three years. When Vander emptied the first satchel on their bedroll, Silco broke into a gleeful jig that sent Vander into peals of laughter.

Money poured in. Soon, the small-time thrill of tobacco smuggling burgeoned into a full-scale operation. Silco and Vander expanded their criminal portfolio into bootlegged alcohol and blackmarket goods. Gathering to their ranks a collection of eye-gougers, sneak-thieves and ruffians, they would venture as far as the Ironworks on the northside, and steal every cargo or crate that was loose on the docks. With valuable tips, Silco also began investing a portion of their money in the numbers racket, the Undercity's unofficial lottery. His prodigious memory proved useful for learning names of the old and new runners, and outmaneuvering them.

Word of their success spread. Others began trying their hand at the game. Competition was cutthroat, but none could exactly replicate Silco and Vander's business model. Most smugglers found their way into the watery noose because they'd scuttle any ship and crack any skull. It won them no friends, Topside or bottom.

Vander and Silco were more adroit. They plundered only from the Piltie manufacturing districts further upriver, where surplus stock flowed daily from factories and warehouses. Their profits were larger, too. In time, the sleepy backwater at the harbor was flooded with loot. In the neighboring spiderweb of alleyways, a rich bazaar unfurled, ripe with illegal exotica for curious buyers. It held within it the incipient blossoms of the Black Lanes—a colorfully cosmopolitan and manically mercantile ethos.

Silco and Vander were at its crux.

When Vander was twenty-one, Silco decided they needed a legitimate front for their operation. He convinced Vander to dip into their savings stash and go down to the Fissures' credit union for a small loan. With it, Vander leased a ramshackle property to renovate into a tavern. Rough territory: a brothel down one street, a pawnbroker down the other. But Silco told Vander to see beyond the neighborly downsides.

The Undercity wouldn't be a wasteland forever. With gamesters plying their trade nightly, he'd soon have his pick of punters.

On his part, Silco considered branching out to try his luck in Bilgewater. But something pulled fiercely at his bones when he thought of leaving the Undercity. The Finger-Trap Fallacy, he'd coined after a night's drunken carousing. Some places, the invisible hold was too strong. It kept you locked in a death-grip—but softly, so you'd never feel it unless you tried to escape.

He'd no plans to escape. For once, his disjointed life was flowing smoothly. Better yet, it was flowing in parallel with Vander's.

They were a matched pair; they worked best together. Nights found them zigzagging across the Pilt with costly cargo. Days found them in Vander's tavern—dubbed The Last Drop—cobbling together furniture and sweeping out sawdust. Afterward, with their widening circle of admirers, they'd clink their glasses and toast to better days in wild debauches of spilled alcohol and tobacco fumes.

Silco's memories of the era are almost somnambulistic, the bodies of different whores twisting into strands of cigarette smoke and curlicues of powdered cocaine like figments from a degenerate's delirium. Yet there were motes of epiphany shot through the haze too. He and Vander had grown up almost as brothers; for the most part, they treated each other with the rough-and-tumble affection of siblings. But now and then, Silco would be clubbed by the reminder that Vander was not, in point of fact, his blood brother. Times when Vander would suddenly turn on him, barking orders in an implacable rage. Times when Vander's stare turned at once feral and far-off, like he couldn't quite remember who Silco was anymore.

There were other moments too.

Like the grey pre-dawn hours when Vander drank too much, and his big feet would carry him not to his own mattress, but Silco's. There, he'd pour himself over the younger boy until Silco's ribs creaked under his weight.  Like at Hope House, his broad rough hands would trace the narrow bones under Silco's skin, learning veins, remembering scars. Only this time Silco felt no calmness, but the red-hot ripples of need.  Vander never spoke on those nights. Even his breathing was a near-silent cadence, until their bodies began that back-and-forth rocking, and his panting would roughen into a deep singsongy hum that raced up Silco's spine, everything in him rising, winging, wanting, an arrowing straight towards truth, until their low ragged groans broke the warm darkness.

Afterward, the biggest of the night's astonishments: Vander's mouth softly touching his. Just a kiss—no tongue or teeth. Only a tenderness that tasted of homecoming.

In daylight, Vander always behaved as if nothing had happened. As if it was a dream.

Silco never made a peep either.  He felt closer to Vander, somehow, with no words between them. Those nights were hotter, sweeter, more satisfying, than anything he did with the whores. Than anything he'd do with any of his lovers, in the years after.

Older, he understands that Vander sought him out for the same reasons. Reasons he was too proud—too in denial of?—to admit to anyone else. Not his lovers; not his paid girls. In public, he had a persona to keep up. The smuggler, the bruiser, the behemoth. At night, though...

At night, he needed something else.

Silco let Vander take whatever he needed, whenever he came around. He was happy to give it. He was grateful for the smallest crumb of care.

Grateful to be with Vander at all.

It went on that way for quite some time. In daytime, no harshness would be scrubbed off Vander's attitude. But at nights, he'd pour himself over Silco in a lather of softness. Sometimes, it was enough just to sprawl across the threadbare sheets, soaking in Vander's warmth. Other times, they'd do things together that made Silco's bones throb and his head spin for days after.

He'd have been happy to stay in that state of strange ecstatic stasis forever. But forever isn't in a sumpsnipe's almanac.

By winter, everything changed. Vander fell in love. And Silco killed a Patrolman.

The love stuff first.

Vander took up with Lika. She'd always fancied him. Most girls did. Silco thought nothing of it. She wasn't Vander's type. His brother liked 'em lush. Breasts and hips; some brisket on the bones. Whereas Lika was thin as a windchime, and scatter-brained as a flock of starlings. She lived in the trenches of the Lanes—the darkest and filthiest zone where no light bled through. The folk there were derisively titled by the long-settled families as Luftmenschen—wandering tinkers who ‘lived on air’ and coasted on charm and cunning to eke out a living.

Lika was no exception.

She'd always rubbed Silco the wrong way. Surprising, given their similar natures: a free-spirited tinkerer and a free-thinking spieler. And yet within a minute of conversation, they both had to strain not to strangle each other.

Too matchy-matchy, Vander used to snigger.

Then, by twenty-one Lika began sporting a colorful mélange of tattoos to match the midnight blueness of her hair. Her movements held a dreamlike looseness; her smile was pure breezy charm.

Vander's brains were blown away.

Once, Silco stirred awake from the night's revelry to strange sounds. Rising woozily, he left two whores where they lay sprawled on his mattress, stumbled past empty bottles of liquor and cigarette stubs, dragged on his trousers, and went up to the bar. It was empty, but he heard thumping from the coat room.

He crept there on silent feet, knife in hand, expecting an intruder. In the gloom: Vander and Lika were going at it. Vander was so tall his shoulders jingled the hangers like bells; he had Lika pinned effortlessly to the wall, fucking her so she slid rhythmically up and down, her skirt bunching in the small of her back. Her happy croons cut through the silence.

A strange sensation scalded Silco. He left as soundlessly as he'd entered.

He wasn't bothered by catching them together. He'd gotten an eyeful of Vander-with-girls by the dozens. But this was different. Silco was bothered by the expressions on Vander's and Lika's faces. In hers, the giddiness of simple lust. In Vander's, something else. A sense of awe, but also vertigo. Like he was caught in a whirlwind, with nothing to pull him back.

Silco might've stopped him.

Except he was soon imprisoned at the Hölle Correctional Facility for murder.

The Patrolman next.

It happened on a moon-glossed summer night. Vander had stayed behind rather than accompanying Silco to the Pilt. A regular occurrence the past few months The Drop's day-to-day dealings and Lika kept swallowing greater chunks of Vander's time; he'd swatted Silco away more and more.

Silco no longer had exclusive rights to his brother; he could only borrow him for short intervals. It was always, Can't, Blut—I'm beat from work, or, Not now, Blut. Lika's not feelin' up to it.

Nor did Vander seek him out at nights either. He still drank and worked and caroused with Silco, but slept afterwards in his own mattress, or with Lika.

For the first time, Silco sensed Vander's trajectory and his own splitting in different paths. Just like in their childhood, Vander's had arced off into comfortable steadiness. Silco's own was caught on a crooked spiral—downward and outward.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

That night, Silco was alone at the Pilt. As he'd crossed the shore to the puntboat, a shape had leapt out of its deep-bottomed hulk.

Silco knew instinctively it was a Patrolman. As the years passed, Piltie factory-owners paid them to keep the docks well-lit and bash in the brains of any sumpraker scurrying around after dark. Lately, they'd begun cracking down more fiercely on the contraband trade, circling deeper into the Fissures.

Smugglers had to be extra careful. The shadows bristled with silhouettes; gunshots echoed ghostlike through the night.

The Patrolman tackled Silco like a torpedo. Sky and land pinwheeled out of whack. Silco smashed to the ground, the Patrolman on top of him. He swung the butt of his rifle toward Silco's skull. The first blow sent a shockwave of agony blistering through his body. Blood darkly curtained the night. By the fifth blow, the darkness threatened to melt everything else.

Reflexively, Silco's hand went to his belt. A box-cutter always hung there. His thumb pressed the mechanism. The blade sliced out, and his arm moved in a convulsive arc. There was a sensation of something slickly dragging and tearing loose. Next thing he knew, blood from the Patrolman's torn throat sprayed his face, glinting off his razor in the murky starlight.

His first kill.

He'd never wished it to happen. But wishes are for fools, and so is retrospect. A thing, once done, can't be undone. An appellation, once earned, remains yours, either as a bruise or a badge.

Overnight, he became a killer. Not a murderer—yet—but indisputably a killer.

He was two months shy of seventeen.

By labor standards, he was working age. As per the Warden's overseership, he was a youth. The courtroom gymnastics were diabolical. At the trial, he pled self-defense. It was argued that the attack was a matter of life and death. At the time of the pretrial hearing, Silco's face was disfigured with bruises. The Patrolman's rifle blows had taken noticeable chips out of his front teeth. The effect called to a mind the broken maw of a subterranean wretch.

The judges weren't the pitying sort. But they had a dozen cases on their roster. Silco was a troublemaker, but records from Hope House also attested to a fine academic record and a bright mind.

Thus, he was granted statutory release into the care of Hölle Correctional Facility.

At the time, philanthropic charities were cropping up, run by Piltovan patrons as part of a high-society fad. They seldom ventured into such institutions personally, for fear that their hearts may start bleeding or their gowns get soiled by shit. But they doled out coinage for the institutions: some harshly disciplinarian, others moderate. Their aim was the same: to turn recalcitrant sumpsnipes into respectable workers, training them to lead useful lives.

Or, barring that, stop them from committing murders.

Vander was confounded. By said murder, or its outcome—Silco never knew. Between them, Vander's alacrity for violence was well-known. They'd always joked that he'd end up with a body-count in the double-digits.

Except it was Silco. Blood on his hands and a kill on his record.

It should have brought them closer. But in the wake of the incarceration, Vander kept a wary distance. He visited only once a month. Sometimes alone, other times with Lika or Benzo. He told Silco that killing a Piltie had won him censure in some quarters, admiration in others. No charges were levied against Vander. Silco always had the foresight to transfer any stolen loot into their own containers, then scatter them throughout the Black Lanes. It became harder to obtain conclusive evidence without a paper-trail. Nor, under duress, had Silco fingered Vander as a partner-in-crime. Why would he?

Vander was his brother.

He'd stayed at Hölle for three years. An eventful three years. In sleep, Silco would thrash to nightmares sliced with box-cutter steel and tinged with blood. Awake, he'd feverishly work his time in ways that would work for him.

The Warden, a sharp-dressed Demacian called Jonah Lascelles, saw potential in the troubled young man. He took Silco under his wing as a pupil. Previously, Silco had never bought the piffle about a lack of male role model shaping a boy's character. Yet the generous way Warden Lascelles set about teaching Silco everything from self-discipline to formal etiquette had filled a strange small hollow in Silco's chest.

The Warden was born deaf and mute; he communicated entirely through sign language. He also dealt with people in a fashion Silco had never seen before. He never used profanity. Never lost his temper. He treated everyone, from the skittish street urchins to the impeccably turned-out Piltovan officials, with a cool, contained, courteous manner than was almost old-world.

More astonishing was his attitude toward discipline. At Hope House, they'd doled out backhands more than bread. But at Hölle, corporal punishment was anathema. Instead, after each infraction—a fire, a fistfight, a food-strike—Silco would find himself sitting, cloaked in defiant cigarette smoke, in the Warden's steel-gray office, while on the other side of the desk the old man posed an equable question via tapped fingers: Well then. Let's hear your side of the story?

And to his own astonishment, Silco would find himself sharing it.

The Warden's method was a masterstroke. His lessons weren't limited to the usual fare of canings or memetics. He taught Silco to think, rather than just react. To consider the motives of others. Even to outmaneuver them. That last skill proved to be the hardest to learn—but it was the most useful. He also made sure Silco's hands were kept busy with a variety of tasks. The Warden was a man of many hobbies. Beyond mastering three types of sign language, he also had a passion for cooking, mathematics, astronomy—and he found a home for each and every one of them in the ramshackle expanse of Hölle's grounds.

Silco was encouraged to enroll in a number of correspondence classes funded by Piltover's academy: History, Business, Rhetoric. There, he completed the diploma program he'd left hanging at Hope House. His verbiage grew polished; his diction smoothed out. He'd always had a way with words. But now his bon mots sharpened to mots justes.

At the Warden's suggestion, he entered a number of essay competitions. His works were mostly on the Undercity, its history and folklore. They weren't much. But in a strange manner, they brought the Lanes closer to life; they lent them a sheen of dignity. One essay, titled A Death in the Pilt, made its appearance in the Evening Gazette.

Two months later, a letter arrived.

Piltover's Academy, filling their Undercity quota, offered him a scholarship.

"You're taking it, yeah?" Vander said.

They sat in the visiting room at a rusted steel table. Rays of heatless sunlight fell through the casement windows, picking up the brown threads in Vander's unkempt hair and the creases at the corners of his eyes. He had the bleary air of a man who'd not slept in weeks. Silco knew better to believe it was because of him.

Lika had broken if off with him. She'd taken up with a new man. Vander barely saw her except in streetside glimpses.

In ordinary circumstances, Silco would've commiserated. But last month, Warden Lascelles had died of a sudden stroke. Silco was shocked by how much the absence of his mentor had changed the atmosphere at Hölle. The new Warden was a Piltie; self-absorbed and arrogant, with no interest in nurturing talent among the boys. Under his aegis, Silco spent most of his time herding the younger inmates or scrubbing the toilets.

With Lascelles gone, he felt unmoored. Not only had the old man been kind to him. He'd taught Silco a lot about himself. He'd shown him there was more than one way to be a man.

And Silco was a man now. Nineteen—and at a crossroads.

"You should take the offer," Vander said. "The Academy could use a troublemaker like you."

"I can't leave you here."

Vander waved a hand. "I'll be okay, Blut."

"What about the import-export stuff?"

The smuggling, Silco meant.

Vander shrugged. "I'm not so savvy at the numbers as you. But our contacts are solid. I'd keep it on the side. Focus on the Drop full-time."

That was probably a good call. Silco was the one who'd taken pains to cover their tracks. The one who'd moved money around, created false accounts, falsified signatures. Vander had no patience for such details; likely he'd just gotten Benzo to handle the books in Silco's absence.

The thought seized Silco's throat like a cold fist.

"Do really you want me to go?" he asked. "I'd be Topside for four years."

"I know." Vander rubbed his bristly jaw. "An' I also know you're sorry for the business with the Patrolman."

Silco's throat burned. He looked away.

"Maybe a clean break's best, yeah?" Vander suggested. "Do your penance and start fresh? Go to the Academy. Get yourself a proper education. One you never had here."

"Why don't you come along?"

Vander shook his head. "I got nothin' in common with the folks Uppside." He grimaced. "Plus, we'd just be in each other's way."

Silco wanted to argue. He'd never been without Vander. Their one-two punch of personalities was what made them so formidable in the Lanes. Made them unstoppable. Why would Silco throw it away for Piltover? For the Academy, that only wanted a warm body in an empty chair?

Unless Vander had a different reason to refuse.

Silco's hands curled into fists. He whispered, "Are you hoping..."

"Yeah?"

"Are you hoping Lika sees the light and comes back?"

Vander shrugged. "Hey, you never know." He tipped Silco a wink to disguise his uncertainty. "Like the cat in the song, ain't she?"

Silco shook his head. "You can't seriously believe that."

"What d'you mean?"

"She was only in it for the fun. You gave her plenty."

Vander's jaw went rigid. "Leave it."

"You'll find another bird. Maybe even a Piltie to swan around with. Come with me, and we can—"

"I said leave it."

Vander rapped his huge knuckles on the underside of the table; the sharp bang reverberated up Silco's spine. Fear crept unbidden through his chest. Vander's temper was legendary. But he'd never once turned it against Silco.

Their eyes met. Mercifully, the moment diffused.

Exhaling, Vander said, "It's Lika's thing. Living free; having fun. Always has been. I just want her to be happy."

"Sure."

"Don't worry yourself about it." He pointed a squared-off finger at Silco. "You're not much different from her, y'know. Always swimmin' on to the next big thing. The four walls at Hölle will kill you."

"Or put me in the nuthouse."

"The Lanes are the same. A nuthouse times ten. You got offers pouring in. Make the choice, and go."

His forceful tone was a like a door slamming shut. Silco frowned. "Just like that?"

“It's that thing—whatchacallit? Your Finger Trap Fantasy."

"Finger Trap Fallacy."

"Whichever." Vander saw nothing of Silco's mood shift; or if he did, he accepted it as a given. "Some places, the grip's too strong. You gotta be yanked out."

"Like a rotten tooth?"

Vander ignored the jibe. "You're smarter than me an' the Lanes put together. There's nothing left for you here."

Nothing.

That was how Vander saw it. Not because there wasn't any love between him and Silco, but because Silco had been given a choice to save himself, even if he couldn't save anyone else. Vander wanted him to seize it. Yet to Silco, it felt like a shell-game, a cheap kiss-off. He and Vander had shared everything: money, dreams, hardships. If Silco could, he'd share this opportunity with Vander too.

Blut. Lookit.

Vander didn't want it.

Or maybe it was Silco he didn’t want.

Maybe he longed to fly solo? To come into his own, and for Silco to do the same? Maybe he felt life would be easier with himself and Silco running on different rails. Relics of each other's pasts. So often, it happens. Two boys grow up together, roam the same streets, make the same mistakes. Then one swoops, the other spirals, fire against water, until their boyhood fizzes out and they are strangers to one another.

A premonition, some might call it.

Silco kept his gaze steady, despite the knotwork in his heart. "Yeah. Nothing."

Piltover.

Silco's first glimpse, riding the Hexadraulic lift, of the skyline he'd seen only in the fogged distance, was surreal. The fresh air was dizzying. The sun-dappled streets were incandescent. Even at nighttime, everything held an intense luminosity: every cobble, leaf, lamppost. Silco's skin burned all over from years in the Undercity's treacherous twilight.

He rented a tiny and exorbitantly priced room near the Clockwork Vault. That first day, he scoped out the neighborhood, as he scoped out everything. He shared the block with a teenage halfway house and a women's clinic—both better built than anything in the Undercity. The Pilties on the streets were better built too. Taller, cleaner, glossier. Here and there, he glimpsed a couple of Undercity characters—sharp-eyes and translucent skins—with whom he could share what the Topsiders sneeringly called The Trencher Ten—a handshake of fists curled and thumbs locked.

The rest of the crowd was pure pedigree.

Mornings, he attended classes at the Academy. Evenings, he worked as a clerk for a small-time attorney's office. A Lookless Job, as the Undercity saying went. The people you serve barely spared a look as you shined their shoes, rung up their purchase, took their order. Just do your job, smile, and proffer a tepid Have a nice day. To them you didn't exist. You didn't matter.

A microcosm of the Undercity.

Silco took the deprivations of his life stoically: loneliness, lousy pay, little respect. Meanwhile, his peers floated by with a languid entitlement, like goldfish in a crystal bowl. They dressed in haute couture that was nearly parodic in its impracticality. Their world was all private soirées, summer villas and seven-figure salaries. Their breakfasts didn't begin until noontime, and the jeunesse dorée never set foot beyond their perfumed sanctums without an appointment.

To Silco, the lot of them poured pride like perfume. They were off-putting in their privilege, with fast-tracked careers lined up thanks to family connections, or posh positions guaranteed at their parents' businesses. They were destined to heights Silco couldn't even fathom—not by the sweat of their brows but by an arbitrary toss of the coin. Meanwhile their Undercity peers navigated daily risks with a fine-tuned finesse they could never lay claim to.

It was funny.

Funny like a tumor.

Silco tried to fit in. But fitting into Piltover meant shrinking yourself, being something less. He hated the way the Academy professors passed him over for adjunct positions because of his origins: You're clever, but still a Trencher. He hated the hours of working his fingers to the bone at his clerkship's typewriter, and when he clocked out, being sent out the back with the trash: Front is for Piltovans only. He hated skulking from door to door, hat in hand, to solicit rich Academy donors for sponsorship, only to be turned down flat: Don't get ideas above your station. He hated the way Piltovan girls gawked unflatteringly at everything he said, because by that point he'd learnt to modulate the smallest difference in intonation, vowels gilded and consonants silvered, so he sounded like a feat of uncanny upper-class ventriloquism: You talk fancy for such a grubby thing.

At first, their disdain infected him. Made him feel ashamed of himself. Then he understood there was something poisonous beneath their contempt. They had no clue what kind of world he came from, and held their own fears against him. Soon, their sneers and exclusions held no more power to humiliate him. They only fueled his rage.

Day by day, the rage sucked everything else dry. He'd always had rage. Plenty of it.

Piltover powered it into an inferno.

Rage fuels revolution like wildfire. But its inklings spread like bilgewater. In those days, it was impossible to go anywhere without getting infected with strains of revolution. In Piltover, it was a whisper. In the Undercity, it was a hiss. For decades, its folks had lived exactly as they'd done during the Rune Wars. There were no unions, no child labor laws, no minimum wage. The destitute worshiped at the altar of self-pity; who else could they blame for their plight, except Janna in her infinite wisdom?

Topside, turns out.

The summer of Silco's graduation, a riot erupted in the Lanes. The first of dozens. The heat had intensified the misery from severe to unbearable. The decay, the dilapidation, the disease—all of it festered past boiling point. What kicked it off? Besides, of course, treating people like beasts, and yoking them to dehumanizing mechanisms of labor by day, then trapping them in fifteen-by-fifteen cages by night?

A string of Enforcer brutalities in Emberfit Alley. Five Enforcers raped a girl walking alone from the factories at night. A youth intervened to save her. He was beaten to death and shot; his body dumped in the Pilt. An investigation was conducted. The officers were summarily cleared of any wrongdoings.

Typical.

Any sumprat mixed up with the law could expect a bullet for his troubles.

What was atypical were the Undercity tempers flaring into violence. Groups of rioters hurled bricks and flaming bottles at Enforcer outposts. The Bridge was shut off. Tear gas and bullets dispersed the angry crowd. Fifty men and women were critically injured. Twenty were killed.

In the Academy: disillusionment brewed. Barely a fraction of Undercity made up the student population. Fifty per year, give or take. Yet the classrooms were fertile in birthing a new breed of cultural intellectual—the sumpside scholar. They were children of a postindustrial dystopia. Chockful of trauma, bubbling with cold-hot anger, and sharp enough to cut a room down its center. They'd failed to fade into the nullity of Piltovan society as assistants and clerks and subordinates. A working-class pride was too strongly rooted in their lifeblood.

They took in the plentitude aboveground and the privations below. They galvanized their fellows into radical resistance.

Silco started out as a member of the youth wing for The Liberated Lanes. By the year's end, he'd become their spokesperson. Twenty-three years old, he'd evolved from the plainspoken hellion at the mines to a polished firebrand, his Piltovan-cultivated eloquence weaponized into high-grade ideological dynamite.

His peers were stunned by his talent to rouse a crowd. His betters were disquieted.

At Topside, he was prominent at a number of sitdown vigils and streetside oratory. His small treatise, Pay the Lessons Forward, was widely circulated in shadowy pockets of the campus, before it was banned by Piltovan censors. It detailed how Topside's elites exploited the poor through the multi-levered machine called Progress, and exhorted readers to take up arms against their oppression. Belowground, he began infiltrating the miners with the same ideals, notebook tucked under one arm and pamphlet in the other, engaging them in subversive talks of union and revolt.

The following spring, he helped to lead the steel miners—two thousand strong—in a two-month strike that made the rounds in Topside's newspapers.

"Still stirrin' up trouble," Vander grinned.

By then, they'd swung into each other's orbits. For five years, Silco's life had spun to ever-stranger heights, while Vander's was locked in easy stasis. Then trouble began brewing in the Undercity, and their paths intersected to run parallel again.

It happened as such things often do. After the mining strike, Silco was at The Sprout's smoky gloom, heaped in handshakes. Despite its censure in Piltover's media, the strike was an astonishing success, with backing from both the dockside workers and the factory drudges. In the long-run, it would strengthen the legitimacy of Undercity unions, forcing Piltover into a defensive corner and triggering a number of labor reforms.

Silco, his idealism bridged by strategy, warned that they'd need to defend their victory in the coming days. Sure enough, Enforcers began stirring disorder in the Lanes. Word spread of a bar fight of catastrophic proportion. One man taking on ten Enforcers who'd broken the no-guns rule at his tavern—and winning. Witnesses described the matter-of-fact violence with which the man had hauled out the Enforcers by each massive hand.

Silco, in the spirit of solidarity, went downtown to shake those hands.

The man in question was Vander.

Silco remembers the first glimpse of his brother, in the amber glow of the tavern's entrance. Years since they'd last seen each other. Years that in the Undercity could irreparably deform a man: face gnawed by Gray Pox, hair gone patchy with rheumatic fever, fingers missing from septic wounds. Yet Vander was exactly the same: a glowing giant. He'd stood leaning a shoulder against the doorway, grinning around a pipe and absentmindedly wiping his bloody knuckles on his jacket.

Just short of an arm's reach, he glanced up. In the coarse lilt of the Lanes, he called, "Wrap your lips 'round a cold one, friend?"

Silco, in an accent devoid of coarseness, replied, "Or you could give us a kiss."

In those days, that sort of talk could earn a man a righteous throwdown. Vander squinted—and froze. Silco couldn't blame him.

When Vander had last seen him, five years ago, he'd been a teenager hiding his lanky, pasty self behind greasy whorls of hair, ink-stained fingers and Hölle's shapeless gray inmate's uniform. Now he was in a secondhand workman's suit, the sleeves pushed up to the elbow. His hair was long and swept off the side of his skull like curling bat's wings.

Yet Vander’s presence flooded him with the same little-boy love.

Blut. Lookit.

Then Vander guffawed—"Well, ain't this a turn-around for the fables!"—and Silco was swung off the ground in a bone-cracking hug. His old friend smelled like he always did: salt and woodchips. When his arms enveloped Silco, his eyes burned with the stupid impulse to tears. Except boys could get away with such honesty. Men could not.

Quietly, Silco said, "It's good to see you."

"An' you." Up close, Vander appraised him with a grin. "You sound so fuckin' posh. Like a Piltie gentleman."

"Just a dirty imitation."

"You still take gin? Or d'you drink clean water like the rest of them?"

Silco felt a smile coming to his face. "Pour me a pint, and we'll see."

In the tavern, they'd caught up and cracked wise until the difference of five years and unspoken hurts almost didn't matter. In Silco's absence, Vander had established The Drop as the hub for a gathering crowd of disgruntled troublemakers. In their midst, he'd become, not a firebrand but a fireside. His leadership blazed steady, with the rare blistering flourish that cut down scalawags.

Like Silco, he wasn't afraid to look Enforcers in the eye when they patrolled the Lanes. Like Silco, he believed the Undercity deserved a shot a self-sovereignty. Like Silco, he dubbed this wide-open future, woven from late-night talks and starry skies and cigarette smoke, with a name—

Zaun.

A derivative from the Oshra Va'Zaun tunnels. The mines that had broken their bones and forged their spirits. The womb for the hidden embryo of rebellion.

Funny, isn't it? A lifelong dream can solidify in a single moment, like a newly-minted building. Yet its construction takes years. The foundation is built stone by stone; secret by secret; suffering by suffering. Like a microcosm of the Undercity.

Like brotherhood.

Like betrayal.

But that's a story for another time.

[thequietmanno1]

TheLreads, Vigilantes ch 90, Replies Part 1

“Now, what was happening on Vigilantes- Oh yeah, blatant fuckery in the wordlbuilding department, the usual, then Number 5 showed up to the party.”- Number Hood just wanted to get in on the fighting action with the rest of the battle junkies.

2) “Ah, upstairs, in the picnic the police squad set up. Glad to see they are having fun frolicking around while everybody dies downstairs.”- There is some merit to be made that the Police become a bit too complacent in the heyday of All Might’s era, what with him running about all over the place doing their jobs tenfold before they could lift a finger. Still, some little more pro-active measures on their behalf would have been appreciated.  

3) “Yeah guys, what you think we are? law enforcers? Fuck that, let the pro hero handle it, he was the one that asked for in the first place. God knows why so many cops were needed for that.”-  If nothing else, I’d love to see a cop drama set in MHA’s world, with a young rookie wanting to be a good outstanding and efficient officer in the line of duty, dealing with a cynical mentor and the actions of heroes always bursting in and taking the credit, as he tried to work his way through the complicated system 4) “IS THAT WEED? NOW ITS TIME FOR THE POLICE TO ACT

LEAVE NO SURVIVORS, ANYBODY WITH RED EYES NEED TO BE EXTERMINATED WITH MAXIMUM FORCE POSSIBLE

you know, like in `murica”- AFO getting people hooked on drugs and illegal narcotics young, whether they want to or not. Truly, the most villainous evil that ever existed.

5) “Alright now, Furuhashi, you got the three best characters to be stuck working together, you absolutely must make sure to put them to good use, you got that?”- How about matching them up against the early-model version of one of the most interesting Nomus we’ve yet seen? That’d be a fight I’d pay to watch.

6) “Huh, I don’t know, this just looks like a normal punk rave to me, nothing out of the ordinary here alright”- 7) “And once again, we are faced with a place that is not up the fire safety regulations, smh… Although, unlike the sky egg, this one is deliberate, still I want to see AfO explaining that to the safety inspector.”- He probably happily outlined to him all the health and safety violations he’d deliberately included in the building because he wanted to make it as unsafe as possible for others to hurt themselves on for his idle amusement, before he stole his Quirk and killed him/repurposed the body for “materials”.

8) “I want to know where they kept those masks, because they are a bit too big to keep hidden under their clothes without gathering some unwanted attention.”- They pulled them straight from the plot hole dimension….assuming AFO didn’t have said gas masks stored in boxes over to the side somewhere. They are standing in front of a shelving rack, after all. 9) “Oh perish that thought Knuckles! Goodness gracious, what sort of lowly scallywag would ever dare to commit such acts?”- AFO is the type of man to commit all action of villainy, from dastardly, all the way down to just plain dick. 10) “Good thing you don’t expend a lot of oxygen while using your quirk and thus need to be constantly breathing in, even whilst inside a cloud of drug-laced gas, right Knuckles?”- Knuckles probably trained himself like a deep-sea diver, finding ways to ensure maximum lung capacity if he was ever in an environment where breathable oxygen was getting into short supply, to maximise his speed bursts 11) “GUNKLEDUSTER STRIKES AGAIN

WHY THE FUCK WOULD THE STAFF HAVE A FAKE GUN INSTEAD OF A REAL ONE? OR EVEN SOME TRANQUILIZER WEAPONS? YOU GUYS THINK A PROP WILL DEFUSE TROUBLE? THOSE GUYS WILL EAT YOU ALIVE, EVEN MORE WHEN THEY SEE THE GUN IS FAKE”- I can see AFO issuing unloaded firearms to his security staff just for the Lulz when they try to bring them to bear and find out they’re empty in a crisis situation.

12) “again, you guys think that those batons would stop a stampede of desperate brutes? you twinks there would be snapped in half, and not even the furry guy there would be able to stand there.

Just bring the heavy weaponry, nobody is gonna complain, the police is too busy making flower crowns for each other.”- Again, AFO wouldn’t want any good Quirks getting killed off by a heavy shot before he was ready to stealthily steal them in the chaos. These guys are here to look intimidating and act as a big distraction whilst he moves in the shadows doing what he wants, so if the sight of them brings the rioters up short just for a second, that’s long enough for him.

13) “Oh, really heroic of you Knuckles… Can you imagine if something had happened to them? You could kiss your hero license bye-bye, well, that is, four years before it actually happened I mean.”-  Knuckles already knows them well enough to know that A), they’re simple-minded and like a simple plan, B) they got no issues risking themselves, and C) they wanna fight. So let them fight.

14) “Wait, you are gonna give the signal? Wouldn’t be better for them to give a signal if they are in trouble? Knuckles I’m starting to think they are not just bait, but meat for the grinder.”- That’s assuming either of them can see danger and not go “awesome! I’mma fight that!”

15) “You guys need to ask? You know that kicking ass is not optional here. Go nuts, show those fuckers who’s the alpha team.”- Well, it is technically optional…as in, Rappa and Mirko are split over whether kicking or punching ass is better to proceed with.

16) “Bullshit Knuckles, and you know it. And you Rappa, keep quiet, Mirko got the gist of it, she just needs to promise that she won’t kill anyone and then kick people so hard their vertebrae pop out through their mouth like they are pez dispensers”- Arguably the main difference between them. Mirko knows when to play along before she can cut loose once she’s gained permission, whereas Rappa’s just too upfront and is entirely honest about his desire to fight to the death. Weird seeing the hero being the deceitful one, honestly.

17) “There go my two kids, they are always so happy when they are curb-stomping people into a mush…”- The joys of simple violence. Poetry in motion, to the chorus of breaking bones.

18) “Oh don’t worry Knuckles, they have no need for help. You should worry about who’s going to pay the medical bills of the people they are beating up tho, you said yourself they are ~civilians dosed without consent~”- I presume Knuckles made the police foot the bill, since they’ve contributed pretty much nothing else to this raid.

19) “THAT’S RIGHT GUNKLE! SHOT AT AfO THROUGH THE PORTAL, I THINK NOBODY ACTUALLY BOTHERED TO CHECK IF A HEADSHOT WOULDN’T SOLVE ALL THOSE PROBLEMS, WE DON’T KNOW IF HE ALREADY HAD THE ANTI-HEAD-CRUSHING MEASURE READY BY THEN”- Him still possessing his facial features is a sign that he still doesn’t have Hyper Regeneration specifically but from what we see of Hood, he’s already working on a pseudo-means of being able to heal injuries, presumably with the final product intended for his own use, but this research didn’t proceed far enough until All Might finally caught up to him and crushed his dreams along with his face. From what I can tell, it doesn’t seem to be that Hood is specifically ‘healing’ himself, but rather ‘fixing’ himself, using his unique construction as a modded human, rather than a healing Quirk outright, hence why AFO can’t exactly steal it if it comes down to the way his body’s been rebuilt rather than a power he’s using.  

20) “oh wow, a prop gun you said? Thank fuck they didn’t bothered to get a real one then, it would probably have the wield of a fucking nuclear weapon.”- I fully believe that Knuckles is the kind of guy to keep a few bullets on him in reserve in case he ever needs to shoot somebody, even if he doesn’t always bring an accompanying gun.

21) “HEEEY- THERE WE HAVE IT, OUR FIRST LOOK AT PRE-POTATO AfO, AND HE IMMEDIATELY GOES D:  HILARIOUS “- Honestly, it’s just nice to see something other than ‘smug satisfaction’ on his mug for once, even if it is only a minor victory at best.

@thelreads

[ahb-writes]

Comics Review: ‘Batgirls’ #1

Batgirls Vol. 1 by Becky Cloonan My rating: 3 of 5 stars Gotham is on fire. Again. (Still?) And fortunately or unfortunately, by this juncture, fewer and fewer people truly care whether anyone is around to douse the flames. Which could be a good thing for Team Batgirl, whose combined ranks of Gordon, Cain, and Brown might slip among the shadows a little bit easier. But nothing really goes as one hopes when crimefighting in a city on fire. In BATGIRLS v1, readers breeze into the chaos midstream: Team Batgirl fights off a street artist with a knack for mind control, encounters a trio of well-equipped militant extremists, defends against a prodigy hacker, and as often happens when dealing with teenage superheroes, the team, from time to time, must also combat its own stupidity. BATGIRLS v1 successfully executes what many recent iterations of Batgirl have done: blend new stories of familiar heroics for new readers. Barbara Gordon is the big sister with a mind for strategy and gadgetry. Cassandra Cain is a strong, silent, and efficient partner looking for comfort among close friends. And Stephanie Brown, who is especially chatty, hates villainy with a casual efficiency that would be terrifying if she weren't so exceedingly upbeat. Few comics fans who thrive on more parochial ("classic") narrative tales of any of these characters will fall in love with this new comic. But that's okay. For what BATGIRLS v1 hopes to achieve, the character relationships and plotting mostly hit the target. The book struggles to balance its quest to entertain as well as the necessity of narrative focus. Does the team settle on relocating its hideout after a bomb threat, does it pound the pavement in search of an upstart mind-control freak, does it crack down on a hyped-up group of well-armed militants, or does it track down a hacker who has infiltrated Oracle's network? Lots of entertaining stuff. But ultimately very poor focus. Some of these stories are relegated to C-level priority, despite being introduced as a big deal. For others, the reverse feels truer than not. For example, The Saints, sharp assassins bearing some sweet gear, enter the story early only to falter and feather into the background. Team Batgirl gets its butt kicked the first time around, but in the end, the headhunters are a piece of cake. Is this another casualty of Big Two comics promising more than it can deliver? Regardless, it's kind of a letdown. BATGIRLS v1 leans heavily on the antics and dynamics of its co-protagonists. Cass is generally mum, but she doesn't hesitate to voice her opinion when her emotions rise to the fore. Steph is written precisely like a modern teenager, which is to say, she somehow balances being incredibly productive while also being dreadfully annoying. The two girls would make for the center-point of a killer series, when they're older, about Batgirl Roommates. But for now, side stories and commentary involving oddball pajamas, burned pancakes, and pierced ears will have to do. Visually, the comic employs an effective art style that works well with these iterations of Cain and Gordon but doesn't always mesh with Brown's ebullience. The book's sharp, angular, fed-from-the-shadows visual design is inherently cryptic, and more than suitable to the storytelling atmospherics of a city lulled to sleep while still on fire. The art in this book really stands out, from the geometric silhouette of Cain's cape to the incredible color-mix of psychosis and psychedelia readers engage, once fear gas is introduced into the story. Perhaps if the book reduced its villain count and narrowed its narrative trajectory, then the art team's work would've been even more effective. BATGIRLS v1 thrives, but ebbs and flows considerably in the process. The character voices are distinct and the art delivers on all accounts. But the story problematically overloads when it should instead pick and choose its challenges.

Comics Reviews || ahb writes on Good Reads

[secretsolarsystem]

❛ it’s pathetic really, how much i hope it’s me and you in the end. ❜ perhaps?

BESTIE...BESTIE!!!!!!!!! PERHAPS YES

at first I had no idea what to do with this bc it's such a killer line??? but after talking with @kyberkenobi (hi girly ily) this 1.8k canon-divergent, Sith!Obi-Wan, Sith!Anakin, mentions of murders, this one actually got really sweet ngl was born <3 I hope you like it!!!

–

What no one says about being a Sith, but is to be expected, one can suppose, is just how competitive one must be. Everyone knows Sith to be cruel, immoral, and perhaps even deranged in their bloodlust and indiscriminate killing. If written into a story, the Sith would be the villains. They are power hungry, they are steeped in Darkness, they are hardly even humans. Or so the unwritten story says.

Even Sith themselves could not deny their ruthlessness – some may even see it as a compliment. It surely is a helpful quality to possess, because while no one says it, one truly must be competitive to survive as a Sith; to be competitive and ruthless is to be alive.

At the top of the Sith hierarchy is Lord Sidious. He is the most powerful Sith currently alive, although some don’t know if he’s truly alive, or if he is, how long he’s been so. Needless to say, he terrifying in his nonchalant, remorseless manner of doling out punishments without warning or explanation. He is terrifying in his Darkness, both in the Force and in the hooded shadow he seems to perpetually live in.

He is terrifying, and every Sith hopes to be his apprentice, his right hand, the dog on his leash.

That is where the competitiveness comes in, the one that drives them to infamous villainy. There was a rule the Sith abided by, the Rule of Two, dictating there must always be two: a master and their apprentice. But the rule had not been enforced in recent years, and people had been Falling more often than in the past, it seemed.

Currently, the total amount of Sith was seven: Lord Sidious, Darth Tyranus, Asajj Ventress, Darth Maul, Savage Opress, Darth Vader, and Obi-Wan Kenobi. At least, those were all the ones Obi-Wan was aware of.

Almost immediately after Sidious announced that the Rule of Two would once again be established and enforced, the numbers started to dwindle. No one doubted for a moment that Sidious would be the master, leaving only one of the other six to be the apprentice. What broke out was a ruthless, competitive bloodbath.

It was hard to keep track at times, but Obi-Wan made sure to. It was vital to know who was still in the game – because of course Sith would see their murdering each other as a game to be won – to know who to prioritize. Additionally, it was important to know who killed who, to know who was worth worrying about.

So far, only Maul had a point on the scoreboard. He’d killed Savage, his own brother, marking him particularly dangerous. It was made clear that no bond would prevent Maul from killing any one of them. Obi-Wan knew Maul was power hungry, but he also knew him to be quite protective of his brother. It was a shock to them all, and a splash of cold water to the face. The game was on, competition was fierce, and no one was safe.

It gave Obi-Wan much to think about, in terms of how to go about winning. He favored sitting by and letting everyone pick themselves off for him, until it came down to him and one other. This would prove Obi-Wan to be not a mere pawn in the game, but one who took it by the reins and left nothing to chance. His wit could also be put on display if he were to make things more interesting and actively manipulate the weaker others into killing his biggest threats.

On the other hand, it might be more advantageous for him to kill more than just the last person standing. The more he killed, the more he could show off his fighting capabilities, his strength, and his grace when engaged in combat.

Either way, though, Obi-Wan knew it would come down to him. There was no way he would lose. If he wasn’t Sidious’ first choice, he’d be his last option.

There was only one obstacle that Obi-Wan was unsure about, and its name was Darth Vader – or rather, Anakin Skywalker.

Anakin was clearly Sidious’ favorite. If prophesies are to be believed, then Anakin was the Chosen One, the one to bring balance to the Force itself. Even if he was not this supposed Chosen One, Anakin was the most powerful Force-user any of them had ever encountered, comparable only to Sidious himself. There was no question as to why Sidious wanted Anakin to be his apprentice; he was raw power incarnate, and to use him in Darkness rather than a balancing agent would make Sidious even more powerful, a feat previously unimaginable.

It was obvious, Sidious’ preference for Anakin, by him personally giving him his new name. No longer Anakin Skywalker, but now Darth Vader. Sidious had done the same for Darth Tyranus and Maul, but Vader quickly took their place. (That made it even more surprising to Obi-Wan when he heard of Savage’s death. Maul resented Vader endlessly for taking his place as Sidious’ favorite. Perhaps he’d been proving his loyalty to Sidious above all other in his killing his brother. Vader, though, was surely next.)

Obi-Wan, Ventress, and Savage had not been given the privilege, seeing as they were not inducted by Sidious himself. Savage, obviously, trained under Maul; Tyranus, Maul, and Vader under Sidious; and Ventress and Obi-Wan under Tyranus.

It made the game just a bit complicated for Obi-Wan when it came to Ventress. As the only other who knew what it was to train under Tyranus, he had a special sort of bond with her. They nearly acted like siblings, bonding over their shared training experiences. They’d been held to impossible standards and put through terrible trials, all without ever earning a proper name. If Obi-Wan was to stay out of the game until the end, he hoped Ventress would be the one to take care of Tyranus; she deserved it, and it would really be for the both of them.

He didn’t want to think about who would take care of her, after. He hoped it wouldn’t be himself, but if it came down to it, he knew what he’d do. And he knew she’d do it, too.

That scenario is where the obstacle, where Vader, where Anakin came in. Because if it came down to the two of them, Obi-Wan didn’t know what he’d do. And he didn’t know what Anakin would do.

Where Obi-Wan and some of the others had fallen into bed together a few times to let off steam or to simply get off, Obi-Wan and Anakin had fallen into bed many times, and often stayed there into the morning. Obi-Wan couldn’t remember how it had started, if he’d been comforting Anakin after a grueling punishment from Sidious or if they’d been bickering and found kissing each other was the best way to shut the other up or if they’d been sparring and landed on the ground with their panting breaths going into each other’s mouths – no, Obi-Wan couldn’t remember which one of those had sealed his fate to Anakin Skywalker.

While there was no rule among the Sith forbidding sex, the manner in which Obi-Wan and Anakin did it would surely be frowned upon. Sidious would surely riot at the idea of Obi-Wan having any hold over Anakin, at the thought of his precious Chosen One choosing Obi-Wan. But, truth be told, Obi-Wan didn’t care – not enough to stop. Vader was an exemplary Sith: cold and hard and mean. But Anakin…Anakin was warm and soft and sweet (when he wanted to be). Obi-Wan could never stop, never stop fucking or wanting or loving Anakin.

And it showed, their attachment to each other, as the game progressed. When Maul tried to kill Anakin as he slept, he didn’t know that Obi-Wan was in the other room, making tea. He did not know and it was his downfall, as Obi-Wan rushed into the room and promptly sliced the Zabrak in half. And when Tyranus had killed Ventress, Anakin had comforted Obi-Wan, a comfort Obi-Wan never knew he could be afforded. And when Tyranus came for Obi-Wan next, Obi-Wan did not fight alone, and when Tyranus had dealt an incapacitating blow to Obi-Wan, it was Anakin who cut the old man’s head off.

And so that was it. That was where the game now stood. Savage, Maul, Ventress, and Tyranus were all dead. That left only Obi-Wan and Anakin. It was Obi-Wan’s nightmare, and it was the only scenario he could tolerate.

“It’s pathetic really,” Obi-Wan had confessed one night into Anakin’s hair, for it was the safest place in the world in that moment, “how much I hope it’s me and you in the end.”

“Pathetic?” Anakin had mumbled, eyes still shut as he rested his head on Obi-Wan’s bare chest.

“For a Sith, for this game, yes,” Obi-Wan answered. “It is pathetic for me to feel rage at the idea of anyone else laying a hand on you, and it is pathetic for me to be unwilling to die at the hands of anyone other than you.”

It was pathetic, too, the way they’d cried as they lost themselves in each other again that night.

Now, it was the two of them in the end. It was the two of them standing before Sidious, who wore an immensely pleased grin. Finally, Obi-Wan assumed, he will have Vader as his. It was all Sidious ever wanted – Obi-Wan knew the feeling.

“Vader,” Sidious said, his voice gravelly and hiding his excitement for what was to come, “Kenobi. It seems it has come down to the two of you.”

“Yes, Master,” they answered in unison.

“I must admit, I am eager to see who will win. It would do you well to remember that if it is you, then you and you alone will have access to my teachings. That, of course, will give you access to unlimited power, and your power will continue to grow as we establish new order in the galaxy,” Sidious promised.

They held their breaths before answering, “Yes, Master.”

“As you fight,” Sidious went on, “think of whose side you want to be at, when this is over. Let that drive, that hunger fuel you. It will be your opponent’s downfall, should you want it more.”

At this, Anakin and Obi-Wan glance at each other, and their eyes said it all.

Whose side do you want to be at, when this is over?

I hope it’s me and you in the end.

With a subtle nod to each other, so subtle not even the great Lord Sidious noticed, they turned towards their master again, and ignited their blades.

There would be two, as the rule mandated. Though it would not be a master and an apprentice – it would be two equals, side by side. There was nothing, Obi-Wan could now admit, pathetic about it.

from this prompt list

prompted fic collection on ao3

[mysticdragon3md3]

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6:14 AM 4/26/2023

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I still like to read El's fatal flaw as her unrelenting Resolve. The same ideal that's advocated by so much Shonen Manga and anime in general, shows off it's negative, flip side in FE3H through her. As I've said before, she never doubts herself, but that also means she never checks herself. She is always moving forward, unquestioning her path. In my opinion, it's also why she neither seriously considers changing her overall strategy, nor questioning the costs/"ends justifying the means". She laments the costs of her path, but she never lets it change her---which I think is the big difference between Dimitri's past of "villainous deeds" vs her past/present of villainy. (She's the villain of 3 out of 4 routes, the character designers put horns on her head and dressed her all in red like a devil, and then named her house "black" like darkness even though her house color is clearly red. FE3H did a lot to hint she's the villain. But that doesn't mean she still can't be the hero of her own story, and I think the FE3H devs honestly wanted that too.) I think it's symbolic that at the end of Azure Moon, she tries to kill Dimitri with the dagger that he had given her once in their childhood, which she says encouraged her to move forward, and a second time as adults, while Dimitri told her to use it to cut her own path. At the end of Azure Moon, El is defeated and Dimitri offers her a truce. But she is so myopically focused on her predetermined path, that she brings out the dagger that symbolizes her moving forward with her plans, no matter who/what she has to cut through or at what costs. And she uses it to try to kill Dimitri, because she honestly thinks she can still win. She can't see any other path for herself, besides the one where she wins thru force and conquest. But as admirable as Determination and Resolve are, in and of themselves, she demonstrates their tragic aspects by not even considering the alternate path of cooperation and drastically changing her strategy.

It's kind of ironic that she is so tied to her predetermined path of solving all of Foldan's problems through conquest, even if that path was determined by herself. Because she has so many moments where she almost sighs forlornly up at the sky, like at Gronder, and simply moves forward saying "And so we fight on", as if she's so sad about fighting all her old classmates, but helpless to stop it---or worse, willing to push down and ignore those feelings of dissonance and compassion, in order to make their deaths acceptable costs. And that latter is supposed to be "strength"??? El demonstrates a lot of good questions that the writers probably want us to ask, but blindly following her like she "did nothing wrong" deprives people from those productive questions. As I understand it, she has many moments throughout her route, of feeling bad for what she "must" do. But for all her "strength" in following her Determination and Resolve, she seems more helpless against it and powerless because of it. The ironic thing being that it is within her own power at any time to stop the war, cooperate instead, and/or pinpoint her attacks onto specific problematic authority figures (whether Rhea, the Agarthans, or those Faerghus nobility she mentioned, I think in 3Hopes, who were too tied to the Church). But instead, she is helpless against a predetermined path of her own making…knowingly, because she thinks it gives her strength.

(Not to bring up Sengoku Basara 2009-2011 again, but… This is just like Toyotomi Hideyoshi, thinking he has to prove his Resolve to himself, and thus his commitment to becoming "stronger" or his Resolve in being "strong", by killing the person he loved the most. As if killing those you care about are proof to yourself that you can achieve Resolve and walk a path towards "strength". But is it really Strength when you're killing off your compassion towards others? Making calculations weighing some lives as worth the nebulous "better future world" you're still speculating to make?)

Anyway, another thing I thought interesting was how each of the 3 main lords seem to represent different paths by contrasting each other.

People often say they don't understand the point of the Golden Deer, as if Claude's route seems too unrelated to the personal drama between Dimitri and El. But I think Claude was a vital contrast to El. Not only was he someone who was shown in his Supports to question himself, when confronted with being wrong, immediately pivoted to fix his flaws, but also when confronted with his blind spots, he took them in earnestly and head on. He is not someone who only finds Strength in rigid Resolve, but also in flexibility and adaptability. He also constantly reminds us that there are better ways than war to get even the dirty jobs done. I find it so strange that we have one lord, El, who acts like war/conquest is the only solution, while we have a prominent lord character, frequently reminding us that poisoning, subterfuge, and manipulation ARE A THING. To paraphrase an old ninja saying, a general killed in his bed in his sleep, is just as dead, as if you had sent hundreds of your soldiers to die on the battlefield, trying to take the general down. It is continuously ironic to me that El worked with subterfuge practitioners like Hubert and the Agarthans, and yet she is too set in her ways to consider making full use of such tactics.

The 3 main lords tell 3 different types of stories, which are made more interesting in how they clash and contrast with each other. El is on the anti-hero path in her route and the villain path in 3 other routes. She is in a tragedy story, because she refuses to acknowledge or change her flaws; she does not change/Grow. Dimitri is on a more typical hero or anti-hero route. He has a fall and does a lot of terrible things for a long time, but we witness his journey through that, towards repentance and redemption. He CHANGES and is the one forever bringing up his commitment to change and repentance. Claude on the other hand is on more a paragon story. He has already done almost all his Growth before the main story even starts. By the time he reaches Fodlan, he has already settled into an ideal of turning his tragic experiences into fuel for constructive change in himself and compassion extended outward to others, while not letting his past bog him down into sadness or obsession. And his plans to extend his compassion outward, also takes into consideration, respecting others' differences and accepting the hard work it would take to persuade dissenters without always resorting to violent force. He is already mature enough to not be looking at only himself and his past trauma, unlike the other 2 main lords. Meanwhile, we experience with Dimitri, his obsession with his past trauma, his reconciliation with his past trauma, and his eventual mature state of mind, focusing his efforts more on others than on his revenge, just like Claude. Meanwhile, El uses it as motivation for all her actions, which could be said to be pretty much revenge against the Church, the Agarthans, her past, the systems of Adrestia, and the whole world. She does all this self-focused mindset and actions, while refusing to acknowledge how she's centering everything in her world around her trauma and in a non-constructive manner towards others, thus still actually making everything about herself and her trauma. Meanwhile, Claude has already looked past his trauma and focuses more on others, and Dimitri's entire story is about his process of working to look past his trauma, to focus on others instead. As someone mentioned once, the majority of Claude's Supports are him offering help to the Golden Deer and solving their problems. Similarly, Dimitri takes on the mantel of king as a responsibility to serve his people, taking it as even more important than whether it's a position he deserves or if his past crimes can ever be redeemed.

I once said of Sengoku Basara 2009-2011's Date Masamune that his infinite Strength came from his heart being externalized outward. He seemed invincible because the thing he cared about most, wasn't obsessing over his past trauma or his own selfish wants---which he demonstrated in episode 1 he was willing to forgo for the sake of others. The thing he cared about the most, were his soldiers, the normal people of Sendai, the normal people of his entire country, who just wanted to live peaceful lives. There are only 2 times in that series when he actually puts his hand to his eyepatch, as if his traumatic lost eye was actually painful to him: When he worried about endangering the lives of his soldiers. A warrior of Strength and maturity, extends their concerns outwards, not centered on themselves. A general, waging wars to prove their own "strength" to themselves, to become "stronger", to avenge their past traumas, all while ignoring how it effects the normal people, who shouldn't have to be soldiers, is not a good leader. Whether Toyotomi Hideyoshi or El.

But since El is all about "the ends justify the means", why not interpret this by her own terms. She's doing all this horror, in order to establish a system that will supposedly be more beneficial for all. And that's where I think the contrast with the other main lords becomes interesting again. Claude is repeatedly said, within the canon text, to have the same goals and interests as El. Yet they contrast in their methods to achieve those goals. In a war story like Fire Emblem, it would be very easy, and often is the case of such stories, to just assume war as the only option. It's how the plot happens for the expected genre. But it's very interesting that we have a 3rd lord like Claude, who comes in to remind us that not only can conflicts be resolved through negotiation, but he is often spoken of (and in 3Hopes, shown) to be actually doing the hard work of negotiation with other authority figures, until he can convince them to his side. The best part being that Claude is flexable enough that we can trust him to be open to compromise, rather than rigid stubbornness in his positions. We've seen him admit mistakes and blind spots in his Support conversations. He knows how to meet conflict with a laugh, then actual practical argument points (see his Support with Lorenz), as well as pivot to integrate what he can learn from those that he has had conflict with. Even with people he conflicts with, Claude is always smoothing things over and encouraging cooperation. (Not just in his Lorenz support, but also in his Fire Emblem Heroes conversations with El. He is always luring her in with agreement, but then sliding in a contradictory point to consider, with the least amount of intimidation, until he moves the conversation the way he wants it to go.) Claude demonstrates that El's methods are unnecessary and methods more true to Compassion can achieve the same goals.

(And anyway, as the video essay "Edelgard Will Always Lose" by BOOFIRE191 noted, she is essentially creating the same system and similar problems as Rhea. A pure meritocracy always sounds nice, until you realize it's ignoring needed equity, for twisted versions of equality, while pretending external misfortunes don't exist, as if everyone in misfortune deserves it for not "pulling themselves up by their bootstraps". Or as Dimitri said, "It is the path of the strong, so it can only benefit the strong.")

Anyway, that was too much rambling about my problems with El. I guess I had stuff to get off my chest for a long time. As someone mentioned, Claude's flaw was being too secretive and still having a little more Growth to go, towards being as open to forging bonds with other people, as would have ideally better facilitated cooperation. Maybe some people wouldn't have felt the need to start wars if they were earlier and better made to feel they could collaborate with and trust others. Who knows? And Dimitri's flaw was his obsession with his revenge. We know that; we saw his entire Growth through his story. But that's as even as I'm willing to get about the 3 lords' flaws. I still have more problems with the Emperor, than the other 2 lords.

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

you have a wip currently titled the new villain wip?

like, the new VILLAIN wip?

like, the NEW villain wip?

I just really like that tag and had to come tell you that at five in the morning, I guess

Thank you! This baby WIP is exactly one days old today. It's more of the NEW villain WIP because the WIP is new but the villain is both old and has quit villainy centuries ago at this point. The title is still pending but I'm glad the placeholder has at least some interest to it :3

Have a small complimentary snippet on the house:

Time to move shops. Maybe not cities, though: this city has gotten big enough in the past half a century so that moving to a different part of it would practically guarantee never meeting anyone I’ve gotten to know here. It would be nice to stay in it, too, although it might be time to drop out of the baking business – it’s amusing, yes, but in a little over a century I’ve exhausted most of the excitement that comes with it, including one very amateur attempt at a robbery. I should get back into antiques – I haven’t done that in a while, always nice to do something with a hint of nostalgia. Or maybe a flower shop? I don’t dislike flowers, although I imagine being around them all day must be a whole different experience.

But… Mrs. Wynne’s limp is getting worse by the month, and those grandchildren she talks about all the time haven’t shown up once since the accident, even when she was at the hospital. A better disguise spell, a few cream and make-up recommendations, and I should have at least three more years before anyone gets really suspicious.

Nodding to my own thoughts, I went to take a new batch of shortbreads out of the oven when something shook the entire shop. The sound was dulled by the walls, but the rumbling bang of it was still too familiar for comfort. Was that a fireball? Are there really still magicians around that can use those? What the hell are they doing here? I ran outside to assess the situation – the people and vehicles on the street had stopped, all looking in one direction. A few streets away, farther than I originally guessed by the strength of the impact, a building was going up in dense, black smoke.

Huh.

[fairymascot]

when i started watching harley quinn TV, about the last thing i expected of it was to be feminist in any way. i mean, it's an adult comedy cartoon. it's based on 2016 suicide squad's take on harley. the poor woman doesn't even wear any pants. but man, the more i think about it, and the more i consume other dc content featuring those characters, the more appreciative i am of its takes on its female cast.

let's talk about ivy. i watched the btas episode 'house and garden' today, and was honestly appalled by how blatantly male it all felt. in this episode, ivy 'rehabitilates' herself by getting released from arkham, marrying her therapist (which nobody even pointed out is illegal?!), taking care of his two kids from a previous marriage, and basically living the perfect suburban housewife dream. when batman suspects she's up to some shit, she tells him she's never been happier, and no longer has any need for crime. of course it turns out to be an elaborate ruse, but the ending reveals that she wasn't completely insincere -- she does, in fact, dream of having a husband and children, something she cannot accomplish due to the infertility caused by her powers.

unfortunately, this episode must have had a serious impact on ivy's characterization, as the book 'cycle of life and death' from 2016 is heavily founded on it. in my humble opinion, it's terrible. i mean, i get it, it was the nineties and written by men, and tv writers only really started picking up on how to write women as complex multilayered beings in recent years, but damn.

ivy's original character is already rooted in a very male, distorted perception of women. she's a textbook femme fatale-- she's dainty, gorgeous, scantily clad, and her powers are seducing men into doing her bidding. and to pile further on top of her misogynistic foundation, the only way they could think to humanize her is by forcing more of their stereotypical male perception onto her-- how do we show she's a sympathetic character? by making her deep down a 'normal woman', who has normal woman dreams of being a housewife with children. the rather blatant subtext that she turned to a life of villainy because her infertility denied her that dream -- a failed woman that has turned into a despicable monster -- only makes this depiction all the uglier. i'm actually amazed this take on her character managed to survive all the way to 2016.

but then you have hqtv ivy, who takes all that and unceremoniously dumps it in the trash. it rethinks the basics of ivy's personality and attitude from the ground up. she's a misanthrope -- the only company she seeks outside of her plants is harley -- why would she make a villain career out of seducing men? why does she have to be sensual and coy? no. instead, she's awkward, stoic, and anti social. she dresses a whole hell of a lot more practical, she's blunt to a fault, and wastes none of her time trying to appeal to men.

the sexual element of her powers has been removed, or at the very least severely limited-- no more poison kisses or seducing men to do her bidding. the only scene that incorporates that element at all is when she has to peck a bunch of dweeby 12 year old boys on the mouth to reverse the effect of her toxin that's been slipped into their bar mitzvah punch bowl by mistake. it's ridiculous, it's absolutely mortifying for her, and it's funny. nothing about it is remotely sexy.

as for her dreams of becoming a housewife... well, ivy very clearly doesn't know what she wants for her future. or rather, she's so repressed that she doesn't allow herself to want. she always saw herself ecoterroristing it up solo-- but then harley happened, and she found herself going soft, and opening up to other people through harley's influence as well. she allows herself to acknowledge that she's lonely, and that she does crave human connection. specifically, she craves harley -- but that's a part of her she had to seal away, out of fear of ruining their friendship. this leads her to pursue a relationship with kite man (or rather: be pursued by him), even though at every step of the way she pretty obviously has to force herself farther into it.

it's not that she doesn't like kite man. the opposite. she can tell he's a good guy, he treats her so well, he cares for her so deeply. for someone like ivy, coming from a life of abuse and isolation, that's rarer than rare. and that's why she forces herself to overlook all their differences, all the aspects of their relationship that clearly aren't working, and clings on to it regardless. finally, someone genuinely wants her, cares about her. she'd have to be stupid to let that go, right?

but she doesn't want it. that's spelled out the most blatantly on their wedding day-- while he's reciting his dream future of them living in a nice house with a white picket fence, a dog and three kids, ivy is horrified. unlike btas' ivy, who would've surely been delighted, it's completely removed from anything this version of ivy ever wanted for herself. and in that moment, she realizes she fucked up. she locked herself into a life she never wanted because she thought it was the best she could hope to get.

and then their wedding goes up in literal flames, kite man calls it quits, and ivy finally lets herself pursue what she really, truly wants: harley.

it's such a great, fresh take on ivy's character. she's written as a woman, but not some male writer's narrow view of one, but an actual honest, human woman. her struggles and insecurities are incredibly relatable to me as a female viewer, because she's allowed to breathe and grow and have depth outside of the list of stereotypes female characters are so often shoehorned into. she's aloof, she's cynical, she's a loner; she's carrying years of trauma that's made her insecure and closed off, and she's just starting to grow past that; she's desperate for love but forces herself to settle for tepid affection because she's too scared to pursue anything more; she's a genius biochemist and a badass with the power to control all of plant life, but she's fucking chickenshit and wishy-washy and doesn't know how to be honest with her feelings, leading her to hurt those she cares about. and the fact that they took btas' ivy's dream of getting married and having a family, and used it as a stepping stone-- subverted it as part of ivy's self-realization and growth-- that's just the icing on the cake.

hqtv ivy is hands down the best take of this character i've seen to date. god bless, i cannot wait for season 3.

[villanoustarot]

Jafar´s Magic Lamp Spread

In Villainy, wishes are a daily occurrence. Fortunate things, big and small, are at your fingertips if you rub the lamp first thing in the morning, make your daily wish and then let things come. You mission will be taking care of your usual stuff, the rest will be up to the magic.

THE METHOD: 

At sunrise, while calm and firmly centered in the present, take your deck and look for a card that represent a wish you have. This is the Wish Significator. Doesn´t matter the timeframe you expect it to come to pass. Preferably, keep it non-specific. 

Once you are satisfied with the card, re-shuffle it back into the deck. Shuffle it three time. This represents the rubbing of the lamp. Once you are ready, proceed to localize your Wish Significator. Place it at the center of your reading cloth and take the two cards before and after the Wish Significator´s place in the deck. If for some reason there aren´t enough cards, you may take two cards from the bottom or top of the deck, accordingly. 

THE SPREAD:

Place the cards as shown in the spread layout in any order you feel like. Of course, this is meant to represent the Magic Lamp. Flip over face up cards number 1 to 4. The 5th card is meant to remain face down until the time comes to read it. 

THE READING:

The Wish: This card represents your wish. As always, like in every tarot reading, please keep in mind how important it is to take notice of the directionality shown in the card (if any). Why? This will become especially important when reading cards number 3 and 4. 

The Handle: The things you already have under your control. This is a reminder, a very friendly one. Know that nothing can take this away from you. 

The Mind Stability: The spread will ask you take hold of this. This card represents what mental aspect is important in the welcoming of your wish into your life. This aspect will be especially important if the Wish Significator is looking at it. 

The Physical Stability: The spread will ask you to take hold of this. This card represents what physical aspect is important in the welcoming of your wish into your life. This aspect will be especially important if the Wish Significator is looking at it. 

The First Step: This card is meant to evoke within you an impulse to an action. This is the reason why the card is to remain face down until the times to read it. The first thing that springs to your mind, is the first step you must take. After this, you must let things unfold without obssesing over them.  

Post-Mortem Analysis: As with all magic, you must cast the spell and let it do its thing. It is important, for that matter, to occupy yourself with something else, especially doing things that feel good for you. 

A Word of Caution: Never ever use this spread for the same wish twice. Period. No, I mean it. Seriously. Ok? Good!

#truefairytale

[kaysayshey]

madjarica || d. kaminari

"hey, denki?"

the simplest question pulls the blonde's head from your lap, wide amber eyes sparkling with his usual mischief. an expression that you would never tire of seeing regardless of how often it was in your line of sight.

"what's up, babe?"

the inquiry was accompanied by kaminari flipping onto his opposite side to get a better look at you, head propped up against his fist with a playful grin. that grin could stop wars if given the opportunity. the terrible jokes that usually followed, not so much.

"have you ever," you began carefully as you idly ran a hand through his bright locks of hair, "considered taking some time off?"

a cock of his head was abruptly followed by a groan. yours, of course. because no shit. he hadn't considered it because villainy never rests, and neither did most pro-heroes. you knew better, but yet you still asked. glutton for your own disappointment? maybe.

"uh, how much time?"

"maybe a week or two," you replied, the languid scratches to his scalp coming to a halt when denki furrowed his brow at your words. stupid, stupid, stupid. he was busy, he'd never go for-

"for you? sure, whatever you want. what did you have in mind, bubs?"

that's it? oh hell yes, it had potential. your dream trip was steps away from becoming a reality. and with your dream man? what more could you ask for?

"uh, croatia. i want to go to croatia."

as soon as the words left your mouth, denki popped upright, grasping your hands in his. they were warm, as warm as he always made you feel. the slight bounce of his leg against the couch cushions could only mean one thing.

"let's do it, babe! we can either plan it ourselves or go through a travel agency, but first we gotta buy new luggage and i promise, i'll take you to get cute new outfits and-"

his ramblings continued, and his hands never left yours while he raved about the possibilities. a boat tour, wineries, staying in a luxurious hotel with a fancy bar and room service and big, fluffy white pillows. seven words, not even two full sentences, and denki was taking your dream and creating a reality.

while he blabbed about flight costs, you found yourself moving your hands to his cheeks, the action instinctual and familiar and real. he was just so cute and desperate to make you happy.

"what's up? you okay?"

his voice had dropped to a concerned note, head cocked once more for fear he'd hurt your feelings. a light huff escaped your nose, the softest sound of amusement you were capable of.

a shake of your head only make him look more anxious, but you followed it up with a brush of your lips against his cheek. the quietest of hums sounded from denki's lips, his rambunctious voice muted by your affection.

"i'm just happy. i get to experience life with you, and that makes me the happiest i've ever been."

"gah, y/n." it came out groaned, one of his hands reaching behind him to anxiously scratch at his neck. "ya can't just say stuff like that! how's a guy supposed to react?"

that made you giggle, and you couldn't keep yourself from placing another chaste kiss to his opposite cheek, relishing in the barely noticeable way he leaned into your touch. his soft cheek pressed ever closer to your lips, begging for them to stay, stay, stay.

"you don't have to, denki. i want you to know, s'all."

"babe, stop," he whined, burying his head into the crook of your neck with a pout on his lips. "you're doing that thing again."

"oh no, i love my boyfriend. how horrible that must be for you."

"oh my god, y/n. i'm going to stick to the couch from your sugary sweetness."

at that you chortled, a loud and unabashed sound that made denki laugh with you. what a big dork. once you caught your breath, you plopped a sloppy, wet kiss to his lips. for good measure, of course.

"guess you'll be stuck there a while, 'cuz i'll always be sweet on you!"

"y/n, stop! that one was too much!"

a note from kay: hey, y'all. just wanted to show love to my favorite sparky boy! i imagine he gets super flustered over sweet words, whereas physical affection doesn't necessarily have the same effect. also, the title is the name of a croatian layered cake. according to an article i read, it's name means hungarian girl. the pastry chef who created the cake apparently fell for the charms of a hungarian girl and subsequently put his heart into food about it! so sweet, right? thanks for all of the recent support, guys! it means a ton to me. :3