#did you keep the proper spacing and capitalization?

[bookwyrminspiration]

"enter the full name associated with this account" fills me with more dread than finals

[anarchotahdigism]

This H5N1 situation in the US is starting to concern me. H5N1 has been found active and infectious in raw milk & a study of dairy farms showed that half of a colony of cats which consumed infected raw milk died. https://wwwnc.cdc.gov/eid/article/30/7/24-0508_article It's showing up in Texas wastewater which could be from infected individuals, the dumping of contaminated milk, or both. It's not clear yet & dairy farms are blocking CDC access to test animals and workers. Workers anecdotally have been getting sick but because they're agricultural workers and likely largely undocumented, they have little legal recourse, no real work protections, and so it's not known if they are indeed officially sick from working with infected animals or if it's spread via human to human contact. H5N1 has a mortality rate of at least 50% in a healthy, immunocompetent population. COVID makes you immunocompromised for at least a year with the first infection. 2-3 infections render you permanently immunocompromised. The CDC is claiming that H5N1 mortality rate is 25% leaving them free to say that it's not as dangerous as people think (it's moreso) and that if (when) it becomes clearly deadly, it's only killing off the "vulnerable". That means you, if you've had COVID recently or multiple times. Whether this explodes into a fullblown pandemic or is beaten back in time is up in the air, as is COVID, incidentally. Y'all should never have stopped masking and if you did, you need to resume masking in public. It's a matter of life and death for yourself and for others around you. It's a matter of principle & it's a commitment to radical resistance to fascism. Masking is our first and best defense against airborne pathogens. COVID and H5N1 are both killed by cooking foods well, making pasteurization and proper food handling even more important, but freezing seems to preserve H5N1. H5N1 is potentially infectious for days as a fomite, depending on environment and surface it's on. UV takes about an hour to kill it, which is too slow for UVC installations (from what I understand). There are vaccines in development and the CDC has ordered 20 million doses of H5N1 vaccine but it will take months for them to be produced and it will take longer to produce enough doses for the entire population. Because so many people are now immunocompromised and do not know it & doctors don't bother to look for it, I have no idea just how effective vaccines would be, but it'll be vital for everyone able to get them and, most important, to keep masking. Had we actually rioted for COVID mitigations to continue-- instead of embracing eugenics wholesale as a society--for Biden to make good on his promises to support victims of COVID and to end the pandemic with meaningful measures, including HVAC upgrades to all inhabited & public buildings and spaces, we would be at substantially less risk now. Instead we have thousands dying every week of COVID in the US because the rich demanded it and I cannot begin to imagine how huge that number would become if H5N1 did become an epidemic. We also have politicians outright banning masks at protests, in businesses, and possibly wholesale public bans of masks. That has only become possible due to widespread acquiescence to fascism and the abandonment to isolation and death of the working poor and disabled. COVID was the "easy" mode to prepare for the pandemicene caused by the climate collapsing due to ecocidal capitalism.

[alpaca-clouds]

The Moral Complexity of a Meat Consumption

I said it before and I will say it again: There definitely is a subsection of the Solarpunk movement, who keeps going on about the future having to be "all vegan". In any Solarpunk space you will find some of this sort. Heck. You will also find folks in anarchist spaces, who will go: "Oh, you are an anarchist and still eat meat? So you do believe in hierarchies! Because you see yourself as higher as an animal!"

These days I am mostly ignoring those people, because I know that you really just cannot win those arguments with them.

Outside of chicken I do not really like meat. I do not like the taste or texture. But if I completely cut it out of my diet, I will get sick. Tried it several times. It did not work out. So, I cut it down to two days a week, which keeps my body in a somewhat sustainable equilibrium.

For me the issue is in how my body metabolizes certain aspects of food. But a lot of chronically ill and disabled people will have to eat meat and cannot cut it out of their diet. Maybe they cannot eat a lot of other proteins due to their allergies. Maybe there is stuff in plants that they cannot metabolize. And maybe they are autistic and literally can only eat like five different things. There are plenty of reasons people might just not get around it.

However... I also look at a lot of folks in the modern world eating cheap meat every single day, and I am shaking my head. Sure, some of them might need to eat meat daily, but let's be honest: Most people actually do not. Most people would be perfectly fine to cut down on the meat and only eat meat once or twice a week.

I personally absolutely do not see anything wrong with killing and eating animals per se. Because that is just how the world works. Some animals kill, other animals are eaten. Humans are just another animal.

What I do find issue with, however, is the industrial meat industry. The thing that makes it possible in the first place for folks to eat meat every day. Big plants where hundreds, if not thousands of animals are being kept, with only ridiculous amounts of antibiotics keeping the animals from getting too sick. With slaughtering plants that process hundreds or thousands of animals each day. That is just... Not how it should go.

I personally... since I cut down the meat in my diet, I can afford to actually just eat the free range animals that got to frolick out on the pasture for their entire life. Because frankly, yeah, it is double the price of the alternative, but... So what? For two times a week it works fine. (Also, frankly, there is less water in the meat and the meat actually has better taste and texture.)

So, you know, for me it would be totally fine if there just was no cheap meat at all and all meat was pasture frolicking animals. But even here it gets complicated of course.

Because... Well, there are poor people, who also need to eat meat for health reasons. And what are they gonna do? After all being poor makes you more likely to be disabled - and hence require stuff like that.

And it is exactly the big issue. And frankly... I honestly do not think there is any proper solution to this under capitalism. Because more than anything... capitalism sucks.

[pregnancykink]

bad times at the sage creek motel

– for @wincestwednesdays prompt: reputation

The gas station is fucking freezing, but at least it’s a slight respite from the bite of the Montana winter outside. It’s snowing; not bad enough to close school or anything, but bad enough for Sam to be vaguely worried about Dad away in the wilderness on a hunt. Sam’s winter coat is kind of shitty and a little too small, and if the snowfall doesn’t turn into a proper storm in the night, he has half a mind to drag Dean down to the secondhand store tomorrow. Two and a half weeks here already and Dad hasn’t said anything about leaving, at least not to Sam. Whatever he’s said to Dean must've been enough for Dean to go out and get himself a part-time job here at the Conoco.

There’s heat coming through the vents supposedly, but it feels futile with the cold getting through the poor ventilation. The windows look like they haven't been replaced since the place was built, cloudy glass and coming unsealed from the sills. Dean, lounging behind the counter with a pen in his mouth and a smirk on his face, has an ancient space heater pointed toward him and looks downright toasty despite the faintly dangerous-sounding rattling. Sam rubs his hands together and glares.

“I’m going to get another coffee,” he says, leaning over the counter and trying to catch some of the heat. “You want anything?”

“Epsilon follower?” Dean asks with a grin, tapping the pen on his teeth.

“It’s zeta,” Sam rolls his eyes, craning his neck to see how much of the crossword Dean has actually managed to fill in. It’s more than he expected, and he watches as Dean writes Z-E-T-A in the 41 down in his blocky capitals.

“I’m good on coffee, Sammy. You keep drinkin’ like that and you might stunt your growth, you know. Although maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, Sasquatch. Keep you from overtaking me.”

Sam turns on his heel and doesn’t bother to answer. He isn’t even sure why he came here, to the gas station to hang out with Dean while he works a rare night shift. He could be back at the motel savoring some alone time: choosing what channel the TV stays on, jerking off, taking a long shower without Dean hollering at him to hurry up. Instead he’s here, cold as shit and supposedly keeping Dean company but really just feeling inferior to the Friday USA Today. It’s understandable when Dean chooses to read the skin mags behind the desk rather than talk to Sam. This just feels like an insult.

Sighing, he grabs a cup off the wall and makes his way to the coffee dispensers. The sign boasts a signature Brazilian roast; Sam knows Folger’s when he tastes it.

He’s debating drinking it black or adding cream when the bell above the door sounds, tinny and way too cheery for 9pm and a snowstorm. A group of girls that Sam vaguely recognizes from the grade above him in school sweep in, two of them headed right toward the coffee station, the other toward Dean at the front.

“10 on pump 7?” Sam hears, and he doesn’t have to look to know that Dean is giving her his signature smile. Probably a wink too, the asshole.

“‘Course, sweetheart. Anything else?”

Sam tunes them out. He doesn’t need to hear it, not the girl giggling and finding way too many reasons to keep talking, not Dean indulging some high school senior’s heart eyes. Scowling, he ducks behind a shelf full of chips and beef jerky before the other two girls can spot him and give him the, you’re the new kid, right? rundown, which would make this already shitty night enter total suckfest territory.

“God, he is so fucking hot,” Sam hears, and he busies himself by turning to the fridge behind him and pretending to seriously weigh the differences between regular and Diet Coke despite the coffee already in his hand. “Like where did he even come from?”

“I guess he just moved here,” the other girl says. “I heard he’s ex-military.”

“Ex-military? I think he’s like, 20 years old. I heard he’s an ex-con.”

“Well, whatever. I heard he fucked Candy Patterson. You know, Caroline’s older sister? Did her behind Pop's after her Sunday shift.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” the first girl says. Sam can picture her covering her mouth, eyes widening in shock before cutting over to gawp at Dean. They’re probably going half-lidded with lust, her face a little flushed. He hates it. “Candy Patterson? Behind the bar? I heard he fucked Brianna Smith in that car he drives. Jesus! He’s been here for like 2 weeks and he’s already managed to get two girls to put out? In like, semi-public?”

“Three,” the other girl says, voice dropping low like it’s a secret. Sam has to strain his ears to hear. “You know how I’ve been kinda dating Alex, right? Well his older sister, Hayley – I heard her talking to her friends and apparently he gives head like a dream. Like, really enthusiastically and everything. Likes to make girls finish.”

“You think he’s sweet?”

“Who cares? Look at him!”

“Yeah, I’d definitely let him swipe my v-card.”

It’s enough for Sam, who feels weirdly hot despite the temperature. Grabbing a bag of chips, he stalks back toward the front of the store, where the girl’s gone outside to pump her gas and Dean is hunched back over the newspaper, pen flicking idly over his fingers.

“What’s up, Sammy?” he asks. “You know a style of romance music that started in the Dominican Republic, by chance?”

“I’m going back to the motel,” Sam says. The answer is Bachata. “Can I have the key?”

Dean cocks an eyebrow, but digs the key out of his back pocket, holding it out for Sam to take.

“Don’t wanna hang here for the next 2 hours?” he asks. “What, am I no fun? Looks like a shitty walk home.”

“I’m good,” Sam says, snatching up the key and ignoring the way his fingertips brush Dean’s palm. “I’ll be fine.”

“Got your knife?”

“Dean, I’m sixteen,” he says, already walking toward the door and pushing it open. “Chill the hell out.”

“Try not to beat your meat so hard it falls off!” Dean calls behind him. Sam can hear him laughing over the wind. He bites his lip, and doesn’t say try not to fuck anymore girls in the next 2 hours.

[on AO3]

[stereax]

in terms of the zegras trade talk, is there any way (in terms of cap situation etc) that it would be possible for him to join jamie in philly?

and which teams do you think it are likely for him to go to otherwise?

thank you in advance <3

Hi there anon! So so sorry for the delay on this, I hope you're not too mad at me.

Your question is incredibly intriguing, but it's not quite exact. Any team, theoretically, can pick up Zegras, as long as they move the right pieces back or conduct the proper cap gymnastics. That being said, many GMs will not find him worth the price, and, furthermore, not worth the hassle of potentially taking a sledgehammer to the future.

Moving Zegras during the season (as in before the trade deadline) versus in the offseason would play out drastically differently under the cap and mean different decisions from Verbeek and co. Meet me under the cut for more!

So let's talk about the cap. I don't know how much you know about it, anon, but let me give a quick refresher. The NHL has a "hard" salary cap; teams cannot surpass the limit, full stop. (This is contrasted with MLB soft cap, for instance, where you just pay more tax for being over the cap.) There is one notable example, however: LTIR. Standing for Long-Term Injured Reserve (well, not really, but we all call it that), LTIR allows teams to surpass the salary cap, as long as a player on the team is "bona fide" injured and will be out for more than 24 days and 10 games.

Now here's the complicated thing: cap "accrues" every day that you're under it. (Kind of like it gains interest.) So, as the cap is 83.5m, if your team only makes 82.5m, you have that extra 1m accruing. This is key at the trade deadline where that 1m can end up as over double that to play with in extra wiggle room. (At the trade deadline, you can trade for a 2m player and be at 84.5m, but since you accrued the cap earlier in the season it averages out and is okay.) However, when you have players on LTIR, your cap basically stops accruing. This is why you'll see teams keep season-ending injuries as regular IR and not LTIR if they can - it helps the cap accrue. (Two instances of this right now are Kirby Dach and Dougie Hamilton, both out for the season as far as we're concerned, neither on LTIR.) Notably, in the playoffs, you can activate players off LTIR and go over the cap because of some badly written rules that nobody wants to fix (literally). This is often colloquially termed "pulling a Kucherov" after the Tampa Bay Lightning did this in the 2020-21 season, putting Nikita Kucherov on LTIR for the entire year, using his cap hit to acquire players, then reactivating him game 1 of the playoffs and going wildly over the cap limit. And it's pretty dang successful too - the Vegas Golden Knights emulated that success with Mark Stone last season.

So here's where we take a look at Philly.

Philly has around $3m in deadline cap space. Zegras's contract has a $5.75m cap hit (for this year and two more). Now, he could be traded to Philly at 50% retained salary at the deadline, but this would likely require giving up a lot of extra capital in exchange for Anaheim holding that 50% of cap hit on Zegras for the next three years. (Generally, retaining salary on an expiring deal costs a lot less than on a deal with extra years left, for hopefully obvious reasons.) Philly won't do this. This would be stupid from Briere. If they want Zegras, they have a much better plan in their back pocket: Ryan Ellis.

Ryan Ellis is a defenseman with a $6.25m cap hit for the next four years. His career is most likely over; he has a rare back injury that he's probably not going to recover from in a way that will let him play hockey again. At least in theory, he plays for the Flyers. However, he's been sitting on IR all year. If Philly wants to acquire Zegras, they will (almost certainly) slide Ellis to LTIR and use that $6m in cap space to put Zegras in. The one problem with this is it forces Ellis to LTIR for the rest of his career, most likely, and disadvantages the Flyers in the long run.

Option three is just to make space with bad or nonvaluable contracts. Cal Petersen buries $3.85m in the minors. (Buried contracts are weird; essentially, if you send guys on certain kinds of contract - as in expensive - down to the AHL, you're on the hook for some or most of the salary.) Move that contract anywhere and Philly should have room for Zegras at the deadline. Plus it makes it easier for the team to deal with new contacts. Or you move Cam Atkinson, an aging vet making $5.875m, to a team that's not on his modified no-trade clause and free that space for Zegras. Or you move Rasmus Ristolainen, an underperforming defenseman making $5.1m... See what I mean? Any team you like has options to move around cap to pick up Zegras. Not only the teams like Chicago, Buffalo, and Nashville who have the obvious cap space, but also teams trying to retool into younger cores could be keenly interested. (I could go through all the teams in the NHL as potential suitors, but that might be too much information. Unless you want that. In which case, ask and I'll do it.)

That being said, it sounds like Zegras will be moved during the offseason - and that makes sense, as usually contracts with significant term and roster-forming implications aren't traded at the deadline. At that point, with UFA contracts going off the books, it can quite literally be anyone's game to pick up Zegras. However, it'll probably be costly - a young, talented center who will be in your NHL top six, has serious upside, is on a fairly cost-friendly contract for two more years and then retains RFA status? Those don't grow on trees. Expect him to be moved for either a blue chip prospect or a first-round pick. Maybe both, if Verbeek is smart. Genuinely cannot think of a trade of such a player in recent history. (The closest off the top of my head? The Matthew Tkachuk trade - that was two prime players, a first, and a prospect for him. Granted, his circumstances were much different than Zegras's, and Matthew was undeniably worth a lot more.)

Generally, you're not trading away or giving up young core players. Verbeek doing so with Drysdale opens the floodgates. Whether it's because Verbeek wants to sculpt this team the way he wants (neither Drysdale nor Zegras were drafted by him) or he simply sees no future for Zegras on the Ducks, it's incredibly puzzling, not least of all because Anaheim seems mired in this rebuild, and Verbeek may be adding years to it if he plays his hand wrong.

[parallaxabomination]

Indefinite Commission Hiatus

5/8/2024

Due to my mental health being an all time low, I'm closing my commissions for an indefinite amount of time.

I will be finishing all owed art and reaching out to give proper updates. I am so sorry with my lack of professionalism. If you know you know... It is no excuse for my long wait-times. I just feel I owe some clarity. I have not been doing well mentally. I work multiple jobs and can't keep overextending myself like this. It's been eating me to just a hollow nothing. Both the capitalism grind and trying to heal from the events not described- I still don't know if I'll ever post a doc sharing my experiences. But I will say here my art ego has been crushed for sometime now. It has made my freelance work difficult. I've been so ashamed to refund my clients. I can't even afford to refund them. But I am not in a place to finish their work right now. It just breaks my heart. I love art and what I make. It's my everything and if you know me you know that.

I need a break from commissions. But you can imagine how scared I am to do so, as I NEED multiple jobs to stay afloat. I'm not apart of a union, I don't get breaks, guaranteed hours, benefits, nothing. The labor and expenses aren't adding up. They never did. I just can't offer art at this point in time. I want to. But I am not in the space to manage multiple professions right now. I can only offer my ko-fi as a means of donations/support.

I'm still going to post art. After commissions are done I am going to focus on personal art for me. You can support that me by being here, sharing my work, donating, coming to my streams. I wish I could offer something more like commissions. But I don't think there is anything left in me right now. I've just been neglecting myself for so long. I've put off vocal training, medical needs like surgery and my transition. But I can't do anything else right now besides rest and recover from this. Thanks for being here. I hope to come back from this, somehow.

[manynarrators]

@fluctuating-fanby | 👀

You have opened a can of worms by allowing me tot talk and I appreciate it so much! ...I accidentally deleted the post but shhh... it's fiiiine.

First please enjoy a quick and easy map of how the Desert is laid out!

The capitalization is deliberate! It is a desert, but this one is specifically the Desert. It has some mild degree of sentience, and is protective over it's chosen Voices.

Each city is connected to route 800 through two exits, and this means that say... people in Night Vale can travel to Red Mesa without going through Desert Bluffs, just near to. Somewhere on the map is a secret, hidden 7th town called Radium Cavern.

A note on all the voices: There are 3 sets of 2. Red Mesa and Cactus park, Night Vale and Desert Bluffs, and Haven Lake and Pine Cliff (Radium Cavern is weird). The same applies to the towns themselves. Additionally, each Voice has two main people in their family, none of which are the same. (Ie. Kevin and Cecil have an older sister, Emory and Edward have a twin brother).

The impossible geography is never mentioned or made a note of. It’s treated as perfectly normal. So onto the the towns themselves!

Towns

Night Vale Central Horror: Probably surveillance mixed with some more eldritch aspects. Emotion?:Suspicion Voice: Cecil Palmer Distinguishing geographic feature: Flat, dry scrubland Common NPCs or other fun facts: Theseus Noble (weatherman— he and Ted are Doubles, Rian is not). More or less canon compliant-- in the particular AU where these cities originate, it falls to Strex.

Desert Bluffs Central Horror: Business Emotion?: ...Joy? Voice: Kevin Distinguishing geographic feature: sand dunes (The reason why Strex uses Kevin as their Voice, instead of killing him and replacing him with someone loyal is due to this! They nearly did his first re-education, until the city itself started to sink into the sands. Strex decided it was better not to kill him, and it stopped. The Desert is mildly sentient thing and it protects its chosen Voices). Common NPCs or other fun facts: Vanessa (radio intern), Ted (weatherman), Dan (Vanessa's brother, former intern, current mayor), Maddy (Kevin's sister), Jocelin (Maddy's kid), sometimes Daniel (producer- former human, under Strex made into a biomachine).

Red Mesa Central Horror: Space, to a smaller extent, aliens. Emotion?: Guilt (They took in a decent number, but no where near enough refugees and escapes from Desert Bluffs as Strex became more entrenched) Voice: Pandora (Probably the most well-adjusted one of them to be honest). Distinguishing geographic feature: Mesas-- the city proper is built on the largest one of these. Common NPCs or other fun facts: Zadie (would have been Vanessa's fiance. Left DB when Strex came), Pandora's father (schoolteacher), Pandora's Uncle.

Cactus Park/Stone Meadow (Eventually it will become Cactus Meadow, but that's still a ways off-- the art is discordant as a result_. Central Horror: Beauty (The reason it's split is the town itself is. Half of it values a sort of unnatural beauty-- everything is fake, plastic. There's a massive income of plastic surgery. Stone Meadow values the beauty in the natural world instead. The two sides do not get along). Emotion?: Disgust Voice: Persephone (alongside Kevin, they are the most physically altered Voices; she keeps her third eye closed, but can, if so desired, open it). Distinguishing geographic feature: Cacti Common NPCs or other fun facts: Persephone's father (Left the city when Cactus Park became more powerful. Stone Meadow through and through), Persephone's Uncle (Agreed with Cactus Park, powerful figure in community). For those who go under the knife, it's tradition to keep a locket of what they looked like before

Haven Lake Central Horror: Religion Emotion?: Devotion Voice: Emory Hable (he and Edward’s tattoos are both still. Edward because he is a ghost, and Emory, in the great flood, died very briefly… and saw nothing. No God, no Heaven. His tattoos didn’t start moving again). His tattoos are grey/white. Distinguishing geographic feature: The entire city is built on a lake. The original city suffered from a drought one year, and then there was 40 days and 40 nights of rain, creating the lake. The original city is long gone. Common NPCs or other fun facts: Lisette (Radio engineer), Rian (weatherman, Lisette’s brother), the other two or three (as yet unnamed) people who work at the radio station, Cyrus (Emory's twin and defacto leader of the city. Head of the church), their mother. Has a sort of vintage vibe to the whole city. The city has virtually no cars, but does have an incredibly refined trolly system.

Pine Cliff Central Horror: Ghosts Emotion?: Acceptance Voice: Edward (His tattoos are black vines) Distinguishing geographic feature: Cliffs! Pine trees! You would never guess it's inside a desert. Common NPCs or other fun facts: Edward's twin and their mother. The Doubling effect of the cities is why Pine Cliff is a bunch of ghosts and not wiped out, and why Emory is sort of perpetually caught between.

Radium Cavern Central Horror: Knowledge Emotion?: Pride Voices (a set of triplets): Cassius, Elijah, Penelope Distinguishing geographic feature: bioluminescent phenomena inside the cave the city is built in. The central bell-tower is called the Citadel.

[fastcardotmp3]

Hi hi!! I just recently finished Metamorphoses and have been thinking about it for a week solid. Just. Incredible. I’m talking about it with irls, that’s how much I’ve been THINKING.

I had a question relating to the epilogue; Eddie mentions that he and Steve broke up at one point but eventually came back together. What do you think was the cause for that official break? And what precipitated their getting together again? (I’m assuming the pauses that Eddie and Steve take in the fic are not the “official” breakup)

Thank you so much for sharing your work with us, and for putting so much love into what you do. ❤️

hi hello!!! I'm honored it's hung around in your brain that long thank you so much for your kind words😭but honestly what a coincidence because I am actually ALWAYS thinking about that universe 🥹💚

I would love to answer your question because the only reason I didn't include any of that in the actual epilogue is it would've screwed with the pacing So Much to go on a tangent like that (in an admittedly already too-long epilogue), but I've definitely thought about it!

Under the cut because it's me 🐍

The thing about where they're at by the end of the post-S4 timeline in that fic is they've grown and changed and matured a lot during that year and a half, right? They've learned so much about themselves and each other and where they fit, but they're also still so fucking young.

They're young enough that there's still just so much space for growing and changing to keep happening, and that's not an easy thing to always stick together through even when you're not prone to mental health relapses like these guys are.

They started working towards a proper Relationship with the capital R while they were still on kind of rocky ground healing wise, and no matter how solid they feel by chapter 10, someday they're going to be 25 and things will be changing again, they'll be changing again.

All of a sudden they're moving to a new city for each other and leaving behind the only place they've ever known each other and trying to find their footing all over again.

All of a sudden Eddie's changing career paths and making plans for a future he never thought he'd have and Steve is leaving behind all his repair-work clients in Indy and having to start fresh in Chicago.

All of a sudden there's a great big world outside of their door that's bigger than just them, and sure, that's always been the case, but maybe they got so comfortable in their bubble that going outside of it is as exciting as it is difficult.

There's so much still to learn about themselves, and they're both deeply imperfect, right? For Eddie there's the anxiety of losing his sense of self again and the ungrounded nature of that; for Steve there's maybe some lingering fear or even resentment for what it had felt like the last time Eddie decided to get up and go.

It's not just one thing, it's bigger than them just like the world, and it's Steve, ultimately, who decides he's scared enough of all the big upheavals that he can't be attached to Eddie like that right now, trapped in a tiny apartment together with nowhere for all the complexity to go.

Steve says he can't take care of himself while he's waiting for the other shoe to drop on Eddie's end of things, and so he walks away before Eddie can.

It's a break in the maturity, a taking over of old fears, but it makes sense, and even if it lasts less than 3 months in total, maybe it's good for them too.

Good to realize that they do exist outside of one another, that they don't need each other the way they once thought they did, but that they want each other all the same.

That it's no longer about not being able to stand without one another, and instead it's about standing by his side, holding his hand, even though he's got steady footing on his own two feet.

Steve is the one to walk away, and this time? It's Eddie who comes to him.

It's Eddie who says, I don't think I ever really grasped what it was like for you when I ran. I don't think I ever really apologized. I'm sorry.

It's Eddie who lays it all out on the table and makes it clear, I don't need you to fix me anymore, I just like holding your hand.

They still have so much space to grow and change, but the thing is, three months apart helps them realize maybe they're capable of doing it together.

Maybe it doesn't have to be earth-shattering every time.

Maybe it can last, as long as they keep working for it, wanting it, choosing it.

Just because they survived the end of the world doesn't mean they'll automatically be able to survive all the small stuff too, they know now, but they have the fight in them. The want.

And that's what really matters.

[aziraphales-library]

Hello! So sorry to ask this if there is a tag and I overlooked it, but do you know fics where Aziraphale and Crowley just hang out?

To specify maybe watching a movie, going on a date, finally having that picnic they were talking about, just them enjoying each others company and having some peace and quiet :)

Can be just platonic or without an established relationship, and again, if there is already a tag or it's somewhere and I just didn't see it there just tell me!

Thank you for your time <3

Hi! There is not really a specific tag for this, but here are some fics in which Crowley and Aziraphale just hang out enjoying each other’s company...

starved for (your) company by elloquial (T)

He’s calling Crowley before he can fret about consequences and implications for another moment. The first three rings, which he listens to with dread mounting in his core, are torturous. But then Crowley answers, and his surly (awake!) voice is such a relief that Aziraphale skips hello entirely.

“Would you like to do zooms with me?”

(in which Aziraphale sets up nightly zoom meetings to keep Crowley from hibernating, and eventually re-evaluates his stance on quarantining together)

angels, demons, and poäng armchairs by lexophile (T)

“You did this,” Aziraphale accuses when he realizes that they can’t reach the bedroom section without first passing through the children’s furniture, kitchen, and living room showrooms. Crowley knows he’s mostly cranky because they didn’t stop for Swedish meatballs and oversized cinnamon buns. “This labyrinthine monument to capitalism has Hell written all over it.”

“Nah, you’re wrong. This is all your side’s doing!” Crowley retorts. He’s a bit miffed by the angel’s ingratitude. Crowley isn’t the one who needed new furniture, after all--his flat is full of menacingly artistic bespoke pieces. “I’ve seen Heaven, remember? It looks a bit like this. Besides, you can’t tell me that all this white space and the finicky organization system doesn’t reek of Gabriel’s influence. S’awful. I don’t know why you wanted to come here. You could have just miracled up whatever you needed.”

-

After the world almost ends, an angel and a demon go shopping at IKEA.

Relaxing 101 by fluffy_teddybear (G)

When the stress of Armageddon’t and its consequences become too much, Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to find a way to take a breather. Seven ways in which a demon and angel try to relax, if only life wouldn’t be so generous with the lemons.

A House in the Country by TheOldAquarian (T)

“Really Crowley, I can’t very well go and live with a demon until I get the next assignment from Upstairs-”

“It’s not living together! Look, there’s 36 bloody rooms in the place. You can take one wing and I’ll take the other. We’ll be no more living together than you’re living with those idiots on the fourth floor who don’t tune their piano.”

Aziraphale gave a shudder at the mention of these unmusical neighbors, then considered. “I have rather wanted to see the Lake District in summertime.”

He was going to say “This is an obviously silly idea,” or “We both know the Arrangement doesn’t cover holidays at the lake,” or even “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

What he actually said was, “I think that would be delightful. When should we make the trip?”

Any Way You Want It by Justkeeptrekkin (M)

Saving the world is exhausting work. With Heaven and Hell off their backs, it seems as good a time as any for Crowley and Aziraphale to take a proper break. Neither one of them predicts the direction their holiday takes.

Who'd have thought that sharing a cottage in Scotland would be quite so romantic?

A Kind of Spooky Feeling by his_infinitevariety (T)

Having embraced the festive spirit last December, Aziraphale finds himself wrapped up in the spooky season this October, with Crowley insisting they celebrate the entire month of Halloween.

- Mod D

[chemnections]

It really bothers me that so few people on this site seem to genuinely like Frank. I'm glad I found this blog.

There are so many people who only post about him when he mentions MCR, or only post about Frank when there is some nonsense drama fabricated around him and those people want to get in on the memes.

It's almost as though people can't be genuine or sincere about Frank. There's always a level of sarcasm or criticism or slight hostility when they talk about him. They can write novel length posts about anyone else in MCR with no snark, but can't do the same for Frank. The only exception to this is the Sydney bus accident, and honestly I dread the day some fucking ghoul tries to make a joke post about that incident.

these past few days really have been disheartening on that front.

i did expect there to be some anger and typical capitalism discourse from people who really do not understand what they are talking about. but it is so crazy to see anger from people i actually didn't expect to lash out in that way. seeing users change their frank profile pictures because they were so mad over the reverb sale, or i have even seen someone keep theirs but with a red x over his face. as if frank doesn't see what happens online and like his feelings can't be hurt. all because they objected to him selling old clothes (conveniently forgetting that were part of iconic shows/tours/photographs) for a proper collectors fee? significant figures in music have their 'old clothes' in museums or on display or in private collections - these pieces have the potential to increase in value or have donation value to future music exhibitions.) the turn around from being excited to try and buy something of frank's to straight up condemning him is weird. like you said, like they never really liked him in the first place.

mikey literally just had a signature bass line where the bass costed over $1000 and i never saw anyone comment or complain about it. no one accused mikey of 'going for the cash grab'. and this isn't a dig at mikey, just shows the double standard.

long time frank fans should know that 'being critical of your favs' is not dished out fairly and often leads to certain fans attempting smear campaigns against frank. it's why i tend to be protective of him on this blog, to try and counteract that bs.

there were some particular tweets that really pissed me off and i thought about responding, but i also didn't want more attention on them. it's a thin line.

and then with the context of certain meddling/manipulation that goes on in the fandom space where frank is often targeted with unfounded rumours. . . i'm usually out of the loop on that one but i've been curious with lola's reemergence. on that topic i can think of a certain person with a deleted possum post making fun of a car crash.

frank cares and puts in extraordinary effort into his career, truly giving fans so much, and for his efforts he is unappreciated or has his name dragged through the mud. from his efforts to reunite mcr in the first place, to the amazing ls dunes content recently and giving fans opportunity to purchased reasonably priced collectors items tagged with stories where all fans can learn more. have fans ever heard of thank you? and appreciating what you get instead of demanding for something else? truly biting the hand that feeds. and then there is a controlling aspect to it as well - not accepting who frank is as a person, the art and opportunities he is putting out and bullying him online to get things out of it. i'm glad he won't bend to that pressure and his snarky response tweets were gold.

this is the same behaviour that ran frank off of twitter in the first place. so it's hard not to get upset about it when it is being ruined for the rest of us. but we also can't change other people. it is what it is.

[heliopauseentertainments]

The Sea's Breeze

For @jariktig

Continuity: General

Rating: General

Relationship: Megatron/Jazz

Characters: Megatron & Jazz

Warnings: Not Beta Read, Pre-Relationship, Open Ended, Canon Blending, Alternate Universe Please see AO3 entry for full applicable tags.

Summary: In which, after the war, Jazz is assigned to the beautiful, blistering seaside of New Kaon.

Crossposting: AO3 | DreamWidth | Pillowfort

Fic under cut

"Now, that you’re here, there's little point to the pleasantries, Jazz of Staniz."

Megatron never particularly cared for those and, in this situation, with this particular mech, they were unnecessary. The formal city appellation had been appended specifically to underscore its lack of necessity.

"We both know why you're really in Kaon.”

Technically, Megatron ought to have referred to it as New Kaon, given that it was the full and proper name of the city they were rebuilding from the ashes of their old capital early in the war. With the city and most of the planet having been bombed to the point of uninhabitability, the armies had taken to the cosmos. Warships were poor homes and an aggressive, cannibalistic pilgrimage through space for ever scarcer resources did little for them.

One of the few balms to the destruction of Kaon’s prior incarnation was that Iacon had also been nearly as damaged. The only real difference was that Iacon had still had some buildings left standing when the ceasefire had been signed. Kaon had been left a nearly vaporized coastal plain, blasted out of the rocky hills over which it had previously sprawled.

No one bothered to call the rebuilt settlement New Kaon, except on official documents as required. Sentimentality, though ideologically discouraged, couldn’t always be avoided and Decepticons, no matter how devout, were just as susceptible to the occasional tender feeling as any other mech.

With the sole exception of Megatron himself, or so he liked to pretend.

He tapped his fingers against the worn surface of his desk, refurbished and reinforced from salvaged scrap.

Waste not, want not, no matter the source.

Even the glass of his office’s windows had come from the Nemesis’s bridge. No part of Trypticon’s sparkless husk had been squandered.

“Diplomatic liaising has nothing to do with it," he said, finally willing to concede the floor to his “guest.”

At least Jazz seemed to have the resolve to keep that faux carefree smile on his face, not visibly concerned with Megatron’s implied accusation.

He sat comfortably in the chair on the other side of Megatron’s desk, one foot propped up on the opposite knee like he were casually visiting a long-time friend at home. At a glance, no one would assume he was having an official meeting with the leader of a potentially hostile, foreign government.

"Well, you know,” Jazz started, a warm amicable tone underpinning each word, “the same could be said about your man, Soundwave, back in Iacon with Prime."

They both knew the smile was a bluff, a bluff they both also knew Megatron wouldn't buy, but the habit to preempt escalation with faux congeniality was likely too deeply rooted in Jazz's circuits to just put it aside now.

That was fine.

Jazz could smile that absolutely magnetic smile all he wanted.

It wouldn’t change the fact that his role as Autobot liaison to the New Kaonite government, per the peace treaty, was an obvious, yet socially acceptable cover as a spy.

Besides, his statement was spot on. Soundwave had been sent to Iacon for the exact same purpose. Soundwave could likely uncover information or technology that the Decepticons could utilize to better their chances of long-term survival and self-sufficiency.

At least Megatron and Jazz were on the same page. That would make matter that much simpler. Jazz would know he was being watched, just as much as he would be watching his hosts.

Though, ideally, Jazz’s presence among them would prove to be an asset somehow, a boon, rather than an inconvenience to be worked around. Megatron already had an idea of how to utilize Jazz’s talents, but he had to lay the path first.

At the minimum, he was at least pleasant to look at with his starkly contrasting paint splashed with Autobot red on the front, a visor to subtly obfuscate his optics, and a crowd-pleasing, million shanix grin.

The and the clever processing routines and silver-tongued conversational skills that the Autobot had so often utilized to pull invaluable information out of many lesser mechs sometimes made Megatron wish Jazz would have chosen the other side early in war. Perhaps the outcome of the campaign would have been different.

“Yes, I’m aware of how perceptive you think you are.”

Each faction had sent a mole, to keep optics on each other’s operations. Even in peace, they wouldn’t trust each other and Megatron preferred it that way. That mistrust would keep them from being too complacent, lax. The last thing they needed was to become weak, vulnerable. Even the perception thereof was intolerable.

Besides, that peace was fragile.

The proverbial ink was barely dry, and the two sides had only come to an accord while nearly falling over the brink of total starvation. They had been hanging on by fumes, hope, and gumption alone. The war of revolutionary and reactionary aggression, as Megatron would call it despite Autobot complaints, had turned over eons into little more than a pointless war of attrition, no ground left for either side to gain.

And they had all lost, Autobot and Decepticon alike.

They’d barely been functional enough to sign, let alone fight.

Control of Cybertron, or the wreckage of it anyway, had been split neatly in twain. A dividing line had been figuratively drawn halfway between polar Iacon and equatorial Kaon circled the globe at the resulting off-kilter angle.

They began to rebuild and what couldn’t be salvaged was thrown into energon converters to stave off total starvation until proper refinement and production facilities could be brought online. A long, tedious process. Iacon, having still been somewhat standing, had already had a small headstart, whereas Kaon had nothing, nothing but crumbled structures, collapsed catacombs, and all the contaminated slurry of the Rust Sea they could ever want.

And Jazz was still just… smiling at him.

Megatron wasn’t sure if that aggravated or amused him. Maybe both.

The Decepticons had had to scrap the bulk of their fleet just to build shelter.

And Jazz continued smiling. It straddled the line between tiresome and intriguing.

“Need I remind you that your role here is to be our link to Iacon, to gain familiarity with our ways, and to facilitate in the building of diplomatic ties?” Of course, he didn’t need to remind Jazz. Jazz was not stupid, but one could never say precisely what one meant with dealing with known hostile agents. “You are not here on a pleasant seaside vacation.”

Not that Megatron really expected Jazz to be lax in his duties. No, far from it. The carefree attitude was a veneer, an obfuscation to prevent suspicion.

Though ever since Terminus’s disappearance millions of years ago, Megatron had been in a constant state of suspicion, anticipating the next moves of both enemies and allies alike. It’s what had kept him alive. It’s what had kept his, at the time, newborn revolution from being easily crushed under Sentinel Prime’s jackboot.

He narrowed his optics in judgment as Jazz replied.

“Why can’t it be both?” Jazz’s smile pulled sideways into a smirk. “It’s like you don’t think Soundwave is absolutely hitting the slopes with the boys in his free time.”

Of course, Soundwave was. Soundwave had always had an appreciation for the alleged importance of relaxation, but that wasn’t the point. His third-in-command could be trusted to do what was necessary and manage his time appropriately.

That and Megatron, personally, had never been a believer in relaxation. It tended to give him the irrepressible fear that he’d left something undone that would bite him in the aft later. The only solution, therefore, was to be constantly vigilant except when recharge became physiologically necessary.

“Irrelevant.”

“Great, it seems we‘ve come to an understanding.” Jazz paused to hum a thoughtful, upbeat little tune. “So, where’s my room? I’d like to get a quick nap in before I look around. Maybe hit up the boardwalk.”

Megatron would bet real money, if he had any, that Jazz would just love to look around, wandering off and poking his nose into all manner of business. No matter what was done to prevent it, he knew Jazz would snoop around eventually. That wouldn’t stop Megatron from attempting to delay it though, at least a little.

That tendency to snoop could be a useful tool if carefully directed.

He folded his hands together on his desk, leaning forward on his elbows.

“I’ve assigned Thundercracker to escort you. He’s already moved your belongings from the landing pad—“ And rifled through them, which Jazz was likely expecting. Anything of any real consequence was likely stashed in his personal subspace, safe for now from prying optics. “—And he’s waiting in the hall now for you. Your quarters, like almost everyone else’s are in the communal dormitory blocks down the street. Don’t agitate your new roommates.”

“Almost?” Jazz casually stretched his arms over his head with an exaggerated yawn. Megatron watched as the plating pulled and shifted to accommodate the motion, purely to get a better understanding of the enemy in his midst, of course. “I take it you hang out somewhere else, boss man?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” It wasn’t a question.

“Call it ‘curiosity.’” A laugh, barely identifiable as fake through millions of years of practice. “Go on. We've got time. I'm in no rush and I know you love talking about yourself.”

Of course, Jazz merely wanted to poke at him to see how he would react to provocation. This was not a fact-finding request.

Regardless, Jazz would undoubtedly locate Megatron's residence eventually. To get that information, there was no need to play on the Autobot assumption that Megatron was plagued with unrepentant narcissism.

He would hardly call it a “plague.” It took confidence to assert when one was correct in a world like the failed one that had created him in the first place. If confidence was the decisive symptom in Autobot optics—even ones partially hidden by a visor—then so be it.

He didn't care.

Megatron decided to not take the bait, not this time. He was forced to play more than enough of these stupid ego games with Starscream as it was. And they were nominally on the same side.

“No.”

It was tempting to tell Jazz to leave, to just get out. Something about being watched like a nanite under a microscope did not sit well with him. The easygoing grin did little to sooth that discomfort. Unfortunately, Megatron had one more piece of business with his new Autobot liaison.

With a sigh, he pulled a small datapad, the perfect size for a pocket, out of his desk before holding it out for Jazz to take.

“This is your diplomatic authorization which permits you to reside in Kaon. Decepticons have their internal identification documents to access rations, medics, and housing, but you will use this instead.”

Jazz took the authorization, wordlessly turning it over in front of his visor like he was inspecting some new trinket or bauble.

“Keep it with you at all times,” he warned. “You’re dismissed.”

“Cool.” The datapad was subspaced. “See you in the morning for the official tour.”

Jazz slipped out of the room and right into Thundercracker’s friendly greetings. At least someone was pleased to make a new “friend.” If only Jazz’s presence wasn’t so much of a threat, Megatron thought, perhaps they too would get along.

Voices shouting at each other from the busy street below carried through the open windows, concerned about impending lunch breaks rather than their leader’s meeting with an Autobot “guest.”

As it should be.

Megatron stood and turned to peer out at the road below.

“Revolution Boulevard,” the Conclave had decided to name it.

Uninspired, but out of his hands.

He had little interest in the petty tasks of appellation and had left it up to the few surviving members of the Conclave. Soon, relatively, perhaps Kaon would be settled and secure enough to call for fresh elections to fill the Conclave once more.

On the street, mechs milled hither and yon, shouting and laughing, across the rough pavement as they went about their midday tasks. The road itself had been cobbled together from shattered concrete and hastily mixed cement. Mixmaster had done the best he could, an admirable job under the circumstances.

A flash of blue followed by white darted out from below, Thundercracker practically skipping across the street with Jazz in tow, talking about something or another. Fast friends indeed. Thundercracker had always been sociable, and Jazz was a fast talker. None of the other Decepticons in the traffic seemed to take any notice of the “enemy” in their midst.

The peace of routine was returning to his mechs. While there was an… undeniable thrill in the mad chaos of battle, Megatron knew that it was no way to live out one’s entire functioning. It was not sustainable, as the war itself had shown.

Perhaps the lack of a ruckus from the rank-and-file over Jazz’s presence was a good sign. Or perhaps that complacency Megatron had once feared, during the war, was already settling in.

He slid the glass of the window closed before pulling heavy mesh blackout curtains across against the blazing heat and light of the Kaon sun.

--

“Now, Jazz, I want you welded to his aft,” Prowl had said before Jazz had left Iacon. An extreme order if taken literally, but there was no need. Optimus had said something to a similar effect but without the ridiculous visual. On the other hand, Jazz would have paid good money to see Prowl welded to Megatron’s aft.

“Don’t let him out of your sight, within reason, of course. We want to know what he’s doing, what he’s saying, everything. He can’t be trusted.”

Optimus’s orders were preferable, given the absurdity of the alternative, even metaphorically.

Now, in Kaon, the air was filled with indistinct conversation and the shifting of materials. Above all, though, what Jazz couldn’t drown out was the ever-present hum and slosh of the refinery at the edge of the Rust Sea, separating the slurry into usable resources: water, alcohols, and oxidized minerals.

The sea threw off a gentle breeze, just cool enough to promise relief but not actually deliver it. The acrid smell of salts and dissolved metallic ions bit at his senses.

Standing next to the refinery and looking out over the red and brown expanse of the sea, he listened—tried to anyway—as Megatron shouted over the din, just to be heard, explaining the purpose of the refinery. The restrictions on the use of what it produced, in the name of resource conservation, were… prohibitive.

It seemed like Decepticon optics were constantly on Jazz and his proudly red Autobot badge while he listened to Megatron’s lecture. It felt as though they had been ever since he’d arrived in New Kaon. Of course, they would watch him. He stood out like a sore thumb, didn’t he? After millions of years of war, they would understandably be apprehensive about his presence in their stronghold, especially when he was walking free.

Yet, every time he looked, he saw no one obviously staring, with one exception. Maybe he was just paranoid after so long of that being necessary. Thundercracker hadn’t paid him any mind yesterday, after all. The only one he consistently caught looking at him was Megatron, something which could be written off as habitual hypervigilance.

For now, Jazz decided to ignore it. Besides, some were probably more curious than wary. He had more important things to pay attention to now anyway.

All water was to be put aside for rationed use as either a solvent, lubricant, or for medical use. Alcohols received much the same treatment, preferred as a solvent due to less risk of oxidizing a mech’s plating, but subject to even stricter rationing for its quality. Even the remaining sludge was being pulled apart at the atomic level for further refinement.

He had expected Megatron to be a hard ass. That had matched all the intel and battlefield experience Jazz had gained over the course of the war.

The surprise was that, in addition to being a harsh taskmaster, the guy was also an uptight prick. He seemed to like regulations almost as much as Ultra Magnus. In another life, those two could have been great friends. The almost comical thought brought a smile to his face.

Megatron had brooked no dissent, shaping his band of malcontents into a well-oiled, allegedly disciplined army for political change.

Well, Megatron had tried to anyway.

Oh, well, Jazz thought, watching as the Rust Sea slapped its brown, corroded “water” against the stone causeway built around the front of the refinery.

Megatron was talking, but not to him now.

A passing laborer-turned-soldier-turned-laborer-again was pulled aside for something, a quick message to a supervisor most likely. The mech, one Jazz only recognized as a low-level grunt who hadn’t even done enough to warrant an Autobot spec ops dossier, nodded and ran off to carry out their leader’s bidding.

The official tour, thus far, had been dull given that New Kaon was currently devoid of anything that wasn’t survival oriented. Megatron had decided to give the tour himself, rather than leaving it up to a lackey, but then again, a lot of those lackeys seemed to be actively engaged in rebuilding efforts. New Kaon, with its relatively few buildings and singular major street, was abuzz with construction and foot traffic.

The government building, dormitory blocks, warehouses, and the singular landing pad that had been generously called a “port” had all been obviously cobbled together out of debris and torn apart warships.

Credit where credit was due.

Jazz had to admit that the Cons were industrious and resourceful, doing a lot with very little. Even the minute amounts of dissolved metals in the sea were being harvested for use.

The dry hills of red-brown rock around Kaon surely still had some valuable mineral veins that could be exploited, especially after millions of years of uninterrupted geological activity during the intervening years of space warfare.

Wouldn’t it have been easier to mine for resources? Surely more efficient than filtering the sea for every single atom of iron and copper.

Jazz wondered if, perhaps, purifying the sea was also a goal, but to what end?

Megatron suddenly stopped short. He abruptly turned, shouting up at a catwalk on the side of the refinery for someone—a notoriously heavy-gaited Motormaster, if Jazz’s optics were working properly—to watch their footing.

Apparently violating workplace safety protocol came with steep fines and stern talking to’s from the boss.

The answer to Jazz’s earlier question became immediately obvious. Mining was dangerous and required an extensive work force and equipment to be done well, something Megatron would have been… intimately familiar with. The automated mining systems that had come out not long before the beginning of the war wouldn’t have even been an option with the limited resources here.

Megatron also possibly found the idea of mining personally distasteful for… reasons that Jazz had to grant were fair.

Though, if Jazz were being honest, Iacon was hardly fairing any better.

The planet’s north pole was frigid and only kept clear of ice by the dry climate. Pockets of snow remained on some mountains that captured enough moisture from the air, but not much. The machinery and inhabitants didn’t generate quite enough heat to consistently maintain operating temperatures, necessitating around the clock heating technology. It was a massive resource drain, putting them on more equal footing with Kaon’s shortages. That was even including the occasional trading with off-world civilizations. Non-Cybertronians still treated them with a measure of suspicion, so few races were willing to provide them with any aid.

Of course, no one outside of Autobot High Command was on the “need to know” list about that little secret. Soundwave would probably figure it out before long and deliver that information back to the big boss, still lecturing his soldiers right in front of Jazz.

That meant Jazz had limited time to locate any useful technology to give them an edge, before the Decepticons realized that they weren’t the only ones suffering environmental attrition. The last thing the Autobots needed was to give the Decepticons a reason to pursue old nominally dead, but not forgotten grudges.

The most obvious bonus was that it was much harder to overheat in Iacon than in Kaon, but the risk of freezing was just a different path to the same outcome: permanent deactivation.

Jazz ruefully looked up at the bright sun in the sky as the oppressive light beat down. He would need to dip into his coolant rations before too long. Coolant was almost as precious as fuel here, he thought, finding himself missing Iacon’s chilly breeze.

The Autobots had also had more material resources left over from the conflict to utilize. Their willingness to forge alliances and friendships with alien races, organic and mechanical alike, had been an invaluable asset in securing aid and supplies.

Even now, in peacetime, they were still trading with—sometimes even accepting gifts from—other societies in the galaxy, whereas the Decepticons had only themselves to rely on. And the Rust Sea, of course, with whatever it held in its sludgy depths.

It was the Decepticons’ own fault, of course.

They’d brought this punishment and hardship upon themselves. Megatron, now indicating that they were to go into the refinery itself with a wave of his arm, was the guiltiest of all, both for the war itself and what came after the powder keg ignited.  

After all, it had been his orders and doctrine that his mechs had followed, and now they suffered for their loyalty under the merciless sun, pinned between empty rock and an unforgiving sea.

That was the official party line anyway.

Jazz knew it was more… complicated.

A conflict of some kind had been inevitable. If it hadn’t been Megatron, it would have been someone else, someone just as fed up with their societal stratification and just as willing to blow it all up to make a point.

“Come. You ought to see the inside. We had to scrap the entirety of the Peaceful Tyranny—“ Even the Decepticon Justice Division’s notorious warship had been scrapped for rebuilding. Damn. Then again, if Megatron’s own beloved flagship had bitten the dust, no vessel, no matter how prized or important, in their fleet was safe from pragmatism. “—to assemble this. The least you could do is admire its inner workings.”

Blame didn’t really matter right now though, not when their factions had been pushed nearly to the brink of starvation. Rebuilding and sitting in their own respective corners of the sandbox, doing their best to live to see tomorrow, was all they could really do anymore.

“Sure, sure, let’s go have a look at it,” he said, practiced enthusiasm in his voice.

Jazz followed Megatron into the refinery, figuring he might as well get started on being welded to the guy’s aft. It was a great excuse to get out of the direct sunlight beating down on him.

“It’s probably cooler in there than it is out here anyway.”

--

“So, how do you all beat the heat out here?” Jazz finally asked upon their return to the administrative building at the end of the brief “tour.”

Megatron had been wondering when Jazz would say something about the temperature. The Autobots had gotten used to their polar weather, hadn’t they? Jazz had put on a brave face for the few hours that they were out, not letting slip verbally that he had been visibly uncomfortable in the heat and sunshine. Megatron had known, of course, but he admired the valiant effort Jazz had undertaken to conceal it.

“Certainly not with a ‘pleasant ocean breeze,’” Megatron said.

It wasn’t like the Rust Sea was actually any good at cooling them down. The breeze that came off the sludge was a lower temperature, sure, but it tended to bring a heavy humidity with it. That always left the heat clinging uncomfortably to the armor.

“Heat pumps,” he started, leading Jazz back through the air conditioned building and up the main staircase. Elevators existed but they were generally reserved for freight to conserve power. Besides, they were only going to the second floor. It was hardly a hike. “Blackout curtains. A preference to night shifts. The only reason I’m even awake right now is because you Autobots prefer the day. Most of my mechs are active at night.”

That was hardly a secret. Kaon was busy during the day, but when the sun deigned to hide itself, the settlement bustled. It was the best time to move freight and supplies or do any arduous work.

“Once you’ve settled in, I’ll be returning to that routine,” he added, stopping in front of a nondescript door. “And I suggest you do the same. Now to conclude our ‘tour’—“

It was still generous to have called their excursion a “tour” given that there hadn’t really been much of Kaon to show right now. The refinery and the canteen were really the primary points of interest these days, all on the city’s one street—the only two-way street on Cybertron and that was by necessity. Thundercracker had already shown Jazz where he would be staying and Megatron’s office wasn’t exactly hidden away.

Perhaps that would have been enough breadcrumbs to pique Jazz’s curiosity.

“—This office is yours.” He threw a thumb at the door. “For the duration of your liaison position.”

“Thanks.” Jazz paused, a smile growing on his face before he spoke again. “So, no loud music during the day or I’ll wake half the city. Is that right?”

“Smart mechs sleep with their hearing turned off.” Megatron smirked, a compromise to the infectiousness of Jazz’s grin. “Unless you find the sounds of industrial refining and construction soothing.”

“Well, that takes all the fun out of it.”

Jazz laughed, an easy sound that didn’t match standing next to a long-time enemy and having marched around a foreign, hostile city in the blistering heat for a few hours.

Was this part of the act or did Jazz naturally gravitate towards levity?

“But, great, some upbeat tunes will do the attitude around here some good.”

“If you wish to contribute to faction morale, unless it’s disruptive or resource intensive, I see little reason to interfere.”

“First day here and I’ve already got the boss’s stamp of approval. Nice.”

“Don’t push your luck; there’s much to do.”

He opened the door to Jazz’s office and gestured for the mech to go inside. The light was dim, as the blackout curtains had been left closed by default, even if the room had previously been unoccupied. Otherwise, the office itself was nothing special. A desk, a chair, some shelves, the basic supplies any bureaucratic functionary could want.

“I assure you; it’s not booby-trapped. I’m not about to risk one of my few buildings for that.”

“Yeah, along with all of the other consequences I don’t need to mention.” Still smiling, Jazz sat down in the standard issue chair behind the desk. He casually stretched his arms over his head.

Megatron told himself that he only watched Jazz’s motions closely out of old wartime habit.

“Obviously.” He cleared his vocalizer with a cough before continuing. “Now, you take orders and direction from me; that should go without saying. However, if you need information to do your work, you contact Skywarp.”

Soundwave would have been the usual contact but given the former third-in-command’s new role, that was currently out of the question.

Luckily, Skywarp, with his proclivity to pop in and out of places he had no business being, was a natural gossip and information source. It had been easy enough to turn that curse into a blessing when Soundwave vacated his long-time role for peace.

“I suspect you already know how to reach him,” Megatron added. He was sure that Jazz, in his expertise, likely already had the frequency information for every Decepticon, current or former, living or dead… with perhaps one notable exception.

Jazz nodded, confirming the suspicion.

“And if you need supplies or to have something requisitioned, you speak with Thundercracker. I’m sure he provided you with his frequency yesterday if you didn’t already have it.” Thundercracker had always been one of the friendlier seekers, a marked departure from the natures of the bulk of his fellows.

“Seems pretty easy—One more thing though, Boss.”

“Yes?” Jazz seemed to be taking everything in without much complaint, so the least Megatron could do was entertain a question or two, even if being called “boss” by an Autobot would take some getting used to.

“Screamer still running around here?”

“Yes.” Luckily, Starscream was preoccupied with keeping their aerial forces under control. Being grounded tended to make fliers rowdy and flying missions, given how fuel-intensive such missions were, had been rare since the end of the war. “I advise you avoid him where possible.”

“Why?”

“I feel like that requires no explanation.”

Starscream being a highly skilled operative but also a thoroughly unpleasant person was hardly private knowledge.

Jazz just nodded and grinned.

“Fair enough.”

“Good.” Megatron turned towards the door, ready to begin the awkward, uncomfortable switch back to his preferred nocturnal schedule.

“One more ‘one more thing.’” Jazz’s smooth voice gave him pause.

Megatron sighed, looking back over his shoulder.

“What is it?”

“If you’re going to be on the opposite sleep schedule from me, for a little while, how do I get a hold of you if I need to?”

A valid question.

“My personal frequency, of course.”

The last one to complete Jazz’s collection.

--

It had been a rough couple of days to adjust to switching from being up with the sun to actively shunning it, but it had behooved Jazz to make that “lifestyle change” sooner rather than later, especially if he wanted to keep tabs on High Command’s activities.

Megatron had been right about one thing, Jazz thought, night shift was vastly more comfortable than trudging about during the heat of the day. The equatorial sun was brutal.

It was even a little chilly, he thought, standing on the quay, next to the refinery, to look out at the Rust Sea as a lazy, salt-laden breeze wafted over him.

The slight chill was better than baking under the sun.

Jazz had even gotten accustomed to the constant salt abrasion from the sea and had taken to using a particular protective topcoat that resisted the salt’s caustic properties on plating. He still needed to thank Thundercracker for the tip. Despite some ideological differences, Thundercracker was a pretty alright mech.

The refinery was still making a ruckus even at this hour, but it did operate around the clock, twenty-eight hours a day and ten days a week, save for a scant hour around each shift change. With four six-hour shifts, that left only four one-hour blocks when no one was supposed to be in the building.

Which meant Jazz had just one hour tonight to scope out any guards and security.

Luckily, he didn’t have any appointments to keep. Interestingly, Megatron had so far proved to be a fairly “hands off” supervisor, at least where Jazz was concerned. This granted Jazz a significant amount of latitude in how he spent his “on the clock” time. He had yet to need the personal frequency that had completed his collection of Con contact information, though it had been one of the few freely given rather than taken in reconnaissance.

While he had seen some of the security features during his “official tour” with Megatron, they had breezed by much of what wasn’t actively separating the Rust Sea’s slurry into useful resources.

That meant sneaking in somewhat blind, but that was fine. He could handle it.

If he didn’t get caught, no one would be any the wiser.

As soon as the current shift had left, Jazz slipped inside, the windowless center chamber of the refinery darker even than the night outside with the lack of starlight.

No one had even bothered to lock the door, which seemed… odd. If the refinery was so important to Decepticon survival, why not at least bolt the door?

Surely, it couldn’t be that the Decepticons expected no one to muck around with it. Every faction had its mischief makers who would act against their own self-interest.

Some of Soundwave’s cassettes, notably Rumble and Frenzy, sprang immediately to mind, but they had gone with Soundwave to Iacon, probably pranking some unsuspecting Autobot right now. The darkness of the polar winter would have been a great opportunity for tricks, innocent and otherwise.

Meanwhile, Jazz had to wait for his own optics’ brightness settings to adjust to the near total blackness of the temporarily abandoned refinery. When shapes came into view again, he crept down the stairs. The steel steps hugged the wall and spiraled the height of the building, all the way to the roof.

However, he doubted that Soundwave’s unruly cassettes had been the only nuisances that had been patrolling Kaon’s coastline. A few more names came to mind, but Jazz was a little more interested in other things now than running an Ultra Magnus-esque database search on troublemakers.

Megatron had previously shown him what was up above, where the final resources were diverted to either silos or storage tanks. On the other hand, he had not deigned to show what waited down below, underground, presumably where unprocessed seawater was brought into the facility. The unknowns of the basement were of far more interest.

The refinery still clanked and clanged, even though it was devoid of staff monitoring and maintaining it. Tubing from down below ran up the center of the chamber, sucking the raw resource up to be separated by the ad hoc machinery. The tour had made it seem to be mostly automated, needing only a little babysitting, so that wasn’t a surprise.

The lack of surprise, unfortunately, didn’t make it not surreal as he sneaked around in the dark, cautiously feeling his way along the railing whenever his optics couldn’t quite make out the steps. Relying solely on optic-emitted light meant the visual feed could be… fuzzy, distorted, and limited in color definition. Everything was a blurry blue haze.

Fuel was limited, a well-known supply problem for the Decepticons since their inception, and rationing was a long-held policy. However, Jazz had not seen any fuel refinement, either from unprocessed energon veins in the hills or directly from sources of energy.

This led to obvious questions about where the fuel or the power to continuously operate the refinery—let alone the entirety of the growing settlement—was coming from. Surely the Decepticons didn’t have a source that could provide the daily ration of a half-cube of fuel.

Megatron certainly hadn’t mentioned one.

Then again, why would he? That would be a valuable secret. Either that or Megatron had simply—and accurately—assumed that Jazz would locate the answer on his own, without any prompting.

And Jazz had a sneaking suspicion about where the answer was hiding, not that “New” Kaon really had many places in which to hide anything. A handful of buildings, most of which were dormitories or storage with some workshop areas. The refinery was the obvious place to check, almost too obvious, but he would be remiss in his duties if he overlooked it on those grounds alone.

As he descended, a muffled sloshing sound rose. He must have been getting closer to whatever was down there. Maybe whatever it was wasn’t a secret; maybe it was something completely mundane, boring even, but it remained a tickbox on his list to check off one way or the other.

As he eased his way to the bottom of the stairs, however, instead of an intake pipe and tank for the seawater being siphoned upstairs, he found the tubing running into a solid wall next to the landing and a sealed door. The sloshing was coming from behind it.

Jazz pressed the side of his head against the door, trying to hear any sign of someone behind it. The last thing he needed was to pick this open, only to be met with a blaster in the face like a complete novice.

Nothing, nothing but the rush of seawater and a mechanical whirring noise from machinery. The door seemed thick, blocking the worst of the noise. The subtle sounds of either speech or non-industrial work would have been occluded.

It would be risky then to get this open, but that didn’t mean he ought to simply turn back. He’d gotten this far, after all. A quick risk assessment told him the odds of someone being back here were low. All the Cons that were known to still be alive were accounted for in their shifts and no one was scheduled to be in the refinery during shift change.

The risk was acceptable.

Picking the lock was a simple matter, as Kaon didn’t have the resources to generally use electronic locks outside of the administrative building. Everything else was on a mechanical key system, old-fashioned and low-tech but generally reliable for most purposes. A turning tool for tension and a pick in a skilled hand had the lock turning in no time.

He pushed the heavy door open. The acrid stench of concentrated seawater rushed forward through the widening gap as Jazz froze, finding an unexpected and all-too-familiar refutation of his risk calculations in the room.

Shockwave, who had not been reported as still active and functional and had not been seen since the official end of hostilities, stared blankly at him from a console attached to a conveyor belt, his singular optic unblinking.

“What are you doing here?”

Jazz threw his hands up defensively, palms out to show he meant no harm.

A lie, of course. He was still armed, a blaster lying in wait in his subspace, a blaster that very technically violated his terms of employment. It was a last resort. He had not been subject to any actual aggression yet from his new colleagues, but Shockwave was always… a somewhat unpredictable variable. It was difficult to truly anticipate where his apathetic logic would take him, especially when presented with a surprise like Jazz.

A door slammed above him, back at the ground level of the quay.

Loud steps began to descend the staircase outside, taking a calm, steady pace.

Of course, the door up top had been left unlocked.

He had been expected, though apparently… not by Shockwave, given that gun prosthetic pointed squarely at the center of his hood, aim locked right between the headlights. Despite his efforts, he certainly felt like a complete novice walking into a trap.

“Hey, easy, buddy,” he said, a practiced “easy” smile on his face. “I was just looking around. Seeing as I live here now, I wanted to get to know my new home better is all.”

It was time to try out Megatron’s personal frequency, he thought, silently dialing it from the in-line comm UI on his HUD.

“I find that highly unlikely.”

The comm just went straight to voicemail. Megatron was possibly in an unscheduled meeting or, more likely, trying to corral a restless Starscream who desperately wanted to take to the skies. Jazz said nothing, only letting the message record Shockwave’s disbelief before he disconnected the line.

He kept his smile firmly in place, a counter to Shockwave’s hollow judgment.

“Come on now. There’s no need for the hostility.” Jazz laughed, shrugging his shoulders. “War’s over, you know? Didn’t you hear?”

Those steps were closer now, on the landing behind him.

Shockwave’s blaster began to charge, humming with power as the muzzle glowed bright. The urgency of potentially being shot was all that prevented Jazz from turning to see who had come to box him in.

The steps stopped immediately behind him.

“Shockwave,” came a familiarly deep voice in reproach. “Stand down.”

So that was why Megatron hadn’t taken his call. He had already been on his way.

“Good to see you, boss man.” Well, “see” in a manner of speaking given that Megatron was still in Jazz’s blind spot. Not that it mattered. “I was just going for a little walk and accidentally startled my old pal Shockwave here. I think he’s just a little trigger happy—”

Shockwave cut him off, maintaining the blaster’s threatening charge.

“This Autobot infiltrator has seen classified—“

“This Autobot infiltrator is our colleague,” Megatron corrected. “I know you’ve been sequestered down here for some time, but I expected that you would look up from your work long enough to catch a whiff of gossip once in a while, especially with all of the loudmouths working upstairs. Surely news of our new Autobot liaison had drifted down to you.”

Shockwave hesitantly lowered his arm.

If Shockwave had a face to emote with, Jazz was sure that he would have been scowling in annoyance at the reprimand. Though, given the heavy shielding on that door, casual speech from upstairs probably wouldn’t have made it down here.

Megatron was probably just manufacturing shame, an excuse to reprimand his subordinate for Jazz’s viewing pleasure.

For some reason.

Regardless, Megatron stepped away from Jazz and waving him for a closer look at the turbines spinning in their troughs of water. Jazz followed cautiously, still highly aware of Shockwave’s scrutinizing, one-eyed gaze on his back.

Now that he was no longer staring down the barrel of a gun, Jazz took the opportunity to actually see what was in this room.

Channels in the floor forcibly funneled water from a collection tank at the far wall through turbines nestled in the troughs towards another tank feeding the pipes in the refinery’s central chamber. The turbines fed cubes, filling with glowing energon.

The conveyor belt behind Shockwave’s console was laden with filled cubes being shuttled away, probably to a storage area of New Kaon’s canteen for safekeeping.

This certainly explained where the fuel and power were coming from, a creative way of making the Rust Sea do double-duty.

No wonder this was hidden. A fuel source like this would have been an obvious sabotage target, more so than a simple mineral refinery. Whatever was pulled from the sea’s sludge was just a bonus compared to what they could use its harnessed motion to generate. Carefully regulating and coveting the other resources merely artificially inflated the importance of the aboveground portion of the facility, keeping attention away from the “boring” substructure.

It was ingenious.

Iacon could have probably adapted something like this to make better use of glacial meltwater….

“Furthermore,” Megatron continued, paying no mind to Jazz’s wandering optics, “I believe Jazz, with his unique position and experience, will have valuable insight into our little… project.”

“So, boss man, you didn’t think to tell him in advance that I’d be coming.”

“Oh no.” Jazz could hear the smirk. “Far be it from me to ruin all of the surprise for you. Spies love to look for mysteries, after all.”

Megatron gestured at the turbines with a wave of his hand.

“Now, as will you probably be unsurprised to hear, Soundwave informs me that Iacon faces a similar problem to New Kaon. This is a stop-gap measure to get us through our early rebuilding, but it will not sustain for much beyond what we have now and, despite Shockwave’s best efforts, we are low on ideas for novel sources of energy and fuel that aren’t stealing the petty dregs from the Rust Sea. We need an outside perspective and—”

“And since you’ve shown me yours, I suppose you expect me to show you mine.”

Iacon had been working on some technology to better use geothermal energy, that could probably be adapted for use near Kaon, given the geologically active faults in the area.

Hm.

“Precisely.” Megatron’s voice was quieter than before, prompting Jazz to look up. To his surprise, he saw Megatron eying him out of the corner of his optic, rather than focusing his gaze on the machinery. “I had some… reservations about you joining us, but I think we’ll work well together after all.”

Perhaps… sharing a classified secret or two could benefit both sides.

“You know,” Jazz said, the smile on his face softening with sincerity, “I think we will.”

[traditional-with-a-twist]

lvii. Beauty and Her Beast

<<Previous || first arc || second arc || third arc || AO3 || Next>>

Kiki enters the hunting lodge eagerly, her step light and quick, head up, eyes alert.

She is looking for him.

The lady knight would never betray her dignity with excitement, but she has missed Mitsuhide — felt his absence keenly, an unaccustomed space at her side, an ache that has worsened in inverse proportion to the healing of her bone.

Her arm is functional again, regaining its old strength with training and with time.

Time has not healed their parting.

Anger subsided into melancholy, invisible to almost all beneath Kiki’s implacable calm.

Then followed this dull discontent, punctuated with bursts of hot vexation when something brought him to mind — a maneuver on the practice ground, a remark he might have made, a thought she might have shared … if only he had been there.

...

Sometimes she misses him so much, she wishes him gone forever.

Better the certainty of a final and irrevocable farewell than the vexatious hope, repeatedly disappointed.

Kiki took refuge from the strain by renouncing him — casting him off in her heart, declaring the self-exile banished.

She cannot oppose his choice; therefore she affirms it, finding reasons to justify it, embrace it, declare herself satisfied.

If he will go, then she will wish it so.

She won’t think of him, but when she does, she will be glad that he left.

...

At a stroke, his letter swept all that aside.

It had arrived by royal courier, a brief but painstaking thing — perfectly in keeping with the feelings she could easily imagine as animating him.

That mingled sense of shame and duty, peculiar to Mitsuhide, runs through it all. 

He disavows himself, writes as if to strike himself from the record with the very hand then pens it, yet never more clearly has he shown himself honorable in the humility of addressing himself to her.

...

She took it in at a glance, knowing at first only that he had asked for her. 

Annoyance evaporated; her heart lifted. A cloud passed from her countenance.

It had lingered so long that all had forgotten what she looked like without it.

...

A second read apprised her of the circumstances, and her elation turns to urgency.

Mitsuhide had not made the request on his own behalf — of course he had not. He thought of himself first, never.

Kiki had expected something serious when he wrote; he was not a man given to trivialities, nor one likely to disturb a still pond (no matter how much it needed weeding) unless spurred to it.

Still, this news outstripped all expectations.

It answered a mystery — what had become of her friends since Shirayuki’s letters had stopped coming, since it was quietly known that the recently declared heir to one of Clarines’s largest and most prosperous estates had gone missing.

The answer was plain: nothing good.

...

Keenness of purpose mingled with brightness of anticipation, of pain relieved. She presented herself to request leave.

The first prince did not press her for explanations. “You have served well, Lady Kiki, at a time when others might have expected a greater claim on your attendance.”

He saluted her with an elegant hand; she bowed.

“Consider this furlough a token of gratitude for your dedication.”

...

As Izana spoke, he passed Kki a sheaf of papers, which she slid into an unmarked satchel.

Some would be written in code; others were not.

A good many were useless: disconnected excerpts from unrelated reports, taken at random from their proper context.

One contained her instructions for the task she had agreed to undertake, should a plausible occasion arise for her to leave the capital.

...

“Do not press yourself,” urged the prince with his half-lidded smile. “It is only your due.”

...

Kiki rode hard, eating up the miles between her and the origin of that letter.

She weathered the barrage of memories that emerged from the trees along with the hunting lodge.

The brightness of that time had crystallized like a colored pane of glass — fragile, fragmented, yet brilliant in the light of memory.

If she tried to hold on to it, the edges cut into her. She could embrace it only from a distance, and that separation was its own wound.

Another time, the hurt might have penetrated more deeply, but not today.

Hope was her shield, her ward against the doubt and pain of the past.

...

Her first misgiving came when she found the stable empty.

A dozen explanations flicked through her mind, hastening to account for the incongruity. 

She settled on none of them, but let them hover around her thoughts like a curtain, a layer of obfuscation between herself and the dawning possibility that she refused to countenance.

...

Resolutely, she turned and entered the lodge.

Silence greeted her.

The sitting room, the hearth – empty. The coals smoldered; a pot hung on the hearth, but there was no one there.

Kiki stopped.

She looked, and she listened — straining for any trace of her partner-that-was.

Nothing below, so she ascended, unwilling to give up the search, to relinquish her hope.

...

Upstairs, dim candle light flickered under one door.

Kiki’s chest tightened painfully as her pulse accelerated.

She laid a hand on the latch and eased it open.

...

Inside, a solitary figure lay buried in blankets. A flush of red hair left no doubt as to her identity.

Again they were meeting in an in-between place, somewhere on the journey from one home to another.

Then Shirayuki had met them with a confidence alien to her predicament; now she looked scarcely larger than a child, her stillness a mute appeal.

Beside her, there was no one.

Kiki stopped.

Her heart sank.

As it fell, she hardened it, cutting off the shock of dismay before it could immiserate her. She looked and understood and willed herself to feel nothing.

...

“Kiki…”

The voice, delicate as a bird wing, recalled her to sensation.

The lady knight heard her friend’s call, and a gladness tangled with concern kindled in response.

She stepped quickly to the bedside and knelt down.

Shirayuki smiled at her. “You came.”

The tightness returned.

Yes, she had come — for nothing! cried her injured self, the tender core of every human, who all long to receive love where it is given.

...

For a moment, Kiki struggled with herself.

She met the impulse to lash out in pain, and she mastered it.

Coolness returned; she regarded the situation dispassionately and recognized that she had not been summoned without cause.

...

“Yes,” Kiki agreed. “I’m here.”

...

A smile illuminated Shirayuki’s face, restoring a glow of vitality to it.

Gratitude welled up in her.

As was Shirayuki’s way, she sought immediately to share her happiness.

“Mitsuhide—” she began, but Kiki’s face stopped her.

She faltered at the blank look that overtook her friend’s features, the smile vanishing into a void.

“He… he’s not…?”

...

“He has gone,” said Kiki, colorless.

“But… you’re here… How did you find us if…?”

“He sent for me,” came the reply, “and now he has gone.”

...

Shirayuki gazed at her in confusion and real sorrow.

‘Oh,’ she said softly. ‘Kiki, I’m so –’

Her friend rose, avoiding the hand stretched out in consolation.

...

“You must be hungry,” Kiki said quietly. “I will bring you something to eat.”

[ceruleansol]

Writing dialogue is hard

But it can be made simple!

Let’s break it down:

We have dialogue tags, and we have action beats.

A dialogue tag is where we write that the character says something.

“Hey,” he said, “wanna catch a movie?”

An action beat is the action the character does that has nothing to do with what they’re speaking.

“Hey.” He came to a stop. “Wanna catch a movie?”

Now, there’s a plethora of ways to write dialogue, but to make some concepts simpler to grasp, here’s a few things to keep in mind that help keep things compartmentalized for me, at least:

Whenever we have a dialogue tag after dialogue, it does not start with a capital letter unless it’s a proper noun (like a name).

“Yes!” he exclaimed.

Notice how ‘he’ is not capitalized even though the dialogue ended with an exclamation mark. The same would be done if it was a period or question mark.

If an action beat followed, however, it would start capitalized.

“Yes!” He nodded excitedly.

(This could not be “Yes,” He nodded excitedly. The dialogue would need a period before the action beat).

You can mash up the two, of course.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, nodding excitedly.

And that’s the basics! In my mind.

Now onto em dashes because I see those in writing and I get itchy.

Em dashes (—) can be used for multiple things. But before I get into examples, I wanna make clear that you don’t put spaces around them. Please and thank you.

They can set off a list:

“There’s a few movies we could see—Barbie, Oppenheimer, or whatever.”

It can also show sharp changes in direction.

“Yeah, those are great—wait, you’d watch Barbie? Same!”

Taking a break from the two gays dating above—

Em dashes are used to show interruptions, not hyphens/dashes. Just like I did immediately above.

Dashes are used in stutters within words.

“Y-you said what to him?!”

You can use “Y-You” or “Y-you” but you gotta keep it consistent throughout.

Em dashes are used in… it’s not a stutter but like a repeat of whole words:

“Why did—why did you do that?!”

Em dashes can be used to interject a thought (they can also replace parentheses this way):

“He said he would come home—if we’re lucky—before eleven.”

Back to em dashes being used for interruptions, using an em dash with an action beat:

“Hey, you can’t just—” She took the remote back.

Notice the action beat still starts with a capital letter.

If the action is interrupting mid-sentence (not between two complete sentences), then it looks like this:

“Don’t”—he shoved the alcohol swab away—“press so hard!”

Notice the action doesn’t start with a capital letter. Why? I don’t know, man (gender neutral). But again, no spaces around the em dashes.

Idk how to end this. I just wanted a compilation of things I see are typically confused about or unknown in writing.

Hi, I’m Diven, and I’m a proofreader accepting projects rn, and I wrote all this in one go at midnight. Apologies for the weirdness! It’ll happen again!

Helpful resources:

1

2

3

4

5

[cbk1000]

I’ve been meaning to post a preview of the next chapter for like...84 years, but I’ve kept putting it off because I don’t know what to share because apparently over 13,000 words is such slim pickings for a brief excerpt that it’s an Impossible Task. So anyway, here’s a random selection:

And she was going to Gwaine, and Elaine, and to Arthur, to whom she wrote weekly, to keep him company in that long, Merlinless time of despair, which he was handling, he informed her, really very well altogether. Gwen had a very few and miniscule doubts, partially because it was not excessively common to incessantly complain of something about which you were really very well altogether, and partially because Gwaine had informed her Arthur had grown a beard, and was heard to be talking to himself, long and late into the night, alone in his chambers. So she was coming along to keep an eye on Lancelot, who might slip off and get himself killed, as men were prone to doing; but she was also looking to find whether Arthur was not only really very well altogether, but really very well altogether sane. There were all sorts of stories of people flinging themselves off parapets for their love, which the authors of such tales were always encouraging, for that dreary but lovely aesthetic of verse; and though she did not think she would have to drag him back from his window, there was always the danger that she would come home to find him pottering around with some obnoxious hobby, very deliberately not crying into a beard which would have made a fine upstanding habitat for rats.

But she found when she was ushered into the Great Hall with the escort, where they were kept for only a moment with bated breath, that King Arthur was very nearly the remarkable copy of plain Arthur. There was a little more hair on him, and a little less flesh; but what flesh there was was trim, and the beard as well-kempt as his waistline, so that he entered very like a respectable man of rank, in fact an exemplar man of rank: handsome, and dressed by hands which were obviously not his own, and understood that colours could be quite complementary, rather than the most hateful of enemies. There was a little lift inside of her at the sight of him. She was feeling that strange human phenomenon of not understanding what gaps are left by people, till the moment they have come to fill them. She had missed him, missed the faltering, well-meaning, stupid attempts at humanhood, the occasional bristling knobishness, and the deep abiding decency; and now seeing that he was as he ever was, except for the empty space at his side, she thrilled to the sight of him, and longed to embarrass him, by hugging him.

He was as he ever was: except for the little accompanying flapping noise which dogged his every step as he came on across the hall, out around the long banquet table which was to fete them that evening, and giving her now the view below his waist, which she had expected to be just as normal as above his waist; now like a mother she was able to give him that proper full body assessment, from the normal head, combed and possibly even pomaded, to the startling toes, which had been bound up at his shins, and vibrated with each step struck. Beside her Lancelot bowed very gravely, shaking. He was packing in his laughter so that he trembled with it; but the barriers which he had hastily thrown up between Arthur’s dignity, and Lancelot’s hilarity, held, only a little timorous. 

But Gwen let out a horrifying snort. She had released one of those noises, into the vast and echoic room, which are so shameful that the people who have emitted them immediately afterward cover their faces, and hope to vanish, or die. It had come out of her before she could catch and squash it at the sight of the Shoes, which she felt well deserved the capital treatment. They were not undercase shoes; they were shouting to be looked at. They had more presence than some people have, and were raring to assert it. They were being worn by a young and breathlessly good-looking king, and unconditionally upstaging him. She had seen them, and seen the look on his face, which showed he had realised too late how stupid he looked, and loosed the little coughing bark, helplessly.

He did nothing to help her. He came on like a great flippered thing, as if he were new to the bipedal mode of travel. She had to stand, and bear it, whilst another snort knocked round inside her, so full-bodied it hurt her. The stoic face over the absurd shoes was physically harmful to her. She reached out to steady herself on Lancelot, who had stopped trembling, and was now holding firm in his bow, with his face safely pointed at the ground.

Lyonesse’s king was gracious, and Camelot’s was sober. They met as if the shoes were not between them. They reached out their hands to one another, and shook, forearm to forearm.

But when it was Gwen’s turn to greet him, she could say only, “Nice shoes.” She could not have said anything else. The Shoes were between them like a physical being. They had wobbled into her space, taking up more than what was politely allotted to accoutrements. One of the strings binding the toe had come loose, and now it unrolled like a tongue, out from Arthur’s foot, and onto hers.

“Merlin talked me into wearing them,” he replied tightly, and with grave decorum, bent to tie it back against his shin.

Then in had come Gwaine, with embraces for his friends, and he had seen the shoes, and stopped midway to Lancelot, and crawled onto the banquet table, where he was now in the middle of a fit. His tears were soaking the tablecloth. He rolled from his face to his back, as if he would find some position in which the sight of Arthur was bearable. He was howling so loudly the guard came to see were they necessary, and Gaius arrived with his medical kit, to treat what suffering had inspired the shouting.

And at the top of his lungs, King Arthur of Camelot, that grave and storied bearer of Excalibur, shouted, “Shut up, you tit!”

[signaturecellars]

5 FAQs on Ideal Wine Storage Solutions: A Guide for Homeowners

For wine enthusiasts, preserving wines ideally is the aim. You may wish to display your collection in style with your own touch. It can only be possible without issues when you are aware of the possible wine storage solutions. Although the construction of a cellar is said to be the best way to transform any space to keep a range of collections, the investment may restrict people and let them find other ways.

Don’t worry! Here we come up with the top 5 frequently asked questions to help you understand how the cellar can be constructed within your budget. Let’s begin with it-

Here Are the FAQs on Wine Storage at Home

• Who Can Build a Wine Cellar?

No restriction to anyone to work in a cellar. If you are interested, go for it.

Which Is the Ideal Location to Work on a Wine Room?

Experts say that a cool and dark place must be preferred to work on cellar construction. Areas underneath stairs, kitchen cabinets, storerooms, etc. are some popular locations.

Can a Wine Fridge Offer an Ideal Storage Solution?

For the wine aging process, you can use such a fridge. If your aim is long-term preservation, the only solution is to work on a dedicated room for wine storage at your home.

How Much Does It Cost to Build a Cellar?

The cost of a cellar is not determined based on a specific thing. Several factors like material, design, location, size, etc. decide the total cost. So, request a quote from a professional builder.

How to Begin with the Construction of a Wine Cellar?

It all starts with your needs. Determine how you aim to keep your collection to decide on the size and finalise the location.

Some Alternative Storage Solutions to Wines

There is no denying the fact that a cellar is the best place to keep your collection. Suppose you are interested to work on its alternative, let’s look at some of them below.

Wine Fridge

A refrigerator specially designed to keep a range of drinks can be great for temporary use. You don’t have to invest a huge capital when preserving a small collection of drinks. It can be the best solution when you are interested in maintaining your own collection initially.

Wine Coolers

Would you like to carry drinks when you are travelling as well as maintain your collection at home? You can find portable wine coolers to preserve them. It can be a budget-friendly solution when you need a small-sized storage unit for your all-purpose needs.

Note that none of the alternatives allow you to go for the aging process. Keeping this thing in mind, you must approach working on a cellar to age drinks right at your home.

Final Words

Proper understanding of your needs not only elevates your experience in preserving your drinks but also lets you achieve what you are looking for. So, get ready to maintain the great collection of your dreams while working on top-notch wine storage solutions with deep passion. With e8a customised design and a variety of options for making it unique, you can prioritize things. Just make sure that you allow a skilled builder to create this space of your dreams.

Did you know? A cellar construction also lets you keep your collection on different racks by labelling each one of them. That’s how you can pick the ideal bottle for your drinking purpose and invite your friends to have an amazing wine party. So, act now!

Also Read: The Importance Of Insulation In Wine Cellar Installation

[ramuneempiremtl]

Slave-kun's Happy Life in Another World: Chapter 20

It seemed like they were talking about whether or not to teach me magic. They said the way they teach would change depending on how much control I could have.

Magic training apparently has stages. First, activation, then control, then type, and then scale… that's how they train.

So, in my case, I can skip the activation and control parts.

"How about not using the regular service when returning to the royal capital and walking back instead? You can do physical training and magic practice on the way, and you can also get training in gathering and camping."

"That's a good idea. I wanted to collect some medicinal herbs."

"That's fine, right? We don't have to hurry back."

"Then let's finish this request properly."

Oh, I have a feeling it's going to be fun.

I'd like to learn a lot of things and make myself useful.

"So, Owl. Do you have any magic you can use other than water and purification right now?"

I tilted my head and thought about it. Hmm, I don't think so.

But magic is about using magic power to materialize what you imagine, so I feel like I could do anything to some extent.

"I don't know… Then let's go with that."

"That?"

"The thing you think is the easiest and most convenient for you. Imagine it and activate it. Oh, and keep the scale very small. Like ignition or sending wind."

The easiest and most convenient. I wonder what it is.

After thinking for a while, I turned my palm upward. A tingling sensation ran through me, and sparks flashed. There was a crackling sound.

Good, I activated it successfully.

Electricity.

When it comes to convenience, this is definitely it.

"W-what, lightning magic!?"

"Huh?"

"Wow, you can use lightning!"

Nove and Daine were stunned as they looked at the electricity gathered in my palm. Was this bad too?

But my master was very happy. He ruffled my hair while squealing. Is he a puppy?

"Lightning magic, which is said to be difficult in terms of image and control… is easy and convenient…?"

"W-wait, lightning is all about power, right? The more powerful it gets, the harder it should be to control. It's almost meaningless if it's just tingling."

"Y-yeah, that's right. I can't do it with power here, so I'll try it again later…"

"Lightning is cool, isn't it?"

"It's not versatile enough."

I see, electricity is familiar and convenient to me, but in this world, there is no system to utilize electrical energy, so it doesn't make much sense.

If you're talking about convenience, I think it would be magic that does something with space, but I can't yet imagine converting magic power into space.

This may be a side effect of the exchange. The fixed concept of science is getting in the way of the free image of magic.

If I study more about this world, I might be able to use even more amazing magic.

Electricity is amazing too, though.

Oh, by the way, there's one more thing I can use.

I approached Daine, who was lounging on the couch, and put my hand on his shoulder.

"Hm? What the… Huh!?"

"What's wrong?"

"Hey, you! Where did you get that…?"

What I cast on Daine was recovery. However, it was only enough to close wounds or improve blood circulation. Daine's stiff shoulders should have loosened up a bit.

I don't really want to say where I learned it.

"Tch, that woman…"

"Huh? What? What happened?"

"Hey, kid, I'll teach you the proper way. So forget about that. Okay?"

"Oh, I see… Recovery, huh."

Daine grabbed my shoulder and shook me. He seemed really angry. But I'm grateful if he'll teach me. For the time being, I nodded.

"It's rare for Daine to teach."

"Today is the day we saw a lot of Daine's rare side."

"Kukuku, that acting was something to behold."

"What did you really do…"

Did he do something without me knowing? I kind of wish I had seen it.

He's pretending not to know, but he's pinching my face. Don't use me to hide your embarrassment.

"Hey, it's time for the little one to go to bed."

Isn't it still early!?

Don't take your frustration out on me.

"If we're going to collect and camp, I guess it's better to get a companion certificate issued at the guild branch."

"…I don't want to take him to the branch."

"There's no more threat to Owl, is there? If you stay in the inn all the time, you'll suffocate. Maybe you should take a walk around town for a change of pace."

"…Okay."

The leader persuaded my reluctant master. He's a pushover, which is helpful.

Yay, we're going out tomorrow!

"Now that that's settled, go to bed early."

My joy was short-lived as I was taken to bed. That's a different story!

Poof, into the soft bed, blanket swoosh, rough pat. Before I knew it, I was all ready for bed.

"…Did it distract you a little?"

"…"

What does it mean to be distracted? I thought about it for a moment and then I understood.

I see.

The talk about magic and the plans for camping.

Everyone was worried about me because I had been through a lot of hard times today, so they came up with some fun stories for me.

The kindness is touching.

And then, something starts to squirm…!

I'm not used to being treated with this kind of consideration. It would be better if they were more casual. I think it's just a blow to be treated with consideration after making a fool of myself.

If you're too gentle, you'll want to wriggle like a tentacle grilled on a grill.

Daine looks at me with amusement as I squirm under the blanket. Don't look, but it's fine because that's how things are. But don't look.

I don't want to sleep after all.

I feel like I'm going to have a bad dream.

… It would be nice if I could get some magic cast on me at a time like this.

As I stared at Daine with only my eyes showing, a sigh escaped him and his palm descended.

"Well, I guess I have no choice… 'Sleep'."

I was enveloped in a gentle magic, and soon my consciousness sank into darkness.

Thank you, good night.