#forgone conclusion almost...

[sonrium]

DP × DC The Power of Names Coffee Shop AU

Coffee shops are notorious for misspelling peoples names to the point that it's a running joke and basically a forgone conclusion everywhere. Everywhere except this tiny coffee shop near Crime Alley. The new hire there, Danny, spells everybody's name correctly without having to ask. Whether it's "Carly" or "Karly," he always gets it right the first time. Heck, people give him their names in Chinese and Arabic, and he swaps to the correct alphabet, no problem (because Danny, being king of the dead, can speak all languages dead and living, so might as well be respectful).

It becomes a bit of a running joke in the community to give Danny the craziest names they can find to see if he can get them right. Some of the Bats even hear rumors about him and give it a go for fun. They make a game out of it to see who can find a language or alphabet that Danny can't get. That is until, while massively sleep deprived from a case involving cults and magic and getting nowhere, Tim accidently says one of the words that he'd been hearing in the cultist chants when he orders. Danny gives him an odd look but shrugs and writes something on the cup. It isn't until Tim has already left the shop that he realizes that the symbol written on his cup is one shown in the cultists scrolls he couldn't decipher.

Tim almost dropped his coffee. Danny wasn't just a human who knew a ton of languages, he must have been a meta with the ability to understand EVERY language. And the Bats desperately needed his help to crack this one before the cultist finished summoning whatever demon or disaster they had planned. But how to get the kid's help? From idle chatter while ordering, the Bats learned that Danny wanted nothing to do with the Gotham vigilantes. And Tim had already given his connection to this case away by spewing that word written on his cup...

(I like to imagine the name Tim gave was something like "corn field" and that's why Danny looked at him funny and not because it's one of the languages of the dead)

[audliminal]

Survivability Bias Pt 1

Masterpost - Ao3

Danny stares at the screen in front of him. The fact that he’s in a library is the only reason he’s not squealing at the clearly well-maintained website he’s currently exploring. As it turns out, this dimension does have NASA. That fact on its own isn’t too terribly surprising, considering all the other ways it’s similar to Danny’s home. What is surprising (and, in no small part, exciting!), is that in this dimension NASA seems to have much better funding. Danny had managed to resist looking up anything related to space for the first hour of his time in the library, but then Danny had chanced across an article about the ISS, and his resolve had crumbled. Not even fifteen minutes later, and Danny is here, exploring the very nice NASA website. Plumbing its depths, really, for all the information it can provide on what space is like in this world.There’s lots of new information; space research is definitely more advanced here than it was back home, and there’s occasional vague allusions to odd things like the livability of Mars, and other oddities, it’s almost like this dimension has come to the forgone conclusion that aliens must exist. Which is certainly an exciting thought, but it also seems odd to Danny. What divergent experiences lead to such a conclusion Danny wonders, as he absently hovers over the opportunities tab for the fifth time. He knows he really shouldn’t get his hopes up, but with a more funded NASA, maybe he could find a way to get a job there eventually. After all he has no real idea when, or even if, he’ll ever manage to go home, so maybe it’s okay to think about the future a little bit.

Maybe they’ve already come into contact with aliens, Danny thinks. Maybe I could get a job working with aliens! It’s that thought that gets him to actually click the tab, desperate to know if that’s even a possibility. The page that opens doesn’t really list specific jobs or anything. Mostly, it seems to just be advertising that NASA is always looking for smart people that are passionate about space (Danny’s definitely one of those things, at least). But there is an interesting little banner advertising a special summer camp for aspiring astronomers, ages 14-18. The idea of that is both surprising and exciting. Danny doesn’t think his home world’s NASA had anything like that. Sam had sent him through with some money, but he’s still unsure if it’ll even work here, and he’s also not sure he wants to risk getting in trouble if it’s just a really close match. Plus it’s definitely not enough to afford the inevitable cost of a whole entire space camp. Danny remembers going to summer camps a couple times as a kid and he knows they weren’t cheap. Still, Danny remembers that Sam had also given him a few pieces of really nice jewelry that he could pawn off for cash, and maybe that could let him afford it?.

It would be so much easier if Danny had a social security number. Or, like, literally anything proving that he really does exist. But, well, technically he doesn’t exist here. Obviously, physically he is here, but he certainly wasn’t born here. He’s basically an undocumented immigrant, just from a place that he literally can’t ever physically go back to. Even the computer he’s using right now highlights just how alien this place is to him, with its large, flat screen and graphics better than anything he’s ever seen in his life. It runs so smoothly, too, that he just knows Tucker would cry if he could see it. And this is what they have in a library. Danny can’t even begin to imagine what high end tech here might look like.

Everything here is strange and new, and Danny doesn’t even really know what he needs to catch up on. He wishes he could have stayed. He had wanted to stay. Of course he had. But after the second time the Guys in White managed to capture him, well, it wasn’t hard to see why they wanted him gone. So when Sam and Tucker and Jazz had cornered him, and explained that they’d found a way to send him away, to somewhere that the GIW couldn’t follow, he hadn’t argued. He hadn’t argued when they dragged him down to the lab, and he hadn’t argued when Jazz shoved a backpack into his hands, and he hadn’t argued when Sam had told him that she’d added cash and jewelry to what Jazz had gathered. He hadn’t argued as Tucker had messed with the portal, and he hadn’t argued when they pushed him towards it.

He can’t go home. Maybe just for a while, but maybe not ever again. He can’t see his friends, and he can’t go to sleep in his own bed, and he can’t come home from school and play Doomed with Sam and Tucker. But maybe all that wouldn’t be so terribly painful, if he could just have one little thing here that he couldn’t have done back home. Danny knows it’s a long shot, but he clicks on the banner, just to see.

The first thing he notices as he reads through the description, is that it offers a lot. Eight weeks, overnight in a specialized science camp facility, an opportunity to experience both a shuttle launch simulation and a zero gravity simulator? The opportunity to experience multiple different kinds of jobs? This isn’t some camp that wants to introduce kids to the idea of astronomy, this is designed for kids who already want to be astronomers. All in all, it’s everything Danny could have imagined and more. It’s not exactly cheap, though. Five thousand dollars isn’t exactly affordable when all you have is some cash that may or not work, and a few necklaces, fancy as they may be. After all, it’s not like Danny knows enough about jewelry to have even a hope of not being ripped off.

At the bottom of the description, there is mention of scholarships, though, and maybe if he angles it right, he can manage to make use of one of those? Danny glances through the list. He doubts he can prove himself worth the aptitude scholarship. His grades weren’t exactly good back home, even if he did have his transcripts. And he’s hardly going to get the financial hardship scholarship if he’s got no proof that he even exists here. One of the scholarships catches his eye, though, specifically because he has no idea what it’s for. 

Danny knows the word meta. It’s like self-referential shit or something. But it’s not exactly a scientific thing. That’s language arts stuff, the kind of thing Mr. Lancer goes on about, and there should be no reason for it to be a kind of scholarship. But maybe it’s an acronym or something? Danny mouses over, and clicks through to see what exactly it is, even if it probably won’t be relevant to him.

“Here at NASA we understand that people don’t always fit our standard expectations of normality!” The meta scholarship page reads. Danny tries not to let his hackles go up at the mention of normality. They can’t possibly be talking about people like him, after all. Nothing he’s seen so far has implied that ghosts have any sort of presence here. “In our efforts to expand our understanding of the infinite expanse of space, it only makes sense to do our best to work with those who do not conform to those expectations, especially when those exceptions often represent unique opportunities for possible field work. If you identify as a meta, and believe your talents make you uniquely suited to extreme environments, we welcome you to apply for our full-expense meta scholarship!*”

The introductory paragraph only leaves Danny more confused, and a bit wary. The references to normality and unique opportunities for field work have bile rising into Danny’s throat, and he shakily opens a new tab, and types the word meta into the search bar. If they’re experimenting on people here too-

The search returns an astonishing number of results. Among the first ones are a wikipedia article on metas, and so many news articles. Danny clicks on the wikipedia page first.

“Metas refers to an individual who possesses meta powers. Derived from the prefix “meta-”, meaning beyond or transcending, meta powers are innately defined by the natural capabilities of the general population. Thus, on Earth, the term meta, or metahuman, typically refers to anyone who has abilities beyond the standard human experience. A significant portion of metas can be attributed to the human metagene,  which typically triggers in moments of intense physical or mental stress, and can produce unique situational abilities. Other metas, may belong to other species who naturally have certain abilities, or to individuals who are granted powers by various deific forces or even objects.”

What.

It can’t possibly be that easy. This world can’t possibly be that perfect. Danny keeps reading. He realizes as he continues that this article is long, with literally dozens of subsections. On top of that, as he begins to read, there are references to numerous other events, and topics that he’s never heard of before. And by the time the librarian arrives to usher him out of the library for the night, he still isn’t finished with it, but he has learned quite a bit.

Apparently, it isn’t exactly as perfect as it sounded. Rather, this dimension has a long history of meta-related conflict. There’s been plenty of discrimination and mistreatment in the past; the kind of thing that Danny is more than familiar with. But on top of that, there’s literal, actual superheroes here. A lot of them. Superheroes that have fought against numerous world-ending threats and won. And those same superheroes have worked with the world governments, and ratified the protection of metas’ rights as being fundamental human rights. If Wikipedia is to be believed, Danny really is safe.

Still, Danny knows first-hand the way that governments can and will lie. And just because the internet claims that these so-called metas are treated fairly, doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s true. 

Propaganda, Danny thinks. Who’s to say it isn’t all just propaganda? I need to be more careful about transforming tonight.

But the library does need to close, so Danny heads out into the second night in his new hometown, mind racing as he thinks about the implications of everything he’s read. The space camp seems so far away now, in the aftermath of the following revelations. Danny needs to get further from civilization if he wants to transform tonight. He follows the main street out, away from town. Maybe in a field somewhere, he’ll be okay? This doesn’t exactly seem like a large town. Even if it’s not true, Danny thinks as he walks. At least I’m not alone here. And I didn’t see anything about Anti-Ecto Acts.

[revelboo]

Do you mind writing an Optimus Prime part 2? Whenever 😄 inspiration finds you.

Sure! Also, I just accidentally found out that a single post can’t have over 100 links in it by accident with my Masterlist... Guess I get to par that down to the first chapters of everything and add actual previous/next links to the individual posts to navigate within a storyline.

And I’ve had a few people speculating about it and tried to make it a bit clearer now on the masterlist: the IDW stuff is all one big continuity with Lost Light and the random kink snippets clearly separated as alternate takes/AUs now.

Gravity pt 2

Optimus x Reader

• “You’re going to give them a heart attack when they come to if you don’t stop looming like that,” Ratchet mutters and Optimus looks up trying to decide if his old friend is joking. Given the frown, Ratchet’s serious and he’s not sure what to make of that. He’d known humans were fragile, but your heart can just stop? From fear? “They’re a little banged up, but fine,” Ratchet adds as Optimus stretches out a servo to touch your still form and then hesitates. You’re just so tiny, he’s not sure he can touch you without breaking you. “Who are you giving this one to?”

• Like it’s a forgone conclusion he’ll pawn watching over you on someone else. Someone less busy, less weighed down with duty. “It’s my responsibility,” he says, watching your chest rise and fall. You’ve been out since he caught you and so very still. He keeps his optics on you so he doesn’t have to see Ratchet’s expression. Because this is his responsibility and his guilt. He knows it’s not fair to trap you on the Ark, but keeping the surviving Autobots safe is his priority. And the other humans seem fine. Mostly.

• “Bumblebee would take them,” Ratchet offers, a hand touching his arm. “I think he’d be glad of the company.” Shaking his head, Optimus carefully curls his servos around your limp form and lifts you. Hears Ratchet venting tiredly behind him as he walks out and carries you through the halls to his quarters. Trailbreaker and Hound both turning to look when he walks by, curious. Maybe it’s been a mistake to try to keep his people far from humans. Maybe not. Sideswipe probably won’t be the last to abuse his rules, but he’s not ready to trust the humans to not betray them yet. He can’t.

• Your head is ringing, sinuses burning as you stiffly shift and your body complains about it. Why do you feel like one big bruise? There’s a blanket wrapped around you, but whatever you’re laying on isn’t that soft. Something presses so gently between your shoulder blades that it’s a ghost of a touch then slides down your spine. Repeats the stroke. Lifting your head, you squint up at a huge face staring down at you and everything slams back into focus. The Jeep that wasn’t a Jeep. The wreck. Giant, alien robots. One of which is holding you in one hand while it runs a huge finger down your spine again and again. You start shaking. That petting stopping when it notices.

• You’re awake. And not screaming. That has to be good thing, but remembering Ratchet’s warning, he rumbles and presses a servo carefully over your heart. It’s not stopped, but it is racing. A little, warm hand lands on his servo, your eyes wide in fear as you just tremble. And he understands, you have to realize how tiny you are compared to him, how easily you can be hurt. “You’re going to be okay, little one. I have you,” he says, optics snared on that tiny hand on his. And he knows he’ll protect you just like his Autobots. Be sword or shield for you, whatever you need. You’re his to care for now, that trembling fear hurting him to see.

• That rumbly, deep voice sings in your bones where you’re touching him, because that voice erased any doubts. Blue eyes is definitely a he. And as crazy as it is, you believe him despite the fear. There’s an earnestness in that voice that’s almost a promise of safety. Wonder mingles with the fear still thrumming through you as you stare at those pretty glowing eyes and think that they look unbelievably kind. The thought almost immediately followed with the certainty that you probably have a concussion.

Previous

Next

[a-pastel-edgelord]

Aran knows how to keep his head. He'd go as far to say one of his skills is keeping it together under pressure. Not that this situation counted as keeping it together under pressure but he needs the reminder.

Because there you are, standing in his house and cooking dinner. You've got an apron on and everything—he's almost overcome, truly. So when his younger brother comes barreling down the hallway towards him, Aran lets himself be bowled over and thoroughly winded.

"Hey, watch the roughhousing!" You call out, not looking up from your place at the stove. "I'm not takin' the blame if somethin' breaks."

Aran pads into the kitchen, ignoring the smaller boy climbing him like a jungle gym. "Thanks for this again. I know you've got yer own stuff."

You finally look up at him and you smile. "Ye should know that the money is too good to refuse."

It's true—the Ojiro's pay you at the same rate one would a professional nanny. Most of the money is being squirrelled away into a savings account so you can pay for university. Hence why you went to a cheap public high school (nearby but in the opposite direction of Inarizaki so Aran never has the chance to walk you to school).

"Is that all I am to ya? A source of income?" He places a hand over his heart, feigning being fatally wounded as he plucks his scrambling little brother of his shoulders and onto a chair.

You swat him on the shoulder. "Have ya showered yet?"

"I did at school."

"Go change then. Dinner will be ready in 'bout five."

He does so, a dutiful charge. As he descends the stairs, he can hear you singing the theme song of a children's cartoon with his brother. You sing with gusto, not technique, mimicking different voices as you go to the delight of the ten year old acting as your audience. Aran pauses—his grip on the railing tightening as he forces himself to focus, to commit these sounds to memory.

At first it was a little strange to be looked after by someone his age. But as the demands of volleyball grew, he started to look forward to hearing your voice calling out, "Welcome back!" He savors the way you ask him how his day was or how his teammates are or even if he wanted to do homework with you because, "Ya go to that fancyschmancy private school—figure you'll know how to do it." He loves his parents, but a traitorous part of him is disappointed when it's not your voice who calls out to him when he walks through the door.

Aran had once confided his feelings to Kita but the guy just shrugged as if such a thing were a forgone conclusion. A natural result of your presence being a part of his every day life.

Is it any wonder that he wants to take care of you the same way?

Aran could give you stability, if the volleyball scholarship pans out (and it should, Aran made the National Youth Team for goodness' sake). He would be a paid athlete by the ripe age of nineteen, all of his expenses covered by the university willing to throw the most money in his direction.

"Aran! Dinner's ready!"

"Comin'!"

All he's gotta do is convince you to attend the same university as him. His parents are already basically paying for your education anyway—Aran could claim it's just paying your salary forward. Or maybe even a wedding present.

"Thanks for the food!"

"Dig in, boys!"

He just needs to get around to asking you out.

[covid-safer-hotties]

Long COVID and financial hardship: A disaggregated analysis at income and education levels - Published Dec 2, 2024

Abstract Objectives To examine how long COVID is associated with financial hardship (food insecurity, inability to pay bills, or threat of losing service) across income and education levels, and to assess the role of employment loss or reduced work hours in this hardship.

Data Source and Study Setting We used nationally representative data on 271,076 adults from the 2022 Behavioral Risk Factor Surveillance System (BRFSS).

Study Design We used multivariable binomial logistic regression models to estimate the average marginal effect of long COVID on financial hardships across multiple income and education groups.

Principal Findings In general, we found a significant positive association between long COVID and the three measures of financial hardships across income and education groups (1–11 percentage points increase, 95% CI 0.00–0.02 and 0.07–0.14, respectively). Mediation analysis showed that lost or reduced hours of employment accounted for a significant portion (6%–20%) of the changes in financial distress.

Conclusions Long COVID has affected the economic wellbeing of people from all socioeconomic statuses, although at a higher rate for lower income groups. Policy attention is needed to address its economic impacts across income and education levels.

What is known on this topic 17.6 million US adults currently have long COVID and given the prolonged effects of long COVID, it has a high potential of causing financial hardship. Literature shows a positive association between COVID-19 and financial hardship as well as delayed and forgone medical care. Literature shows a positive association between COVID-19 and employment loss.

What this study adds Long COVID is associated with increased financial hardship (1–11 percentage points increase) in almost all income and education groups. Lower income groups with income to poverty ratios below 2.00 are especially vulnerable. A significant portion of the association between Long COVID and increased financial hardship (6%–20%) is mediated by loss of employment or reduced work hours.

[scoobydoodean]

also brett matthews was Crazy for not only implying assault can turn you gay but then writing dean hurting his stepson after being turned into a vampire (gay) like. brett matthews your homophobia is unmatched

like yeah the fans who insist the monsters represent gay people have a point but it's literally this singular episode and it's done in a way that is so deeply homophobic it's crazy

sorry if that last ask was too much but it drives me insane whenever people ignore the insane amount of homophobia in twi-hard.

Okay so here's the thing. I'm not a particular fan of the tone of Brett Matthews episodes. I don't mind exploring non-consensual themes but I think he has a very odd fixation on them. At least in "Live Free Or Twi-Hard", this serves a purpose to the larger storyline surrounding soulless Sam and what he's willing to do, as well as the alpha monsters and how the alpha vampire is building an army. It even gives us some insight into Samuel's moral framework and his perception of Sam and Dean. It also unburies memories of some of Dean’s past experiences being used as bait by his family (or using sex to get them information). In "Caged Heat", Matthews repeated references to non-consensual sexual acts just feel like edgy set dressing for the most part.

The thing is that I also don't think Brett Matthews means to imply anywhere in "Live Free Or Twi-Hard" that being assaulted makes you gay or that Dean's gayness then harms Ben/the family. I think I understand how one can build that reading out of the episode, but I do not ultimately accept that reading. I also don't think monstrosity or vampirism is inherently queer. I do not accept that premise. Monstrosity in general or vampirism in particular certainly can represent queerness, and vampirism has been used as a metaphor for queerness in media many times, but vampirism doesn't inherently represent queerness. If it did, then almost every piece of media about vampires ever made would arguably be sowing the same uncomfortable homophobic narratives because vampirism has been connected with sexual assault from Dracula onward, and vampires in stories are almost always people who were turned against their will at some point in their life or have turned others.

I do not think any kind of monster in Supernatural has to and always represents queerness anymore than I think Sam having powers/feeling lonely makes his storyline inherently queer (which I don't). I understand that there are at least a couple of metas connecting Dean's experience in this episode to queerness not just because it involves vampires but because it also leads to Lisa and Dean's breakup and because Boris also clearly has a sexual interest in Dean, but while I respect these interpretations (as well as the choice to read vampirism as a metaphor for queerness in the episode) I don't personally find these metas that alluring (at least what I have seen of them). This has partly to do with (1) me having a VERY different take on Dean and Lisa than most of spnblr (I don’t dismiss their relationship as “comphet” for example) and (2) having a different take on Dean's relationship to his sexuality up to this point in the series than a lot of people, but it also has to do with (3) me disliking how this reading of 6.05 leads to uncomfortable linkages between queerness and rape that do not spark joy for me and that I do not think deserve to be treated as a forgone conclusion.

Some of the things I have read before from fans regarding this episode feel a little too close to saying "Dean was attacked by a bisexual man who wanted to fuck him and that means Dean is queer" which I do not find logical and which I think aligns with some pretty harmful ideologies, and if fans choose to believe that Matthews intentionally connects the story with those ideologies (either because he himself believes them or thinks Dean does) that's their prerogative, but I don't think it means when other fans reject that reading or fail to absorb it, that they're ignoring some kind of interpretive forgone conclusion about the "meaning" of the episode or what Dean being turned must represent. This is all media analysis. It is ultimately subjective. There are different takes and perspectives here. I don't think there's an inherently right and correct reading and I do not believe this is the only reading of the episode, and while I'm happy to see people play in the sandbox writing whatever metas they'd like about it, and I think one can build up a lot of support as desired, and there's certainly commentary one can make about this episode being homophobic/biphobic regardless, I don't personally think what Brett Matthews wanted me to get out of this is that being assaulted makes you gay and ruins families.

I do think this episode has a lot to say about Dean's relationship to his body and how it has been objectified and used because he has been treated as a weapon or a tool for almost his entire life, and how Dean has internalized that. I do think this episode has a lot to say about internalizing blame as a victim of a variety of non-consensual experiences—the fear that the things that have been done to you throughout your life have "sullied" you and made you a danger who needs to be put down/who will harm the people you love. This episode has a lot to say about Dean's overactive sense of responsibility and guilt, his tendency to internalize blame for things he can't control, and his failure to see that he was a victim in many MANY situations where he was absolutely victimized. From my perspective, vampirism in this episode serves as a metaphor for all of Dean's trauma (from hell, from being raised as a hunter and never having any other choices, from all the people he's lost, from a variety of non-consensual experiences, etc) and how he internalizes the effects of that trauma on himself psychologically as something that has turned him into a monster who cannot grasp happiness or safety and instead will ruin everyone else's if he tries. It is devastatingly tragic and painful to watch. This is also why I happen to be very uncomfortable with a lot of deanlisa takes that criticize Lisa for (in usually nicer words but nontheless) allowing a filthy animal like Dean into her home and how she should have known he was disgusting damaged goods.

[thegreatcaptainusopp]

Sogeking vs God Usopp: Usopp’s Dual Roles

So I’ve been doing some thinking about Usopp’s two titles on his wanted posters: Sogeking and God Usopp. Both of them are larger-than-life personas connected to Usopp, and inform the way that he’s viewed by the world at large. And after thinking about it some I think I’ve come to the conclusion that each title reflects something about Usopp, and I think we can track something about his move from one to the other, as well as speculate where he goes from here.

Part 1: Why did Luffy recruit Usopp?

I wanna start here by discussing something I’ve noticed about the way Luffy recruited Usopp onto the crew.

Firstly, I realized upon doing my reread of the manga that Luffy did not know about Usopp’s sniping ability until after he had already joined the crew.

This was incredible to me, because I had figured that, well, Luffy had witnessed Usopp’s almost supernaturally-good sniping skills and wanted him to join the crew on that basis, but nope. According to what Luffy actually saw during the Syrup Village Arc was Usopp, village boy, Yasopp’s son, protector of his friends, courageous hero, and, most importantly, liar. Or, in other words, storyteller.

So, my thesis about Luffy’s recruitment of Usopp is the following: Luffy wanted Usopp because he wanted a storyteller for his crew, and this is what Luffy initially envisioned his role to be until he saw how skilled he was as a sniper.

Here’s my proof:

When Luffy meets Usopp, he’s not actually all that impressed by him: he thinks he’s funny, but explicitly notes that he doesn’t want him to join the crew (Usopp said he’d be captain, but still). The turning point for Luffy’s opinion of Usopp happens here, when the Usopp pirates tell the straw hats about why Usopp tells Kaya stories:

Here, Usopp’s good qualities are tied directly to his lying, or to his storytelling, and wins Luffy over. This happens multiple times throughout the arc, with Luffy getting increasingly more impressed by Usopp, and many of these examples include Usopp lying or telling stories to either protect his friends or hide his great courage. Zoro and Nami also begin the admire and like him for similar reasons:

Again, none of this has anything to do with Usopp’s ability as a sniper. Luffy specifically likes Usopp’s courage and lying, and it’s these two qualities that lead him to want to add him to his crew. It is important to note too that a key role of Zoro’s in the final confrontation was removing items blocking Usopp’s shots: so he at least knew Usopp was a more than decent shot, and he is crucially the one to actually invite Usopp aboard the Merry. Luffy seems to treat it like it was forgone conclusion instead.

And it is the chapter after the leave Syrup Village with Usopp already on board that Luffy, after seeing him fire a cannon, awards him the role of sniper. Which means that he had not recruited him to be that person, he had recruited him based only what he had seen earlier: the courageous warrior who steps up to save his friends, and does so in many ways by telling stories. And that is the person Luffy initially wanted in the crew, and by happenstance ended up with a world class sniper to boot.

Interestingly enough, Luffy knew full well about Yasopp’s sniping skills, and was very impressed by them. Usopp, too, takes pride in being the son of a skilled sniper and great pirate, and much of his dreams focus on both of these goals as it’s what he admired the most in his father.

So, what does this mean? Here’s why this is important to establish:

1. The crew has already seen Usopp act as a brave warrior of the sea, and already knew he achieved his dream before even starting it

2. Luffy rated Usopp’s character and lying so highly that he not only befriended him, he wanted him for his crew

3. Usopp’s role as a sniper was not something Luffy saw as a core element of his personality/dream until after the fact. Meaning that Usopp also did not ever mention his sniping skills as being a large part of his identity.

Part 2. Sogeking the sniper

Now with that established, let’s talk about Sogeking.

Sogeking as a persona was born out of Usopp’s lies, out of his storytelling ability: he brought him into existence out of thin air, wearing the mask of the hero that he needed to be to save Robin.

The thing is, this hero is specifically and necessarily themed around Usopp’s sniping ability. It’s revealing of what Usopp considers to be his own best quality, which is his sniping skill. Therefore, Sogeking IS Usopp’s sniping ability in every sense: his confidence, his heroism, the things that he’s good at, all wrapped up into a person that Usopp constructed and meticulously maintains.

So, Sogeking exists at the overlap of both of Usopp’s roles on the crew: he was born out of a story that Usopp purposefully maintained and put effort into: everything from his costuming to his way of speaking to his backstory was constructed with intent and meaning. But he is maintained through Usopp’s insanely skilled sniping, which takes the story that Usopp initially constructed and turns it into fact, the Sniper King started out a lie but turned into a truth because Usopp is just that good at it. This reflects our introduction to Usopp too: as a storyteller first, a sniper second.

Sogeking also reflects something about Usopp’s power as a storyteller, which is autonomy. In creating Sogeking, Usopp created the narrative to which he was exposed to the world through his bounty poster and title. That is a name and narrative completely of his own devising, whilst everyone else got names & narratives driven by the world government. Usopp, in having the power to create his own public persona, chose to theme it around sniping, and thus deliberately placed his sniper role in a higher position than his storytelling/lying one. The role he shares with his father, rather than the one that is entirely his own.

Part 3: God Usopp the Storyteller

Now, let’s go to God Usopp.

This persona is the mirror image of Sogeking in so many ways. For one, God Usopp was born in the inverse style that Sogeking was: whilst Sogeking burst out of Usopp’s head fully formed, God Usopp was a gifted title, a persona that was bestowed upon him by others. Unlike with Sogeking, God Usopp was not an expression of Usopp’s autonomy, or of his ability to tell his own story. Instead, it is the opposite: God Usopp is when he lost control of the story, where others stepped in to control his narrative, to choose the kind of person he is going to be. And the persona they chose? God Usopp, a savior, a creator. A storyteller.

The general public, when faced with Usopp, again notice and admire what Luffy first noticed and admired: Usopp’s courage and ability to create something out of nothing. It is an enduring trend with Usopp, where the people around him hold his storytelling ability in the greatest esteem, while he believes that his sniping ability is the more important one by a long shot.

Furthermore, and more importantly, God Usopp is the inverse of Sogeking because while it’s the story that created Sogeking and the sniping that maintained it, it’s the sniping that created God Usopp and the storytelling that maintained it. Usopp was only able to get to helping Sugar’s victims in Dressrosa because of his sniping ability, before transitioning to lying (and claiming, well, Noland the Liar in a very on-the-nose comparison) and, eventually, falling into a completely out of control situation that causes the people to be freed and awarding him the title of God.

Of course, his sniping ability does return in a big way to complete the arc (and unlock his haki), but it is only effective because of the trauma inflicted on Sugar in the first place, the trauma that directly led to the birth of the title of God Usopp. And, as a consequence, the death of Sogeking, unless Usopp ever decides to break out the mask and take back control of the narrative. If that is even the narrative he wants anymore.

Part 4: What does it all mean?

So, we have Sogeking and God Usopp. Two sides of the same coin, both inverses of each other when it comes to Usopp’s dual roles on the crew: sniper and storyteller. Can the inherent tension between the two personas tell us anything about what comes next for Usopp?

Maybe. I think, based on how Usopp was recruited, and the slow transition from Sogeking to God Usopp, that we’re going to see a Usopp who leans much more into that element of himself. In other words, I think Usopp is going to embrace his role as a liar/storytelller to finally achieve his dream.

Because, the thing is, his sniping ability is already perfected. Has been, from the very beginning. On that, he didn’t need much training, and has since received a couple upgrades that instantly skyrocketed him to one of the best in the world. In a similar sense, his dream has also already been achieved: his is a brave warrior of the sea. If he wasn’t, ironically, he never would’ve been recruited by Luffy in the first place, nor would he have received Zoro and Nami’s initial approval.

I also want to bring Yasopp back into the discussion here. Usopp’s pride in his sniping ability is very much connected to the fact that he shares this skill with his father, and that is partly why he loves to highlight it as something he is proud of. Even though, as mentioned earlier, he did not seem to see it as a core part of his personality early on in the story.

I think, by embracing what makes him truly unique, and truly Usopp (his lying, his storytelling) he will unlock the final level of his power and finally come to realize that he had achieved his dream all along. He just needed the self confidence to realize it, and this confidence would come after accepting every part of himself, including the ones he might feel ashamed of.

After all, his storytelling and lying is what endear people to him, what made Luffy and Zoro and Nami initially be willing to risk their lives for a kid whom they had just met, just because he needed help. And, as evidenced by the God title, very much extends to others who’d be willing to follow’s Usopp’s direction, perhaps hinting at a potential to unlock a certain branch of haki that focuses on leadership and control…?

Regardless, I think that Usopp is due for a large power up of some sort, especially as they reach Elbaf, and, well, Elbaf IS Fable backwards, very much a type of story…

All this to say, Usopp’s role IS both storyteller and sniper and both of these things are as important as the other, and in order to achieve his full potential Usopp needs to acknowledge all his strengths and fully complete his journey to be a full fledged brave warrior of the sea

[riddleredcoats]

Was looking for something I once said on another hellsite, unrelated to this lmao, and came across someone saying how Briala and Celene's relationship is toxic (sure, I can see that) and how Celene has so much control over Briala and that's the issue of their relationship when.... no. No.

That ain't it.

Celene and Briala, for all their issues and there are many, in the way Weekes writes their relationship is far more balanced than people give it credit for.

To the point that when it isn't balanced, it jars.

(More under the cut if you're interested.)

To get this out of the way; yes, Celene has more power than Briala. That is a fact we can't deny and even if you reunite them, while the power disparity does lessen, it doesn't go away. Celene is, by virtue of her position, always going to be more (politically) powerful than pretty almost everyone else in universe.

However, the way Weekes turns this on its head is by having Briala have more agency.

It is Briala that comes back to Celene out of her own volition every single time. She comes back to Celene after Celene sends her away when they were young. She comes and goes to Celene's bedroom at her own pleasure. She spies for Celene because she wants to - and enjoys it. Briala is the one that rekindles their reconciliations in the novel; after Halamshiral Celene doesn't even try to talk to Briala about what happened, respecting Briala's imposed distance, and only when Briala opens the door does Celene enter the conversation. It's even Briala who comes back to Court - after having rejected The Game and Orlais - with the intent of, at least, returning to Celene's side during the war: they- Well, Briala really, was already planning to work with Celene.

It is always, always Briala.

This isn't because Celene loves Briala less - it isn't, because we can see she's much more emotionally compromised than Briala due to her reliance on Briala to function like a normal human being. It is merely because Briala has the space to act towards Celene as she wishes, more or less.

The one time in the novel Celene does try to use her power to control Briala - having her arrested, so she could spend a few lavish years in prison... which yes, it is fucked, but even that panic-driven decision-making is shown to be a testament to Celene's emotional vulnerability, not necessarily her desire to dominate - it goes horribly wrong.

It - they - don't work when the relationship is THAT unbalanced and they have been working together for 15 years. That moment showed how their relationship falters when it becomes too unbalanced.

Celene and Briala aren't unconscious of the power difference. They work around it.

Especially, Celene.

She constantly says she does understand if Briala wants to leave her, she reassures Briala over and over that leaving her won't have repercussions to Briala's most dear cause. Celene's brain is always so aware of it that she always tries to give Briala the space she needs if she wants to leave. I will take joy in my love finding her people, even as my breast aches with every heartbeat I live without you. Those aren't just words, that is how the relationship works. Which is why Celene's most consistent and ardent belief - when she's being a rational human being and not the Empress of Orlais terrified for the fate of her country - is that Briala needs to be free to act as however she wills.

It's why those are the last words they say to each other.

It's why them getting back together - or the possibility of it - was almost a forgone conclusion.

Ultimately, Briala’s autonomy within the relationship is one of it's defining characteristics. She may not have the political power of an Empress, but she holds the agency to act - which is why always needed to get those Eluvians; she's the only one who CAN use them, but that's another conversation. While Celene, for all her power, respects Briala’s independence and choices, and is often hamstrung by her lack of freedom in choosing what she can do - something she pointed out in the novel as well, even though its often misinterpreted.

TLDR: This relationship is not defined by Celene’s control over Briala, but rather one shaped by Briala’s autonomy, Celene's understanding, and their shared emotional connection.

[petr1kov]

i already made a video on the topic so i might be repeating myself, but the release of these recent silent hill projects make it impossible for me to not think about how much this franchise struggles with defining its identity. and for as much as i love silent hill 2, it's kinda its fault for muddying the waters on what a silent hill game was supposed to be 'about', since it is the one game that popularized this notion of the 'therapist town'.

twisted projections of the worst parts of someone's mind have been a cornerstone of the series since the first entry, where we are forced to experience alessa's nightmare, but it's a notably different approach than that of the second game, starting by the fact that it's a deep dive of someone else's mind, not the protagonist's - a formula that repeats itself most notably on silent hill 4, with walter's character being the sources of the projections, and even silent hill 3, where we are split between heather and claudia's versions of the otherworld.

in these games, we spend a good chunk of the game with our player characters as confused spectators of a horror that is connected to them, sure, but bigger than themselves. it is that contrast that made silent hill 2 stand out back when it came out, in fact. finding out that what we were experiencing stemmed from james himself instead of other characters around him was a genuine twist, not the forgone conclusion that it became these days.

in reality, what i believe has always been central to the identity of the silent hill games and that has been sorely neglected on basically every title that has been released after 4 (no doubt because of this belief that silent hill /needs/ to be about a tortured protagonist discovering hidden truths about their lives) is the occult. the genuine surreal supernatural elements that complement the metaphors. the cult and the gods and the otherworld and the psychic powers. and that's something that even silent hill 2, the game most disconnected of this aspect of the series out of the original four, still recognizes and approaches in direct ways. that's what makes maria such an intriguing character, especially on born from a wish, and there's even an ending where james tries to engages directly with elements of the cult of the original game, attempting to perform a ritual of rebirth on mary.

i feel that later silent hill titles feel almost ashamed to engage with these elements directly, preferring to lean heavily on the metaphorical aspects of it in order to downplay the weirdness of the occult in the series, but in doing it that, you end up stripping it of something that's essential to it, that gives the series its distinct flavor and, worse of all, end up with very samey, predictable stories that try and fail to recapture the magic of silent hill 2

[revelboo]

Oml I love earthspark megatron so much. He deserve some love. I'm a fiend when it comes to your fanfics. 😫🙌❤️❤️❤️

I feel like he’s probably his own worst enemy

Give Up/Give In Pt 7

TF Earthspark Megatron x Reader

• Feeling the Malto’s staring, he knows he should probably put you down, but he likes the feel of your warmth in his hand. It’s one thing for the Malto’s to entrust themselves to him, they know him. But you just met him and you have to know his reputation. Know who he used to be and the things he’s done, so for you to be able to trust him not to hurt you? It spreads warm through his spark, a thing even more fragile than you are.

• Resting your palms on the big servos curled loosely about you, you study that expressive face. You’d seen Cybertronians on the news before, but it had usually just been grainy footage from a safe distance or shaky clips of two or more of them brawling as people run to get out of the way. Knowing that they were real wasn’t the same as being this close to one. Being held by one. Especially as the tip of a servo rubs between your shoulder blades then abruptly stops as he grimaces to make you wonder if he unconsciously thinks of you like you would a kitten, absentmindedly petting cause you’re there.

• “Can you stay for dinner?” Alex asks you and the question makes Megatron’s servos flex slightly. Stay? Like it’s a forgone conclusion that you’ll leave. Of course you have your own life, but he hadn’t really considered it and looking down at your little frame in his hand, there’s the errant thought that he could just refuse to let you go. You’re too small to stop him and once he would have without a thought. Taking what he wanted, because he could. He’s not that mech anymore, though. Won’t keep you against your will.

• “Sure?” You murmur as the hand curled about you lowers to let you down and glancing up at his stony expression, you hesitate. Strangely reluctant to leave the warmth of his hand. The safety. Because that panic is still there at the edge of your mind waiting to sinks its claws in and drag you back down. Not wanting to think about people screaming, the deafening boom of that cannon on his arm and the shriek of turbines. And he looks down at you, that tightness around his optics easing some, one corner of his mouth twitching into a wry smile that looks almost forced. It’s Dorothy that rescues you from your indecision, gently pushing Alex toward the house to ‘help with dinner.’ Leaving you with Megatron and your thoughts. The memories you don’t want coming for you.

• You’re shaking in his hand and it’s not really a surprise. Because he hoped you wouldn’t be, but of course you’re afraid of him. “I won’t hurt you, little one,” he says, hand still hovering above the ground to let you escape from him. Not expecting you to lean into his palm, for the shaking to intensify until your teeth are chattering. Curling his servos about you, he sits and brings you to his chassis, feeling the quick pounding of your heart against his servos. “Breathe,” he growls. “You’re safe.”

• That deep, rumbling voice anchors you as the fear runs wild through you. Not of him, but the clinging terror of the fight between him and the Seekers. That feeling of being so small, invisible and helpless. Hurt and abandoned when that other driver had run. Megatron had seen you, though. Reached for you. And even though you hate it, you start crying raggedly and press your face against his warm servos. Feel when he runs the servo of his other hand down your spine again and again. Unable to explain that you don’t want him to let go now, don’t want to think about what might have happened to you if he hadn’t seen you. Can’t tell him that his big hands are all that’s holding you together and if you go home to your empty house you’ll come apart. “I have you. Just breathe,” he growls, that voice a command and a promise. Reining in the terror choking you, as the servos of his other hand press gently against you to carefully pin you to his palm. Not a hug, but as close to it as the big Cybertronian can get and you cling to him, to warmth and safety.

Previous

Next

[soft-pine]

spn20rewatch 2.01 in my time of dying

so dean is in the hospital almost dying, again. but this time john is there - and not only that - sam is there to watch john.

i think that because how this episode resolves is so well known that maybe we glaze over some of the intricacies of john's choices. for example, sam calls john out for not seeming to do anything to help dean.

SAM: How? How is revenge going to help him? You're not thinking about anybody but yourself, it's the same selfish obsession!

of note, this directly echoes what dean said to sam in the last episode.

DEAN: You’re selfish, you know that? You don’t care about anything but revenge.

john, of course, promises sam that he will "check under every stone" to help dean and, later, that he "won't hunt this demon. not until we know dean's okay."

and i think that because we collectively know that john ends up making a deal with azazel, maybe we forget that like.... he doesn't actually look under every stone. in fact, he doesn't look under any stones. as dean says, he doesn't call a soul for help; he doesn't even try. he pretty much goes with his first comment to sam, "i don't know if we're going to find anyone." he approaches dean's death as a forgone conclusion for which the only option is the deal with azazel that he spends the rest of the episode working on.

and despite his claim to sam that he's "doing this for dean," it is, of course, more complicated than that. when john first starts to make the deal with azazel, and he doesn't know yet that azazel will ask for his life, i wonder what he was planning. would he still have asked dean to look out for and potentially kill sam? if azazel hadn't asked for john's life, what else would john have been willing to sacrifice?

but this cloud of secrets and tensions leads to some all time great shots.

the layers theory means that dean is feeling vulnerable in these scenes. and, well, of course he is.

DEAN: Come on, Dad. You've gotta help me. I've gotta get better, I've gotta get back in there. I mean, you haven't called a soul for help. You haven't even tried. Aren't you going to do anything? Aren't you even going to say anything? I've done everything you have ever asked me. Everything. I have given everything I've ever had. And you're just going to sit there and you're going to watch me die? I mean, what the hell kind of father are you?

it kills me a bit that dean loses the memory of his angry speech to john (well until 4.15 that is) and that brings us to tessa, my beloathed. dean's interactions with her are so interesting to me throughout this episode.

first, she clocks that the best way to calm him down is to give him someone else to take care of. so she acts like a scared woman who's also trapped in the space between life and death.

and then she starts trying to manipulate him.

DEAN: So you're okay with dying? TESSA: No, of course not. I just think, whatever's gonna happen's gonna happen. It's out of my control, it's fate.

and dean, my beloved dean, always against talk of fate and destiny, throws back "huh, well, that's crap. you always have a choice." god, have i mentioned i LOVE him?

anyway, tessa's talk about fate here, her long argument to get him to accept death at the end of the episode, her comment about him being "the one who got away" in 4.15, really make me wish it had been her in 15.18 with the scythe: "It's you, Dean. It's always been you. Death-defying. Rule-breaking. You are everything I lived to set right. To put down. To tame. You are human disorder incarnate." i like canon very much and i am hesitant to wish things were different but the throughline here is so clear to me. (plus i am sad about billie's ending).

it kills me that during their conversation at the end, dean is begging to stay alive to save his family only to wake up and be asked to kill sam and then watch john die. (reminds me of the cruel twist at the end of 2.20, dean comes back to the real world just in time to watch sam die).

it's always so awful to hear john almost buttering dean up for his final, awful request.

JOHN: You know, when you were a kid, I'd come home from a hunt, and after what I'd seen, I'd be, I'd be wrecked. And you, you'd come up to me and you, you'd put your hand on my shoulder and you'd look me in the eye and you'd... You'd say "It's okay, Dad" Dean, I'm sorry. DEAN: What? JOHN: You shouldn't have had to say that to me, I should have been saying that to you. You know, I put, I put too much on your shoulders, I made you grow up too fast. You took care of Sammy, you took care of me. You did that, and you didn't complain, not once. I just want you to know that I am so proud of you. DEAN: This really you talking? JOHN: Yeah. Yeah, it's really me. DEAN: Why are you saying this stuff? JOHN: I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay? DEAN: Yeah, dad, you know I will. You're scaring me. JOHN: Don't be scared, Dean.

cause everything john's saying here is true and i think part of him believes it and part of him knows he won't get another chance but all of it - the apology and the praise and the reassurance - are entirely undercut by what he's about to ask of dean.

because saying he's sorry he put too much (his emotional needs and sam's life, etc) on dean's shoulders is undercut by immediately putting sam's death on dean's shoulders. and saying he's proud of dean for taking care of him and sam is undercut by asking him to kill sam. and saying dean shouldn't be scared is undercut by telling him he has to watch out for sam or he might have to kill him.

john has three main touchstones in this speech and he immediately enacts the exact same harmful patterns.

it's awful that on the heals of "you're not my dad," dean is so worried it's not john talking but it is john and that makes what comes next so much worse.

speaking of john and azazel parallels. this one always gets me.

they are both just so looming and too close.

finally, the first four episodes of season 2 end (or very nearly end) on haunting close-ups of dean's face. truly an unparalleled run of ending shots. here's the one for 2.01

ps dean is walking around barefoot for like this whole ep on cold linoleum hospital floors and i know i KNOW he's just kinda a lil ghostie but i want to give him socks so bad! his poor cold little toes!!!

[oldfriendsseniortwittersanctuary]

I'm going to break down whether every character in Zeta Gundam would sleep with Char Aznable/Quattro Bajeena. No one asked me to do this but I will anyway.

Note: I'm only including characters that interact with Char at least a little bit and/or characters I care enough to talk about. Also I'm not including Reccoa because we, uh, canonically know the answer to that question, and that's boring.

Kamille Bidan

So the question "would they sleep with Char" is technically two questions, that and "would Char sleep with them?" Unless stated otherwise I'll treat the second question as a forgone conclusion, Char would never turn down an opportunity to manipulate someone via sex. In this case though, we are talking about an underage character that Char comes to view almost paternally. That being said... yeah sorry I think Char would do it, at least early on. Sorry, Char sucks I don't know what to tell you. Conversely, though, Kamille early on has way too many hang-ups about masculinity to sleep with another man, and later on knows Char too well and knows not to get entangled in His Bullshit, so ultimately it would not happen.

Fa Yuiry

Hell no, she has far too much self-respect to fuck Char.

Emma Sheen

No, too much self-respect AND too gay to fuck Char.

Henken Bekkener

He would, but he would rationalize it away hard. "It was just two guys helping each other out," "that specific sex act isn't gay," "it was just once" (it would not be just once).

Bright Noa

He's married and it's grossly unprofessional to sleep with your subordinates, so he would not sleep with Char... sober. Put a Mai Tai or two in him and that won't be the only thing in him.

Katz Kobayashi

Oh... oof. Thankfully, this kid is far too annoying for Char to fuck, but if he wanted to manipulate Katz into it... I'm sorry to say but he probably could.

Blex Forer

Oh they're absolutely fucking on the dl don't lie.

Apolly Bay

He would try it once, just to see if he was into dudes at all. Ultimately he'd decide this wasn't for him but hey, try everything once.

Roberto

You see that mustache? Hell yea he would.

Torres

He lowkey wants to, but for some reason Char never asks. He's not mad (he's a little mad.)

Astonaige Medoz

He's too busy for this shit.

Wong Lee

I'm sorry to tell you but... yeah, yeah he would. And Char would be too pragmatic to turn him down. I'm so, so sorry for this, but it's the truth.

Haman Karn

She is preparing for the hate fuck of the century. She has been preparing for YEARS. Her Body Is Ready.

Anyway, yeah Char would decline.

Hayato Kobayashi

Maybe while drunk, but he'd have to be so drunk that even Char would be like "eh, no, this is a line I wouldn't cross."

Beltorchika Irma

She would, but it would be Cat on a Hot Tin Roof type of situation. Just... wildly unhealthy for everyone involved.

Amuro Ray

yeah maybe

[notapaladin]

wishes and horses and all the king's men

Lieutenant Malavai Quinn had once been foolish enough to believe in heroes. That was before he was trapped on Balmorra for ten years, where the Resistance undermines his Empire, his superiors are more interested in lining their own pockets than doing their jobs, and any hopes for the future are ground into dust before they can take wing. And then Lord Baras's new apprentice walks into his life.

or, quinn experiences the results of meeting the LS sith warrior (confusion, doubt, renewed sense of hope/purpose, falling at least a little in love, etc)

Also on AO3!

-

“If that’s your best, you’re useless to me. I can shoot you dead with a clear conscience. Is that what you want?”

“N-no, sir, sorry, sir—”

“Then focus, Jillins. Dismissed.”

Lieutenant Malavai Quinn has not been having a good day. Quite frankly, he has not been having a good decade, not since Druckenwell and Broysc and being relegated to this absolute shiteheap of a planet. He would not consider himself a particularly violent man, but this latest—incompetence of Corporal Jillins has pushed him dangerously close to the edge. His fellow officers are already useless at best and actively a hindrance at worse—he’d suspect some of them of treason, except he’s not sure even the Resistance deserves them—and now this? This? On the day Darth Baras’s new apprentice is set to arrive? She will be here any minute, and hardly anything is prepared—he’s going to offend a Sith—

He doesn’t put a hand on his blaster, but he is sorely, sorely tempted. Right, he thinks. Breathe. Ignore the pounding in your temples, the ache in your back that never goes away because the bunks here are apparently made of ferrocrete, the way you can feel yourself shrinking, rotting with each new dawn on this fucking planet. Breathe.

With the effort he’s spending reeling in his temper, he barely registers the approaching footsteps—low-heeled boots, plenty of traction, a light and easy tread. (In the years to come, he will be embarrassed by this.) He does, however, notice the voice. Low, feminine, a little husky—and hesitant, as though its owner thinks he’s going to snap at them, too.

“...I am not sure I particularly want to know what he did.”

He has an audience, and he’s already been rude. He exhales sharply, draws himself up, and turns to face the speaker. He represents the Empire and Lord Baras in all things. He will be professional.

His mind immediately divides into two. The cool, analytical part notes the physical features of the woman standing before him and extrapolates conclusions. Human, roughly 1.6 meters tall, medium-dark brown skin, impractically long white hair put up in a bun that makes it practical again. Scarring on throat and jaw consistent with strangulation, possibly responsible for the roughness in her voice. Twin lightsabers at her hips, ornate gold handguards gleaming. Pale yellow eyes. This, then, must be Baras’s new apprentice. Lady Yaellia, only child of House Ivros, twenty-two years old and recently graduated from the Korriban academy. At her age, he’d thought he’d had the world at his feet too. Of course, she’s probably going to turn out to be right, if she doesn’t turn out dead instead. At least she will have had glory first. It doesn’t matter; she is Sith, and his role is to serve.

The rest of it feels as though it’s been punched, because Lady Yaellia is stunning. He is no blushing virgin; he’s met his fair share of attractive people. (Not many, since Druckenwell. Poor lieutenants are not attractive prospects. Still.) But the red-and-white synthleather suit she’s wearing does not leave very much of her figure to the imagination, even if the only actual exposed skin is her collarbones. She has the muscles of a gymnast and the sort of thighs he is quite certain he could die happily between. Her mouth is almost distractingly full, moreso because she’s clearly forgone the elaborate makeup many Sith favor. There are tiny gold hoops in her ears and eyebrows that glitter as they catch the light, but they aren’t as bright as the eyes now locked on his.

Normally, eye contact would be near-painful—metaphorically if not literally, for among Sith it’s generally taken as a challenge. Normally, he focuses on peoples’ ears or eyebrows or interesting things just over their shoulders. But he holds her gaze for longer than two heartbeats and doesn’t want to look away. He’s as Force-sensitive as a brick, but her lips are parted and there’s a faint flush on her cheeks and he doesn’t need the Force to realize—

To realize it’s been a millisecond too long, and bow deeply before this can get awkward. More awkward. “I—apologize for the delay, my lord. Lieutenant Malavai Quinn. I’m to be your liaison here on Balmorra.”

She smiles. Or at least makes an expression that passes for a smile. “Apprentice Yaellia. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope to leave you in a better mood than that unfortunate young man back there.”

“Well, as long as you don’t piss in his cereal...” mutters the Twi’lek lounging against the doorway.

Malavai’s gaze snaps to her. Lord Baras’s communique had mentioned a slave, but no other identifying details. Looking at this alien, he can’t see any signs of servitude. She is tall and rangy and blue-skinned and notably not wearing a collar, though there are faint scars around her neck where one once lay. Her clothes are serviceable browns and tans with plenty of pockets, but he spots a name brand belonging to a high-end Kaas City sporting goods store. She is also wearing a headband in what he’s always privately thought to be the ugliest shade of chartreuse imaginable. Most importantly, she is carrying two blasters and dares to speak to a Sith as an equal. He grinds his teeth.

Lady Yaellia flushes harder and huffs, “Vette! Unhelpful!” And then she turns back to Malavai, clearing her throat with a faint wince. “Lieutenant Quinn, this...is Vette. My friend. Anything you have to say to me can be passed on to her as well.”

It is a decidedly odd exchange. He pushes it aside to be examined later at his leisure. “Understood, my lord. Lord Baras will brief you personally, but I’m to acquaint you with the climate here on Balmorra first.”

“By all means, go ahead. Ah—one moment—” He’s so unprepared for the sight that it takes him a moment to register the sight of her, not the alien, pulling out a datapad and stylus in clear preparation to take notes before flashing him a quick, encouraging smile that does something very strange to his chest. “I’m waiting.”

He tells her. It is...strange. Certainly not bad, but strange. He’s never had a Sith listen so intently and yet so politely. She asks clarifying questions and once or twice requests that he repeat things “a little more slowly, please, I—ah,” and a vague gesture at her ears that has him wondering if she has hearing problems even as his mind reels at hearing a Sith say please. She is either genuinely enthusiastic about this mission or a very, very good actress. She does not once make eye contact.

And then Lord Baras calls. He is excused. Whatever the details of the Sith’s true mission, it’s not for him to know.

But he stands just on the other side of the door, ears tuned to the sound of her voice—yes, my lord, of course, my lord, as you wish, my lord, meek and deferential as is proper—and his stomach drops as he remembers the briefing he’s read. She’ll be taking out the satellite control tower in the Markaran Plains, a veritable deathtrap of mechanical security. She is Sith, but...she is one woman. He doubts his aid will make a difference in her chances of survival.

Regardless, he must do his duty. He gathers his equipment before he is summoned back into the room, and this time he does not look at her face. She’s almost certainly going to die anyway. “My lord, I've prepared what you need for your assault. In order to destroy the mainframe, you'll mount this charge to the base and activate it. Then contact me for detonation.”

She studies the explosive charge he’s given her. He’d thought it was fairly small, but it takes both hands for her to hold it properly. “If it can be detonated remotely, couldn’t I do it? I’m sure you have more interesting things to do.”

He really doesn’t. More to the point, he’s quick to explain, “It would be safer if you were as far away as possible, my lord. There will be very little time to flee once it is armed.”

She hums thoughtfully, still looking at the charge and not at him. “I am very fast. But you are right. And...um. It is good of you to consider my safety, Lieutenant.”

His face goes hot. “Think nothing of it, my lord. It is my duty. Will you be leaving immediately?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been requested to liaise with a Lieutenant Davrill regarding another operation. I’ll be around for a short while.” And then she half-turns to go, before pausing to focus her gaze on him. Well, on the Imperial flag behind his desk, but roughly in his direction. “One more question, if you don’t mind. Do you know an intelligence officer by the name of...Breerden?”

“Breerdin,” the Twi’lek corrects.

Yaellia coughs. “Yes. Him.”

He tries to keep his face impassive, but his lip curls anyway. “I have heard of him, my lord. Might I ask why?”

Immediately, he realizes he probably shouldn’t have asked that question. Not when it makes her eyes narrow and her back stiffen as she says crisply—coldly—“He wanted me to hush up the accidental death of a Chiss delegate by an Imperial officer. He offered to pay me to keep quiet about it. I want to know who to file a complaint with.”

For a moment, all he can do is blink at her. Sith do not file complaints. Not when they have lightsabers and the Force to do it for them. And they certainly have never lowered themselves to care about the rampant corruption and flouting of duties that is par for the course here on Balmorra. Particularly not when that corruption could be presented as necessary for Imperial interests—and he has no doubt Breerdin, the swine, did exactly that. “Uh,” he says finally. “That would be Major Bessiker, my lord. But there is no reason to trouble yourself; I can file the necessary datawork for you.”

She shakes her head firmly. “I’ll do it. He will listen to me.”

He won’t listen to you, Malavai hears. It’s the truth, but it still stings. “...Understood, my lord. Will that be all?”

Strangely, there’s color in her cheeks again. “Um. Yes. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

Only when she’s well and truly out of his office, with the door shut behind her—and he keeps his gaze firmly on the back of her head while she leaves, thank you very much—does he let himself fall out of parade rest and into his chair. For thirty-two seconds, he sits there and thinks.

This, then, is his lord’s apprentice. What a strange Sith.

&

(Quite unbeknownst to him, that strange Sith steps into the hallway and immediately grabs Vette’s arm, her eyes wide. “Vette.”

Vette raises an eyebrow, lekku curling warily. “Yeah?”

She takes a deep breath and blurts out, all in a rush, “Please, please tell me I sounded normal in there.”

The Twi’lek rolls her eyes. “You sounded fine. Why?”

Seemingly at a loss for words, Yaellia gestures back at Lieutenant Quinn’s closed door and makes a frustrated grumbling noise before finally spitting out, “Do you see him?! He looked at me with—with those eyes, and I forgot how words worked!”

Vette blinks slowly. “I’m sorry, him? The guy who looks like he’s stepped in bantha shit? The stick up that man’s ass probably has a stick up its ass.”

She turns immediately red. “You,” she sniffs, “have absolutely no concept of Imperial decorum. That man epitomizes it. It is extremely attractive.”

“So what’s the problem? You’re Sith. Imps practically worship you people. He’d probably be flattered if you hauled him into a supply closet.”

Yaellia chokes. (A stylus falls off Malavai’s desk.) “I’m fairly sure he prefers women who can—who can make eye contact and string together coherent sentences at the same time!”

Vette winces. Yeah, Yaellia’s always been shit at that in the weeks they’ve known each other. There’s only so much polite averting of gazes you can do before people realize it’s not just politeness. She reaches out and pats her friend/former master’s (for about five minutes) shoulder. “You’ll get your chance.”

Yaellia deflates. “I hope so,” she mutters. “Come on. Let us find Major Bessiker and perhaps a food cart. I am famished.”)

&

Malavai does not hear from Lady Yaellia for the rest of the day. This is fine.

He does, however, hear that II Officer Breerdin has been officially reprimanded and a full investigation into the death of a Chiss delegate on Imperial soil has been launched. It’s enough to lift his spirits, even if only slightly. There are standards to maintain, no matter what II says.

He works. He takes precisely twenty minutes for dinner in the officers’ mess, counting the time it takes him to walk there from his office. There’s no need for him to linger; it’s not as though he has friends to catch up with. Even if he did, what would he say? “I’ve met Lord Baras’s new apprentice,” invites distasteful gossip regarding the particulars, and he will not speculate on his superiors’ personal traits.

He chews on a roast nerf sandwich that not even Kaasian purple curry sauce can save and reflects that it is, after all, quite a long way to the Markaran Plains even in a very fast speeder. She might have only just arrived, and she will undoubtedly be busy. He must be ready to back her up.

The other denizens of the mess hall keep talking amongst themselves—idiot chatter about Huttball scores and relationships and mission gossip—and he’s suddenly sure that if he hears one more unauthorized sound he’ll shoot something. His sandwich isn’t worth finishing.

As he rises to dispose of it, he realizes that Lieutenant Davrill is eyeing him. Pointedly, he turns away.

Too late. Davrill is approaching. “Quinn.”

“Davrill.”

“What have you heard about that new apprentice of Lord Baras’s? You’ve met her, right?”

He stiffens, and now he makes eye contact. “I have, yes. Why?”

Davrill frowns. “Captain Rigel’s set her on Operation Breaking Point, down in Gorinth Canyon. She told us she’s working with you on some mission of her lord’s. I felt it appropriate to consider combining our efforts.”

He doesn’t know the particulars of Operation Breaking Point, but he knows enough. He’s suddenly regretting that sandwich. Baras would not take just any Sith as an apprentice, but the last report he’d received on rebel activity in Gorinth Canyon had used words like army and overwhelming force and too bloody many droids.

On the other hand, if she cannot triumph against overwhelming force, she is no Sith, and Lord Baras will have a new apprentice. One who will not, Emperor willing, cause even a whisper of inappropriate thoughts to cross his mind.

“...I trust she will be in contact with you if your aid is required,” he says, and steps out onto the pavement.

Sobrik is never quiet. As soon as he leaves the building, his ears are assaulted with speeder engines, pedestrians chatting, pedestrians arguing, and the horrible discovery that someone down the block has either been raised by gundarks or has never heard of the existence of headphones because they are very loudly blasting an InstaComm video. But outside doesn’t contain buzzing fluorescent lights or a humming HVAC system, so it’s almost worth it.

He exhales and rolls his shoulders, gazing up at the flat gray of the night sky. He wishes he had a cigarette, never mind that finances had forced him to quit years ago. The cold wind revives him like a slap.

Back to work, then. He has suspected Resistance comms to slice.

&

It is 2000 and he is about to go off-duty for the night when his comm chimes. Lady Yaellia’s frequency, audio-only. He all but lunges for it.

“Yes, my lord?”

She sounds tense. No, distressed. “What’s the comm frequency for a medevac? There’s an injured soldier here, and we don’t have enough kolto to patch him up!”

“I can still fight!” a distant male voice huffs.

“You can not,” she snaps. “You shouldn’t even be standing—I can see bone! I want you off your feet, Lieutenant! Vette, make him sit down!” With a huff, she turns her focus back to Malavai. “Lieutenant Rutau is the only survivor of—what did you say it was? Second Battalion, Besh Company, First Platoon? The droids in here are ruthless. I will be completing his mission for him, but I am not going to leave him here alone and injured.”

There’s a somewhat closer protest of, “My lord, you really don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” Yaellia says firmly. “Without good, brave Imperials like you, the Empire is nothing. You are who we fight for.”

Malavai blinks mutely at the wall, heart suddenly pounding. She sounds like—like something out of a storybook. His mother had read him stories when he was very young, before his brother was born; most of them featured heroic Sith, valiant and noble warriors who had been protective of the Imperials under their command, who had valued their lives as more than just blaster fodder. Who had believed in the Empire and everything it stood for, not just their own ambitions. He’d dreamed once of serving under a Sith like that, but as he’d grown older and wiser he’d realized there were no Sith like that. Maybe there were, during the Great War or the Long Flight—in the days of Naga Sadow or Odile Vaiken—but there are none now.

It seems Yaellia of House Ivros hasn’t gotten the memo. She’s still talking to Lieutenant Rutau, reassuring him that help is coming, that the mission will not fail, that he will be safe. That he’s been very brave.

He thinks, suddenly and abruptly, of the now-Lord Venditor, back when he had been Private Venditor under his command. Before Druckenwell, before the man had panicked and thrown a speeder at a Pub with his mind and been shipped off to Korriban. He’d been idealistic too. Kind. He’d spent a great deal of time worrying about his family’s tuk’ata-breeding business on Dromund Fels.

It hadn’t lasted. He’d been younger then than Lady Yaellia is now, but he’d adjusted quickly. Thrived, even. The last time Malavai had seen him, he had been the perfect Sith.

(The perfect modern Sith, not like this figure from the most fanciful myths.)

Slowly, his heart rate calms. She is young. Life has been kind to her. She will learn. Give it five or ten years, especially under Baras’s tutelage, and she’ll be as cruel as the rest of them.

In the meantime, she’s asked him a question, and he quickly pulls up her coordinates. “My lord?”

“Oh—yes?”

“I have your location and am calling in a medical transport from the nearest outpost now. It will arrive within the hour. For future reference, I am sending the medevac frequency to your datapad.”

“Oh, thank you!” Then, while he’s reeling from being thanked by a Sith, she turns to Rutau and says softly, “See? You’ll be fine. Now, do call me when they pick you up, alright? If I come back to nothing but a blood trail I shall worry.”

The Lieutenant mumbles something. Malavai’s not paying attention, because Yaellia’s speaking to him again. “I regret to say we might not get to the satellite control tower until tomorrow morning, but it shall be our first priority. You’ve been a great help so far, and I hope we’re not keeping you from your own rest.”

He swallows. “Ah—no, my lord. There is no need to concern yourself with me.”

She lets out a low hum. “...As you say,” she murmurs. “Well. Um. Good evening, Lieutenant.”

“Ah. Good evening, my lord.”

The call ends.

He stares at the wall for a long time, replaying his mother’s voice in his mind. The memories are thirty years old, but they might as well be yesterday.

“Long, long ago, when tuk’ata had fur...”

He shakes his head. He is overtired. It is time to call it a day.

&

Malavai Quinn’s mornings look like this:

At 0605, he rises. While cursing himself for oversleeping, he trudges to his closet-sized fresher to wash his face and wage the next battle in the never-ending war against his own beard, knowing it’ll be stubble again by the afternoon. If he’s not doing PT that day, this is also when he showers; otherwise, he puts it off until after his workout. Ablutions complete, he dons his uniform quickly and efficiently. Breakfast is tea and toast made on a range older than he is. There’s no commute to worry about; much of the military housing is concentrated near the spaceport. He has no lovers or pets or potted plants, and all his underlings know not to contact him unless the city is actively on fire. By 0700, he is in his office and starting his workday. After ten years, he has his morning routine down to a science.

Except today, at 0630, his work comm chimes. Since he is taking a sip of tea at the time this is nearly fatal, and he has ample time to reflect on how stupid and undignified a death it would have been as he clears his airways.

The comm is still chiming. Wheezing, he picks it up. No holo; he’s just gotten tea down his front and he’ll have to change his shirt before anyone is allowed to see him, no matter what the emergency is.

“Good morning, Lieutenant!”

He blinks slowly, a lapse he will blame on not having finished his tea yet. Lady Yaellia is astonishingly chipper. He wonders if this is the power of the Dark Side fueling her at an hour where the non-gifted are typically consumed with hatred for all life. “Uh. Good morning...? My lord,” he hastily adds.

“Apologies for the early call. I just wanted to tell you that we are setting out towards the satellite control center now, and expect to arrive within—Vette, map? Two hours.”

There is a distant groan within comm range. “You fly, I’m taking a nap...”

Irritation is a wonderful source of energy. Disgraceful. What kind of servant—she’d called the Twi’lek a friend, but surely there can be no friendship worth having with a lowly alien, one with a Republic accent that can peel paint—disrespects a Sith like that? And what kind of master allows it? He takes a deep breath and deliberately sets his anger aside until later, when it can serve him. “I will be ready, my lord.”

She hums happily. “Good. I’ll talk to you later.”

And then she ends the call. Still feeling slightly poleaxed, he downs the rest of his tea in a single swallow and goes to change his shirt. He’ll clearly have a long day ahead of him.

She isn’t the only operative he’s monitoring—he has a small squadron scouting the outskirts of the Balmorran Arms Factory, and another embedded deep in the Windswept Plateau tracking a Republic investigator’s movements—but none of them are Sith. Regardless of her feelings on the matter, she is the most important one. He sips tea from a thermos and watches dots on a half-dozen screens, marking time until he sees the dot that is Lady Yaellia approaching the satellite center. From there, it’s a simple matter to slice the security cams and watch her on holo. As he types in the command, he wonders how far she’ll get.

The holocam buzzes to life. For a moment, there is nothing out of the ordinary. Republic soldiers and Republic droids, both tense. The flickering of a laser fence just offscreen.

And then blaster shots ring out, and as the first droid falls there is a blur, and Lady Yaellia strikes the survivors like a thunderbolt.

Slowly, he sets his tea down. His mouth is dry, but he doesn’t think he can risk looking away. He can’t miss a second of her in motion.

He has seen more skilled Sith in action. He has seen Sith who were more powerful, more brutal. But Yaellia is a fine-tuned mixture of speed and grace, as agile as the best gymnasts. Her brilliant crimson sabers, red as blood, move so fast they leave afterimages when he dares to blink. She parries blaster bolts with ease, dancing around nearly every return blow; when she’s not quite fast enough, she snarls like a beast and he swears he can see the air ripple as she draws on her pain to fuel her strikes. As she advances through the station, Vette lays down cover fire, shooting into melee with the air of a woman who’s used to her partner’s fighting style.

And where they strike, Republic scum falls. Laser-cut metal and severed limbs litter the ground. The air is filled with the silence of the dead. It is glorious.

As Yaellia stops to arm the charges—panting raggedly, her hair falling out of her bun, her eyes sun-bright—he tells himself it is only patriotic fervor he feels. That his only desire in this moment is to be the one in Vette’s place, backing her up. That if he is breathing hard, fists white-knuckled on the edge of his desk, it’s only because of the rollercoaster that is watching her in combat.

And then Lord Baras calls, and he curses out loud before sucking in a breath that scorches his lungs and answering—with only a slight waver in his voice—“My lord?”

“Quinn,” Baras rumbles. “How fares my apprentice?”

He makes himself breathe evenly. “Very well, my lord. She is arming the charges at the satellite control center as we speak.”

“Good, good.” Baras hums thoughtfully, and then orders, “Put her on the line. It is time I gave her her next orders. You will find a holomail with details pertinent to you.”

He nods. “At once, my lord.”

When he calls Yaellia, she answers at the first ring. “Lieutenant?” she pants.

He swallows hard. “My lord, I mark your progress, and see that the charge is armed. I will detonate once you are at a safe distance. But first, I have Darth Baras on holo for you. I will retreat and leave the line secure.”

She huffs out an affirmative noise. He sets his comm down and turns to his holomail, which indeed does contain a short message from Lord Baras. It’s not much: a name, a location. He starts to wonder why in the Emperor’s name Baras is so concerned about an ensign, but decides he’s better off not knowing.

Baras ends the call, and he picks up. It’s still on holo, and he’s glad that the quality and scaling will mean it’s harder for him to give anything away. Not that there is anything for him to give away. Really. His mind is not at all replaying the arch of her back as she spun out of the way of a blaster bolt or the way her teeth bared in a snarl as she whirled to slice a droid in half.

She pushes her hair back from her face and almost smiles at him. Fuck.

He exhales sharply. Best to jump into it. “My lord, Ensign Durmat is being detained in the brig of the Republic crater outpost in Gorinth, awaiting questioning by the investigator Baras has me tracking. I will alert you if she appears to be heading there; I assume you wish to get to Durmat before she does.”

“Emperor willing,” she agrees easily. “What can you tell me about her?”

There is frustratingly little to tell. Wherever the Jedi found this investigator, she’s proof that they are capable of subtlety. “...She appears to be tailing one of the Republic's own—a Commander Rylon. I'm instructed to keep close tabs but stay out of her way.”

She nods, the holo bobbing up and down as she starts trotting back the way she came. “Good. We’ll be heading to the crater outpost now. Do you—do you want to stay on the line?”

“Do I want to—” He blinks at her. “Forgive me, my lord, I’m not sure why you’re asking?”

It’s Vette who answers, leaning into holoview with a smirk. “Boss lady figured you’d wanna watch this place get blown sky-high.”

Yaellia clears her throat. “Yes. That.”

He blinks again, and then feels his lips curve. “It would be my pleasure, my lord.”

So he stays on holo while the women jog back through the station, up an elevator (Yaellia demands, out loud, why nobody has ever heard of guard rails—“a rhetorical question, Lieutenant”), through hallways full of gore and shattered metal, and out into the shattered landscape of the Markaran Plains.

And then he detonates the charges. The eruption of metal and masonry in a ball of flame more than makes up for the assault on his eardrums, and when Yaellia lets out a victory whoop he finds himself grinning. The unused muscles ache.

“That was glorious!” Yaellia whoops, catching Vette in a sideways hug. “Well done, Lieutenant!”

Well done. A hot flush races over his skin, and it is briefly hard to catch his breath. His collar is too tight. Well done.

But there is still a job to do. He tears himself away from the sight of the destruction he’s wreaked and back to his console, where he quickly inserts a remote spike into the Republic crater outpost’s mainframe. It’s almost trivially easy; their backdoors are wide open for a slicer of his caliber. Getting into the actual security is somewhat more time-consuming, but eventually he manages it.

“I've managed to slice the security you'll need to breach the crater outpost,” he says finally. “Transmitting it now.”

Yaellia scrabbles at her belt for her datapad, smiling when she sees it. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Vette, I’m forwarding this to you.”

His part is over for now. He can breathe easily. Well, as easily as he has been so far, watching her. “Good luck on your mission, my lord,” he murmurs, and means it. “I'll be here if you need anything.”

Then, finally, he ends the call.

&

Hours pass like a kidney stone. He regrets having left Lady Yaellia to her own devices almost immediately; it’s a long way to Gorinth from where she is, and the Republic presence there is more heavily entrenched. But she survived whatever she was doing there for Operation Breaking Point, so she’ll probably be fine. He takes advantage of the lull to check in with his teams on the Plateau and the Arms Factory, relieved when they report that they’re following his orders not to engage. He supposes Jillins isn’t completely useless.

He’s about to eat lunch at his desk—a nutrient bar and more tea—when Lady Yaellia calls him again.

“Lieutenant Quinn?”

Even though she can’t see him, he sits up straighter. “Yes, my lord?”

“We’ve arrived at the crater outpost.” A pause. “...Do you...uh. Have a map of the area? It’s a bit...”

Vette interjects, “When they said it was a crater, they’re not kidding. It’s a kriffin’ nightmare down here.”

He clears his throat and pulls up the map he’s generated from sliced floor plans and aerial surveillance. Truthfully, he can understand the request; the crater is a warren of different levels and buildings, densely packed and heavily defended. “...I am forwarding it to your datapad now.”

“Oh, thank you!” Yaellia chirps. “You’re a blessing.”

He inhales so sharply he nearly chokes on his own spit. Bloody hell, why does she keep saying things like that?!

It’s only when he hears blaster fire at the other end of the comm that he realizes Yaellia has forgotten to turn it off. His mind spins. He should hang up. That would be the right thing to do. But he’s meant to be observing her, and she had asked him to be in touch in case she needs him...

He stays on the line. He keeps listening, though he does turn the volume down before the cacophony makes him lose his mind.

He notices immediately when the fighting stops and Yaellia’s footsteps slow, though he has to increase the volume again to catch the sound of two men speaking from what seems to be the next room.

“Pipe down, Durmat. There's something going on outside. I'm trying to listen.”

“Come on, Zixx, throw me a bone. Who's this agent that's comin' to interrogate me? At least answer that, will ya?” There’s a pause. Some muttering he can’t catch.

And then, in tones of anguish, “All right, all right, I ain't proud, I give! My dad's an Imperial agent!”

“Commander Rylon?!”

Ice fills Malavai’s veins. He thought he’d known all of Lord Baras’s assets stationed on this planet. It wouldn’t do to kill one of his allies by mistake, after all. He won’t give Lord Baras any reason to question either his loyalty or his usefulness. Rylon must have slipped in telling his son; surely that’s why Yaellia has been sent after the boy. But the man’s been a thorn in the Empire’s side for years—decades—and he’s never pulled a punch. He must have been a flawless spy.

And now Baras is having his son killed. Rylon will almost certainly be next. That makes no sense, unless this investigator on his tail is close to exposing him...

Or Rylon has outlived his usefulness.

Malavai’s hands go numb. Dimly, he registers a faint squeaking noise, and then realizes he’s shaking so hard that his chair is rattling. It doesn’t feel like a thing that’s happening to him.

No. He is loyal. He has always been loyal. He is no threat. He would die before he betrayed Lord Baras, and Lord Baras knows this.

(It wouldn’t be enough to save him. He knows this, too.)

Rushing footsteps knock him back to reality, back into his own body. He almost misses Yaellia’s pained-sounding “Really?!”

Zixx is gloating. “Take a look, Sith. That’s what two squads of the Republic’s finest look like.”

Yaellia sucks in a noisy breath. “Drop your weapons and stand aside,” she snaps. “Or die.”

Malavai blinks at the screen in front of him. That had sounded disturbingly like she was offering them a choice. A trick, surely. She’s trying to induce them to lower their guard before she strikes. She can’t possibly mean that. He can’t square it with the woman who had fretted—yes, fretted—over the Lieutenant Rutau now recuperating at the Markaran outpost.

It doesn’t work, anyway. The ensuing combat is remarkably short. So much for the Republic’s finest, he thinks with a scoff.

And then the stupid ensign is babbling, pleading for his life. Malavai does his best to ignore it, aided by the priority holomail he’s just gotten from his Plateau squad requesting backup against Pub war droids. By the time he arranges it, the ensign has finished up with, “Uh...I’m not exactly sure where I was goin’ with that. Please don’t kill me!”

You fool, Malavai thinks. She may be uncommonly...considerate of her underlings, but Lady Yaellia is a Sith. She would never dream of sparing Republic scum. And she certainly wouldn’t disobey her Master’s direct order.

And yet she says, “I’m willing to consider alternatives. Is there another solution?”

He’s honestly not sure he’s heard her correctly. But as he listens further, he realizes he has. He finds himself grateful to already be sitting down.

Durmat does, in fact, have a solution. The Republic has developed a memory-altering drug that leaves its victims a blank slate. Evidently, this was not the intended use, and it’s been slated for destruction because the Republic are idiots. He can think of half a dozen things he could use it for without blinking.

“...I’ll overdose and not know nothin’ no more. That way my dad’s secret identity is safe!”

Yaellia is silent for a long moment. Malavai tenses. Any moment, he expects to hear the hum of a saber igniting.

Finally, she replies, “Good idea. Where is it?”

The idiot ensign babbles some more, but Malavai’s barely listening even though he knows he should—a memory-wiping drug of such magnitude could be a great boon to the Empire. This is...insane. Bizarre. Such—mercy, such compassion, for an enemy? For the Republic? He isn’t sure what the tight, bilious feeling in his chest is. He knows hatred and jealousy, they are old bedfellows, but this sickens him. He doesn’t think he’s felt like this since Broysc. His hands hurt, and he realizes he’s been clenching his fists hard enough to leave half-moon indents in his palms.

He comes back to himself when he realizes Yaellia is speaking to Vette.

“The Republic talk about their moral superiority, and they create this? Hypocrites! We should burn this place to the ground and salt the ashes!” There’s a sharp thud, as though she’s punched a wall.

“...I dunno. Shit like this? Could be useful. Or at least, y’know, lucrative. I can think of a few memories I’d rather forget.”

A pause. Then, so quiet he almost doesn’t hear it, “...As can I. Come, let’s bring this back to him. Oh, and a change of trousers.”

He’s getting another call—from the Arms Factory, this time—so he listens with half an ear to the sounds of the two womens’ footsteps and whatever short, asinine conversation they’re having with Ensign Durmat as the drug is administered while the rest of his focus splits between uploading an uncorrupted version of the data spike his team needs and the nauseous fury constricting his throat.

“Who are you?” the ensign asks hesitantly.

Yaellia’s voice goes...strange. Soft. Gentle, he realizes, though his mind is almost numb to the further shock of it. “That doesn’t matter. Who are you?”

Now the ensign sounds nervous. “I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t know who I am. Can...can you tell me?”

Malavai can just make out the creak of synthleather. He wonders if Yaellia has knelt in front of the boy’s cell, hand outstretched to soothe him like a frightened animal. His stomach clenches.

“Don’t let anyone tell you who you are,” she murmurs. “You have to figure that out for yourself. Be brave, and walk in strength and in joy.”

The two women walk away. He’s aware that they’re talking quietly between themselves, but he suddenly can’t bear to listen. It’s all too much.

So he mutes them, knowing the risk he’s taking but figuring he will be contacted if he’s really needed, and just stares into space. His hands are shaking again.

She disobeyed Lord Baras. That is...that is treason. But our lord did not specifically say to kill the boy...and he has been silenced...

And her voice, soft and firm all at once, resolute as a fairytale heroine facing down a wounded krayt dragon. He’s never heard a Sith sound like that. He hadn’t imagined they could. It hurts something deep inside him.

He is jolted out of his reverie by a sharp buzz on his comm and Yaellia’s crisp, “Lieutenant Quinn, are you there?”

He’s tongue-tied for a heartstopping moment, and then forces out, “Affirmative. How can I be of assistance, my lord?”

She lets out an amused huff. “I just wanted to let you know that the mission was a success. Vette and I are on our way back to Sobrik now. Please consider yourself off-duty until then.”

He swallows. “Understood, my lord. I will—I will see you upon your return?” Stars, he sounds pathetic. He shouldn’t have made it a question. Now she’ll know he’s rattled.

She chuckles. It seems she doesn’t, or at least isn’t mentioning it. “Count on it, Lieutenant!”

And then she hangs up, and he isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He is not off-duty; he still has troops to monitor. He should get back to that.

Instead he rises, goes to his desk in the adjacent room—it serves as both a private office for more delicate conversations and a makeshift sleeping chamber on long shifts—and pours himself half a glass of wine from his emergency stash. It’s terrible wine, halfway to vinegar and not in a good way, but it will stop him from trembling through the next six hours of his shift like a tooka that’s heard the cleaning droids. Maybe it will even help him make sense of what he’s heard.

One thing is for sure: Lady Yaellia is nothing like what he’d expected. He’s tempted to write it all down, get it out of his head, but he stops himself. Text files can be incriminating. His own mind will have to do.

Slowly, he lays out the facts. On the one hand, Lady Yaellia is greatly skilled in combat and perfectly willing to slay enemies of the Empire. She displays bravery, honor, and compassion towards Imperial soldiers, all exemplary qualities. On the other, she also extends those same qualities towards members of the Republic, which is quite frankly insane. They hate us, he wants to scream. They wouldn’t hesitate to wipe us from existence, to finish the job Pultimo started. And you let them live?!

He slams his fist on the table. Now he has sore knuckles and an aching heart. Deep breaths help the latter. He closes his eyes, willing himself to focus. To think about this logically. Perhaps it is...he will call it tactically unsound, it doesn’t do to consider a Sith a few currants short of a plum pudding, but the mission was unquestionably a success. Moreover, her actions showed an impressive willingness to think outside the box and adapt to new information. He doesn’t have to like it to understand the reasoning. As for her motive...well, perhaps she was moved to pity. Stranger things have happened. Mostly in folktales, but they have. He vaguely remembers one about a tuk’ata pup with a cactus spine in its paw that seems applicable.

“Be brave, and walk in strength and in joy.”

He sets his empty glass down and returns to his main office. He has work to do, no matter how much Lady Yaellia’s words tug at his mind.

He writes up a report for Lord Baras and doesn’t realize until he’s halfway through the holomail that he has no idea what to say. He cannot lie to Lord Baras, of course. He’ll be found out immediately. And Lady Yaellia has disobeyed their master; he should be made aware of that. It would please him and raise his estimation of Malavai.

But Malavai has seen what happens to Sith who displease their masters. He’s seen plenty of smoking corpses, seen Lord Venditor’s fresh scars. And with a sense of nostalgia bordering on pain he remembers the myth of Lord Umbraline, brought down in her prime by a beloved, treacherous underling for the sake of their own advancement. That underling’s fate makes for a moral lesson to all baby Imperials never to betray their superiors. He doubts Yaellia would weep over his severed head.

So he puts down, The mission was a success. Ensign Durmat has been permanently silenced, and leaves it at that. It’s nothing but the truth.

&

Approximately five hours and forty-five minutes after Lady Yaellia’s last contact with him, he realizes he has been a fool—or at the very least, he’s committed the crime of drawing conclusions with grossly incomplete information. He’ll have to apologize when she returns. Normally, such a thought would tie his stomach in knots, but he rather doubts she’ll react with summary execution.

Still, when she walks in the door six hours and fifteen minutes after her last call, he is glad that the parade rest he slips into hides his faint tremor.

“My lord.” His voice is even. He’s proud of himself for that.

It’s been nearly two days since he’s seen her, and the battles she’s fought have left their mark. There’s a rip in her catsuit at the shoulder, showing the white lining, and her hair shows all the marks of having been hastily scooped into an approximation of her previous bun. Dirt has been ground into the seams of her gloves and the knees of her trousers. She’s taken out her piercings at some point, so there is nothing to distract him from her bright eyes. He barely even notices Vette trailing her.

Especially when she says, “Lieutenant Quinn. I hope you’ve been well?”

He nods. “Yes, my lord. Thank you. Ah. Permission to speak freely?”

She visibly swallows, shifting her weight. Were she not a Sith, he would say she was awkward. “Of course.”

He inhales. “I must be honest. Your success at the satellite listening center and Republic outpost has...surprised me, my lord. I computed the likelihood of success as nearly negligible. In my assessment, however, I only considered the capabilities of a typical Sith.”

He fixes his gaze somewhere around her left ear and continues, “Clearly, you are not a typical Sith. I will adjust future calibrations to account for your...unprecedented abilities.” Creative thinking. Mercy. Compassion. You act like a warrior from legend, my lord, and I wonder where it will take you.

She looks stricken, a dark blush spreading across her cheekbones. And then she grins, an expression of such pure delight he has to look away. “Lieutenant Quinn, you know just what to say!”

“...I’m not too proud to acknowledge when I’m mistaken,” he mutters, feeling his own face burn. He wishes it was just shame at his miscalculation; he is far too old to be blushing like a schoolboy because a pretty girl’s smiled at him, for the Emperor’s sake.

Vette coughs. “So, didja tell Baras all about how awesome we are yet?”

He meets her eyes deliberately. “Lord Baras has been informed, yes. I will alert Lady Yaellia at once when I receive a response.”

More annoyingly, she doesn’t even seem fazed. She actually has the nerve to roll her eyes. “Good to hear it. Hopefully it won’t be ‘till tomorrow, we need our beauty sleep.”

“It won’t be the first time I’ve stayed up all night,” Yaellia says simply.

Vette gives her a very pointed stare. “Ya-ell-i-a.”

She heaves an exaggerated sigh. “Ugh, you’re right. Lieutenant, I’m sorry I cannot stay longer, but someone insists I eat three meals a day and sleep in a real bed, and I wouldn’t want to impose on your personal time.”

“’Sides, we haven’t even seen any of Sobrik yet!” Vette adds, seeming to cheer up as soon as she’s told she won’t need to actually do her job for a while. As she slings an arm around Yaellia’s shoulders, she continues, “C’mon, I heard the Sunken Sarlaac is fun. Maybe we’ll see you there, LT!”

He could have died happily without ever hearing her call him LT. He takes a deep breath, lets it out through his nose, and says firmly, “Thank you, but no. I have work to finish up.”

It’s not a lie. And it certainly has nothing to do with any parts of his mind that may or may not be wondering what Lady Yaellia would look like during a night out—how she might wear her hair, if she prefers dresses or suits, if she would wear ever more elaborate jewelry—never mind that she fixes her gaze on the flag behind him and says briskly, “Of course, Lieutenant Quinn. I’ll leave you to it.”

He doesn’t normally work out at night, but as she leaves he decides he will make time to visit the base’s gym for an hour. The movement and exertion will settle his mind. So will the shower afterwards.

The very cold shower.

&

The next day, he wakes to a sore shoulder and a priority holomail and has very possibly never dressed so quickly in his life. He doesn’t even bother shaving. The hour between when he sees Lord Baras’s reply and when Lady Yaellia steps into his office passes in a blur. It’s slightly cheering to notice that she doesn’t have any of the signs of a woman who’s spent the night partying, unlike her visibly half-asleep companion.

After the initial exchange of pleasantries, he jumps right into it. “Lord Baras is pleased. He says it's time to zero in on your prime directive, and he awaits your contact. My office is yours; the line is secure.”

She nods. “Thank you.”

As she and Vette walk into the next room, he sits down at his console to go over the information he has about their target. There’s a lot to sift through, but much of it just needs to be collated and bulleted. Though he wishes he’d known the plan ahead of time, he’s always been good at making quick decisions. The surveillance and reconnaissance team he’s set on the Jedi’s investigator is highly skilled; thanks to the bugs they’ve placed, there isn’t a move she makes that he isn’t aware of.

Finally, he nods to himself. This will do. Anything else can be adjusted on the fly. Lady Yaellia has proven herself exceptionally skilled at that.

“...summoned Lieutenant Quinn. He’ll prepare you for your final task.”

That’s his cue. As Baras’s holo fades from view, Malavai steps in, fighting the urge to smooth down his hair. “Your final target is the Balmorran Arms Factory, recently captured by resistance forces. An incursion into the Factory will be a monumental feat. I’m excited by the prospect of you laying waste to that place.”

Vette elbows her and Yaellia perks up, face flushed and eyes gleaming. “...Oh, I excite you?”

Belatedly, he realizes his words could potentially be interpreted in a shockingly inappropriate way. If a subordinate spoke like that to him, he’d have them flogged. He all but stumbles over his next words, praying they spare him further humiliation. “W-well, what I meant was...when I imagine all the ways you will shape the galaxy, it is—very exciting, yes.”

Is it his imagination, or does she look disappointed? But there’s still that smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re all red, though.”

Red? He probably looks like a prize Kaasian tomato. “Your question was—a bit surprising, my lord. I assure you that my mind is on the task at hand.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Was it? Surprising, I mean. Here I thought you wouldn’t let anything cross you by surprise.”

“Very few things do,” he mutters. “You...seem to have a knack for it.” That’s putting it mildly. He feels better about the shock of yesterday for having slept on it, but he’s always hated the unexpected. It so rarely works out for him.

She blushes again, dropping her gaze. He’s never before been tempted to call a Sith cute. Once again, professionalism will save him. He clears his throat and asks, “May I continue to brief you on the Balmorran Arms Factory, my lord?”

”Please,” she mutters.

He continues the briefing. Again, she takes notes. But when he gets to his description of Rylon’s personal guard, she comments, “You sound like you admire them.”

There’s no judgment in her tone or in her eyes, but there doesn’t need to be. He feels ill. “Only their tactical exploits, my lord. It will be a bright day on Balmorra when they are eliminated.”

That, apparently, is that. As she nods and goes to put her datapad away, he clears his throat. “One final thing, my lord. The investigator the Jedi sent has been concentrating her activity in the area. I have her under minute-by-minute surveillance and will contact you at once if she becomes a problem.”

She smiles at him. “Sounds like a plan. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

She keeps thanking him, just for doing his duty. His gut is a hot, squirming thing. “No need to thank me, my lord. I will be here to salute you when the Balmorran Arms Factory is a smoking husk.”

“I know you will.” She turns to go, only to immediately arrest her movement and ask, “Lieutenant?”

Vette groans. Both of them ignore her. “Yes, my lord?”

She glances back at him and reaches up to fiddle with her earrings. She’s put her gold hoops back in. “I do apologize for my curiosity, but I couldn’t help but notice...that is...you have a great deal of Sith opera recordings in here. Do you have a favorite?”

The question is so unexpected that he can’t bite back an honest reply. “I think you might have done as well to ask me if I’ve a favorite limb, but I’ve always been partial to Shkai’ven Shasôt—”

Yaellia lets out a little gasp and whirls to stare at him, eyes wide. “I’ve seen that! The 400th anniversary run, at the Grand Kaas Opera House—Taral’s aria, I don’t think there was a dry eye—” She’s gesturing as she talks, presumably the cause of several datapads sliding around on his desk.

Emperor preserve him. She likes opera. In a flash of insight, he realizes why her words from the previous day had been so familiar; they’re a direct translation from the famous Soldiers’ Chorus in the second act. His parade rest has become a medical necessity, because otherwise he’d have to find a chair. “I could not be in the city for the 400th anniversary,”—he’d been here, cursing his life—“but I was fortunate enough to witness Janrit Haskerl’s first performance as countertenor for that role, and even then I can assure you there was not.” The memory brings an old pang with it; he’d been so young. His father had been alive and on leave, and not even his baby brother kicking the back of his seat had dimmed the wonder of watching the curtain go up.

She’s gazing at him with open fascination. “That must have been incredible! I can’t imagine it—you must tell me everything. Oh, but what did you think of Tev Ralon’s early years; I thought their voice has improved with age, but you know what recordings are like, it’s just not the same.”

He can’t remember the last time anyone’s asked for his opinion on any personal interests. He can’t remember the last time anyone suggested he might have personal interests. It takes him a moment to find words. “I—must agree, my lord. At first, I judged them to be rather weak and reedy, not powerful or commanding enough to sing Lord Tanari’s part with the gravitas it deserves, but I find myself glad that they were given the chance to grow into it. I suppose you never can tell.”

“Exactly!” Stars, she’s so animated it hurts to look at her. The datapads hitting the floor are a problem for later. “I haven’t been able to go to the opera since before I was sent to Korriban; I’m dying to see how it’s changed. I hear they’ve recently finished some lovely new renovations for better acoustics—and gotten rid of those dreadful jade green curtains, what were they thinking—and they’ve shuffled the stage crew around so more of them will be able to handle the Force effects. Their new conductor is no Van Chkristi, but he comes highly recommended from the Ziosti Gardens. You should go there next time you have leave!”

His ears burn. He doesn’t get that much leave, and even if he did his pay won’t stretch to the cost of a ticket anymore. Not if he also wants to buy groceries that week. But she’s so enthusiastic, so happy, he decides not to say any of that. “I will certainly consider it, my lord.”

Vette clears her throat. “Boss, maybe you wanna let him consider it while we get moving? It’s a long way to this outpost we gotta be at.”

Malavai could strangle her.

Even more so when Yaellia deflates and mutters, “Ah. Yes. Thank you for reminding me.” She shoots him a hopeful glance. “We must make time to continue this discussion later.”

Later. How long has it been since he’s had something to look forward to? The thought makes an unfamiliar bubbly feeling rise in his chest.

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, and means it with all his heart.

(Opera. He supposes that goes some way towards explaining her idealism, but somehow he cannot fault her. When he was young, he’d been inspired even by the tragedies.)

&

The data spike he’s had planted in the Jedi investigator’s comm network is showing increased activity. Frowning, he traces it. Near the Arms Factory, and getting closer. Should he warn Lady Yaellia? No, he thinks after a moment. She’ll be at the Sundari Outpost by now, and he doesn’t want to distract her. He’s been informed there’s a new Darth in residence.

As if summoned by the mere thought of her, his comm chimes. “Lieutenant Quinn?”

He isn’t sure he likes the wary tone in Yaellia’s voice. “Yes, my lord?”

“Have you ever heard of a Darth Lachris? The—the new planetary governor.”

He’s not surprised the old one is dead—the man was never competent—but there’s a twist in his gut at the way she says it. It must have been extremely recent. “I have, my lord. She studied under Darth Marr and is a veteran of the sacking of Coruscant.”

There’s nothing but the low rumble of a speeder engine; she must be in the air. “I see,” she says eventually.

“Might I inquire as to why you’re asking?”

There’s a definite intake of breath. “Oh, I’ve just...met her, that’s all. I was curious. She wants me to—to take down Grand Marshall Jacketta—”

“—Cheketta!” Vette calls.

“—You know my auditory processing is utter pants, Vette!—so killing Commander Rylon might take a trifle longer than expected.”

He nearly suggests texting or holomail if that would be easier for her, but bites his tongue. If she hasn’t requested accommodations, it’s hardly his place. “I have every faith you will succeed, my lord.”

She lets out a sharp huff. “You honor me. I’ll be in touch.”

“I await your word, my lord.”

She hangs up first. He turns his focus to the incoming calls from his away teams, grinding his teeth. No, they are not to engage unless discovered, no matter how tempting it is. Their goal is stealth. He is relieved to find that at least they’re tracking the targets he’s sent them after. The Jedi investigator has a codename—Sunshrike—but it doesn’t match to any encrypted strings in his database. The spike they’ve uploaded is picking up her increasingly irritated comments regarding an incursion into the Arms Factory. Lady Yaellia, he thinks, and exhales. He digs deeper, hunting for more information. His tea thermos goes colder and emptier.

Where are you? Who are you?

He’s starting to develop a headache by midafternoon—he’s worked straight through lunch—but having a puzzle to unravel at least keeps his mind off of honorable Sith with a passion for opera and an unusual sense of mercy. He welcomes it. The security systems of the Arms Factory itself prove frustrating to break into, but when he finally taps into Sunshrike’s personal network he is rewarded with quiet breaths and the echos of her typing, interspersed with the occasional Republic-accented, “Damn.”

He smirks to himself. Victory.

And then Yaellia calls him, her voice shaking. “Quinn?”

His heart seizes. He doesn’t want to know what could unsettle a Sith. But he must remain calm, for her sake. “Yes, my lord?”

She gulps. “We have very—very explicit confirmation of Republic involvement. I just fought a Jedi. And where there’s one, there will likely be more.”

A Jedi. He exhales sharply, wondering if they had fought in the last war. If they’d borne his father’s blood on their hands. “I suspected as much. Your confirmation is appreciated, my lord.” He almost asks if she’s well, but he’s afraid of what he might do if she says no.

“Right,” she says, and takes a deep breath. “Right. We will continue our assault, then, and contact you when the factory falls.”

There’s a click as she hangs up. He returns to Sunshrike, digging through her personal files. It takes a while, and he’s only peripherally aware of the news crackling in from the Arms Factory as he works. Republic ships are being violently decommissioned. The Resistance is in disarray. Something about a swarm of Colicoids. The Resistance Grand Marshall is dead—no, he’s only in custody. The man’s publicly denouncing the Republic and they didn’t even have to torture him first. The Balmorran “governor,” Vol Argen, is definitely dead.

At any other time, he’d celebrate. A name. Give me a name.

He doesn’t get a name. As the sun lowers outside his office he gets a tinny burst of secondhand static, and then the sound of a man speaking. Sunshrike whispers, “Finally,” to herself.

“What do we know of the enemy?” the man says, and then snaps, “I can see that, Captain. Shut up. Sith, I know why you're here. Be aware that these are the finest troops I've commanded in all my decades of duty.”

Indistinct speech. The man snorts. “My men and I would be disappointed if you did. Captain Eligyn, engage at will and hold the line. I'm coming with reinforcements. Rylon out.”

Malavai makes himself breathe evenly. After everything he’s seen Lady Yaellia do, she’ll be fine. More importantly, Sunshrike is moving. He fires off a call to his nearest squad leader. “Target is en route. Do not lose her.”

There’s a chorus of affirmatives, but he barely registers them. Sunshrike has live audio on what is almost certainly Yaellia’s confrontation with the Republic forces, and for long minutes all he can hear is the hum of sabers and the crack of blaster fire. It grows steadily louder, suggesting Rylon really is coming—alone. There is only the one set of footsteps. When the fighting dies down and the man snaps, “Enough of this. Just put him out of his misery, Sith,” Malavai tenses.

“Confess to him first,” Yaellia says flatly. “He deserves the truth.”

Shit. The worst part of it is, he’s not even surprised. Disappointed, yes—this is quite frankly the worst time her bizarre storybook-heroine tendencies could have come to the fore—but after what he’s seen of her so far he was practically expecting it. More importantly, the investigator’s position is converging on his troops. Almost there...almost...

A blaster shot rings out, and Commander Rylon sighs heavily. “It's unfortunate they were on the wrong side. They were excellent soldiers, and exceptional men. It was difficult betraying them—you can't bleed with a man and not form a bond—yet with their defeat, the Empire's cause is advanced.”

“You should have recruited them,” Yaellia says coldly.

“...I followed Baras's orders to the letter,” he mutters. “Recruitment was never my purpose here. I served for the glory of the Empire.” With a sigh, he continues, “But the life of a spy is a slippery one. In essence, I had to become a Republic soldier, and I've done things against the Empire that have sickened me.”

Yaellia takes a slow breath. “For the greater good.”

“Lieutenant!” Jillins on holo, frantic. His voice comes slightly doubled from the tap he’s put on Sunshrike. “She’s here—she has a lightsaber—”

“Delay her,” he growls.

“But she’s—she’s a Jedi—”

He could punch the man. If they weren’t separated by hundreds of kilometers, he might. Some of his rage must show on his face, because the man flinches. “Did I stutter, Jillins? You don’t need to kill her, but she must not be allowed to reach her allies!”

There’s already blaster fire in the background. Jillins whirls to return fire, barely stammering out an, “Of course, sir—” before dropping the call.

Not that it matters. He isolates that channel from the tap and amplifies the one on Rylon. He almost regrets it, because Rylon’s not dead yet.

At least his voice sounds labored. Agonized. Malavai can only hope his death is swift; he deserves that, at least. “Tell Lord Baras...it has been my great honor to serve him.”

He can’t hear Yaellia’s response, but he suspects he knows what it is. The hum of her saber is confirmation enough.

He should call her. Warn her.

But it will have to wait, because he has soldiers to direct. He hopes they remain competent under duress; their orders are very simple, but he’s learned not to underestimate the depths of their stupidity. He curses every second of comm latency as he watches the Jedi’s location draw closer.

It takes nearly half an hour before he can send a holocall to Lady Yaellia. She is bloodstained and beautiful even in the middle of some nondescript factory hallway, but he can think about that later. “My lord, we've got trouble. I heard your entire conversation with Commander Rylon.”

She draws back, frowning down at him. A lock of hair falls in her face. “Have you been spying on me, Lieutenant?”

His face burns. “No, my lord!” Not intentionally, at any rate. “As I told you, I've been surveilling the Jedi investigator—”

“...Oh,” she mutters, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Never mind, then. What’s the matter?”

He takes a breath. “She bugged Rylon's quarters. She knows everything, my lord.”

“Well, fuck,” Vette comments. He hates that he agrees.

Yaellia falls silent, staring at him. Her eyebrows knit together as she lets out a very quiet, heartfelt, “Bugger.” At a normal volume, she continues, “And now so do you. You’re in grave danger, Lieutenant.”

It doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like concern. He lets out a breath. “Yes, but I pose no risk to Lord Baras. If she gets away, she'll expose everything. She was heading to her ship, but I had my men cut her off from the Republic landing bay.” He’s just gotten the report that they were successful, with only one casualty. Not Jillins, sadly. “I am systematically blocking her avenues of transmission and escape, herding that Republic scum to her only hope—the spaceport at Sobrik.”

“Sobrik?!” she demands. “That’s ours! How does she think she’s going to survive?”

“My men report that she's wielding a lightsaber, my lord. It is very likely that she is a Jedi Knight.”

If the comm wasn’t floating in midair, Yaellia would have dropped it. She jerks, eyes wide. “No.”

“Yes. Unless you stop her, she's more than capable of fighting her way through the spaceport and commandeering a ship. I'll be able to delay the Jedi long enough for you to engage, but—”

“Don’t you dare,” she snaps.

He blinks at her. “My lord?”

“Don’t even think about putting yourself in the way of that Jedi! She’ll kill you, Lieutenant. I can’t—I refuse to let that happen. Put roadblocks, keep the civilians out of the way, do not make direct contact. We have to protect the people of Sobrik!”

He swallows, recognizing the emotion coursing through him as shame. A storybook warrior. She is what Sith should be. “...I...see your point, my lord. I will gather my remaining men and meet you at the spaceport.”

She exhales. “Yes. Do that. And don’t worry, Lieutenant. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You have my word.”

&

It is one thing to simply put a military base on high alert for approaching hostiles. That is easy. Turning that military base into a trap for a lone Jedi while also ensuring that the civilian population is safe, and that no actual Imperial soldiers are put in harm’s way? Somewhat more difficult. The roadblocks are simple, but having the base put under lockdown requires him to stand in front of Major Pirell and play the recording of his men under attack before the order finally goes out, and by then he’s lost hours.

The only saving grace is that he’s successfully delayed the Jedi. He has time.

During a brief lull in the chaos, his comm buzzes. Outgoing transmission, reads the spike still active on the Jedi’s comm. He doesn’t hesitate before rerouting it to his own and hitting “play.”

The Jedi turns out to be a human woman, her hood half-hiding her face. Through the layer of digital noise left over from decryption, he makes out, “This is Jedi Knight Mashallon. Nomen Karr’s Padawan was correct. We have traitors in our ranks.”

He’s never even heard of Nomen Karr; individual Jedi tend to blend together in a sort of sanctimonious brown-beige haze. But if they’re a Jedi of any importance, there will be a dossier. He spends a few minutes searching until one comes up, frowning as he skims through the Jedi master’s long career. A career, he notices, that seems particularly focused on opposing Lord Baras. This could be a problem.

“Uh. Sir?”

He takes a deep breath before addressing Jillins, who’s appeared by his side on top of his lookout post when he wasn’t looking. “Report. And it had better be important.”

Jillins gulps, staring somewhere past him. “You said to alert you when Lady Yaellia or—or that Jedi gets here, and um. The Jedi’s been spotted.”

“Good. You have your orders.” He sends a quick text to confirm—yes, the barricades have been placed and the civilians are off the streets with guards stationed at regular intervals. Yaellia will be pleased.

Jillins nods stiffly. “R-right.”

They stare through their binoculars into the darkening street as the lights come on, both straining for the sight of a glowing lightsaber. Malavai squints, trying to figure out if that flicker in the far distance is a faulty streetlight. When his comm doesn’t flash with mission updates, he decides it probably is.

Jillins mutters, “I hope Lady Yaellia catches up soon. She’s amazing.”

“Have you met her, or are you drawing yet another conclusion based on secondhand information?”

Jillins flushes and stares at his feet. “Well, I haven’t met her, sir, but—she wiped out an entire rebel base by herself! And took down that Grand Marshall! That’s—that’s pretty amazing, right...?”

There’s a steady light in the distance. He raises his binoculars and spots flowing robes and a lit saber. Jedi. “You aren’t wrong,” he mutters. Stars, he’s agreeing with the boy. His life really has changed.

They wait. Mashallon’s been divested of her speeder at some point, so she creeps from shadow to shadow on foot. It’s eerie. Where any normal person in a similar situation would startle at every movement, she only glances disinterestedly when rustlings in dumpsters turn out to be rakkons. Can Jedi see through stealth generators? Sense his troops somehow? If he gives into the temptation to pull the trigger, will they all be slaughtered in an instant?

Next to him, Jillins is practically vibrating. He hisses, “Hold, Corporal.” He won’t risk it.

Mashallon crosses the empty square unimpeded. She steps into the spaceport, where she’ll find a maze of barricades and droids to slow her down. Long minutes drag by.

His datapad lets him know he has a text. Without looking, he hits the button that translates it to speech and sends it directly into his earpiece.

The electronic voice reads: “From: vette (piratequeen@kci.net). To: m.quinn@imp.mil. Subject: We’re here, exclamation point. Text body: N/A. End message.”

He wonders why his team hasn’t informed him, but quickly realizes it’s something of a moot point. Yaellia Ivros is barreling down the street and through the square on a speeder that looks like it’s been the victim of a direct orbital strike, Vette hanging on for dear life behind her. With his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he can barely make them out in the afterimages left by the rear lights. The rest of his soldiers have probably been similarly blinded.

He shakes his head to clear it and lifts his comm. “All hands, move out.”

Keeping a slow, measured pace is not the hardest thing he has ever done in his life, but it certainly deserves a spot on the list. Though they obviously won’t overtake Yaellia at the speed she’s moving, they can’t afford to be too late. As skilled as she is, she graduated Korriban a month ago and this is a fully-fledged Jedi Knight. She might need backup. Every instinct screams at him to run.

He walks.

&

The spaceport, when he reaches it, bears every hallmark of a Jedi passing through in a hurry. His team has to step, scramble, and sometimes climb over droid parts. Heavy barricades have been chopped in half. One of the locked hangar elevators has been sliced.

As he steps out of the elevator with a handful of his best men, he knows he’s precisely on time.

The Jedi’s hood has fallen back and there’s a blaster wound in her shoulder, but she’s holding her own against Yaellia’s swift strikes. Vette is crouched behind a speeder deploying a kolto spray drone, patching up Yaellia’s wounds even as they’re inflicted. As he watches, Yaellia surges forward, twists, and sends the Jedi’s blade skittering out of her hand and across the floor.

“Yield,” she growls, setting one saber at the Jedi’s throat.

Mashallon closes her eyes. “Your victory means nothing,” she murmurs. “The damage has been done. The proof has been transmitted. So, deal the deathblow, Sith. I am at peace knowing that the greater good has been served.”

In this moment, Malavai loves his job. “I hate to burst your bubble, Jedi.” He doesn’t even bother trying to stop his slow, cruel smirk. “No, that’s a lie. I’m reveling in it.”

Yaellia turns to stare at him over her shoulder, and the Jedi gasps. He could laugh. “I intercepted your transmission. You’ve been monitored and screened this entire time. The Jedi know nothing.”

Yaellia’s mouth drops open. For a split-second she just blinks at him—and then she gasps, “Lieutenant Quinn, I could kiss you!”

She doesn’t mean it. Face burning, he averts his eyes and mutters, “I was only doing my job, my lord.”

Mashallon takes a final breath, her gaze sweeping the assembled Imperials defiantly. “Gloat all you like, it means nothing. I remain at peace. And you will still fail.”

Yaellia turns back to her, her voice even. Pleasant. As though she’s asking about the weather. “The name of Nomen Karr’s padawan, if you please.”

Mashallon’s eyes narrow. “No.”

She sighs, shaking her head. “...I want you to remember I asked politely.” The saber burns a thin line in the skin of the Jedi’s neck.

The Jedi doesn’t even flinch. Her empty hands flex and then relax, her shoulders settling. “Unlike you, the Force and the Jedi way give me a sense of something larger than myself. I am resigned. Strike me down, I offer no further resistance.”

Yaellia draws in a slow breath, chest heaving. Malavai knows that the next sight he’ll see will be the Jedi’s head rolling on the floor.

And then, impossibly, she lowers her saber. “No,” she says coolly. “It would be a waste.”

What. None of Malavai’s men move. Malavai himself isn’t sure he can move. His legs have enough to do just keeping him upright. If the Republic are their enemies, the Jedi are...the Jedi are nightmares. The Great War was a thousand years ago, but none of them have forgotten the burning of libraries, the wholesale bombing of their greatest cities, the slaughter of millions. Had it not been for the element of surprise, they surely would have repeated their atrocities in the last war. Lady Yaellia would have been a child when the Treaty of Coruscant was signed, but he’s seen her files. He knows she took top marks in Sith history. She knows what the Jedi have done, what they will do again if given the chance. And yet she lets this one live?

It makes no sense. He can barely breathe.

Absurdly, he remembers a libretto he once discovered on the HoloNet. It had purported to be the text of an opera banned for centuries for un-Imperial sentiment. The central couple, and conflict, had been about a Sith sparing a Jedi’s life and the Jedi spending years trying to “bring them to the Light” in exchange. Though they’d fallen in love, it had ended in tragedy when the Sith killed them rather than lose what made them who they were, only to launch into a stirring final aria wherein they vowed to join the Jedi in memory of their lost lover. He’d given the address to the censors later, of course, but it had stuck with him. The last time he’d checked, the website had still been up.

He steps forward, resolute. “...I will take her into custody, my lord.” Surrounding the Jedi and wrapping Force-suppressant cuffs around her wrists is a simple matter, one he can do on autopilot. He’s glad for it, because while his hands and mouth move he doesn’t have to think about what he’s doing. “Your lightsaber, if you will, Jedi. Men, escort her to her new home in the main prison.”

“And treat her well,” Yaellia adds firmly, extinuishing her sabers. “Torture is notoriously unreliable, and I am under the impression that the Imperial armed forces is made of sentients, not beasts.”

Vette snorts. “Good luck with that,” she mutters.

The Jedi is marched away. Malavai remains behind. His men have this in hand, and he cannot leave until he has answers. Until he understands. When he draws close to Yaellia, she smells like smoke. He follows her gaze to his troops and murmurs, “I am sure you know what you’re doing, my lord. But sparing the Jedi is...” Insane. “A curious choice.”

She stiffens. He braces himself—has she sensed how much he’s truly questioning her? But her sabers remain unlit, and oxygen still moves through his lungs. When she turns to him, her eyes are hard as gold. He knows he’s being unfathomably rude, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

Her chin lifts. She’s challenging him as well. “The Jedi think we are monsters, Lieutenant Quinn. I refuse to prove them right.”

He almost argues. Of course the Sith are monsters. The Sith are their monsters. Carnage is her birthright, slaughter her crown. Her very creed promises strength and victory. What does she care if a Jedi judges her for knowing passion—for knowing life? For protecting her people with everything she has? But there’s a faint tremor in her shoulders, and he remembers the way she’d soothed Lieutenant Rutau and that Republic ensign alike. The way she’d granted Rylon an honorable death.

He remembers stories.

“I see,” he mutters, and looks away.

&

“...It's not my place, Lord Baras. I leave that for your apprentice to convey.”

It’s nearly midnight. Putting the city to rights and cleaning up the spaceport to an even semi-usable state had taken hours. He’s pretty sure the slaves and droids are still working on it. The Jedi has been placed in the most secure wing they could find. The guards had asked him when to schedule the inquisitor; he’d swallowed his gorge, been reminded of the Imperial armed forces is made of sentients, not beasts and told them it could wait a while. That he’s still upright and talking to Baras—who had demanded a report immediately—is solely due to his decades of military experience.

Yaellia’s near-emotionless voice from the doorway saves him. “I am here, master.”

She looks half dead on her feet; most likely the adrenaline crash. Vette follows her like a second shadow, positioned in such a way as to unobtrusively offer physical support.

As they enter, he stands a little straighter. She shoots him a quick glance, squares her shoulders, and does the same before bowing to Baras as deeply as she probably can without falling over.

“Nice of you to join us,” Baras snorts. “Quinn refuses to update me, insisting the privilege be yours. I assume the Jedi investigator has been stopped?”

She stares straight past him. “...She is no longer a concern, master.”

Baras grumbles, “I had hoped to avoid confronting her, but our hand was forced. What matters most is that Rylon can no longer be exposed.”

That’s right, Malavai thinks. And it’s all because of her. You have a rare find in your apprentice, my lord. And then, traitorously, You had better appreciate her.

“And how would you assess Lieutenant Quinn’s contribution?”

His parade rest is suddenly a statue’s pose. His hands clench into fists behind his back. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she dismisses him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she doesn’t.

But the question seems to have the same effect on Lady Yaellia as an intravenous line of pure caffeine straight to the heart, because she jolts a little on her feet and blurts out, “Lieutenant Quinn? He’s an exceptional officer! Really, the best support I could’ve hoped for. I couldn't have done it without him! If you ask me, master, he is wasted in a place like Balmorra.”

His heart skips a beat. Baras tilts his head, studying him from behind his mask. “High praise indeed,” he says finally. “Quinn, I believe you have sufficiently repaid the debt owed to me. I'm putting you up for a captaincy and transmitting an executive order allowing you to station wherever you choose. You are dismissed.”

He can feel his mouth moving and knows words must be coming out, knows he’s thanking Lord Baras and expressing his sincere gratitude. His mind is a thousand light-years away. A captaincy. Freedom. I’ll never need to step foot on this blasted rock again. I could go anywhere—could make a real difference for the Empire—I could go home—

Lady Yaellia is looking at him. Heart hammering in his chest, he bows to her. “My lord, before I depart, it's been my extreme honor to serve you.” Swallowing hard, he adds, “You are...you are the epitome of everything the Empire stands for.”

It’s not a lie. It’s not even an exaggeration. Honor. Strength. Order. As odd as some of her decisions have been, she displays every Imperial virtue. More than that, she inspires other people to follow her example—or at the very least, she should. He can’t imagine the sort of person who would purposely disappoint her when she holds even her own actions to such high standards.

And she flushes dark at his words. He can’t bear it. “The honor has been mine.” She pauses, and a tired smile breaks across her face. “Captain Quinn. I shall miss you.”

“Maybe our paths will cross once more, my lord,” he murmurs. He can’t look at her face anymore.

As he leaves, Vette turns to call over her shoulder, “We’ll probably be off this rock by tomorrow afternoon!”

So there’s a time limit. And then she will be gone, and he’ll probably never see her again. The thought is a knife to his heart.

He walks home, the wind ruffling his hair and stinging his nose. He doesn’t smell smoke anymore. When he reaches his street, the whole building is dark and quiet, and his apartment feels like a tomb. He stands in the doorway and thinks that he should be overjoyed at this unexpected good fortune. He should be celebrating. At the very least, he should make himself a cup of tea; he doubts he’ll be getting much sleep anyway.

Instead he sits at his kitchen table and stares out the window. There’s a light on in the apartment across the way. He wonders what they’re doing, if they were on duty tonight. If they’ve had their life irrevocably changed by any young, idealistic Sith lately.

“The honor has been mine.”

He wants it to be insincere. A lie, a trick, something. Who says that? No, he rephrases, what kind of Sith says that? He knows he shouldn’t trust it. If he was as intelligent as he likes to think he is, he’d be glad to see the back of her. Honor never lasts, no matter what the stories say. Fiction is fiction for a reason; the greatest Sith, those who made the galaxy quake at their whims, cared nothing for the lives of ants like him.

But.

But when he closes his eyes, he sees her tired smile. Hears the way she gushed about him to Baras, her eyes shining. Remembers the desperation in her voice when she’d told him not to risk himself against the Jedi. “I refuse to let that happen,” she’d said. As though he matters. As though he, Malavai Quinn, thirty-seven years old and a disgraced lieutenant on one of the most backwater rocks in Imperial space, with no status or influential allies or access to any particularly juicy blackmail, is important. Not because of what he can do for her or who he is connected to, but because he is a person.

He is suddenly furious. Where were you ten years ago, twenty years ago?! Where were you when I was new? How dare you come to me now, Yaellia Ivros? But even as he balls his hands into fists to stop them shaking, he imagines how that would have went. Twenty-seven year old Malavai had been going through the worst year of his life—his father’s death, Druckenwell, the war’s unceremonious end—and he wouldn’t have appreciated being reminded that such things as hope and decency existed in the galaxy. Seventeen-year-old Malavai frankly doesn’t bear thinking about; he’d been an insufferable teenager, and she probably would have stabbed him. He can’t say he would have complained. It would have been normal.

Then again, normal isn’t a word he can truthfully use to describe her. Despite the incredible results she gets, he knows her methods won’t make her popular. He can’t imagine even Baras approving. Then again, he also can’t imagine her letting his disapproval change anything. His heart is racing, and he’s not sure whether it’s terror or something else. She really could change the galaxy. If she lives.

If.

His heart sinks. Sith politics will eat her alive. Stars, if Baras finds out how she interprets his orders he’ll probably eat her alive. He tries to imagine a galaxy without her, without her lightning-fast sabers and strange sense of compassion and the sheer joy she takes in opera. Without the change she effects everywhere she goes just by existing. It should be easy; he’s only known her for a few days, and they’ve barely spoken. They are nearly strangers.

He wants to change that. He can change that; he’s a captain now, he can take any posting he wishes. He can find her ship, join her crew, serve at her side. For the first time in a decade, he can do anything.

By the time he wakes the next morning, he has made his decision.

&

Everything he owns fits into two suitcases. He could probably narrow it down to one, but he remembers sparkling gold eyes and decides to pack every music-related disc he has. He showers and shaves with particular care; after a brief internal debate over whether he should wear his dress uniform, he settles for his best everyday one instead. Too formal and he’ll appear ridiculous instead of sincere, and he can’t bear for her to think he’s not taking this seriously. He makes himself a cup of decaf tea before he leaves.

Afternoon, Vette had said, but he has no idea what a Twi’lek considers afternoon and he barely slept last night out of fear of somehow missing their departure entirely. It’s 1100 on the dot when he makes his way into the hangar at a brisk walk, looking for the ship registered under Yaellia’s name.

Fortunately, it’s impossible to miss. The Zhasanai’s Grace is a sleek Fury-class Interceptor, a very common model, but instead of the standard gray she’s been painted bright red with jagged black lines reminiscent of traditional Zabrak tattoos. Zhasanai, he recalls, is also a Zabrak name. He wonders who Yaellia named her ship for, and if she’d tell him if he asked. He suspects she would. As he approaches, his attention is caught by droids loading pallets of supplies into her cargo hold, followed by a chauffeur steering a cherry-red four-door Manta Landspeeder the size of a Cartel skiff in with them. Last night’s death trap was clearly the first thing she could grab; this is the sort of speeder he would have expected Yaellia to fly.

None of the workers pay him any mind. He stands at a loose parade rest and waits next to his suitcases.

And waits. After a while, he finds himself fighting the urge to scroll through his datapad. He hasn’t had time to catch up with the news in a while, and this is around the time of year when the drafts start for cricket season. But if Lady Yaellia sees him acting so frivolously in public, the sheer embarrassment will probably kill him before any of her enemies get the chance.

He’s started to lose track of how long he’s been waiting by the time the elevator opens to reveal her standing inside it. She’s got one arm looped through the handle of a Sobrik Spaceport gift bag and the other through Vette’s; at first he can’t make out what they’re talking about, but then he realizes she’s supplementing her side of the conversation with ISL when words fail her and upgrades his mental portfolio of her to include has exceedingly strong opinions on spaceport food. His mouth does something so unfamiliar he has to pause to recognize it as a smile.

When she sees him, the ISL stops and her face lights up. “Captain Quinn! Did you come to see us off?”

He bows as deeply to her as he would to Lord Baras. “My lord,” he murmurs. “I hope you don't find my appearance here obtrusive. I beg an audience.”

She blinks, and then nods. “Of course.”

He takes a deep breath. He should have practiced this speech, but even now that it’s happening part of his brain can’t believe it. “My reassignment is an evolution I've longed for, but I assumed it would never come. Aiding you on this planet—it has reawakened the ambition I began my career with, to make the most profound impact possible for the Empire.”

Before he can second-guess himself, he drops to one knee and bows his head. Yaellia chokes. “Captain Quinn!”

The spaceport floor is freezing through the thin fabric of his uniform trousers and badly in need of a power-washing. Someone’s dropped used chewing gum not half a meter away. Yaellia’s boots need polishing, and one of Vette’s is coming untied. He notices all of this only because his heart is pounding like an artillery bombardment and if he looks up he thinks he might faint. That would certainly not help his case.

Breathe. In for three, hold, out for five. Hating the tremor in his voice, he continues, “I cannot think of a more glorious and honorable way to make a difference in the galaxy than to serve you.”

She makes a noise like a dying gundark. He risks a brief glance upwards and finds her with both hands clasped to her mouth, her face absolutely scarlet. She seems to be beyond words.

His mouth goes dry. He has to make her see. “I'm here to pledge myself to you. I'm ready and willing to serve in—in whatever capacity you see fit.”

“Whatever capacity?” It is very close to a squeak. “That’s—really?”

“Oh, stars,” Vette mutters. “And I thought you two flirting over snooty musicals was bad—”

Yaellia kicks her sharply in the ankle. It would be funny if it wasn’t also mortifying.

He’s talking more quickly now. He knows he sounds desperate—undignified—but he can’t stop. He’s so close, he knows it. “My lord, if given the chance, I know I will prove myself to you. I'm a top-notch pilot, military strategist and a deadly shot. I can fly this ship, plan your battles, assess your enemies and kill them. You won't find a more tireless and loyal subject. I will dedicate every ounce of my strength to your cause.” Please. That Twi’lek can’t protect you alone, not from the kinds of threats you’ll be facing. You need me.

She’s still staring at him as though she can’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “...Captain Quinn,” she says carefully. “Are you sure about this?”

A voice, gentle yet firm. Words straight from myth. Nobility he’s only ever dreamed about. The absolute certainty that all of that stands balanced on a razor’s edge, and she will need all the help he can give if she’s not going to be sliced to ribbons.

He can only answer honestly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, my lord.”

Her chest swells with her deep breath, and it’s not his imagination that has her back straightening. She is noble in more than just her actions, after all. Fealty is her birthright. “Then I accept your service.” Her serious tone is utterly at odds with the grin that spreads across her face as she adds, “Besides, who else would I talk about opera with? I haven’t forgotten.”

He actually had. “Um,” he starts, dropping his gaze. “It would be an honor—”

A hand appears in his field of vision. It takes him a moment of confusion to realize Yaellia is offering to help him to his feet. “Now, do get up off the floor. I don’t want to think what it’s doing to your knees.”

He has a split second to think This is inappropriate, I mustn’t before his hand comes up entirely of its own accord to wrap around hers. It’s warm even through their respective gloves, and she only has to take half a step backwards to haul him to his feet. If he’d been shorter, it would be effortless. There’s a moment before he fully straightens where his eyes meet hers, and the expression in them is one he cannot bear to name.

But neither can he look away. She has yet to let go of his hand, and it’s frozen him in place like a tractor beam. “My lord,” he starts. You’ve given me my life back. You’ve given me hope. How else can I repay you?

“My captain,” she murmurs. Her voice wasn’t even this soft with Lieutenant Rutau, and that man had nearly lost a foot. Malavai just has a mildly sore knee.

Vette chooses this exact moment to ask, “Is this all your stuff?”

He jerks away from Yaellia like he’s been burnt, turning the full force of his glare on the Twi’lek. “Indeed.”

Yaellia looks over his suitcases with a judgmental eye, but when she turns back to him she’s smiling again. “We’ll get you set up right away, never fear. I can’t wait to give you a tour of the ship.” She pauses. “Ah, do feel free to make any adjustments to the cockpit you want. It might be a bit cramped in there otherwise.”

This time, he knows he’s smiling back. “...Thank you for giving me this opportunity, my lord. I will submit my reassignment papers as we depart.”

And he steps onto the Zhasanai’s Grace, ready to begin his new life.

-

Worldbuilding/headcanon notes:

- Quinn's love of opera comes from the fact that one of the Imperial Memorabilia gifts you can give him (his favorite type of gift) is a Sith Opera Collection. (The fact that another gift in that category is Banned Imperial History Document says a few things...) - Quinn & Yael are both super autistic. Quinn does not know this about himself. Boy You Gon' Learn. - His baby brother, Zeiran, is ~8 years younger than him and an Imperial Intelligence agent. They have not spoken since Druckenwell. - I am at least 95% sure I read the timeline right and Druckenwell/the battle of Rhen Var (Col. Rymar Quinn's death)/the Treaty of Coruscant happened in the same year. Please nobody tell me if I'm wrong. - Lord Venditor is my friend's OC! Unbeknownst to Quinn, he is a sad wet dog of a man.

[tokiro07]

Undead Unluck ch.221 thoughts

[That's a Helluva Cold Open]

or [Bad and Naughty Children Get Put in the Kessler Effect]

(Contents: narrative analysis - story structure; thematic analysis - friendship/growth/loyalty; predictions)

Title Drop TWO!!!

And we have a title!!! ... Again!!!

Admittedly it loses a little bit of its impact this time around, but David Evelyn couldn't have known Tozuka was gonna literally have Andy say "Undead Unluck" when Fuuko previously used furigana to technically say it

I also don't know if there was a way to avoid double dipping like this in English without losing the original meaning in the first place; previously, Fuuko said "Unluck" as the furigana for the "Undead" kanji, so she was literally saying both at once, just in a more subtle way that doesn't translate in English. If it were me and I knew this chapter was going to have Andy say Undead Unluck, I think I would have had Fuuko say "here comes my Undead," since it's clearly a reference to her usual catchphrase while also incorporating the new meaning, but it does come across a little weaker than saying Undead Unluck

I'm not here to gripe about translation choices, though, especially since, again, David made the most of what he was given and couldn't have known it would retroactively become repetitive. No one's at fault here, it's just unfortunate that it made the moment a teeny bit less special

Still, the idea that this is the beginning of the real story does make the timing of that title drop pretty appropriate; I think it's fair to say that a lot of us considered L100 to be a sort of prologue, as once we learned about the loops (and even before that in my case) it was pretty much a forgone conclusion that L100 would end in failure. L101 then seemed like it was the "main" story, but realizing now that the final enemy team was basically hidden behind what amounts to a cutscene gate makes it clear that all of the teambuilding of L101 was basically a crazy long training arc, the tutorial if you will

To put it simply, L100 was the intro of Symphony of the Night (fighting the final boss and losing access to the apparent main character), L101 up to now has been Dracula's Castle (the true main character gaining experience and equipment), and we've only just now reached the Reverse castle (the original main character returns, but so too is the true final boss accessible now after completing a few more challenges, including finding specific key items first)

To continue the SotN metaphor, the boss of the first half is also someone who should be on the main cast's side but is wrongly under the influence of the final boss and his minions!

Hard Lessons

As I expected, the focus of this chapter is definitely Ruin, though perhaps not quite in the way I expected

I figured that either the majority of the chapter would be dedicated to exploring his backstory or Andy would trigger a monologue by saying the right thing. What we got instead was Andy almost taking on a mentor role, using their similar experiences to relate to Ruin's life path and even celebrating it

In much the same way that Andy progressed from being a complete unknown to being "Captain," then "Undead," and finally "Andy" thanks to Fuuko's influence, Ruin went from being a scared, powerless child to "Unruin" and a follower of God thanks to the influence of Blood and Shadow. As I said last week, Ruin has no control over the flow of his life, just as Andy didn't until he met Fuuko

Just like Fuuko wanted to be for Tatiana what Andy was for her, Andy now wants to be for Ruin what Fuuko was for him: the culmination of "dumb luck," the one to turn that luck into fate, the one who can turn the bad hand that was dealt into a big win. All of the events of Ruin's life have led him to Andy here and now, and Andy is the one person who can show Ruin just how massively a person can change and grow when exposed to others

Mutual Growth

Andy gets to make this demonstration twofold: not only is his final attack, Bad Loop, only possible because he has Fuuko, but Ruin will only have the chance to escape it (or at least make the most of his time while caught in it) because Andy released Blood and Shadow and allowed them to go to Ruin's side

Sure, Blood and Shadow are still of the belief that Ruin's only hope for happiness is to defeat the Union and serve God, but based on the rest of the chapter, I don't think that they themselves are all that loyal to God in the first place. Their refutation that Andy's philosophy will help Ruin at first seems like propaganda for God, but I think it's more likely that the three of them have mutually come to the conclusion that this is the right path

After all, Blood and Shadow are the equivalent of Clothy, and it was Clothy who put his faith in them to help Ruin. Andy's partnership with Clothy allowed them to come to an understanding almost wordlessly, with Andy reading Clothy's expression easily and asking a vague question to determine the right course of action. If any UMA can recognize one that values a human over God, it's Clothy

It's also worth noting that Ruin already augments Unruin w/ his UMA pals, so it's not like he's completely unfamiliar with the concept of mutual growth, he just needs to recognize that there isn't really a difference between the UMA and Negators. Sure, they're shaped differently and born by different means, but they all manipulate the rules of the world in some way, and all of them have distinct personalities. I don't think there's a single UMA that's been portrayed as a totally mindless beast, just that some of them aren't given any dialogue to demonstrate their personalities

In a sense, they're all people. Ruin is just trying to create a world where the people he likes can live, and honestly he probably thinks that the Union is trying to kill them. Sure, sometimes they have to kill them, but...really think about why they have to. Who is making them kill the Rules?

God. God is the one letting Ruin's precious Rules be killed, and is even facilitating it. In fact, the idea seems to be that the ones who are targeted for elimination in Quests are the ones that are "expendable" to God's ideal world; is Ruin so bought in that it's okay for Rules to die so long as God says so?

Picking Sides

Given the kind of upbringing that we see Ruin had, it's not hard to see how he might accept something so cruel as just. As @wickedsick pointed out earlier in the week, Ruin's...father? Guardian? Owner? is specifically depicted in silhouette, lifting his foot to kick and stomp at Ruin while scalding him with steaming hot liquid, giving him almost exactly the aesthetic of Sun's descent during Ragnarok

I believe this is meant to demonstrate that Ruin views humanity as exactly the same kind of oppressive force that God is to the Union, but it's also possible that it's a symbol for how, as a Negator, Ruin will always be facing that sort of oppression so long as he refuses to ally with the people who are like him

As Andy says, Ruin is currently taking the easy way out; he's giving up his own autonomy to work under God, selling out everyone else so that he can cling to his own false idea of happiness. He doesn't have to think about the morality of his choices if he just goes along with what he's told, if he buys the lie that all of humanity is an afront to the world and not literally the point of its existence. The Rules of the world are crafted to prompt humanity to find "the greatest life ever" through suffering, and Ruin is an agent meant to provide that suffering. God doesn't have any intention of letting Ruin have a place in his world, as evidenced by the fact that he wrongfully believed Unruin would let him survive the loops. Therefore, Ruin is faced with two choices:

Stay the course and view humanity as the others, remaining in conflict with them only to ultimately be hurt and rejected by both sides

Join forces with humanity and rise against God, breaking the cycle and finding real happiness by creating a world where humanity and the Rules can support and guide each other

Bad Loop

The irony of Andy and Fuuko being the ones to put Ruin through an infinite loop of pain and death that he's capable of actually surviving is pretty interesting, as this is literally what he's always wanted from God but he's receiving it from humanity. Furthermore, by being forced to endure this torture, Ruin is being shown a microcosm of what Andy had to experience, both in the first several million years when he was simply drifting through space as a scrap of his own skull and in the remaining 4 billion where he deliberately planted himself on the surface of the sun. He is experiencing a fraction of the suffering he always wanted and being given the opportunity to really think about the implications of that

By being repeatedly buffeted with death, Ruin will have endless, rapid-fire opportunities to test, understand and improve Unruin, and eventually come to realize that even after all of that, there's a limit to what he's capable of. That's what happened to Andy; he learned everything there is to know about Undead as a standalone ability, and presumably had the time to consider combination techniques, but realized that no matter how hard he thought about it, the only things that would allow him any further growth would be inspiration in the moment or a perspective he isn't capable of providing

After all, Andy only knows everything about Undead. He knows a good deal about everyone else, but just like how Billy couldn't draw out the full power of any of his copied abilities, Andy can only coordinate so well with the rest of his team without first seeing how they've personally enhanced their capabilities. If Unstoppable is different now than it used to be but Andy doesn't realize that, it's just as much Top's responsibility to come up with combo ideas as it is Andy's

Ruin, meanwhile, still hasn't even reached the starting line where he actually knows how to use Unruin in combat. Right now he's just using Blood and Shadow as weapons and augmenting them with his infinite blood supply, but Unruin itself hasn't grown or changed. The problem is that he's still thinking of Unruin as a regenerative ability, as a lesser Undead, and hasn't determined what makes it unique yet. Once he knows how to actually use it, once he accepts his humanity and understands himself, he'll be able to max out his personal growth and begin his interpersonal growth, both with his UMAs and his future Union compatriots

Of course, the real question now is how long until that future arrives

The Final Saga

With Andy's declaration that the final fight is beginning, I've seen a lot of doom and gloom about the series ending. While UU is ostensibly not performing well compared to other Jump manga, it's apparently still selling better than a lot of top-sellers outside of Jump, so I doubt Shueisha plans to axe it

Even if that's not what people are worried about and instead they're just lamenting the knowledge that the end is in sight, I can't help but feel the opposite. In fact, I've never felt so glad to have a series I like declare it's intention to conclude - it means that it won't be forcefully dragged on

This review series was spawned by my opinion that Jump manga are at their peak at the four-year mark, and that they tend to lose interest after the six-year mark. While I'm sure I could love Undead Unluck all the same no matter how long it went, I can't deny the possibility that I would grow tired of it past that point. I became fatigued with Hero Academy despite how much I loved it from the beginning. Food Wars earned my respect by the end of year one but lost it a year or two before its conclusion. Aside from One Piece, I have no evidence of a weekly series holding my attention for so long without developing some feeling of negativity, so it's a valid concern that even UU would pass the threshold and begin to decline

I'm ecstatic that UU is approaching the end of its fifth full year. I love that this past year has been one of if not its best so far, but I'd be lying if I said I could see it doubling that. The story that Tozuka wants to tell has a specific number of beats that have been foreshadowed already, and while it will certainly have plenty of surprises within, it can't produce more indefinitely without deviating from the initial vision. While there may be some cuts or rushed plot points, it's clear that Tozuka is getting to tell the main story that he wants to get across, and that's all I've ever wanted for any Jump manga

With eight Master Rules to fight, the likely return of Seal, and the conflicts with both Sun and Luna on the horizon, there are likely at least 9 storylines to cover, depending on if any of the remaining enemies team up or if there are any more moments of downtime in between like searching for Artifact Heart

Even if we assume this is going to be like the Spring arc and each individual fight prior to the final battle is only like three chapters, that's 27 chapters right there, more than half a year of content, which would then lead into the fight(s) with Sun and Luna, which would likely be at least ten chapters minimum. That would put us ten chapters shy of a full year's worth, landing us in July or August, which is just six months away from the sixth anniversary

I don't know about you, but I could easily see Tozuka making the series last another year and a half from now to hit the six-year mark on the dot, which would give us plenty of time to explore all of the Master Rules, the underdeveloped Union members, the Gods, and give us a good capstone to Andy and Fuuko's relationship

Even if it's just the bare minimum, though, like I've always said, I trust in Tozuka. While the pacing is a bit fast at times, he's never failed to leave me with a satisfying story in the end; even the weaker arcs were a blast to read through the whole time, and I look back on every one of them fondly. I don't want the rest to be rushed at all, but Tozuka has a clear vision of what he wants, and I trust he won't waste any of the time that he's given

Until next time, let's enjoy life!

[jezabelofthenorth]

this isn’t at all surprising when you think about it, but it’s funny how ricardians always like to say if richard had won at bosworth the reformation wouldn’t have happened when it was henry who had a stronger relationship with rome

almost like that event wasn’t a forgone conclusion in 1485 and could have happened with one of richard’s descendants too!

[droughtofapathy]

"Welcome to the Theatre": Diary of a Broadway Baby

John Proctor is the Villain

April 13, 2025 | Broadway | Booth Theatre | Matinee | Play | Original | 2H

A surprising delight, this show brings back endearing teenaged earnestness back to the Booth at long last. For months, I've had so much derision for this show's marketing. The deliberately childish messages does this provocative and resonant show a major disservice. The story itself is largely what you would expect for the subject matter. Set in 2018 in a one-stoplight Georgia town, a collection of students navigate the themes of The Crucible in tandem with a homegrown scandal happening in their very midst. The play tackles these topics through the lens of young women so masterfully. Each of the children start out as predictable archetypes, but as the story progresses, layers of complexity and contradiction come out in full force. I don't love children on stage, but there have been a number of shows recently that represent teenaged earnestness and dramatics well, and the design makes them look so very young in a way that's so much more realistic than we're usually subjected to. These kids aren't brats. What a relief.

I do wonder if the show assumes a forgone conclusion that might not be wholly accurate, but I don't think it upsets the main message. It's been my experience that John Proctor was never really taught as a hero. A protagonist, yes, but as well all (should) know, protagonist =/= hero. And sentiment around how culpable the girls were in the Salem Witch Trials has shifted over the years, but I feel like it was doing that well before 2018. Regardless, the story isn't so much a critical analysis of Miller's play, but rather a parallel towards the state of the world, and the powerlessness teenaged girls experience throughout history. Unlike the major miss of the recent R + J revival in portraying youthful disillusion, this show is so much more successful. I hope that the young people who are lured in because of the major star (whom I'd never heard of prior to this, as is often the case) will come away with inspired by how theatre can resonate with more than just old white people. Regardless of age, anyone who has ever been a teenaged girl will experience a great catharsis in several standout moments. There's this subtle movement in the last three seconds before blackout that speaks to the core of the entire show.

The play is getting rave reviews, and while I don't see it toppling the favorite to win this season (even if maybe it should at least be runner-up to a different show), it's a strong contender and will have a fantastic life in the regional and college-level circuit. I have issues with show advertising a 100-minute runtime when it is very much almost a full two hours, no intermission. There are some easy cuts that could have been made early in the show, as it's a little slow to get started, but once it gets going, it flies.

Verdict: Why I Love the Theatre

A Note on Ratings