#dispatches from the peanut gallery

[dontpetmeibite]

OOC

//ok so the ravwaves are deeply disapproving of any and all nonconsensual things and that's just the way it is because they have Empathy

//but as the mun I think @lord-overlips is the most hilarious especially sometimes when he is also the most creepy (because it's not real OR realistic)

//like with seacrest right now

//enjoy your acid trip overlord!

//clearly you have learnt nothing from redstrike

//it's a beautiful thing

[ssspideysense]

𝖍𝖎𝖌𝖍 𝖔𝖈𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖊

peter has a mini-identity crisis, trying to come up with his hero name.

you, on the other hand, are fine. perfectly fine.

peter parker x f!hero!reader

02: 𝔥𝔬𝔫𝔢𝔶 𝔟𝔬𝔶

3.5k

previously next

Peter thanked the stars above for his advanced healing. Not even twenty-four hours after absolutely pushing his limits for Dr. Banner, he felt fresh as a daisy.

The shot of adrenaline from jolting awake and immediately realizing he only had 20 minutes to make it to work helped liven things up, too. Like a splash of cold water in the sink, except he didn’t get to comb his hair or brush his teeth before he skirted out the door.

He skipped up the sleek granite steps and shouldered his way through the entrance, but still made sure to give the receptionist a quick “hi, good morning,” on his way through the security scanner. Soft squeaks from Peter’s soles bounced off the walls with his politely contained haste, all the way to the elevator at the back of the lobby.

Soft jazz filtered out from the sliding door and Peter slipped inside. Briefly, his hand hesitated in front of the panel of buttons.

Peter Parker, Junior Dispatch Agent.

He pressed the number 15.

With his last few private moments, Peter combed through his unruly hair with his fingers, and shoved his last stick of gum in his mouth.

The idea of working alongside Dr. Banner was exciting— especially knowing that they’d be developing a super suit just for him. Questions started to swirl in Peter’s head, but before he could have his own one-sided conversation, the elevator dinged at him.

Down the long hall, the right wall was full of closed office doors with their blinds drawn shut. The left side, however, was a long row of windows peeking into the Stark Intel lab— Peter’s personal torture chamber from the day before. Inside, he spotted Dr. Banner bouncing from machine to machine, station to station, like a busy bee.

A green light sat above the entrance. The door slid open as Peter approached it, and he was immediately greeted with a blast of cool air from inside.

The lab was quiet, save for a few machines beeping and whirring and working away doing who knows what. The atmosphere somehow felt a bit more oppressive than the day before— maybe due to the fact that they were the only souls there.

Peter crossed the space before he could overthink and cleared his throat lightly. “Good morning, Dr. Banner,” he greeted.

Banner paused his typing to throw a glance and a polite smile over his shoulder. “Morning, Peter. How’re you feeling?”

“Pretty good, actually.”

A longer glance this time, complete with brows raised up above his glasses. “Really?” Banner asked. “You worked yourself pretty hard yesterday. You’re not feeling it?”

Peter rolled his shoulders and flexed his fingers. His muscles ached a bit, but no more than they would from an average person’s gym day. “A little, but it’s not too bad.”

“Wow. You really bounce back.” Banner blinked at Peter for a moment, taking a mental note.

“Sticky and bouncy? What can’t this kid do?”

Peter jumped an inch out of his skin when Tony’s sarcasm filled up the quiet room. Banner huffed an irritated sigh and glanced up at the ceiling. “It’d be infinitely more helpful if you were actually here, Tony, instead of just being the peanut gallery.”

“I’m there in spirit— which will have to suffice until I’m back in town later,” Tony groaned quietly over the speaker mounted in the corner. “I swear nobody reads my emails.”

Banner offered Peter an exasperated look and skirted past him, heading over to a large low-set table on the other side of the crisp white room. Peter followed like a lost puppy.

There was so much advanced equipment packed into one place. A sense of curiosity and excitement flooded over him, washing away the tinge of nerves from earlier. He watched Banner wave the table to life— a bright spattering of lights glimmered from the surface to the high ceiling as it powered on and welcomed him. The table spit up a rotating image of a default body model.

“Currently, we’re banking on your agility. Flexible fabric with reinforced material at the joints,” Banner waved his hand, and before them, the pixels shuddered and realigned. A plain bodysuit appeared over the 3D model. “With that advanced healing of yours, combined with your strength, I’m assuming you won’t need much in the way of armor. Nothing too bulky, anyway.”

Peter watched in amazement as the model began to run, hovering in place above the hologram table.

“Your mask will be breathable while still concealing your identity. You’re also quite lucky, Peter,” Banner reached over to a nearby machine and plucked a file drive out from one of the ports. “You’re one of the first junior agents to have your suit loaded up with our new AI.”

“New AI?” Peter stared at the USB stick between Banner’s fingers.

“Yes. This is your Advanced Digital Assistant—“

“Her name is Ada, Bruce,” Tony cut in from above again, “and she’s brilliant.”

Banner’s shoulders slowly fell with a sigh. He became distracted, though, his gaze shifting over Peter’s shoulder and through the long line of windows along the lab wall.

Peter was too absorbed in the hologram to notice.

His own suit, tailored to him specifically. His own AI— a digital assistant.

Peter had just been dunked under cold water, a new shiver of ripe excitement running down his spine, his eyes now wide open to all the possibilities waiting for him.

Were doughnuts and coffee considered kissing ass?

Whether it was or wasn’t, it was too late to turn back now. You juggled your gifts all the way up to the 15th floor, two coffees barely balanced on top of a white box of pastries. The thought of being stuck with Banner after your tense talk the other day — without some sort of buffer like this — made you uneasy.

The lab’s lights were on when you walked out of the elevator. As you shuffled forward, you noticed not only Banner himself through the windows, but another person with his back to you.

You paused in step, the coffees almost teetering over. Nobody else came up to the lab during this time— it was always just you and Dr. Banner while you helped with whatever menial tasks he was too busy to complete himself.

Whatever, it’s fine. Probably just someone asking a question.

With a wave of your hand, you managed to catch Banner’s attention from the other side of the glass. You lifted up your offering for him to see, then pointed to the locked door of his office. He gave you a thumbs up before turning back to the conversation you couldn’t hear.

Granted permission, you looked over at the office door, closed your eyes briefly, and took a breath.

When you opened your eyes, you were in the dark. The clock on the wall ticked softly, but other than you, that was the only sound in the room. You sat one of the cups gently on his desk, along with the box of doughnuts, having only stolen one for yourself on the way there.

Bribe delivered, though not successfully taken quite yet. That’s fine.

You closed your eyes again, and in an instant, you were bathed in the glow from the lab. Banner’s locked office was so quiet that Tony’s sudden voice in your ear made you jump as soon as you flickered into place.

“—the Gecko. Huh? I like that one.”

“Too close to the Lizard,” Banner called out flatly, now leaning over a desk with several papers scattered about.

“Well I don’t see anyone else coming up with ideas,” Tony nearly whined from the speakers. “Alright… we hook the suit up with arm gliders. The Flying Squirrel.”

“Squirrel Girl already exists.”

“You’re killing me, Brucey.”

The realization hit you once you looked over at the anomaly in the lab with the dumbstruck look on his face— it was Peter, from the other day. Peter… Parker, if you remembered correctly. He was busy at the hologram table, his eyes wide as he pinched and zoomed in on different aspects of the 3D model.

At first, a sense of annoyance fell over you like a wet blanket. Not only did you have to deal with this probation program, but now everything about your routine was being disrupted.

It wasn’t Peter’s fault, you knew that— he was simply a victim of circumstance.

Grumbling lightly under your breath, you shuffled over to snatch a white lab coat from the wall and slipped it over your shoulders. Banner lifted his head to give you a polite smile when you approached him after. He said your name in a greeting, and there was no lingering distaste or disapproval to it, but the awkward twist of shame still churned your insides.

“You have perfect timing. I have a meeting in about twenty minutes— do you mind helping Peter out in the meantime?”

There was already so much to do, so much on your plate. Refilling your suit’s canisters, mixing up Charlie’s industrial strength version of Pepto, trying to work on a damn cleaning solution that just might cut through the 13th floor’s permanent brine stench. The idea of falling behind on your tasks the same day you started Watchful Eye made you want to flicker yourself out the window.

You fixed yourself to decline, politely, of course, but paused.

Throwing a glance over at Peter on the other side of the room, you watched him pick up a little silver cylinder from the workstation beside him. He examined it for a moment and tried to set it back down— but it seemed stuck steady to his slender fingers. A few flicks of the wrist couldn’t dislodge it, so you watched him nervously slip his hands into his back pockets and slowly stroll his way along.

A sigh. Maybe some brownie points from helping the newbie wouldn’t hurt.

“Yeah, that’s fine, Dr. Banner. What are you working on?”

Nearly as soon as you agreed, a paper was presented to you on a clipboard. “Trying to brainstorm with Tony in my ear and a kid in my candy store is not going over too well. I think we could all benefit from some fresh ideas,” Banner said.

It was a simple form, but it was almost completely blank. The only things filled out so far were Peter’s legal name and his measurements. Your shoulders deflated briefly.

“Have fun with sticky fingers, Blinky,” Tony chirped over the speaker.

You shot a death glare at a random ceiling panel and hoped more than anything your boss could feel it from wherever he was.

Peter put on his socks inside-out earlier that morning.

He noticed while he was busy looking down, pretending he was actually thinking and not just drawing a complete blank. His head felt truly, pitifully empty. This was almost worse than when he went all doe-eyed at his 5th grade spelling bee.

You sat just across from him at the table, your jaw cradled in your hand and your elbow propping you up.

“Nothing?” You broke the silence with a quirk of your brow.

“Nope.”

You sighed and adjusted your posture in the chair. The pen between your fingers drummed against the clipboard rhythmically. He could feel your eyes on him.

“Okay, well— what can you do again? Stark called you sticky, so there’s that.”

Peter groaned lightly, letting his head fall back. “I’m not sticky— I mean, I am, I can be, but— there’s more than that. I have other qualities.”

You furrowed your brow at him. “Give me something else to go off of, then, because I’m dangerously close to naming you Honey Boy and calling it a day.”

Peter sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I don’t know, I’m sorry,” he leaned forward and rested his arms on the table. He pinched his eyes shut and shook his head slightly. “How did you come up with your name?”

It dawned on him, then, that he only knew your real name, the one you told him at the elevator the other day. The one on your taxes, not the one all of New York knew you as.

And maybe there was something else he was missing, because the deadpan look on your face told him you didn’t find the question helpful.

“It’s Blink.” You said flatly. A beat of silence. “I can teleport.”

The eye contact was intense as the warmth crept up his neck. Another beat. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Nice, Parker.

You crossed one leg over the other and pulled the clipboard onto your knee. He watched you realign yourself with a deep breath through your nose. “Let’s try something else. Where did you get your powers from?”

“Ah, I, um. A spider,” he spit out. Why did he feel like throwing up right now?

More silence, more eye contact.

“A spider?”

The tone of your voice almost made him doubt his own backstory for a moment. That in itself should be considered a superpower.

“Yeah— a radioactive spider. I, um, I was bitten when I was fifteen, and developed… changes, a little bit later,” he explained.

The machines just on the other side of the room kept whirring. Something was beeping lightly. He could hear the lights above you both. Everything was so disturbingly loud in his stupid, useless, empty brain.

“Okay. Spider,” you said definitively, already raising the pen to scribble on the form.

“No, that… that sounds like a bad guy, or something,” Peter said, and rubbed his hand along the side of his neck, wishing he could just shut up. “Or, like, a shady guy you run into at the bar.”

You froze, clicked your pen, and looked up at him pointedly through your lashes. “The Spider.”

“That’s almost the same.”

Arms folded, pen down, you tried again. Determination kept your gaze sharp. “Spider-boy.”

Peter let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a nervous chuckle. “I-I’m not a boy,” he mumbled.

“I’m sorry—“

“No! I mean, I’m twenty-four, I’m— I’m a man, not a boy.”

You closed your eyes and took another deep breath. “Okay. Spider-man.” The pen cap pressed into your cheek distracted him from the thinly-veiled annoyance in your voice. “Going once, going twice…”

He didn’t object. He figured if this went on any longer you’d probably reach over and shove that pen down his throat. Besides, Spider-man kind of had a nice ring to it.

With the first box finally filled, the rest of the form only took about an hour to complete. Peter could tell there was somewhere else you’d rather be than discussing technicalities about aerodynamics and center of balance, but the edge in your tone softened to something more blunt and tepid over time.

You both talked gadgets and tech for a little while, and Peter was more than intrigued when the words artificial webbing were brought up.

“It couldn’t be too complicated, I imagine. Some liquid adhesives, with a binding component and something to give it some body— you can spin yourself a little web,” you said, your pen flying across the page as you spoke, “I’m sure Dr. Banner will at least find it interesting.”

The clipboard was deposited by the hologram table, and Peter was left to his lonesome by the lockers against the far wall. You had excused yourself to tend to other business, instructing him to sit still in the chair and not touch anything, like a toddler or perhaps a pet. He wondered briefly if he should mention the little silver bullet-looking thing he accidentally pocketed earlier— he quickly decided against it, though, just choosing to nod and listen obediently.

He started by scrolling on his phone, but that quickly became a bunch of boring nothing. A few more minutes passed of multiplying ants in his pants and Peter ultimately found himself watching you to pass the time.

You talked to yourself. Under your breath, almost a whisper, but Peter’s ears picked up on it easily. It was mostly jargon he didn’t quite understand the same way you did, or listing out procedural steps to yourself, or little curse words here or there.

He didn’t realize, though, that his gaze had been positively glued to you for a while, until you turned to face him. A pair of goggles sat atop your head, and a light sheen of sweat clung to your brow. You’d been skirting around the room on double-time, but now, you stood in front of some loud machine that was busy spinning a dozen little vials a million miles per hour, and you could take a breath. You just looked over at the wrong time, is all.

Peter blinked a few times, and you simply stared right back at him from across the room.

“… is there anything I could help with?” He asked, but he wasn’t sure why, because he already knew the answer.

“No.” You replied immediately, like the word was pulled out from you. But a second later you itched your nose and glanced back at the machine in front of you, trying again. “Uh, no, but you’re doing great. I’m just running a little behind on my tasks.”

“Right. Thanks again, for helping me out with all that.” Peter said. “I’m sorry you’re having to play catch up.”

The machine hissed, some lights flashing on the metal face, but you seemed unfazed. “It’s fine,” you said, and he thought you were closing the conversation there, but you added something in after a moment, “if you need any help or anything, just let me know.”

Peter smiled, offering a nod even though you were turned away. “Alright, thanks.”

Maybe he’d keep that in mind. You seemed to know what you were talking about.

A friendly face in a new place couldn’t hurt.

“What?” You frowned, your brow furrowed down. “What are you talking about? That’s my bike.”

Normally, you’d feel stupid for yelling at a computer, but this wasn’t normal.

“Access denied. Unauthorized personnel.”

Your handprint didn’t work, your face scan didn’t work, so of course, why would your pin code work?

Because you were desperate, that’s why. It had to work. The digital panel just continued to flash red at you, a giant X blinking like a laugh.

Stark was quick to remind you earlier in the day that your first patrol on Watchful Eye started at 8:00 sharp.

It was now 8:23. Your helmet was heavy in your hand, slack at your side.

Last resort.

The dial tone went off in your ear for what felt like forever, and you tried not to take it too personally that your call was answered on what felt like the last ring.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Banner,” you sighed into your phone, looking out into the dark parking garage, “he took my bike.”

You felt a little pathetic sitting there, by yourself, locked out. The sleek black helmet sat next to you on the lip of the curb.

Shuffling from the other end— and a sigh to match your own. “I’m sorry, kid. You know there’s nothing I can do.” And at least he really did sound sorry, but it didn’t help the crushing feeling on your shoulders.

“What am I supposed to do now?” You lamented, “I’m already late for patrol. I can’t cover as much ground on foot.”

The quiet you were met with almost made you check to see if he’d hung up on you, but Banner replied after a few moments, “you can teleport.”

Your face burned. “I know that,” you replied, a bit snappier than intended, “but—“

“And you restocked your suit today, right?”

“Yes, but—“

“Then what are you so worried about?”

You closed your mouth and stared forward, feeling small. The parking garage was spacious and empty and it swallowed you whole. Everyone else had already gone home or left for their own patrols and there you were, sitting in your stupid suit, calling for help.

“Nothing,” you said eventually, shifting your gaze over to the helmet at your side. In the pristine inky blackness, you could see your reflection, mostly washed out by the blaring cone of light hanging high above your head. “You’re right, Dr. Banner. I’ll be fine.”

More shuffling over the line, and then a pause. “I know you will. I’ll tell Tony to excuse the tardiness tonight. Just focus, alright? You got this.”

“Yeah. Have a good night, Dr. Banner.”

After pocketing your phone, you let yourself sit still for a moment longer. You could hear your own heartbeat in your ears, rushing, like when you jumped into the pool as a kid.

What are you so worried about?

You scooped up your motorcycle helmet and slipped it on. Inside, a digital HUD flashed to life on the face plate.

“Welcome, Blink,” Ada chirped in your ear. “Sensors operational. GPS activated. Failsafe prepped and fully stocked.”

Your footsteps bounced from concrete to concrete as you walked. “Ada, load up my weekday patrol route,” you mumbled, pushing your way through the exit door.

“Of course, Blink. Route mapped.”

Nothing, you weren’t worried about anything. You didn’t need your bike. You certainly didn’t need Dr. Banner to save you— not like he would, at this point. You can teleport. You’d be fine.

The helmet hissed as you stepped foot outside, giving you a burst of oxygen and a rush of cool air throughout your suit.

A walk around the neighborhood couldn’t hurt.

[ruinconstellation]

Fic rec: "Dispatches from the Junior Secretariat" by @wingedscribe

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Category: Gen Fandoms: The Hands of the Emperor - Victoria Goddard, Nine Worlds - Victoria Goddard Relationships: Gaudy Vawen & Tully nai Vasiaan, Gaudy Vawen & Cliopher "Kip" Mdang, Gaudy Vawen & Tully nai Vasiaan & Zaoul of the Tkinele, Gaudy Vawen & Lord Eldo Vardes Characters: Gaudy Vawen, Tulliantha nai Vasiaan, Zaoul of the Tkinele, Cliopher "Kip" Mdang, Artorin Damara, Lord Eldo Vardes, Kiri Kalikiri, Aioru (The Hands of the Emperor) Additional Tags: Bureaucracy, Leaving Home, Family Feels, Cliopher Mdang's Relentless Competence, POV Outsider, closer to POV Newcomer actually, but that's not a tag, Canon-Typical Court Racism, Fabricated Thunder Lizard Facts Sorry Tully, Familial Rejection, Fitzroy Angursell Poetry Readings, One-Sided Rivalry, Misunderstandings, Gratuitous Use of Metaphor, Canon-Typical Gazing, The Mortifying Ordeal Of Knowing Your Boss Is Human When He's Supposed To Be An Emperor, Canon-Typical Speculation about Cliopher/His Radiancy, sibling dynamics

Summary:

Gaudy Vawen is leaving home to follow his uncle. Eldo Vardes is doing the same to defy his father. Zaoul wants to find the answers to questions only he is asking, and Tully wants to find problems only she can sort out. They collide in Solaara, where they find the Imperial Bureaucratic Service poised to aid the greatest transition in government since the Fall. And also, where they find themselves the somewhat-captive but very intrigued peanut gallery to the lives of both Cliopher Mdang and His Radiancy the Emperor. A retelling of parts of Hands of the Emperor through the the sometimes-comprehending, often-bemused, always-intrigued eyes of Gaudy, Tully, Zaoul, and Eldo as they grow and advance in the Service.

[whumpster-fire]

Possible RWS fic inspiration and just generally what a moment:

A dispatcher told two locomotive crews to do multiple stupid and unsafe things (from what I gather? It sounds like he ordered them to park a really long heavy freight train in the middle of a steep grade and have the helper engine(s) - 'Murican for bankers - separate from the train and leave it with not enough power to move / to overcome the weight of the cars dragging it down?)

Anyway both the train's main crew and the helper engine crew proceed to just roast the fuck out of the dispatcher over the radio, and I love the idea of something like this happening in RWS-verse and the locomotives get in on the chewing out of an inept dispatcher. And a long freight train going up a steep grade could have quite a few engines on it and basically be a self-contained peanut gallery.

[concealedbybreeze]

Liar Liar

Saint Seiros has come to town! Yep, you heard right. While Garreg Mach’s seen its fair share of impostors in the past, none so far have had the gall to impersonate the church’s founder herself. Whoever this lady is, she at the very least looks and sounds the part - she bears a striking beauty beyond words, and a commanding presence to go along with it. Is she here to stage a coup? Or maybe she’s just after the church-sanctioned taxes… Whatever the case, you need to land this broad and her impressively large following in jail like right this second. [Grants Faith +1]

Another day, another mission. Lewyn had looked upon this request like any other, but when he read its contents, he was left in disbelief. Another imposter causing trouble in a land he finds himself calling home... Could this be fate mocking him? Or perhaps Forseti found a way to plop this person right in front of his nose to watch how he’d react. It could be a test, too, to judge how he’d dispatch of a cheap knockoff of himself gathering a following. Joke’s on him if that last part is true--Lewyn’s known for a while now that another him has been giving him a reputation in Jugdral. He would use this knowledge to skew the results of any potential test, giving a divine peanut gallery what they want to see. This was all some questionably-sane speculation, but at the time he figured if he could the handle the situation without getting emotional, he’d at least prove to himself that he isn’t dangerous. 

That, and his service would be greatly appreciated by the academy. 

So he signed himself on, was provided a partner (a fellow Abyssian. Lucky!), and sent out alongside her. Together they walked into town. Not a word left his lips for most of the trek into town, for Lewyn was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to feel very social. At his core, he held a special grudge against those that would commit foul acts in another’s name. Would he be able to resist it flaring up in the heat of the moment, or would he be consumed by misplaced grief and rage? Only time can tell.

At present, they’re closing in on their target. It’s easy for Lewyn to tell, at least, due to the disturbing clamor their followers raise in their wake. The sound of his shoes treading across the cobbled street is drowned out entirely by their hollering. That’s annoying. His lips bunch up at one side in mild irritation. There are probably a good number of innocent villagers having their peaceful lives disrupted by this riot. Not to mention those foolish enough to actually believe this sham Seiros.

This has to end, now. The commonfolk shouldn’t have to suffer from whatever sick joke is being played on them. Fists ball up inside the pockets of a bard’s outfit, and Lewyn’s pace hastens. This sour attitude keeps up until they’re in earshot of the fake--whose preaching elicits a stop from Lewyn. He decides now that he’d at least introduce himself to his partner, and go over a bit of game plan,

“Hey, the name’s Lewyn. If you’re not too fond of silence, you’ve got my apologies for givin’ you the cold shoulder back there,” but with this riot, her ears can’t possibly be starved for noise, “Just wanna wrap this one up nice and quick.”

“On that note, got any ideas you feel like sharin’? I’d like to not have to resort to violence if that’s alright with you, but know that if push comes to shove, I can hold my own in a fight.” 

If not, he’s more than happy to do things his way. Any saint worth their salt ought to have an appropriate holy weapon or two. If he can point out any flaws in whatever false artifacts the imposter carries, that should be more than enough to strip them of their following and make apprehending them a trivial matter.

@diryrja

[pi-cat000]

BNHA: something sad (Resentment)

Summary: The last time Katsuki sees Izuku alive the other boy is rushing to save him.  A ‘the Sludge Villain incident gone wrong’ aka Izuku dies.

Characters:  Katsuki Bakugo

Fandom: My Hero Academia

WARNINGS! Major Character death, swearing, heavy angst, graphic descriptions of violence

Other parts in this AU: (Something Sad),  (Anger), (Grief) 

This is the direct sequel to (Implosion)

......

“Not many people get hit with a concussive blast of this strength and walk away will so few injuries.” Is what the paramedic that looks Katsuki over says, hand glowing a faint blue as he uses some sort of diagnostic quirk.

“It looks like you have a few cuts, bruising, strained muscles and sprained wrist from what I can see. I’d recommend getting a proper examination at the hospital but there’s nothing life-threatening here.” The medic continues.

The emergency doctor at the hospital confirms the diagnosis and shakes his head in disapproval, adding, “…bruising on your ribs and a fractured finger. No concussion, thankfully, but you’ll have a nasty bump on the back of your head. If your quirk didn’t make you naturally resistant to these sorts of shock-based blasts, you would be dead..”

…

After that, everyone is practically falling over each other to lecture him on how irresponsible and reckless he is.

..

His mum arrives and there is a lot of shouting which just pisses him off.

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO REACT WHEN I GET WOKEN UP AT ONE IN THE MORNING BY POLICE TELLING ME THAT MY IDIOT SON, WHO SHOULD BE ASLEEP, IS IN HOSPITAL!!”

 “WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING!

Then there is the quiet disappointment he gets from his father when his mum is done yelling which only fuels his resentment.  

“I don’t understand why you did it son. Did you want to get into that fight? Or was it a mistake? Please. We can’t help if we don’t know what’s going on.”

Eventually, he finally snaps, “I fucking felt like it! That’s why I did it! And you know what, I’d do it again.”

It wasn’t like he could or even wanted to explain that he’d jumped out his window to wander the streets at midnight because he had had a bad dream and his All Might poster had looked at him funny. That the rage and anger were preferable to that sinking empty feeling that had turned his every waking moment into a pointless repeat of everyday routines and useless interactions.  That every time he let himself pause and reflect, Deku’s stupid smiling face was mocking him from the afterlife.

Next, he spends an hour with Senior Officer Watanabe recounting every possible detail from his stroll through the streets to his climactic fight with Lanky, Tiny and Grease-Hair.

“Well, you definitely don’t do things in half measures kid. So far we have private and public property damage, unlicensed quirk usage, quirk usage with the intent to harm, vigilantly activity, assault...”

“Assault! Why the hell is that on the list. Those bastards started it.”

“You can’t go around beating people up no matter how good your intentions are!”

“So, you wanted me to just watch!”

“Yes!” A long breath, “I know it can be hard but you need to wait for the pros. You got lucky this time but what if things had been different? You had misread the situation. What if you had been badly injured? What if you had accidentally injured the victim or killed someone? There is a reason we make people get a license for Hero work. Seison Masuyama is a B-rank villain.”

“B rank? He wasn’t that strong.”

 “His quirk, Kinetic-Force, collects kinetic energy and releases it in one overpowered attack. It’s deadly to most people. You were lucky he had already used it once that day and that you were resilient enough to withstand it."

After multiple repeats of the ‘you’re lucky you’re not dead,’ with a side order of ‘it’s a good thing you’re still a minor because you could go to jail for this,’ he gets to go home.

It is three in the morning by the time he arrives back at the apartment, two exhausted parents in tow, having been issued an ‘official warning,’ an order to complete 100 hours of community service and instructions to undergo a psychiatric evaluation. He has never felt angrier or more resentful.

A days later and he is back at school, wasting his time watching clocks and avoiding classmates. 

Nothing had changed.

…

…

…

The car screeches to a stop at the school gates, throwing Katsuki forward in his seat. His mum turns to fix him with a stern glare, eyes narrow.

“If you’re not waiting right here by the gate when I come to pick you up or so help me I’ll be escorting you to and from your classroom from the rest of your school life,” she threatens.

“Lay off you old bat,” Katsuki snaps as was becoming routine since his mum had started driving him the short distance to school, “I got it the first million times.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”  A finger is pointed at his nose, waving in an almost menacing fashion. “Remember. Here. School Gates. 4:00pm. Don’t you dare think about ditching again.”

 Katsuki sneers and kicks open the car door, turning to slams it shut with as much force as possible in retaliation. He stalks through the gates, shouldering his way through a group of loitering students.  They all scatter when they recognise him. In some ways, he prefers dealing with the anger and yelling of his mum than his father’s quiet disappointment. That doesn’t stop it from being annoying as hell.

A spike of pain runs through his hand from where he must have used a little too much force on the door. Maybe he should take his father up on those kickboxing classes. Sure, he had practised punching after reading a bunch of online guides, but reading and solo practice were completely different when compared with real actual fighting.  That was assuming he was going to be getting into more real fights.  He opens and closes his bandaged fist, feeling a slight sting in his wrist and fingers. He glares. Four days on and he can still feel the echo of adrenalin.  The thrill of righteous anger had been so much more satisfying than the directionless rage he was accustomed to. It had rekindled some of that fire that drove him to be the best, to win, chasing away the sickening emptiness which had been dogging his every waking step.

He wants to feel that again…He wants to do something other than listlessly go through the same daily motions as he drifts towards his now uncertain future. 

“Hey Bakugō!” 

He keeps walking, ignoring whatever loser classmates wanted to talk to him.

“HEY!”

A hand lands on his shoulder and Katsuki twitches, a hairs breath away from spinning and firing a blast point-blank into the pest’s face. Instead, he stops and deliberately turns to glower at the pathetic piece of trash behind him. Murata Taheiji from his homeroom is standing there, one hand on his hip, flanked by two other boys he doesn’t know the names of. Two more appear to stand in front of him, blocking his way. They are all puffed up like they think they’re hot shit. Katsuki scoffs. Are these failures really trying to bully him? HIM!? 

“How about you get the fuck out of my way and go find a first year to pick on. You know, someone more on your level.”

That gets him an irritated scowl that transforms into a patronising grin, “You were always such a stuck up prick Bakago…Acting so high and mighty all the time. Not anymore, I know the truth. You’re just like the rest of us.”

“Huh?” he drawls, dragging out the sound, turning so he is facing the boy, “What the fuck are you on about.”

“My dad works for Musutafu police dispatch and he told me something real interesting yesterday.” A dramatic pause, “He said that you got arrested a few nights ago.” There is a laugh that is echoed by the four surrounding him. By now the confrontation has garnered the attention of several onlookers, who are slowly drifting closer.

“All that shit about being a Hero and you got arrested. What’d you do? Steal some candy from a convenience store? We all know you don’t have money.”

Around them, the growing audience is eyeing him with varying levels of eager anticipation like they think he’ll break down and start crying because of some dumb-ass insults. Damn, if that doesn’t just piss him off. How dare these losers think him that weak.

“Don’t compare me to your loser selves,” he dismisses aggressively, making to turn and forcefully elbow his way past. He is stopped by Murata’s hand which is still on this shoulder.

“You know what I think. I think you’re all talk.”

Katsuki stills, letting the words sink and curdle in his stomach. In one short move, he turns and steps in close to Murata so they are almost nose to nose.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he warns.  The other boy tenses, looking like he wants to say something else equally stupid. If he remembers correctly Murata has some sort of muscle-enhancer, reflex quirk. One of the only worthwhile quirks in the school.

Katsuki jerks his elbow up and around in a quick jab. It smacks into the loser’s face. Crack. Guess having fast reflexes didn’t make a difference when you never saw the blow coming.

There is a cry of surprised pain and shouts of alarm from the peanut gallery. The other boy falls back, tripping over his own feet. It is ridiculously simple to lift a leg and deliver a kick to the stomach, not even a strong kick, so his failed bully thuds onto the ground, tossing up a small puff of sand. Unlike the fight in the ally, there is no rush of excitement, no spike of anger or adrenaline. No exhilaration. He is just irritated and maybe a bit disappointed. That’s what he gets for expecting anything out of the pathetic losers that went Aldera Middle School. They were more annoying than anything else.  

Murata rolls around in the dirt, wheezing, trying to draw breath. He can almost imagine Deku running up to complain about his violent tendencies or sprout some shit about Hero’s needing to protect people like Murata didn’t ask for it when he decided to try his luck bullying someone obviously stronger than him.

The reminder of Deku sours his already shitty mood.

“Ah…you broke my nose. YOU BOKE IT…ah…it hurts. Do something!” The idiot calls to his equally idiotic friends as he tries to stop blood from pouring down his face.

Katsuki gazes coolly at the boy before directing his attention at the four other ‘bullies’ standing frozen around him.

“You extras got something else to add to that?” With Murata out of the game, the rest of the pathetic group shuffles about uncertainly.

“Ah…we’re good,” The tallest one says nervously, “Sorry about that Bakugō. No hard feelings right?”

He scoffs.

One of the boys moves forward to pull Murata upright, kneeling and pulling out a tissue to help stem the flow of blood. “Crap. I…I think Murata needs to go to the nurse. This looks serious.” There are a few more apprehensive glances in his direction like the other boys think he’ll insist on continuing the ‘fight’-ha! like this has been anything near a fight- until they are all bloody messes on the ground. Kaksuki rolls his eyes. As if he has the patience to deal with any more of these losers.

“Cowards,” he mutters, shoving past. The crowd of students who had gathered to watch the failed confrontation, scramble to get out of his way. A strong breeze rushes through the school’s courtyard, drawing attention to how quiet it has suddenly gotten. Barely audible whispers follow in his wake and he can feel many sets of eyes on his back, watching.

“He always did have a bad attitude.” They murmur.

“Guess he’s a real delinquent now.”

“…did you hear what Murata said. Do you think Bakugō actually got arrested?”

“That’s got to be fake right? Murata is full of hot air.”

“No way. I believe it. You don’t have to share a class with him, I’m telling you, Bakugō’s gone nuts.”

“Kind of scary when you think about it. With a quirk like that...”

He doesn’t know why they’re all so shocked. This isn’t the first fight he has gotten into on school grounds. Okay, so maybe he’d held off doing any real harm before now, well aware that U.A. would probably check his school record. It had never mattered to him because there was no point in beating up weaklings when he was obviously superior. Except for Deku…the only person he had ever really hurt, the only person he could get away with hurting without repercussions. And now he feels like extra shit. God, what a huge farce it had all been. Kaksuki clenches his fist and growls, wondering if it isn’t too late to ditch and go find somewhere secluded to blow off steam. Anything to escape this feeling of frustration.

 He doesn’t have time to make a proper decision because news of his ‘fight’ had obviously spread to the staffroom. One of the second year homeroom teachers comes barrelling out of the school’s front entrance, eyes immediately landing on him.

“What happened!” Their eyes move past him to the bloody Murata, “Go wait in the principles office. Now.”

Well, he didn’t want to deal with his annoying classmates anyway. He stalks away, the sounds of the teacher fussing over Murata growing fainter behind him. When he arrives, the principal’s office is empty and he flings himself down into one of the comfy couches, irritated. The bell for homeroom goes off and Kaksuki remains sprawled across the couch, arm across his face to block out the light and his view of the clock slowly ticking away.  

Just as he begins to contemplate leaving, Principle Fukuhara comes strolling into the room. 

“ Bakugō,” the man lets out an exasperated sigh, “Sit up please.”

Katsuki moves his arm to peek out and glare at the man, deliberately ignoring the instruction.

“I just finished talking to Ms Yuki and the school’s nurse.  You broke Murata Taheiji’s nose. I hope you realise how serious this situation is and that there will be major consequences. Aldera Middle School does not tolerate this sort of violence on its grounds.”

Silence. That was a fucking lie. Slowly, Katsuki pulls himself upright, meeting the man’s hard stare with his own. 

“Well, do you have anything to say for yourself and your disgraceful behaviour..”

Katsuki narrows his eyes, “The idiot was asking for it.”

Obviously, it's the wrong response going by how the skin tightens around the man’s eyes, “I see...I’m sorry you feel that way. Up until now, our school has been more than lenient. We have overlooked your shameful behaviour these last few weeks because we wanted to give you time to settle after going through such as tragic incident. However, I am afraid that this time you have gone too far. Your parents will be notified. You’ll see the school councillor. You will be staying back for after school detention. Since this is your first major incident we…”

“First?” He cuts the man off. He is sick of hearing the moron’s voice. “Hahaha and people say you don’t have a sense of humour.” He laughs an unpleasant laugh which increases in volume until he is almost shouting.

 “What sort of shit hole are you running? Three years I’ve been beating up the dumb idiots that come here and now you decide to care. Why is that huh? Is it because I’m no longer going to put this shitty place on the map and become a famous hero! HA!”

He lets his voice quieten, sneering “I’ll never be a hero so you’re shit out of luck.” Finally saying it out loud is like throwing a bucket of water over the embers of an already struggling fire. It hurts deep in his chest. The expression of shocked disbelief is almost worth it.

“Thanks for proving what a worthless profession it is,” he finishes with another hash laugh, rage simmering under his skin. When he tries to stand and leave a hand lands on his shoulder, pushing him back down.

The principal, who still looks somewhat stunned at his sudden outburst, orders, “Sit back down Bakugō! I am far from finished.”

Why do people always feel the need to grab him. He is so fucking sick of everyone pulling and tugging on him, trying to control him and hold him down. Katsuki turns slowly, that simmering rage pulsing, running down his limbs. Pop pop pop go his hands. He feels as explosive fire gathering in behind his eyes and in his shadowy stare. It is not the dramatic, adrenaline-induced anger he had felt when preparing for the ally fight. No, this is a dark burning rage, fuelled by his growing resentment.

“Touch me again,” he growls, low and intimidating, “and I’ll kill you.”

The principal snatches his hand back like he has just been burnt. A poignant silence follows in the wake of his threat.

“Suspension,” the man says, swallowing,  “You’re suspended. I’m calling your parents right now.” And is it just him or does he look genuinely worried? There is even a hint of fear in his wrinkled face. Katsuki takes vindictive joy in the achievement. Finally…finally the worthless morons are seeing him, truly seeing him and not whatever Bakugō -delusion they’d all cooked up in their heads.

[cksmart-world]

The Completely Unnecessary News Analysis

by Christopher Smart

May 28, 2019

MIKE LEE STANDS UP FOR PRINCIPLE                    

What's better than blocking aid for communities and farms devastated by hurricanes, floods and wildfires? Cheering it on, of course. Yep, when it comes to people suffering, there's nothing like a peanut gallery. Texas Rep. Chip Roy, who is a conservative Republican and believes in the freedom to suffer, single-handedly stopped a $19 billion aid package that otherwise was sailing through Congress and had the president's support. Roy said ix-nay to the critical aid because it did not contain big bucks for Trump's border wall and would increase the deficit. (Unlike the Republican tax cut.) It all sounds rather crazed and mean-spirited and that's why Utah Sen. Mike Lee loves it. According to The Salt Lake Tribune's intrepid guru of politics, Dan Harrie, our senator tweeted: “Way to fight the good fight @chiproytx. The people of Texas are lucky to have you.” What a pair, Chip Roy and Mike Lee, flying their conservative colors with pride while tens of thousands suffer. But hey, this is America and it doesn't say anywhere in the Constitution that taxpayers have to help out folk's ruined by disaster. Smaller government is best, so deal with it.

Bad Ayatollah, Good Ayatollah

The Iranians are bad. No wait, they're not that bad. We want regime change. On second thought, no regime change. You gotta hand it to our president, when it comes to keeping our friends and allies off balance, he's the absolute best. Last week, he dispatched a Navy carrier battle group to the Persian Gulf to let those darned Iranians know we mean business. Then he ordered the Army to send more troops to the Middle East, just in case those rag-heads didn't take the hint. National Security Advisor John Bolton rattled some sabers and scorched the eyebrows of reporters, breathing fire about them evil ayatollahs. But after cheeseburgers with Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, President Trump said Iran wasn't so bad after all. “We don't want regime change,” he told TV cameras. Them ayatollah people aren't all that bad. In fact, Iran is a great country, he said. We just don't want no nuclear war. Maybe we can make a deal with them. That other agreement to limit nuclear capabilities was the worst in history. But this could be different, because, after all, he's Trump. It would be the best deal ever. And, by the way, there is some very nice realestate on the Caspian Sea. Imagine the possibilities. Just tremendous.

News Flash: Deadly Air Is Here

Dangerous Air exclaims The Salt Lake Tribune. You don't say. On most days you can see it. Some days you can taste it. But that doesn't stop many drivers from idling their cars and trucks — no matter what. The question is, how do we get through to those polluters. Should we ask them politely to turn off their engines while parked at the at the 7-11, the bank drive-thru, the elementary school or the park: Pardon me, you dumbass, but could you turn your car off when you get done texting? No Wilson, that's probably not the best approach. Excuse me sir, do you have a hand gun? In that case, could I ask you please to think of the babies and old people who are chocking to death, while you sit here idling that stupid gas burner while listening to that insipid music. Nah, that won't work, either. Maybe it's not possible. After all, we live in a nation of consumption and pop culture. And nobody is rapping about air pollution: “Hey, dude, pull up your pants and turn off the gas / You just stinkin' up the air and you got stupid hair” Our apologies, rapping is not really in Wilson and the band’s repertoire. Maybe bumper stickers would help: “Stop Idling Damn It!” Well, it's a start, anyway.

You Know You're Getting Old If...

People are living longer than ever. But based on their questionable words and deeds, some folks don't seem to realize they're getting on. So the staff here at Smart Bomb has come up with a few hints to help them understand it could be time to slow down a bit or maybe just think before they talk.

You know you're getting old if you don't get why people dye their hair green and pierce their nostrils.

You know you're getting old if the muzak at the grocery store is from your college days.

You know you're old if you can't believe people cross the street in traffic with eyes glued to their phones.

You know you're old if you think spending six bucks on a coffee drink is ridiculous.

You  know you're old if you don't get why some young women have giant tattoos on their chests.

You know you're old if you fear getting smashed and maimed by some kid on an electric scooter.

You know you're getting old if you don't have a Snapchat account. What is Snapchat anyway?

You know you’re getting old when you’re screaming at the president on TV.

Post Scrip: OK, who is the wise ass professor of political science who faked a Trump tweet: “Kim Jong Un is smarter and would make a better president than Sleepy Joe Biden.” Yes, that was fake. When the president found out about the gag, he was just furious. We ought to change the libel laws in this country, he howled. “People think they can say anything and get away with it,” he tweeted.

There you have it, another week here at Smart Bomb is in the books, just in time for the kickoff of a summer of fun. There'll be barbecues and frisbee with dogs and girls in bikinis with convertibles racing off to another party with friends who will have all kinds of plans for their summer that will include barbecues and beer and frisbee with dogs and girls in bikinis... OK, Wilson, that's your cue to kick-start the band and launch us out of here:

Well she got her daddy's car / And she's cruisin' through the hamburger stand now / Seems she forgot all about the library / Like she told her old man now / And with the radio blasting / Goes cruising just as fast as she can now / And she'll have fun fun fun / 'Til her daddy takes the T-Bird away...

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