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haru-sen · 3 years

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Imperial Forces

I’ve written...a lot of words for a fanfic no one asked for, and only one person has confirmed knowing what the hell I am even talking about. My god. This is a preview of the IAL anniversary gift and may be changed down the road. Certain people instigated this, you know who you are, and I’m still salty at you.

TW: This is a darker piece of work compliant with some of the unpleasantness that one expects the Sith Empire. Includes: dubcon, mentions of previous sexual assaults, attempted sexual assault, bad boundaries, bondage, and improper use of the Force. Edited: Posted some minor corrections. Part 1/?

You sat at the table, ramrod straight, focusing on the silverware, and your glass of wine. The cut of the crystal was exquisite, and the wine was a Dathomirian Fury Red, if you recalled correctly, which you might not, because the entire day had been an absolute disaster, and you would be so very lucky if you made it to the dessert course. Surviving this situation was highly unlikely. You’d known for awhile that your time was extremely limited. But having dessert before you were murdered by a Sith lord, would be kind of nice.

You glanced up at the masked Sith, and then the bored moff across from you: dinner, dessert, death. At least the dining room was luxuriously decorated. You’d always expected to die in a dark, gross alley. This was an upgrade, really.

But for some reason, all these high-end pre-murder amenities were not making you feel any better.

They called you Cipher 13, because your real name was classified, and because the previous Cipher 13 took a one-way trip down a sarlacc pit the night before your spontaneous promotion. In all fairness, the name was probably cursed. You were the “unluckiest” of the Cipher agents, often getting the worst assignments or having your missions interrupted by the most unbelievable accidents.

It was an old joke by now, but you still got regular comments about your unenviable misfortune. Like today, when you’d gone to the quartermaster to stock up on the special blend of stimpacks Ciphers used. Fixer 3 had made an awkward joke about how your formula had “unpredictable results” and looked uncharacteristically scared when you took one right in front of him. Fixer 3 was normally a sensible guy and you liked him. You weren’t sure what he had been thinking today.

But it had been a long week, and you had not been given the regular rest break between assignments. Something “urgent” had come up. Watcher 5 had briefed you of your next mission, which was something convoluted and political. You were working for a Dark Council member. Watcher 5 had slipped in a snide remark along the lines of, “try not to let your personal chaos spill into this operation. Sith Lords have little tolerance for surprises.”

He said this, like you had control over these things. Ridiculous.

For example, how could you anticipate that a rancor would get loose at a diplomatic banquet and eat the person you were supposed to interrogate (along with half a dozen or so other very important people)? Not your fault, and certainly not within your control, and despite slicing the needed information from his personal terminal, the mission had been judged (unfairly!) to be a failure. Then there was that pazaak tournament on Nar Shaddaa where you had been burned by another Cipher, who outed you to the Hutts. It didn’t matter, in the sense that you won the game, shot her in the face, and received the boon you had entered the tournament to acquire. (The Hutts didn’t care who you worked for, as long as you weren’t crossing them.) You received demerits for having your cover blown by another agent’s blatant betrayal. (But she didn’t get any, because she was dead, and Minder 2 was pissy with you after that forever.) Then, there was that time you’d walked right into a Jedi strike team ambush meant for Darth Baras on Corellia… You were lucky to only lose a hand that day. Coincidentally, the officer who had given you the bad intel had also been fatally unlucky. He had a rare and deadly allergic reaction to the nuts in his ryshcate pastries, served at a diplomatic fete that weekend. How tragic it is when one can’t even enjoy their pastries.

But it wasn’t just misfortune. The current Keeper did not like you, had never liked you, and was growing more and more frustrated by the fact that you kept coming back alive, when many others did not. (You knew for a fact that the Minders had a betting pool regarding your survival. Minder 12 had been very helpful in providing you the behind the scenes information. You missed her.) As Keeper effectively ran the ops division of Imperial Intelligence, this was a definite problem.

Watcher 4 had been instrumental in keeping you alive. But now that he was gone, you were on your own with very few allies within your organization. That was why you had been given this newest assignment. (You missed Watcher 4 as well, and while you could not and would not try to prove it, you thought he and Minder 12 might have faked their deaths and run off together. It was a purely fanciful notion, but you could dream, right?) Imperial Intelligence agents didn’t get happy endings. And Ciphers usually didn’t make it to five years.

You had seven.

By all rights, you should have been able to transfer to a Watcher position a long time ago. But that never happened. It was probably because Keeper hated you. You did not know exactly why. You suspected it was because you were not born into the upper echelons of Imperial high society. You had started out a slave, earned some freedom, and trained as a Cipher; but on the Imperial capital planet of Dromund Kaas, that wasn’t enough. Your continual survival offended him, a constant reminder of his own failure to erase you.

And so here you were, assigned to the whims of Darth Thanaton, a member of the Dark Council, a crusty overpowered madman, and worse, an absolutely unmitigated boor. He was urbane enough in his public appearances, but behind closed doors? An absolute drama queen.

You stood in his foyer, Thanaton was shouting now, and you got the impression that he did this a lot, having an audience present was optional. The man himself was older, fit enough to show his face (no mask or rebreather), and had been quite the assassin in his day. The room was black marble, filled with ugly stone antiques, and it felt like a mausoleum, only louder and more oppressive. Your head was pounding and your stomach churning as you struggled to pay attention to his spiel. You were professional enough that you could maintain a mask of respectfulness, despite your growing physical discomfort. You had powered through worse.

Like that time on Tatooine when you’d broken a leg in melee combat with Tusken Raiders…That had been a bad day. Or that time you’d gone undercover as a Hutt’s dancing slave on Nar Shaddaa. Or even when…

Focus. Thanaton was bad enough. You did not need to take a trip down traumatic memory lane in the middle of a Darth’s monologue.

Thanaton spent a good quarter of an hour railing against the failing morals and falling standards of the Sith academy on Korriban. And then another quarter of an hour complaining about the bureaucratic delay in assigning a “suitable” Imperial Intelligence agent to his cause. He went into great detail about how much the Council needed this work done, and how important it was, and how Lord Messor’s habits were unseemly, and Moff Kiljack needed to know his place, and...and...and… It went on much longer. He sprayed spittle when he spoke. It was painfully distracting.

You nodded along, like a good Cipher, even though you could feel the nastiness of his aura crawling along your skin. It worsened your nausea. You were no saint, but being near powerful Sith made you queasy. There was something fundamentally wrong with most of them, and your body knew it. But you stood at attention, masking your disgust, because to cross a Darth was a clear-cut and uncomfortable death, usually with choking, sometimes lightning. You’d seen it up close many times and experienced lighter versions of those punishments yourself. Best avoided if possible.

Keeper knew what he was doing. There was a fifty percent chance that you wouldn’t even make it to the mission. Snotty old Darth Thanaton would take offense at you for simply existing and smite you before you had a chance to get to work.

But you were not unaware of the situation. Lord Messor was an unconventional dark lord, taking more than his share of apprentices from Korriban (and doing who knows what with them? Sith Lords didn’t usually keep more than one alive at a time). Moff Kiljack had been one of those apprentices, and had shown an extreme aptitude for military strategy. He had then been put on a different career track, promoted to head of Messor’s security forces, and given free reign. Eventually however, things between the men soured, and the former security chief had managed to wrangle a promotion from the Imperial army, instead of just wasting away as Messor’s lackey. He gained some powerful allies and rose quickly to the rank of moff. To no one’s surprise, Messor hadn’t taken the change of allegiances well, and now things were awkward, to say the least.

Thanaton claimed that he found the entire situation offensive. You didn’t think it seemed any different from any other horrible day on Dromund Kaas. There were so many betrayals, atrocities, and political cliques, you just tried to keep your head down, and your heart beating. It was more likely that Thanaton feared Messor’s growing power and wanted to eliminate a rival.

If only you had gotten another off-world assignment. You’d already disabled the kill-chip implanted in the base of your skull. You could just fake your death, move to some peaceful, secluded farming planet, and not worry about being flayed alive for accidentally making eye contact with a power-mad sorcerer.

You’d always suspected your cause of death would be “someone else’s ego” or at least “collateral damage,” but you didn’t expect it to play out so literally. By the time Thanaton actually got to the point, you had been standing in his foyer for an hour, watching him froth and rant. Lord Messor or Moff Kiljack had just been assigned to deal with a situation on Hoth or Voss (you couldn’t tell because Thanaton had been going at it for so long that he kept switching the names and not giving you any kriffing context…) But you were to sabotage those efforts, make Messor and the moff lose credibility, fall from grace, and be tossed into the bone pile in the waste dumps outside the city.

That’s it. Ruin them on the basis of his disapproval and use his tenuously plotted scheme to do it. Failure would be met by death.

Success would also probably be treason, and that too was punishable by death.

Hell, if you did succeed, Thanaton would have to kill you to tie up loose ends.

Death, death, or more death, with no obvious way out. Normal mission parameters, really.

Nodding, you told him, “I understand, my lord. It will be done, my lord,” while preparing to take a shuttle off-world and commit very public suicide on Nar Shaddaa. Hell, you could just go throw yourself at the mercy of Theron Shan. He probably would only torture you a little, as a formality, before taking pity on you, and ending your misery himself.

OK, clearly you had been in Darth Thanaton’s dark energy radius for too long, because his madness and depressive thoughts were now rubbing off on you. Plus you still wanted to throw up. And Thanaton might have sensed your urge to flee, because he sent you back to the Imperial High Command with an escort: one of his security advisors, a pompous man of “good breeding” named Captain Prince, and a dozen heavily armed guards.

Druk.

The soldiers weren’t really there for you, you realized once you were already seated in the convoy listening to Prince further explain Thanaton’s “plan.” Lord Messor was taking on a greater role in the war effort against the Republic, and Imperial High Command was providing more men for his military gambits. Prince and his men were being overtly assigned by Imperial High Command, though they were actually loyal to Thanaton. Prince would be reporting to Messor tonight. Your cover was as Prince’s assistant. Your job would be reconnaissance and sabotage, and you would be reporting your progress to both Prince and Thanaton. You also would be expected to produce reports for Keeper, not that Prince understood the workings within Imperial Intelligence.

...It was shit plan. You knew it even before you heard it, though Prince seemed confident that his background would pass muster. That was a little more reassuring than Thanaton’s mad ramblings, but still amateur. Prince was a decorated military man, and had seen some very vicious combat, committed atrocities, and been rewarded for his service. He was not the man you would have put in charge of any operation that required subtlety. If Keeper had wanted this job done right, he would have assigned it to you himself, and given you free reign. There was a lot of subtext to unravel, but right now you had to nod along to Captain Prince’s blathering. He wasn’t nice, he stared at your chest longer than was polite, and he put a hand on your knee. You lightly brushed it off, reminding yourself that you could not kill Thanaton’s representative on the first day.

Like any highborn noble, Lord Messor had an estate outside the city. The route was straight forward, and you were taking a regular speeder to get there. Contrary to your expectations, the ride actually helped clear your head. You were still a little shaky, but less nauseated. Getting away from Thanaton helped. Wind lashed at your skin as you watched the jungle pass by, and you wondered how much of a lead you would have if you left for Nar Shaddaa tonight. With any luck, it would be hours before anyone noticed you were gone.

You waited, hands steady, even as you and Prince exited the vehicle. It was raining, as usual, and the air stunk of ozone. Three more men followed from another transport, and Prince did not offer any introduction, though you could feel them watching you with predatory eyes.

The Messor estate had several outbuildings, and the gates were high. A large fortress had been partially carved out of the cliff, the jungle providing more strategic cover. Though solid, it had the columned facade of an ancient Sith temple. You studied it, not quite sure what Thanaton had been complaining about. Lord Messor seemed to have traditional Sith tastes (gothic and imposing), at least when it came to architecture.

“Come on, kitten,” Prince said with a leer. “If you want to marvel about size, I have something to show you.”

The men behind you laughed.

You just smiled politely, and decided that maybe Prince would lean too far out a window tonight. The jungle provided a lot of ambient noise to cover any screaming. The winds were dangerous. Accidents happened, especially around you. Hell, if Prince was defenestrated, they’d probably be too busy mopping up the meat confetti to look for you…

Prince led the way to the fortress, frowning as an HK droid met you at the bottom of the steps.

“Greetings, Captain. Lord Messor is expecting you. Please come this way.” The droid pointed to a more discrete entrance: a small path leading to a recessed door. With the foliage and the angle of entry, it was well-concealed.

Prince’s upper lip curled in aggravation, but he adjusted course. You followed, noting the placement of the turrets, the thickness of the walls, and the fact that the droid that met you was a high-end assassination model. It spoke like a protocol droid, it had those functions as well, but you were very familiar with the HK series.

You followed Prince through the heavy durasteel door and to a narrow set of stone steps. The lights were low, and the stairwell was mostly in shadow. Then the door slammed shut behind you, leaving the HK droid and the other three men outside.

Prince stopped, he glanced at you questioningly.

“I didn’t shut it,” you said.

Prince pushed past you and tried the handle. The door did not budge. He frowned and drew his blaster pistol.

“Let’s go,” he told you, gesturing with the pistol for you to go first.

“Of course, Captain,” you said, maybe a little sarcastically, as you marched up the stairs, keeping an eye out for trip wires, pressure plates, or any of the other nasty surprises that Sith lords liked to keep around their homes.

...Druk. Sometimes there were creatures. The local fauna was bad enough, but the Sith liked to import nasty things as well as craft their own monsters. You’d seen plenty and you had no desire to face Sithspawn again any time soon.

You stepped lightly. The stairs went up for at least three stories, and then there was another door. You glanced back at Prince.

“Hurry up,” he growled.

You opened the large metal door, and stepped into a cavernous room big enough to serve as a huttball field. Dim lights shone in wall sconces, and two rows of black pillars lined a path to a massive carved throne. All these features seemed to be cut from the same mountain stone.

There was a figure on a throne, black and red robes under a heavy breastplate, a black hood and stylized skull mask covering his face. He wore heavy metal gauntlets, tipped with dangerously sharp talons.

“Captain Prince,” Lord Messor spoke quietly, his voice smoother than you expected, a lot calmer than some other dark lord whom you had met earlier today. The acoustics of the room were amazing, his voice carried through the hall.

“Ah, my lord,” Prince stepped past you, his blaster already holstered. “I am honored to finally- be in your presence.” He gestured for you to follow as he led the way toward the throne.

“I did not give you orders to approach.” He sounded almost bored.

Prince stopped. “My apologies, my lord. I did not-”

“You don’t need to explain,” Lord Messor said, resting his chin in one palm. “And I don’t have patience for your excuses.”

Prince cocked his head to the side and looked almost comically confused.

And then Moff Kiljack – you recognized that striking blonde hair and those icy blue eyes - stepped out from behind a pillar, and pressed his blaster to the back of Prince’s skull. There was no hesitation. He blew the captain’s brains out right there in Lord Messor’s throne room. Prince dropped with a thud.

You barely had time to avoid the splatter, let alone wonder what Moff Kiljack, Lord Messor’s sworn rival, was doing in his throne room. You glanced between the Sith lord and the moff, wondering if you had time to dive for cover while they battled.

Instead, Lord Messor just sighed. “Ensign De Veo,” he said, using your cover name, and giving you hope that he didn’t know exactly what was going on. “Also known as Cipher 13,” he added, crushing that hope. “I’m sorry for the mess. Kiljack can be so...uncivilized.” He stood and began descending from the dais.

You glanced over at Moff Kiljack, not at all surprised to find the blaster pistol aimed at your head.

“That’s unnecessary, Kiljack. I’m sure our dear Cipher understands her position.” Messor swept down the stairs from his throne, red and black fabric swirling behind him. He circled you like a hungry sleen. “Now, I realize this isn’t what you expected. But I’d be delighted to explain everything. So why don’t you join us for dinner, and we can discuss what you’re doing here, why you’re still alive, and what you need to do to stay that way. This should be easy enough for a woman of your caliber.” He chuckled.

There was no room for panic. You survived because you could think on your feet. Because you didn’t get caught up in “what should have happened.” You kept your mouth shut and most of your insubordinate comments in your head.

You gave a stiff bow from the waist. “I would be honored, my lord,” you said, already tasting lightning in the back of your throat. It was very unlikely that you would get through the night without a demonstration of Sith might.

Lord Messor laughed, like he found you genuinely amusing, and headed toward the eastern doors.

“Cipher,” Moff Kiljack was at your side, offering you his right arm. He was a tall man, very fit in his officer grays. There was blood on his cuffs and glove. He stood like he was carved from ice.

You swallowed and tentatively placed your metal hand on his bicep, wondering if you could scratch him with one of your poisoned needles without him noticing.

“I wouldn’t,” Kiljack said, not even turning his head to look at you. “Be a good girl, and you’ll make it out of this alive.”

You shivered, suddenly very cold in your officer’s tunic. The fear crept down your spine, threatening to freeze you in place. But that would not do. You forced yourself to breathe. You had forgotten that the moff had once been a Sith apprentice. Force-users could pick up surface thoughts. Normally though, you were better at shielding. You steered your mind back to nav-charts and the asteroid belts of the Outer Rim. Head held high, you walked with Moff Kiljack to Lord Messor’s banquet hall.

And so here you were now, seated to the left of Lord Messor, a very bored Moff Kiljack sitting across from you, watching you with cold eyes.

The table was long, almost the length of the room, and also carved from the same obsidian stone as the chamber. The same with the high-backed chairs, though they were not attached to the floor, and had plush cushions on them.

Your brain was working almost too fast, panic welling in each heart beat. You tried to calm yourself, as you stared at the vividly colored salad in front of you. You turned some of your hyperfocus on that. It was very aesthetically pleasing, and would not be out of place at a restaurant on Alderaan or Coruscant. Perhaps it would pair well with-

-So what the hell was going on? Moff Kiljack and Lord Messor shared a well-known enmity. But now they were working together, likely because they had learned of Darth Thanaton’s intent to bring them both down. Prince’s men were definitely dead. HKs were ruthlessly efficient like that. You were a loose end, but one they could bargain with. They would want to use you against Thanaton, of course, but you were an experienced Cipher. You still had some resources-

-a Starblossom spritzer or a Coruscant blush wine. You weren’t sure what the next course was, but traditionally there would be a protein and a starch, and-

-This wasn’t a con you could pull off alone. Not that it had much of a chance before. The original plan was half-baked garbage and you didn’t really want to-

Wait.

You willed yourself still, taking a moment to breathe. Your mind was moving too fast. There was something wrong. Had been wrong all day, your focus slowly sliding into the abyss. But trying to figure out what was exactly was wrong, was like grasping at fog. And with both a moff and a Sith lord watching your every move, now was not the time to buckle.

Your memory coaxed up a tiny epiphany. This started around the time you met Thanaton. Was it him?

Kiljack took a bite of his salad, his flat expression not changing, even as he chewed.

Lord Messor was not eating though. He raised his mask to sip his wine, but given the kinds of damage Sith lords did to their bodies, it was possible that he did not have a normal digestive tract.

“Is the food not to your liking, Cipher?” Messor asked, curling those metal talons against his palm with a rhythmic tap tap tap.

“It is exquisite, my lord,” you said, picking up your fork, and taking a bite. The vegetables were crisp, fresh, and lightly vinegared. There were sweet berries mixed in with crumbles of salty cheese. If this was your last meal, you could have really done worse. “Are these Alderaanian fickleberries? They’re a wonderful addition to the dish, just the right amount of sweetness.”

“Indeed,” Messor practically purred. “You have a sophisticated palate. I understand that you are well-traveled.”

“Or she’s used them before,” Kiljack said, still eating his salad. “Likely when she mixed them with the nuts in that Corellian ryshcate to poison Ambassador Morrow. Clever move: I understand the symptoms mimic an allergic reaction. Never thought to mix fickleberries with vweilu nuts and a decoction of grillig-juice. All are harmless on their own, but when combined together, the enzyme produced causes catastrophic organ failure in most humanoids.”

You froze.

“Do you think that would work on Darth Thanaton?” Kiljack asked, tilting his chin up “No, that’s far too radical for him. Mixing foreign nuts and berries, he’d never go for that.” He flashed you a predatory smile. “You might have better luck with a rancor.”

They knew.

This wasn’t just about Thanaton. No one in Imperial Intelligence decisively knew everything that you had done, or how: just that you got results. But Moff Kiljack and Lord Messor, two mortal enemies had just sat you down to dinner and they karking knew. And if these two knew what Imperial Intelligence did not, that meant they were far more driven and dangerous than you initially expected and how did they know? Why did they go through all that effort-?

Terror, still fresh from your encounter in the throne room, blossomed in your chest once more. Dozens of scenarios played out in your mind: the consequences of your exposure. There was no need to go into graphic detail, though you kept getting distracted with colorful visions of your own evisceration. No matter what you thought of, it all ended very badly for you.

In that moment, you cursed your premature deactivation of your kill-chip. They knew. And if it was you versus a Sith lord and his moff ex-apprentice, you would not win. They had already done the hard part, already figured out what you did and how. And then you had just walked into Messor’s home, a gift-wrapped sacrifice. They wanted something from you, and judging by what they already knew, what it took to find that information out, they had the will and means to break you. You’d seen the inquisitors work, seen the aftermath too, the piles of mewling meat begging for death. Being on the wrong side of Sith and moff persuasion wasn’t any kinder. Electrocution or a snapped neck were far better.

You were on your feet in seconds, already turning to run, hoping Moff Kiljack would take you out in one shot.

“No!” Lord Messor raised his hand, and you slammed back down into the chair. Something in your body cracked as you struck the stone, and the world went black for half a second before you snapped back into your body.

You tried to move, but the force held you in your seat, pressing tightly against your chest, your arms pinned down on the armrests. You could barely breathe, let alone move your limbs. Shuddering, you could only watch as Moff Kiljack leaned against the edge of the table in front of you. He reached out, one gloved hand tilting your chin up.

“You hit her too hard, Messor,” his voice was calm. “She’s bleeding and her pupils are uneven.”

“Couldn’t help it. She moved too fast, and she was planning to self-destruct.” Messor’s voice came from behind gritted teeth.

“That, or hoping to get one of us to do it for her.” Kiljack shook his head.

Cold sweat dripped down your neck. Your breaths came in short bursts. You were trapped, back flat against the stone chair. You couldn’t move. And you were at the mercy of men who didn’t know the meaning of the word. A strangled sob died in your chest as you vainly tried to move your limbs.

“Shhhhh, don’t struggle,” Kiljack reached for your napkin and then gently blotted your nose. “Messor, she’s having trouble breathing.”

“I know,” Messor shuddered, and took a deep breath. “She’s very scared.” There was a note of something like hunger in his voice, but he raised his hand again, and suddenly you could draw in a little more air.

“Mmm,” Kiljack nodded, those blue eyes studying your face. “That’s it, stop fighting us. This doesn’t have to hurt.” He set the napkin down, watching you intently, like a puzzle he wanted to dissect. He smiled then. “You are very loud, Cipher.”

You gritted your teeth and tried to stifle your breathing. You must be badly injured if you were making too much noise. Ciphers didn’t make a habit of being loud. For obvious reasons.

“That’s not what I meant,” Kiljack said. He leaned in, nearly nose to nose with you. “Quiet your mind.”

You stared at him, trying to swallow, but your throat was dry and your vision blurred. You dropped your head, too dizzy to stay upright.

Kiljack lifted your water glass to your lips. “Here. Take small sips. We don’t want you to choke. On the water.”

You flinched, waiting for one of them to follow up with a traditional Sith demonstration of force choking.

“Just drink your water,” Kiljack ordered.

You opened your mouth, closing your eyes as the glass touched your lips. The cool water tasted better than you hoped and the light steady stream cleared your throat.

“That’s it, good girl.” He stroked your cheek, his black glove soft against your skin. “Is that better?”

You managed a nod, feeling queasy from the motion alone.

“Now, are you going to behave?” Kiljack asked coolly. “Or do we have to keep you restrained? Another stunt like that, and I won’t be so nice, do you understand?”

“I’ll be good, sir,” you said, voice weak, and you had to grit your teeth, because speaking hurt. That force blow had done some damage to you. You couldn’t pinpoint the exact location, because your whole body ached. You still couldn’t move. And to make things worse, Moff Kiljack, of all people, was trying to gentle you like a wild tauntaun.

“Does it hurt?” He asked.

You closed your eyes, focusing on the different routes off of Nar Shaddaa instead of your current location. And you waited for the next threat of more pain, or the lightning, or whatever Kiljack wanted to use.

“Now, she’s gone silent,” Kiljack muttered.

“She’s in pain,” Messor said, his voice still low. “And while I find nav-charts far less tedious than endless streams of pazaak, someone really needs to teach you how to shield your mind better. I don’t know how you’ve survived this long with such loud and irreverent thoughts.”

Normally, you were better at it. But Kiljack had said your pupils were uneven...OK, concussion. That made sense. You took an inventory of your injuries: bad concussion, something fractured in your chest or abdomen, and you still were trapped here with a dark lord and a moff who wanted you for nothing good. Druk. It would have been so much easier if one of them had just killed you outright. They were supposed to be good at that kind of thing. Hell, you could still bite your tongue off and-

Kiljack gripped your chin, prying your jaw open. “I thought you were going to be a good girl, Cipher.”

You whimpered.

“I will get the bit and the slave collar,” he said glaring at you.

You relaxed your jaw. You weren’t trying to upset him. You were concussed. And you didn’t have complete control of your faculties right now.

Kiljack narrowed his eyes at you. “Is that so? Do I need to get the bit for your own safety? Or would you prefer I make you a cloth gag? Messor, can we borrow your sash?”

“Sah-ee, sir,” you said. It was not the first time you’d given a disingenuous apology with another man’s fingers in your mouth at the dinner table, and quite frankly you were a little embarrassed to be in that situation again.

Then came the spasm of pain that would have bent you in two, if you could move that far. Instead, you twitched, teeth clamping down on the moff’s fingers as you struggled to breathe. You tasted blood in your mouth, though you weren’t sure whose it was.

Kiljack’s eyes widened, but he didn’t move, and the slap you expected did not come. He waited for you to unclench before withdrawing his fingers. He examined his torn glove with a sigh. “We’re going to need kolto, Messor.”

A kolto pack floated over the table to Kiljack.

Nimble fingers began unbuttoning your collar. You opened your eyes to see Kiljack unfastening your tunic, a kolto pack in hand. His gaze lingered on your thin undershirt for a moment, and then he applied the cool healing gel onto your stomach, along your sides, and around to your back.

“I don’t think we’ll be finishing dinner out here any time soon,” Messor said.

“Messor, I’m not making do with just a salad, no matter what kind of fancy berries you put in it,” Kiljack said, wiping his hands off and checking his fingers. There were teeth marks, and some broken skin, but nothing severe. After the kolto application, the wounds started closing up as you watched.

Messor laughed. “We can take our meals in our rooms. Why don’t we call the medical droid and put our guest to bed first?”

The pressure on your body suddenly lifted, but before you could regain your bearings, Kiljack scooped you out of the chair.

“Is this causing you more pain?” He asked, one arm supporting your back, the other under your knees.

“No,” you said, though breathing was still uncomfortable. Rib damage, likely. You didn’t struggle, too woozy to make good decisions right now. On the bright side, it looked like they weren’t going to kill you just yet, but also, you hadn’t made it to dessert, and you were a little sad at the prospect of missing whatever Lord Messor’s chef had concocted. Even if it was fickleberries mixed with vweilu nuts and a decoction of grillig-juice.

Despite the danger, you could not keep your eyes open. The world faded away.

You dreamt.

You were back in that dining room, candlelight casting eerie shadows on the walls. You saw yourself bent over that banquet table, Lord Messor’s hand on your back, your face pressed against the stone, your wine glass rolling on its side, the red liquid dribbling onto the floor. You felt a spark and flinched, that light crackle of electricity as those metal talons trailed down your spine.

“Scared?” Messor murmured, his breath hot on the back of your neck.

“Yes, my lord,” you panted, squirming under him, feeling his cock pressed against you through his robes.

“Good.”

You were on your knees, staring up at Kiljack, the tip of a riding crop under your chin. You didn’t recognize the room. There was a small fountain flowing in the corner. It was an office, probably aboard a starcruiser from the shape of the window. You did not recognize the orbit. But Kiljack was in full moff regalia, gray tunic coat and jodphurs, black boots and gloves, and a heavy belt. Was this his battleship?

“I told you to open your mouth,” Kiljack said coldly.

You hesitantly parted your lips, noticing that your hands were unbound. You could-

Kiljack pushed a piece of silicone into your mouth, the ring shape holding your teeth apart. He fastened the strap snugly around your head.

“That’s better,” he said, an edge in his smile as he cupped your cheek. “This wouldn’t be necessary if you were more careful with those teeth. Now be a good girl and stick out your tongue.”

The bedroom was large and dimly lit.

The bed was enormous, draped in scarlet silks and pillows. It was comfortable, but you could not actually move very far. You poked at the gold collar latched around your neck. You wore matching bracelets and anklets, but there was a chain attached to the collar and secured to the headboard. You rolled your eyes at the outfit: the dancer’s garb with the red and gold harness top, chain belt and lashaa silk loincloth, and knee high boots.

You had worn these before – what spy hadn’t? But you didn’t remember getting here, or where here even was.

There was someone else in the room, somewhere in the shadows, just watching you. You looped a length of chain – your best bet for a weapon, and began examining where it connected to the headboard.

“I thought you were going to behave today.” Messor’s voice came from somewhere in the darkness.

“But if this is how she wants to play, why should we deny her?” Kiljack laughed.

The lights went out. And suddenly you weren’t alone on the bed.

“So do you like the view?” Kiljack whispered. “You’ll have to be quiet, or everyone will hear us.” He tightened his grip around your waist. “Or maybe that’s what you want.”

You sat on his lap, looking around the throne room, in all its sinister glory. Crimson imperial banners hung from the walls and pillars, the firelight casting harsh shadows. There was a second story balcony overlooking the throne room. It was too dark to see if anyone else was up there. But the rest of the cavern was a vast expanse, easily surveyed from the throne where Kiljack sat: Lord Messer’s throne.

He was right. If you made any noise, it would echo.

You swallowed roughly, eyes drifting to the spot where the moff had executed Prince. There was no body or blood.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Kiljack growled in your ear.

You opened your mouth to speak.

“You’re in my seat,” Messor said, the words echoing off the walls as he materialized from the shadows. His tone was dangerously mild. He stalked up the stairs toward you.

You started to move, but Kiljack held you tightly against him. “About time you got here,” the moff said. “I was getting bored giving the tour. Maybe we can move on to something more exciting.”

You sat up with a strangled gasp, your head pounding. Another unfamiliar bed, but when you looked down, you were covered in blankets. You peeked underneath, finding yourself still dressed in your thin tanktop and uniform pants. You ached, like you’d been in a fight. But there wasn’t pain between your legs, a small, but important reassurance. The inside of your mouth felt like a stable floor and you winced as you looked around, the dim lights still aggravating your eyes.

It was a large elegant bedroom, the furniture silver with red trim. It was neat, but it felt lived in, not a guest room. You started to look around, but your vision swam. Holding your head, you gave yourself a moment before trying to focus.

Yesterday was an absolute sarlaac snarl. You’d been sent off on a poorly-planned suicide mission, and your reactions were...wrong. Judging by how awful you felt right now, you’d been drugged. You gritted your teeth, forcing yourself to analyze each location step by step. You started feeling ill in Darth Thanaton’s presence, but you neither ate nor drank there. Maybe he did have some secret force brainwashing powers, but that was unlikely. That ability was too subtle for a bombastic coot like him.

...The stims. Something had been wrong with the stims. Fixer 3 wasn’t being a smart ass. Fixer 3 had been trying to warn you. Echuta! It had been right there in front of your face and you were too distracted and arrogant to notice.

You growled, throwing the blankets off. You tried to stand, but found you were still too dizzy.

“Well, I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better.”

You blinked.

Just off to the side, nestled between a wardrobe and a table, sat Moff Kiljack. There was a blanket on his lap and a blaster pistol on the table. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head, before he stood, fully dressed, though his jacket was unbuttoned. A faint dusting of stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked you over. “That’s better.” He tapped his left temple. “You’re not so loud any more.” He gave a sigh that sounded a lot like relief. “I know that wasn’t entirely your fault. You were out of your head. The medical droid analyzed what was in your system, if you’re curious.”

“Someone sabotaged my stims,” you said, resting your head on your knees. “Someone in Imperial Intelligence.”

Moff Kiljack nodded. “Makes sense. You also had a bad concussion, cracked ribs, and some bruising. The kolto pack helped a little, but a localized injection sped it up.”

“Thank you,” you said, even if you were not so sure that you were grateful to be saved. Because you still had a lot of questions about what was going on, why these two “enemies” had put so much research into your accomplishments, and how much they knew about Darth Thanaton’s intentions.

You closed your eyes, knowing a few things already:

Moff Kiljack and Lord Messor had a complex relationship; this was likely Kiljack’s room and Messor would not keep it for him if they were really enemies. You needed to figure out the exact nature of their alliance and how much of that infamous enmity was a smokescreen. They worked too well in tandem for all of that showboating to be real.

Keeper was now actively trying to kill you. It would be very difficult to tamper with the stims otherwise. Thanaton was probably meant to be the instrument of your death. He was old, powerful, and no one would bat an eye over a Darth executing a Cipher.

The sensitivity was getting worse. Once it had been an asset, just enough insight to give you an advantage. Now it was opening you up to too many other things. And you lived in the capital city of the Empire, where so many hungry Sith congregated. No, this was bad for you. Kiljack was right, you needed to shore up those shields, and hide yourself better. Anything less would get you shipped off to Korriban.

“Can you hold down food?” Kiljack asked, suddenly standing beside the bed. He set a glass of water on the night stand.

“Not sure. Thank you.” You eyed it for a moment, knowing that he could have slipped any manner of drug in there, but at this point, what choice did you have? They needed you for something, and that meant they probably needed you alive and functional. You took the water, sipping it slowly.

The moff watched you like a hawk, probably worried that you were going to choke or throw up.

You studied him, noting his bare hands. There were scars on them, but it looked like the bite marks had healed. “Sorry about biting you last night,” you said. Apologizing seemed like a good idea. It would be wisest if they thought you were docile and amenable to them. You still weren’t certain that you were going to thank him for sparing your life. But you were a little more confident that they weren’t planning on torturing you to death. Not immediately, anyway.

“You need to be more careful with those teeth,” he said, without a hint of inflection, that handsome scarred face stoic once more.

You stared at him for a second, a moment of deja vu. You shrugged. “I need to be more careful, period.” You dropped back onto the pillows, another wave of dizziness skewing your balance.

The moff picked up a personal comm. “Echo, let Messor know that our guest is awake, and have something mild brought up from the kitchens for her.” He glanced over at you. “I can send for the medical droid.”

“You already had me checked out, right?” You asked, staring up at the stone tiled ceiling.

“Yes. There was a small amount of bleeding in your skull. We took care of it. It can provide some painkillers and anti-nausea meds if you want.”

We took care of it.

That was an interesting way to phrase it. The medical droid might have accomplished it on its own, though the procedure would be more invasive.

“I think I should go for the anti-nausea meds,” you said, one hand over your eyes. “But if you give me a minute, I can try to get upright and-”

“Just stay there,” Kiljack said. “Messor will be along shortly. Finish your water.”

You sighed and downed the rest of the glass, spilling a little down your chin, and not really caring because your head hurt.

The comm unit chimed and Kiljack stepped out of the bedroom. When he returned, he was carrying a large platter of flatbread, grilled fish, and some fruit. There was a small glass of anti-nausea medication too. He set it all on the nightstand and poured you another glass of water from the carafe.

Your stomach rumbled, so you took a few berries and ate them slowly, letting the sweetness roll down your throat. You downed the medication in one shot.

When everything stayed down, you took a few more berries, and then a piece of bread, passing on the sauce, just in case.

Kiljack settled back down in his chair, watching your every move.

You had taken a break from trying to eat, when there was a knock. It was distant, and you realized this bedroom was probably part of a suite. Kiljack got up, giving you a stern look.

You pretended not to see. You were still too messed up to make a run for it, and even if you did manage to escape, where would you go? Keeper was trying to kill you. Thanaton was not going to be happy about Prince. And Nar Shaddaa with its flashing lights and cacophony of sounds, would give you a migraine bad enough to make your head explode. You could stay here in the comfortable bed for a moment. You needed a more accurate picture of the situation, before you did anything rash. You did not need a repeat of last night.

“No, it’s fine, I don’t have to get back to the fleet, I’ll just stay here and babysit your new pet spy,” Kiljack said sharply as he returned and practically threw himself into his chair.

Lord Messor followed, still in those sweeping red and black Sith robes, that stylized skull mask in place. The Sith had several skull motifs, though to be honest, his reminded you a little of the Mandalorian mythosaur skull symbol, without the horns.

“I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better,” Lord Messor stood in the doorway. There was a slight mechanical quality to his voice that you had not noticed last night. The mask had a built-in vocoder then. Interesting.

“My lord,” you said, attempting a bow at the waist and feeling your head swoop dangerously close to your knees.

“Don’t-” He sighed. “We can do this informally, Cipher. You’re still recovering from your ordeal.”

You nodded, wincing as you leaned back into the pillows. “I appreciate that, my lord.”

“We’re in private, Cipher. You can forego the title as well.”

Thankfully, you were already lying down, because otherwise you would have fallen over in shock. You had never actually expected to hear a Sith lord say that. After Thanaton, it was a pleasant reversal. But you did not trust that magnanimity.

If Messor and Kiljack knew about the “extra” missions you did, then they had to have a fairly accurate psychological profile of you. They had to know that people who forced you into bad situations ended up having freak accidents. Being polite was just a good way to manage you. You had no illusions about the altruistic natures of moffs and Sith lords. But you could appreciate the effort and you would work with good manners. This was certainly better than spending an hour being shouted at by Darth Thanaton.

You waited for one of the men to speak. They were the ones who wanted you here, after all.

“You were recently tasked by Darth Thanaton to sabotage our strategic efforts on Hoth and Voss. You were assigned to Darth Thanaton by Imperial Intelligence, but that does not mean Imperial Intelligence condones his actions. However, as Thanaton is a member of the Dark Council, politics must come into play.” Messor’s hands twitched. He wasn’t wearing the gauntlets today. He had large hands, dark skin, and thick callouses, probably from handling weapons.

“So someone in Imperial Intelligence tipped you off?”

“Your...Keeper saw fit to warn me,” Kiljack said, fingers steepled.

You frowned. “But not Lord Messor.”

“I think you’ve already figured out that Messor and I are...exaggerating our feud.” Kiljack gave a wry smile. “But that is very guarded knowledge.”

“Yes,” you nodded, and then winced, because you did not need to be bobbing your injured head like an idiot bird. Your brain had taken enough of a blending.

A secret political alliance gave them an interesting cover and access to a wider range of intelligence. But Moff Kiljack did not have the wealth and prestige that Lord Messor did. He would be at a fundamental disadvantage. A Sith lord was not likely to trust anyone outside their control. There were a lot of disadvantages to this tactic and you could not see a clear payoff. You sat with that for a moment. There was an important reason for their ruse, though you doubted they would tell you anything but a plausible cover story today. But the layout of the game started to form. You looked at the empty spaces, trying to find the details that didn’t make sense.

...There it was. There was a third party in play, aiding and abetting this ruse. Someone with enough clout to help Kiljack get his promotion. Someone that even Keeper did not want to cross...

Another Dark Council member then. And given Kiljack and Messor’s military interests and mostly low-key behavior, you had a good idea whom that Council Member was, though again, not why they were using this exact ruse. But if Kiljack’s patron was who you thought it was, you did not blame Keeper for wanting to stay on his good side.

But you were also pretty sure that you were not supposed to survive that meeting with Thanaton yesterday. The exchange would go something like this:

“Send me another minion, peon!”

“I’m so sorry, your Decrepit-ness, you killed my only available agent and we’re very shorthanded! There’s no one else to send. You’ll have to wait.”

Keeper would be off the hook with Thanaton and Kiljack’s patron. You would be dead. Three problems solved.

Except you were alive, and no problems were solved. You looked up to see Kiljack studying your face.

“Do you suspect that Keeper knows the feud is fabricated?”

“No. That’s very exclusive knowledge,” Messor said without a trace of doubt.

You wondered how he could be so confident – not because he wasn’t ruthless – but because your business was secrets: keeping them, stealing them, rooting them out. If people wanted information badly enough, they would find a way to get it. No matter how well you thought you covered your tracks. Your stomach soured a little at that thought. They’d figured out some of your secrets. You’d have to return the favor, if only for your own pride. And maybe some leverage.

“So you want to recruit me as a double agent against Thanaton,” you said.

“Partially,” Messor admitted. “But I had a more permanent offer in mind for you.” He cleared his throat. “My current intelligence chief will be retiring soon. You were recommended to us.”

You blinked. “I can’t just quit Imperial Intelligence, believe me, I’ve tried,” you blurted out.

“You can if you have the right patronage,” Kiljack said. And he had some experience there, having gone from Sith apprentice to moff.

“You want me to help you bring down Thanaton, get you onto the Dark Council, and then you’ll hire me?” Your lips twitched at that tall order. Sith expectations.

“I will hire you now as a house intelligence agent, at double your current pay with all the usual amenities one expects from the well-to-do estate of a Sith lord,” Messor said. “Promotion to intelligence chief pending results.”

That would have been extremely generous, except Imperial Intelligence was criminally cheap. Sure you had some good benefits, but they didn’t have to be competitive when their employees literally weren’t allowed to quit. Still, it was not a bad offer. Better than a lot of the alternatives.

Messor continued. “Handling Thanaton and the Council are longer term problems. If we succeed on Hoth and Voss, I will have enough clout to extract you intact from the employ of Imperial Intelligence. And it will be easier since you’re already assigned to me: possession is nine tenths of the law.”

You sat with that for a few seconds. You could play the long game, letting Thanaton think you had wormed your way into Messor’s confidence. That would sit well with Keeper – it kept him out of the hotseat. You could go back to Keeper and see which way he wanted you to go – for intel purposes only - and then do whatever you wanted anyway. You could say no outright, and get shot in the head by Kiljack…

“You have questions,” Messor said, still keeping his distance.

“How long have you been tracking me? And what brought me to your attention?”

“A man once called “Sparrow” recommended you to us a year ago. He is around here if you want to catch up later.”

You sighed, of course Sparrow was still alive. That explained a lot. He knew you well enough to guess which missions you had purposefully altered. He knew your expertise well enough to conjecture methodology. That he shared this information with a strange Sith lord should not have surprised you entirely. The former Cipher 7 was a skilled assassin; he’d been declared KIA with his brother two years ago. But it seemed he had found a safe haven here.

“His brother?”

“Didn’t want to work with us. No one was going to force him. He took a shuttle to Yavin 4. Sparrow visits him occasionally,” Kiljack said.

“Why me?” You asked, not because you doubted your abilities, but because you still did not quite understand how this coalition worked.

Messor was silent for a moment. “You are a reasonable woman. And looking at your track record, we thought your methods would align with ours.”

“And why do you think that?” You asked.

“The Rancor Incident,” Kiljack said with a smirk.

You kept your face neutral.

“Lord Vilhus was there, a very nasty individual. But the casualty list also included Ieyak the Butcher, Margrene the Bloody, General Arus, Enso Chain-Maker, and Lord Casten. Coincidentally, none of the slaves, servers, or civilian bystanders were hurt. And everyone thought it was just a terrible accident. That took planning, skill, and finesse.”

You stared at your lap, trying to remember if any of those people had good or bad ties to House Messor. Vilhus wasn’t anyone’s friend and Arus wasn’t related. Casten might have attended the Academy at the same time as Messor. You pondered that connection.

Because once you’d had a close...friend, a lower ranking analyst in Imperial Intelligence. A smart and pretty Twi’lek who didn’t deserve the things Lord Vilhus did to her. Lord Vilhus was a Sith lord and could do as he pleased to those weaker than him. So when you saw him there and that rancor… It was just an opportunity.

You looked up to see Kiljack studying you intently. “None of them were allies to House Messor or myself,” he told you.

“Am I...broadcasting?” You asked, trying to make sure your mind was quiet.

“No, it’s just the next logical question,” Kiljack said. He cleared his throat. “But there’s something else we need to address.”

“You’re a Sensitive,” Messor said.

You winced. Of course they’d picked that up yesterday. “A little. Nothing kinetic level, just intuitive boosts every now and again. Came along later in life.” Though it still might be enough to get you sent to Korriban. And now they knew. Which was a manageable thing. You knew about their fake feud, they knew about your force sensitivity. Mutually-assured destruction ensured that the balance of power remained less complicated.

Messor nodded. “Kiljack is very good at shielding. You should consult him about how to better protect your mind.”

Kiljack gave Messor a side-eyed squint, but did not protest.

Accept the offer, take a hard job, and maybe get out from under Keeper’s thumb. Or decline and end up dead. It wasn’t much of a choice.

“What do I have to do to sign on?” You asked.

Different Sith lords had their ways of ensuring loyalty, or at least compliance. You had undergone years of conditioning to be kept under the authority of Imperial Intelligence. A lot of that conditioning had come undone in your term as an active operative. You had worked hard to slough the restraints that would have otherwise hobbled your thinking. They might have had your service, but your mind was your own. Ciphers had a lot of leeway to run operations as they saw fit, because an obedient drone could not do their job. But there were still ticks, involuntary habits ingrained in your mind, pathways worn in by years of unpleasant reinforcement. Oh, you weren’t loyal to Imperial Intelligence, but you knew to instantly bow your head to a “superior,” to mask your emotions with a lie, and that the mission came first at the expense of all else... You knew these things in your bones, because of the conditioning. And you understood intimately how those rituals did psychological damage.

So when Lord Messor stepped into the room and drew closer, you prepared yourself for something unpleasant.

“Give me your hand, the flesh one.”

Permanently, or just to hold? You wanted to ask, but you kept your mouth shut and extended your right hand. He took it gently between his palms. His skin was warm and rough. You swallowed, preparing to be overwhelmed by your reaction to the Sith.

The world turned black.

Then heat and light poured into your skull, a waterfall rushing through you, and you screamed under the torrent. It cut through your perception, and tethered something in your head, to that little spot of intuition that always knew when a weapon was being drawn or when someone was lying to you. That metaphysical aperture expanded, wedged open by the hooks of Messor’s connection. He was in your head, and for a moment, you were face down on the dining room table, those claws tracing along your spine while he pinned you there, while you squeezed your thighs together, squirming at his touch…

Then you felt the weight on your left arm, felt Messor squeeze your right hand, and you forced your eyes open.

Kiljack held you to the bed, your left hand pinned over your head.

You could feel Messor through the force. He was in your mind, had his own private backdoor in, a new sort of violation. And that realization enraged you. Snarling, you thrashed, “You bastard! Get the hell out of my head!”

“If you shield well, I can’t see what’s in your head,” he said calmly. “And I won’t go looking.”

Cursing, you lunged at him, but Kiljack held you down, his full weight on your body.

“It’s not mind control, it’s a minor force bond,” Messor said, tone even.

So this was how he kept Kiljack in line. And you had just willingly submitted yourself to the same treatment. Maybe death was preferable. Fury overtook you and you tried to throw Kiljack off you. When he didn’t budge, you sunk your teeth into Kiljack’s shoulder.

He jerked, then braced himself, hand tightening on your throat. “I thought I told you to be more careful with those teeth,” he rasped, pupils huge.

You waited for the leash or the neural bolt.

It’s not a leash. It goes both ways. And it fades with time. Messor said quietly in your head. Also, if you keep biting Kiljack, he’s going to choke you out.

Groaning, you released the moff, feeling his fingers begin to loosen around your neck. You kriffing piece of sarlaac scum! I’m going to feed you your teeth!

“I hope you’re talking to Messor, because you’re not in any position to threaten me,” Kiljack said gruffly, running his thumb over your throat, before letting go of your neck.

“You’re on the list too, don’t worry,” you hissed.

Messor released your hand, a hint of amusement in his aura. “Get some rest, Thirteen. We can talk more later.”

I know so many annoying drinking songs from dozens of planets. I will be screaming them into your skull all night!

“Charming,” Kiljack said, rubbing his temple. He glanced down at his ripped jacket and glared at you. “If you’re going to be a nuisance, you can go crawl into someone else’s bed, because-”

There was the ghost of a memory, a shirtless Kiljack laughing as he lay in the bed, another man pinned under him, like you had been, a flash of heat pulsed between your thighs-

Messor inhaled sharply.

Kiljack pinched the bridge of his nose. “I told you-” He pushed his hair back, suddenly very tired. “Just go. Your proximity is probably making things more difficult.”

“Your shoulder,” Messor said softly, he stepped out of the room and returned with a medkit.

You watched silently as Messor carefully cleaned Kiljack’s wound, and treated it with kolto.

Kiljack leaned into Messor’s hands, his head resting against Messor’s shoulder, and it clicked.

There was more than one reason why Kiljack did not betray Messor, one you had not anticipated. You gave a dry laugh, how utterly ridiculous. These stories never ended well for the Sith or their lovers. Suddenly very drained, you dropped back into the pillows.

Rest.

I hope you get eaten by a gorryl slug, you bastard. You pictured the giant carnivorous slugs of Kashyyyk, arboreal hunters that dropped onto their prey and were nearly impossible to pry off. They would exude digestive juices and slowly digest their victims. An unlucky person could take a very long time to die.

What are those- oh that is awful. I’ll have to remember that one. A low laugh in the back of your skull. Kiljack is very good at shielding. He will help you if you ask, nicely.

I’m going to gut you like a ghest.

Get some rest, Thirteen. You’ll have plenty of time to threaten me later.

#SWTOR #Crossover #in alio loco #reader insert #Fanfiction #Crackfic #Improper Use of the Force

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havetheavengersdoneanythingwrong · 3 years

Text

An Interlude — A Pleasant Rest

In order to brighten up the day of a Master on the day before a Rayshift, Ritsuka decides to interview various Servants on their time resting together.

The audio crackles, as they turn it over in their hand -- listening to it one last time.

—

**Hey, Cadence!

I’ve recorded this audiolog for you on the day of the Rayshift. Or… Well, it was meant to, but I’m doing it the day after! Surprise!

I know this is… troubling, to you. A lot of it is. For all of us.

But y’know? I wanted to see if I could gather some opinions on the little things you do. Might make you smile. And I always like having blackmail!

—

I mean… Everything that’s happening right now… It ain’t right.

You know that as well as I do.

But you know? I think things’ll turn out just dandy.

I mean, these lot all seem to like you plenty, and that’s half the battle. You’re a weird guy, you know that?

Like, c’mon. Of all the people in the world to be cool with, you made goodie-goodie with fucking Avengers. And not even just the cool ones who won’t kill you if you look at ‘em funny, you also made friends of the ones who would!

With friends like that, who needs enemies, right?

…

…Listen, I know shit’s rough. I know I’ve been a prick most of the time.

But I know you’ll get through this okay. You’ve got a knack for getting yourself out of things, you know that? Can’t say the same for me. I’m an unlucky bastard. But you?

You’ll be okay, I think.

You’ve got all of us behind you, man. All of us. Even when you’re resting to prepare for this latest step, you’ve got all of us.

I know you don’t like to call yourself brave, but I think you’ve earned it. So step out there, smile, and start running. Even if your legs are shaking like an earthquake’s running through them, keep running and keep succeeding.

That’s what you do best. You keep on running. Running away, running forward, sideways, even upwards and downwards too. But no matter what, you're getting somewhere.

So keep that in mind. And don't forget it.

...The audio crackles, slightly. A calm, composed voice can be heard.

...Husband.

...I doubted you, initially. At a glance, you seemed the fool -- one who would run away at the slightest hint of danger.

And yet -- you are here. Having conquered what came before you -- and now facing down the unknown. Perhaps not with a smile -- but that should not be expected.

I... am well aware of what your tale holds. And because of this -- because of who you are -- I look back at the 'me' of my first moments here, and laugh at my blindness.

You were well and truly worthy this entire time.

...When this is over... Come with me. We will find a Britain, and rule it as it should always have been. There's a new chance for me -- for you. For us.

...I look forward to our journey.

...The audio crackles. A sharp, cocky voice can be heard.

...Master. You're a fool. Always have been.

I saw you in Orleans, standing your guard against Jeanne. Alone, no less. Crying your damned eyes out, as she sneered at you.

I saw you in America, facing down Cu, gritting your teeth and trying to move forward even despite all your quivering.

I saw you in Camelot, lashing out against that god -- even while utterly terrified, still cussing out Rhongomyniad themselves.

I saw you against me, and the little bits of kindness you showed me before Tiamat arrived -- I saw you against her, aided and cursed by every power on that Singularity, but still not even daring to run.

You've seen the end of the world and never gotten used to it. Not even a single time.

You still end up crying over the people who fell.

You're an idiot. Allying with the many who want the world destroyed, changed, burnt into their image. I will never stop wanting the world to be ended -- I will never stop my path to vengeance.

But I want you there with me.

The choice is yours, Master. I'm sure our dear ruler can make her own Britain in the ruins -- but we have to make those ruins first.

The audio crackles. A light, almost seductive voice can be heard.

Dear, I can't say I've been here too long.

Only enough to watch you work on Chaldea's systems. Only enough to see you handle those silly little Singularities.

Enough to see BB try to prevent this day from happening.

But we're here. And I've seen enough of you to know you have something in there.

Everyone else here -- you've treated kindly. Truly. You'd passed the many tests I put up for you, without even realizing they were there.

So for that, I will be here. For you. Because, for what comes ahead -- you might need it.

And because of everything that came before this, you deserve it.

The audio crackles. A gentle, yet edged voice can be heard.

...My lord.

I have seen you... from the beginning, to the end.

Your progress. Your failures. Every tear you've shed, and every smile you've worn.

I have been here, somehow, for all of it. Whether my mask lay on my face, or at my side -- I have watched you all this time.

I am proud of you.

As a destroyer of the Genji. As a Master. As a human.

You are not a hero -- a hero is out of reach, unable to truly know the common man.

A hero cannot do what you have. A hero forgets the atrocities -- grows blind to the moral dilemmas that plague their every move.

You have not. You have remained with that same smile on your face when I gaze to you -- and you have remained, unflinching despite it all in the face of danger you never wanted to witness to begin with.

Gorgon may want to destroy the world -- Morgan, to rule a portion of it. Tlazolteotl may be happy merely remaining at your side.

As for me?

...I will protect you. From the Genji -- from all who bear their methods, no matter what.

That is my pledge. As Ushiwakamaru -- no... Taira-no-Kagekiyo... I will defend your life, no matter the road you next tread on.

...The audio recorder stops.

"...Yeah, it checks out."

Ritsuka smiled a bit, closing the camera -- glancing to the four ladies in front of them.

"...Tlaz talked to you all already -- to keep things on the down-low. For his sake. But... I think you all deserve to know why."

Ritsuka breathed a slow sigh out.

"...This Singularity... The one we're going into next. It's... We don't know much, but... It's a monarchy. Carcosa. And... it's not supposed to be."

...Gorgon raised an eyebrow.

"And what exactly does that mean?"

"...I talked to Cadence about his home country a while back. About how it was. The capital, the cuisine. The government."

“He claimed it to be a monarchy.”

Morgan's brow twitched.

"What exactly does that mean?"

...Ritsuka breathed in -- then out, again.

"...It means Cadence... believes this Singularity is real. And... if he believes it this strongly... He might be connected to it."

Tlazolteotl, after a passing moment, stepped forth -- crossing her arms.

"--You told me that, but... Not in that tone! You make it sound like he's due to die, not just a bit of memory loss!"

"That's because he very well may die."

...A wave of silence fell over the four that Ritsuka was looking over -- their eyes, momentarily, stricken with the same widened, shocked gaze.

...Ushiwakamaru spoke first.

"And what does that mean?! You're... You don't mean he'll..!"

"...No. I'm not saying he will. But it's a possibility, depending on how linked to that place he is. So... What Tlazolteotl said goes double. Save the serious discussion for the future, and this entire thing, until this is done. Unless he wants to discuss that, I'd advise against it."

...Ritsuka settled themselves on a chair, running their hand through their hair.

"I get that all that needs to be discussed. Your... relationship is a hell of a lot more complicated than I can imagine. So discuss the stuff that has to be. But... focus on the present."

"Because for all we know, that's all he's got."

#cadenceloreposting #l o r e #mastersona #gudasona #act 2

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waterbearwaltz · 3 years

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Assassins AU wip

So I've been thinking a lot about Southern Raiders Katara, and what her character would be like if she'd been raised to indulge that darkness. And then the thought "Kataang AU but they're assassins" made me laugh out loud in a meeting, and now here we are. But I've written like 10k words and am somehow still at the beginning? How do people write long things? What and how is plot? Ugh. Whatever. Have a chapter.

Aang’s eyes skimmed the crowd of Fire Nation nobles moving like a single organism under the ostentatious chandelier. Ozai’s parties were always tense affairs, an enjoyable night as likely as a gruesome public execution, but this one was especially anxious. The guard was double what Aang had seen on previous evenings. They weren’t just stationed at the doors but milling about the crowd, weapons on their hips, daring anyone to step out of line. Another bomb had gone off near parliament that week, and according to Aang’s sources Ozai’s paranoia was calling the shots even more than usual. This function was an expression of that more than anything else, a flimsy excuse to gather the most wealthy and powerful of his citizens and flex his muscles. Remind them of the closeness of his watch, the price of treason.

Aang’s eyes skated over the dance floor and paused. The dancing at these was without fail the most stilted he’d ever seen. He understood that in the Fire Nation, dancing was mostly ceremonial, a way to show respect for their host, an expression of patriotism made at gunpoint. It was the most stiff and joyless part of these stiff and joyless evenings. But this time Aang’s eyes caught on something new.

She was swaying in a sheer, dark red dress that he could just see the outlines of her body through. Thick dark hair swept up into a fashionable loose pile on her head, a few tendrils brushing her dark shoulders. No one thing about her was particularly out of place, other than being of obvious water tribe descent, a relative rarity in the capitol. But everything together caught him. It was the sway of her hips, he decided. The way she moved as if a part of the music, rather than shifting awkwardly alongside it like the other dancers. A fighter, certainly, from the lean definition of her bare back and shoulders. Aang wondered if she was one of the guards Ozai had hidden amongst the crowd. That would be odd, he thought he had files on all of them. And a woman from such far flung colonies would be a highly unusual choice for a palace assassin.

Tsungi horns blared, announcing the entrance of the ruling family, and Aang snapped his attention to the door, frowning at the unusual lapse in focus. The musicians fell silent and an abrupt stillness settled over the crowd. Attendants entered first, followed by yet another unit of guards. Aang wondered dryly if Ozai had ever considered the difference between displaying strength and paranoid weakness. A little shiver went through him as Ozai’s children entered. In studying this family he’d encountered all manner of atrocities, but something about the princess in particular unsettled him. He’d had the chance to observe her in person a handful of times now. Ozai’s heir was haughty and beautiful as always, but as her eyes swept too near to him and he had to concentrate on not tensing visibly. The monks had taught him that every life contains the same precious spark of humanity, and he’d never had cause to doubt this before seeing Azula up close for the first time, looking into her eyes, and seeing absolutely nothing staring back at him.

Ozai finally entered with a few military leaders and Aang’s body ticked into higher alert. He took a deep, stabilizing breath. He was as prepared for this as he’d ever be. Tonight was the result of years of carefully maneuvering himself into the capital’s moneyed elite. Everything was in place, every edge case planned for. If there was ever a chance to remove the dictator for good, it was tonight. He was ready.

Katara’s eyes tracked the commanders up the steps to the dias. She felt the familiar heat under her skin as she finally sized up her target in person, taking advantage of the whole room’s focus on him to take a first and only long look.

Ozai was older than he appeared in the propaganda plastered across every city, every textbook, every yuan. Their Glorious Leader. Her lip curled in disgust but she smoothed it into a tepid smile. He had a spray of gray across his temples, a sharp jaw, and deep set eyes hung with dark circles. His posture was slightly askew, probably a shoulder injury. She thought he favored his left leg, but wasn’t close enough to be sure. His expression was tense and he muttered sporadically to the man on his left. He was wearing a military style jacket in a deep red, plush looking material. She could tell from the way it sat against him that he had body armor underneath.

It was strange to finally see him in person, the man she’d spent her whole life training to kill. The corner of her mouth quirked up. She’d never been so ready for anything in her life.

Her dance partner slipped an arm around her waist as the music started back up. “A drink?” he asked. She smiled up at him and nodded, letting him guide her to the bar. It had been embarrassingly easy to get invited to this. After a ten minute conversation with Kazin at the university library she had her in. She’d had several backup plans of course, every piece of intel said getting here would be the hardest part. She rolled her eyes. White Lotus leadership had always had a penchant for dramatics.

Katara leaned against the bar and smiled at Kazin, half listening to him dribbling on about his father’s mining operation and half scanning the room over his shoulder. If security was this insane in the rest of the palace she’d have to rework some of her plans. Idiot militants. What the hell was blowing up a building half a block from a dummy parliament supposed to accomplish? If she ever saw Jet again she’d wring his stupid neck.

“Kazin, my darling, I didn’t know you were back in the city!” An older woman pressed a kiss to her date’s cheek and shot her a curious look. Katara automatically slid her face into a blank and amiable mask.

“Yes, school started last week. Auntie Azina, this is Zaia, from the northern colonies. She’s studying medicine at the university.”

“The northern colonies, how...exotic” the woman finished, narrowing her eyes slightly. “I didn’t know they were admitting colonials now. How times have changed.” Katara let the blankness seep deeper into her, enveloping herself in it the way Master Iroh had taught her. A lie cannot be detected if you make it your truth. Sweet, simple Zaia smiled wider and grasped the woman’s hand a touch too enthusiastically.

“Oh, it’s a dream come true, getting to study in the capital! I’m just so lucky to have been chosen.”

“Don’t be modest. Zaia was the top student at her university.” Kazin puffed up magnanimously. “Why wouldn’t we want the best minds of the colonies enriching our great civilization?”

“Hmm,” Azina had already lost interest in Katara and was scanning the room. “Ah! Ulan!”

A man in his 50s approached their group, kissing Azina lightly on the cheek. “This is my nephew, Zura’s son. Ulan was a dear friend of your father’s. Runs our shipping in the greater kingdom.” Kazin and Ulan exchanged pleasantries, Katara blissfully forgotten. Her attention caught on the quiet young man beside Ulan. She kept her eyes on the conversation, sizing up the newcomer in her periphery.

He was tall and lean, with dark hair shorn close to his scalp, sharp, elegant bone structure, and overly kind eyes that got her hackles up. She knew how to make her eyes kind too, and what sort of situations she did so in. A little too young and a little too handsome to sit right with her as a foreign shipping mogul. Maybe a rich kid working a cushy job for daddy’s company? There were certainly plenty of those in this city. He kept his eyes on the conversation as well, but something about his stance made her uneasy. The way he held himself felt...practiced. Maybe undercover security detail? No, that wasn’t right either. He wasn’t native Fire Nation, he couldn’t possibly work in the palace.

“Ah, how rude of me! This is my emissary from New Ozai City, Azan” Ulan said, gesturing to the young man. Cushy job with daddy after all. Kazin shook his hand as his Aunt flicked her eyes to the ceiling and pressed her lips into a thin line. Guess she didn’t like former colonials any more than current ones. A guard pressed close as he walked past the bar and Karara took a casual sip from her drink, slipping her arm through Kazin’s and angling her body slightly to keep him in view as he passed.

“And who is this lovely thing you have here.” Ulan drew closer than necessary and grinned down at her. He smelled like stale rice wine and the spicy fermented onions sitting in little bowls along the bar. Katara had a strong stomach, but it got a run for its money when he leaned in to kiss her cheek. When Kazin spoke up to introduce her she smiled and ducked her head as if overwhelmed by the attention rather than the smell.

“Charmed,” came a soft, deep voice on her left. Cushy Job Boy gave her a small bow and met her eyes directly, holding her gaze intently until she looked away. She really didn’t like that. She returned the bow with a warm smile and turned her attention back to her date.

“Another dance, Kazin?”

“If you insist, darling” he answered indulgently, as though speaking to a child. He steered her back to the dance floor, launching into a lecture on different types of mineral extractants as she noted the guards rotating their shifts around her.

When she saw the first stirrings of the next shift change, she excused herself to the restroom. Kazin barely acknowledged her, deep in conversation with an old general about iron ore. She couldn’t have dreamed up a better mark if she tried.

She’d spent weeks memorizing the palace layout and slipped quickly up a flight of stairs, down a hall, down two more flights, and into a servant’s wetroom near the back of the building. She swung herself up to a vent near the corner of the ceiling, bracing a foot against one wall and her shoulder against the other, and got to work on the screws holding the grate in place. Her ears pricked for the sound of footsteps, her hands made quick work of it with a tool from the small leather satchel that had been pressed between her breasts all night. When the last screw was loose, she dropped back to the floor, pulled her dress over her head, bundled it tightly around her waist, and swung herself smoothly into the air duct, pulling it shut behind her.

The vent was slightly smaller than she’d expected, and it was slow work making her way through. That was fine, she’d left herself plenty of time. The party hadn’t even begun to break up yet.

Much of the journey was directly up, and she inched one foot, then the other, then her back up the metal plates of the ventilation system. It wasn’t particularly taxing; she was in excellent shape and had practiced this a thousand times over the last few months. It would have been boring if not for the thrill of being so close to her target. She’d hunted men before, but it had always felt like preparation for this. None of them were half as thrilling, though she’d thought Yon Rha would have been. It should have been sweet to end the life of the man who had, in every way that counted, ended hers. But for some reason it wasn’t. Maybe he ruined it by begging. She’d been hoping for a good fight.

When she reached the top floor, she pulled herself into a smaller, auxiliary vent and made her way to Ozai’s chamber. It was even more important to be utterly silent now, as she could clearly hear the movements and conversations of the servants below her. Perspiration beaded on her skin as she moved, creeping like a crab in her thin pants and cropped undershirt. Finally, she peered through one of the grates and saw the interior of Ozai’s private chambers. She stretched out carefully so that her limbs wouldn’t fall asleep and settled in to wait.

Aang watched Ozai get drunker than usual before retiring from the ballroom. That might make his job easier. When the first waves of people began heading for the exits, he carefully lost Ulan and headed to meet his contact in a half-hidden alcove in the inner hall. Ishran was already there, a slight man with a sheen of sweat on his balding head and a great deal of tension in his shoulders. This was no trained agent. Not for the first time, Aang wondered what had made this man decide to risk so much. It wasn’t the sort of thing one asked.

Ishran gave Aang a curt nod and pressed his fingers into the wall behind him. A servant’s door swung open and they disappeared through it.

“There will be a three minute gap between guard shifts outside his quarters. I hope that is enough, it’s all I could manage.” Despite his shaky appearance, Ishran’s voice was sharp and even as they climbed the windowless staircase. Aang was impressed he’d been able to pull that off. He was assuming he’d have to operate in complete silence.

“That’s more than enough. You’ve outdone yourself.”

A soft hmph was his only response. After several minutes they came to a stop.

“I’ll make sure he’s asleep, then wave you through.” Aang nodded, Ishran was the only one of them who could possibly excuse his appearance if Ozai was awake.

Ishran squinted at Aang for a moment, before turning to the large, stone door.

When Ozai finally shuffled in, sweating and stinking of liquor. Katara wrinkled her nose. A drunk target was usually too easy to be fun, but for him she’d make an exception. She spent the first half hour Ozai was asleep going over the layout. A large, canopied bed dominated the majority of the chamber. Gold and red tapestries adorned the walls, embroidered with dragon-dense battle scenes, and an ornate desk sat between the bed and the balcony.

When Ozai had been still for half an hour or so, Katara lowered herself out feet first, dangling for a moment before dropping to the floor without so much as a whisper of fabric to give her away. She felt the adrenaline rise in her. She let it make her stronger, clearer.

Katara crept to the bed. Ozai was already on his stomach. How helpful. She slipped the garrote from her shirt and in a swift, clean motion, had him pinned. Her hands tightened the cord around his throat at the same moment her legs clamped his arms to his body and her ankles locked around his chest. He jerked in her grasp and opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She’d placed the thin, woven wire with surgical precision, blocking not just air and blood, but preventing his throat from sliding into a position that could produce sound. He reared back against her and her back slammed into the wall with more force than she expected, his strength apparently untempered by age or alcohol. The wind was knocked from her, but her hold on him stayed true. He stumbled forward and slammed back again, this time catching her against the edge of the desk. A sharp snap like a whip being cracked split through the silent chamber. She gritted her teeth, pouring all her focus into her hold on him. The second time she hit the desk the snap was more of a wet crunch, and even through the haze of adrenaline she felt pain shattering down her side. He reared forward and thrashed again, but the movements were disorganized now, and she could tell he was losing consciousness. He fell to his knees and was just tipping forward as a soft creak snapped her head to a tapestry hanging on the far wall.

She was on him as soon as his hand slipped out to draw the fabric back from the hidden door. She took hold of the wrist and with a smooth pivot, pulled the intruder forward and swung around to slam her elbow into his windpipe. The last thing she needed was him calling for help. Still holding the wrist, she gave it a sharp twist, snapping it and getting a sharp rasp out of the man’s crushed throat as he doubled over in pain. A knee to the face and he was down. She was just turning back to Ozai’s prone form when a voice hissed from the darkness behind the tapestry..

Aang’s eyes darted from Ishran crumpled on the floor to the water tribe girl above him to Ozai’s empty bed. He was moving before he’d finished taking in the scene, not wanting to get pinned down in the narrow staircase.

“You,” she snarled as he lunged forward, putting his body between her and the servant on the floor. She dropped into a low stance and he swung down, hoping to sweep her legs out from under her. She was much smaller than him, he might be able to end this quickly. The chamber’s doors were shut, but she must have a way to signal the other guards.

She leapt easily over his attack and struck out with her heel as she fell. He caught it-- barely-- and shoved her hard. She flew back a few feet and hit the wall behind her, but was on him again by the time he regained his footing. Some remote part of him was impressed with her speed, but the majority of his mind was occupied dodging a flurry of strikes aimed at his head, neck, and chest. He jumped, twisted and lunged, always missing her hands and feet by millimeters. A sense of deja vu came over him and his mind flicked to the hours he’d spent in the training gates at the temple. The lesson was to be as a leaf, pivoting at every resistance, to pass through the storm. And she was very like a storm. When the flurry of blows began he hoped to tire her out before striking, but she wasn’t getting slower, wasn’t getting sloppy.

There was a subtle shift in her weight and saw her next strike coming. He sent a kick out to the side that would be left open by her attack. But she turned on a dime, ducking under his leg and catching his knee, sending him careening face-first towards the floor. He turned it into a roll and sprung up, but before his feet touched the floor he felt a bright shock of pain as she brought her elbow down on his solar plexus. He hit the ground hard, trying not to fight the muscle spasm, which would only prolong the seizing. She slipped a garrotte out of her shirt.

This guy was infuriating. She flew at him with everything she had and met only air. She didn’t recognize his form at all, but it certainly wasn’t Fire Nation. Their style was centered around brute force and bold, decisive strikes. It was a style she preferred in her opponents, especially larger ones. She could hurt them more by redirecting their strength than she could with her own. But this guy...this guy fought like it was a goddamn game of keep away. And she was running out of time.

Finally he struck out with his foot, and she used the energy of it to fling him down. While he recovered she managed to land a clean blow to his chest and he grunted and crumpled. She slid the garrote out, wishing for a quicker weapon, but the security at the palace was so tight this was all she’d been sure she could sneak in.

But he somehow recovered instantaneously. He flipped to his feet and circled away, putting himself between her and the door. They were on the far side of the bed now and his eyes fell on Ozai’s prone body. He froze and his eyes grew wide. Ever so slightly, his stance slipped.

“Is he dead?”

“He’s next in line after you,” she spat as she launched herself at him. He was distracted, unable to right his form in time. She feigned a direct hit then twisted in the air, vaulting off the wall and landing on his back.

“Wait” he rasped out, and she realized he’d managed to get a finger between her wire and his neck. Oh for fuck’s sake, would this guy just die already? She was debating just going with the slower, louder process of killing him like this when several things happened at once.

Ozai began to stir on the floor, coughing weakly and pushing himself up on his forearms. The main door to the chamber opened and a hesitant voice called out “Sir?” As she was taking all this in, the fake earth kingdom emissary grabbed her forearm and twisted roughly, ripping her off his back and over his head. The wall rushed up to meet her, enveloping her in a blinding flash of white.

The woman’s body slumped against the door she’d collided with. He hadn’t meant to throw her so hard, just needed time to reason with her, to explain. But now the guard was pushing the door back open and Ozai was stirring and before Aang knew what he was doing he’d scooped her unconscious body over his shoulder and slipped through the open window.

#kataang #kataang au #work in progress #avatar #avatar aang #katara #i dont want to post to ao3 till there's an end in sight #fanfic #atla fanfic

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synecdochereads · 3 years

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Six of Crows – review

Someone said, “heist movie but it’s a fantasy setting,” and I’ve been on the lookout for this book ever since. I finally found it in the clearance section of Half Price Books, and then—couldn’t read it. I got through the first chapter, I started the second, I put it down, and I didn’t pick it up again. Not sure why, but frankly this has less to do with the book than with me. I’ve been erratic about reading for, oh, years now – either I can’t focus for more than a few pages at a time, or I spend every waking moment with my nose in the book. There’s no middle ground. There’s no telling which way the cards will fall.

All of this to say, it’s not the book’s fault that it took me so long. But then the show came out, I watched it gleefully with my mom, and somehow having seen the characters onscreen made it easier to slip into their heads on the page. Two days later, I’ve inhaled the entire book as fast as I could get away with, and I’m in love.

This isn’t a regular book review – I’m terrible at ranking things, and the five-star system gives me anxiety. It’s mostly just some Thoughts™ neatly sorted for clarity, and hopefully reading over them will help you decide if you should pick this book up and fall in love with it like I did.

Mind the cut!

Characters

I am in love with them.

It probably helps that I’ve been looking forward to this book for ages, I’ve seen lots of gifsets and the occasional meta post, and of course I did watch three out of six crows swan about being fantastic for an entire season of a show that’s not even about them. But it’s not just that. There are a lot of technical literary ways you can analyze characters – arcs, themes, etc – but quite apart from all of that there’s just…are they compelling? They don’t have to be, for a book to be good, but it sure does help. And these six characters are so compelling.

(Also really likeable, which is even less necessary for a good story but which I do personally value. And I like these kids, I really do. Even Kaz “I commit atrocities without shame or remorse” Brekker. Wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley, or even a well-lit avenue! But I care about him and want him to succeed.)

It’s hard to devote equal time to six character arcs while also running a fantasy heist. Bardugo doesn’t try, but even the crows who get less screen time have complexity and depth. They’re all well fleshed-out, with full and distinct personalities and all that – on a technical level, these are really well-crafted characters. Top notch. Plus everyone struggles with different traumas and goals, and handles them in different ways, which gives us wonderfully varied arcs as they each move toward a deeper understanding of themselves, for better or for worse.

It also gives us really varied dynamics – some of them hate each other, some of them love each other, some manage to do both at once, some are just along for the ride. It’s as they pull at each other’s ragged edges that the story forms, in their different desperate needs and in what they can and cannot be for each other.

The show smoothed over a lot of the sharp edges and grey morality, most notably in Kaz. Kaz Brekker is a bad person. He does bad things for selfish reasons. His arc isn’t Learning To Be Good, it’s an ongoing question of whether he might, for the sake of the first person he has (quite accidentally) let himself love, consider maybe perhaps being slightly less of an amoral monster. I’ve seen this book described as “fantasy Leverage episode” but it’s really more Ocean’s Eleven, if Danny Ocean was a vicious bastard and everyone was seventeen.

And that’s great. I love that so much! Especially because the other crows run the gamut from shining idealism to casual self-interest (with a fun detour into “shining idealism but the ideal is violent bigotry”), so we really do get a morally complex story, without any easy black-and-white answers. One of the most kind-hearted people in the whole story has committed multiple murders and dreams of becoming a pirate. Kaz Brekker may do bad things for selfish reasons, but a lot of those selfish reasons boil down to “survive.” It’s complicated! It’s compelling!

Plot

It’s a fantasy heist, what more do you need?

Plots and counter-plots, double-crosses and last-minute improvisations. Magic, though it’s used as just another tool, as impressive and as prosaic as the gunslinger’s pistols. Dramatic climbs, elaborate disguises, cunning grifts, and some good old-fashioned sleight-of-hand. Six wildly competent teenagers, one impossible job, and four million fantasy dollars waiting for them if they can pull it off.

Well, okay, that’s just half of the story – maybe two thirds. The rest is flashbacks, showing us how these characters met and how they came to be the people they are; and stolen moments in between the action beats, where we see how they’re changing each other. It’s woven in really deftly. Our knowledge of the characters expands in time with the forward momentum of the plot, so that both parts of the story – the sorrows of the past and the edge-of-your-seat excitement of the present – get their hooks in you in tandem.

Worldbuilding

There are two settings in this book: Ketterdam, where we begin, and the Ice Court, where the bulk of the action takes place. The wider world outside these two cities is sketched in, alluded to in offhand comments and minor details of backstory. In theory, reading the Grisha trilogy would fill in those sketches, but I suspect it doesn’t matter. This is a heist story, after all: one entrance, one exit, and all the traps laid firmly between the two.

You know that thing authors do sometimes where they use the aesthetic of a real time and place, in the names and the architecture and so on, as a sort of worldbuilding shorthand? I’m a big fan of that. Ketterdam is clearly based on post-medieval Holland, perhaps in the late 17th century or so – a city of canals and commerce, with a ruling merchant class and a thriving criminal underworld, and a stock exchange at the heart of the wealthier district. The similarities feel like they’re just skin-deep – I don’t know that much about post-medieval Holland, but I’m pretty sure Bardugo has her own plans for the political situation in the wider world, which I assume is relevant in the Grisha trilogy. Here it’s not, and we have just enough detail to get a quick feel for the city, with extra importance granted to the politics of the various criminal gangs Kaz needs to worry about.

If I’m honest, I would have enjoyed a bit more detail in the worldbuilding. Ketterdam is vibrant and crowded, but it feels shallow; the only information we get is what relates directly to the characters’ actions. We’re told that it’s a big and complex city, but I don’t really have any idea what goes on there beyond, vaguely, “trade, gambling, and tourism.” But that’s probably just me. I’m unreasonably invested in worldbuilding. And anyway, we do get everything we need to understand the actual story.

The same is true in the Ice Court, the frozen capital of the Fjerdans. It’s a beautiful place, white and gleaming, and the parts that we see are incredibly vivid. We get scant glimpses of history and religion, the faintest suggestion of politics, and exactly enough of the city layout to understand the heist. We do, however, get a much deeper understanding of Fjerdan culture than we did of Ketterdam’s, because one of the crows defines himself utterly by the Fjerdan worldview, and his arc is largely about the difficulty of losing his place in that world and not knowing if or how he can ever get it back.

So yeah, we really do get everything we need to appreciate the story and the characters. I would have liked more, because I like worldbuilding, but what we do get is varied and satisfying.

Themes

I can’t really go in depth here without spoilers, so this’ll be a pretty vague section. I haven’t gone full lit-major on this book and I don’t especially plan to, but at a glance, the central theme is the tension between, in short, love and vengeance.

In long, several of the crows have the choice to embrace love as a force for healing and joy, or instead hold onto the (often violent) goals that have driven and defined them for so long. If they embrace love, it’ll mean letting go of the driving purpose that has kept them alive, and risking their whole identity (and possibly their lives) on a new purpose. It’s scary! It might ruin them! And it’s really not as easy as “love conquers all.”

(Big advantage of an ensemble cast: you can explore the same theme in different ways, with different outcomes, without having to settle for a single “answer” to the question posed by the theme. I really love it when that happens, honestly.)

It’s also not just romantic love! I mean it mostly is, but one of the crows has an arc that’s really about self-love, about learning to trust and prioritize not just your survival, but your happiness, your goals, and your ideals. About putting yourself first, not in a selfish way, but in a healthy, loving way. It’s really lovely, and although it has no bearing on the plot (it’s an internal moment of revelation), it’s one of my favorite things about the whole story.

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beardycarrot · 4 years

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Okay, now that I’ve finished the first book in the Youjo Senki series, I feel like now is a good time to talk about both it and its adaptations.

Youjo Senki (written 幼女戦記, basically “young girl’s war record”), is officially localized in English as “The Saga of Tanya the Evil”... which in my opinion really changes the tone of the whole thing. Obviously that name sounds better as a title than going with a more accurate localization like Girl at War, or, like... The Accounts of a Young Girl’s Battles, but still, I’m not a fan.

Maybe calling the protagonist “Tanya the Evil” will make sense later in the series, but as far as I’ve read/watched, the only people who would view her that way are her enemies (who call her The Devil of the Rhine) and Erich von Lergen, who I guess could be seen as a minor antagonist, even though everything he does trying to halt Tanya’s career is exactly what she wants to happen as well... it’s complicated. There are also portions of the story set forty years in the future with a reporter trying to learn the truth of went on during the war, which could be related to the “Tanya the Evil” title, as you only get brief glimpses of it and don’t know what became of Tanya.

ANYWAY, the specifics of the story vary a bit between the different versions, but the basic concept is that capital-g God is unhappy with how faithless humanity has become. The protagonist (an HR manager murdered by an employee he fired) argues that, hey, why would I be faithful? People cling to religion in times of strife, and being a reasonably well-off man raised in a scientific society where Abrahamic faiths aren’t a very big thing, belief in God is a bit much to ask for. How Big G responds varies a bit between the light novel, manga, and anime, but it’s basically: “oh yeah? so if you were born a poverty-stricken female in a highly religious magical world at war, would you be faithful then?”, and reincarnates him as an orphan named Tanya in alternate-timeline Germany.

The biggest difference is the tone. In the anime, Being X (as the protagonist, refusing to believe in gods, calls him) basically just gives him a cool middle finger, and, speaking to him through the time-stopped people on the platform, seems pretty impersonal and detached. In the manga, you see full-white-beard God in person, where he’s pretty vengeful, going all biblical. In the light novel... well, Being X is just an old man, talking to himself as much as to the protagonist, musing and seeming distracted. The “oh, so if I reincarnated you in this situation, you would have more faith” isn’t so much about punishing the protagonist as it is just deciding the best course of action. The light novel is later shown to have an entire pantheon of gods, which the adaptations drop completely.

Again, very different tones... and that carries throughout the entire thing. For example, the anime is mostly about high-flying action and battles of wits, with lots of crazy facial expressions from Tanya. The manga, meanwhile... is much more a comedy than the other versions. There’s still action and stuff, sure, but for some reason the manga puts more focus on the “Tanya says something, and everyone misinterprets her intentions” aspect, and uses a lot of caricatures of historical figures and diagrams with cartoonie animals when explaining things.

The light novel... uh. Well, it’s literally unlike anything else I’ve ever read. In most novels, you would expect the content to be made up of descriptions of what characters are doing, dialogue, the viewpoint character’s inner thoughts, maybe the occasional soliloquy to wax poetic about ideas the author thinks are important to convey but don’t fit into and of the other categories. Youjo Senki is made up almost entirely of the latter, with bits of dialogue sprinkled in... but also unspoken dialogue that’s implied, and also, the tense used changes depending on the current viewpoint character?

For example, when it’s focusing on Visha, it’s pretty normal, third person past-tense. Visha DID this, Visha THOUGHT that. When it switches to Tanya, it becomes present-tense... but also first and third person? Tanya does this, I think that. The protagonist consistently refers to themselves as “I” internally, but when it’s something happening externally, it’s happening to Tanya. “I can feel Tanya’s small body shiver”, or whatever. As if Tanya is something that the protagonist is piloting. Take this paragraph... I took this screenshot while reading on my phone in the middle of the night (hence the dark mode) because I was like 90% sure it’s a reference to Vermouth from Detective Conan, but it’s a pretty good example of what I’m talking about:

Which conveniently brings me to the next big difference, the Elinium Type 95. The characterizations of Being X remain consistent here: in the anime he’s just being a dick (in the form of a nutcracker), in the manga he’s being all biblical and vengeful, and in the light novel... honestly, I don’t even know if the same god from the start of the story is involved. What happens is that the Type 95 computation orb (a piece of magitech that allows mages to cast spells) has been blessed to give Tanya some proper OP Isekai Protagonist Powers, but only if she prays for it to happen.

In the anime and manga, it’s as simple as that: she just has to pray, and this orb gives her crazy boosted magic. She doesn’t even have to mean it, she just has to say the words. In the light novel, it’s the other way around; any time she uses the orb, the protagonist loses control of Tanya’s body, which starts praying. That’s a bit of an element of body horror right there, and while I personally like the vindictive nature of the “if you want to use this magic to keep yourself alive on the battlefield, you MUST pray to me” angle from the adaptations, I’m curious to see where the light novels go with their version.

Again, I’m not even sure if Being X was involved in that case... the gods all decided to make a new holy relic as a way to increase faith (since all the old holy relics they’d made in centuries past had ended up in museums), and I guess decided to use Tanya’s computation orb for that purpose since they were doing an experiment with her faith already? I’m not really clear on that... due to how it switches between characters and rarely describes actions as they’re occurring, a lot of specific details seems to be left to the imagination of the reader.

Despite being kind of a pain in the butt to read, I think I’m going to get the next one in the series. While I enjoyed the anime as I watched it, and would probably watch a second season (which is likely to come, considering the spin-off series Isekai Quartet seems to have been popular), I need answers sooner than that. Tanya is basically this world’s version of The Red Baron, but in the flash-forwards to the 1960′s, the reporter doing research on the war never really seems to find any concrete evidence that she or her unit existed. Why is that? Did she become a top general and have all reference to herself wiped from the records? Did she commit atrocities so terrible that the “technically not a war crime” workarounds she was famous for no longer held up? Did Erich von Lergen finally put an end to her career? Is she still alive in the 60′s, and if so, will the reporter eventually find her??

...So yeah, you could say I’m kinda invested.

#youjo senki #the saga of tanya the evil

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lightshielded · 5 years

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spoilers and very VERY long, so below cut.

tl;dr - jarv is a character going through a lot of emotional turmoil caused by the lose of trust in close friends, lose of his family to the very magic they were working to promote ( suggesting to him it was the wrong idea to promote it ), having little healthy support network, and around him is a game of politics where those older and more experienced on the council are influencing him heavily in his altered state of mind. however, he is still a character who cares for his people, wanting to protect his people from future catastrophes cause by magic but also knowing they aren’t all bad so is also shown tentatively reaching out to foreign advisers of allied nations which have advised his father in the past on the subject of magic and is trying to do his best despite being king far younger than anyone should and thrown into the position in a truly horrific way.

important - all is subject to change as we are provided more info, this is just a pouring out of my first impressions and my attempt to understand and rationalise everything under the current state and info provided. also important to note, this includes mentions of suicidal tendencies, depression, ptsd and other like matters. please read with caution.

so as you may know ( or don’t and do not care about spoilers ) our dear prince, or rather king now, has had a very bad day. like he was almost made to eat a rat, and marvel didn’t want to draw him in his actual armour and did in the ceremonial / ig armour instead so i got big cucked out of my hopes and dreams, he got hit with a morg ult when trying to gank mid lane . . . oh and the mid laner killed his dad. what a wonderful day for our dear prince, i mean king.

so a couple things that are unrelated to what i am about to talk about but things that are true in my mind. riot removed jarv’s capture and torture by noxus just so they could have sy/las say he has no idea what he has experienced. just saying. 8 years of basically the exact same lore only to have one of his key points removed at the addition of the character? who then mocks him for it? just saying it’s true. tho i personally still go by that he was capture on my own blog and all, but i have cracked riot’s code.

also like where was shy? i think jarv kinda mentions her but like she is his bodyguard. that’s her whole thing. where is she? i get she tries to lay low but she is meant to be on jarv’s personal guard, but she wasn’t there. now i have a short theory on this. for those who don’t know, shyv is genetically a dragon, her real magic is the fire rune inside her. but otherwise she is a dragon that some how fucked up and became a human ( prior to sy/las it was caused by magic so the magic is technically making her human not a human becoming a dragon and after sy/las the shitty lore we don’t like is that it is the weather ).

so my theory is, since her dragon - ness isn’t magic but is like genetics, she would just eat him and he actually can’t use it against her so they had to remove her. some how. cause plot. and jarv is mopey that she isn’t around, for a reason they wont say :///// that or riot doesn’t care about her or forgot she existed :)))))))

so the actual things i wanted to talk about, jarv’s very harsh language and actions in the comic and short story. they seem so violent from what we know of the prince of the past. and while that might be true i would like to point out a couple things about jarv as a whole before we begin:

jarv was never brought up to fear or dislike mages - ( though would have heard stories i imagine ) which is evident in his father’s own opinions and his lore. this makes his point of view here seem obscure, he seems to hate very strongly despite not doing so before. this is true, but i believe i can provide some enlightenment on this. something similar to this has happened in his lore before. his first conflict with noxus he was introduced the harshest realities of war, it is the innocents that die first. in both new canon lores ( prior and post syl/as changes ) it is stated there were only a handful of survivors out of dozens of towns. it is said what he saw deeply affected him. the carnage there so deeply troubled him and he could not forget the faces of the dead. the atrocities he witnessed were far greater than he had anticipated and it left him very shaken and unable to correctly reason. this caused him to ignore all rational plotting and sense, pushing away all his advisers’ ideas, wanting nothing more the avenge those who died. and this ends badly for him. like jarv really, really loves his people and would do anything to keep them safe. in fact, it is known from other stories jarv doesn’t ask of his soldiers to do anything dangerous he himself isn’t doing. if they must face the risk of death he will do so too. and he has earned himself a lot of respect for that. so we know, jarv is deeply affected by his people’s deaths and is not unknown to react mindlessly out of rage when they are hurt, and thinking the ‘villain’ need to be punished.

our now king is younger than you all probably think - if you take demacia’s lore and the dates / ages we are given, he is quite young. low 20s with a max of about 25 but even that is generous. it is noted he doesn’t know what to do, his mood fluctuating like rising and falling flames, his lore says he needs to be ready but not that he is. this is not to say he is incompetent or emotional because of he age, but with age comes experience that he has not had the chance to garner yet. he is not ready yet in his own opinion and i would agree as well.

jarv loves his family, a lot - and his only family was his father and xin. i think it is important to note, jarv has a lot of love for his family for they are the only people that really see him as a person. his closest friend even had to be reminded to call him by name. so to lose the closest people to you hurts man. his dad just died. okay.

jarv’s part in turmoil - there is actually a story which occurs after the time frame of the lu/x comic ( unless they are going to say the events of the last volume cover a full month? ) which has some interesting links and i’ll summarise all that with my conclusions at the end.

so. onto the main part. why has our fair king turned from someone who sees ‘ the true strength of the Demacian people—standing together as one in defense of their homeland, no matter their differences or misgivings. ’ to ‘ Mages? . . . We should have executed them all. ’ it is shocking. even xin is shocked by how much he has seemingly flipped noting, ‘ Indeed, he knew the prince had always been troubled by Demacia’s treatment of its mages. But that was before. ’ note, xin is saying he was troubled once and these anti - magic outbursts are new. though, i will like to point out, i don’t think the outbursts in the short story or the comic are particularly anti - magic as they are anti - syl/as and anti - murderous rebellion. so from now on, i am going to work through the sections of the comic and then the short story and kind of evaluate jarv’s thoughts and feelings and what i think is happening with him. wow, i hope you like your posts long. ( oh, and i recommend turning the pages along with me since i will not be posting pictures unless it is very important to save on length )

so to begin, we first see jarv at a meeting with a mage - seeker, some council members and his father, reacting to what happened several hours ago. honestly here he is as normal, he is thinking first and foremost for the people and with a very strategical focus to his thoughts. he is trying to both reassure his own father while working to capture the murderers. truly nothing remarkable other than him being a little taken aback by his father chiding him. i can talk a long time how jarv was brought up with very zealot ideas despite the king’s best intentions but that is not for now.

next page is mostly focused on the riots outside but does show jarv’s priorities. protect my father, fight for my people. heck this is even brought up in his ( now very outdated ) voice lines ‘ for my father, the king. ’ ‘ protect the faithful. ’ also cue me getting excited they would show jarv’s actual combat armour since they have the guards all in that good shit but nah they didn’t and i am big sad. i get they set all the demacian champs to their in game stuff ( and for jarv that’s the for show / ceremonial armour ) rather than their lore stuff for accessibility but still i am sad.

and now we get to the fun stuff. wow look at jarv straight beating the shit out of people. legit knocking several people down, making someone into a kebab. the come at me stance. that face he makes when sy/las calls him princeling. so many people call him that in lore. is it even a unique insult at this point? get new material you chain gremlin you.

in the next page we do see him angry tho, at first he is controlled and stoic with his speak, not too many emotions showing on his face. but it is when he puts a threat on his father do we see his brows furrow and leave him quite angry in the last panel of this page. tho, while obvious mad at the threat on the king he is actually keeping his cool. rational thought based on what he knows of the magic syl/as has. but he is a bit ticked off. ( OH ALSO THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT PART DON’T @ ME BUT JARV IS TALLER THAN SY/LAS WHILE BENDING DOWN AND IN A FIGHTING STANCE AND SY/LAS IS UPRIGHT BY LIKE AN INCH. HE IS PROBABLY SEVERAL INCHES TALLER UPRIGHT. I STAN THIS TALL MAN. )

so the next page is very interesting, we see syl/as talk of ancient and powerful struggles then conjure fire from the pillars. so as far as i am aware this is meant to be a reference to our favourite angels but i am trying to work out when this would have been. i thought they fought in a small town which was all but destroyed and not in the capital city. it is possible that the petricite keystones were at the town and those keystones moved to where the capital would be considering their reverence of kay/le and stuff but idk. super cool tho! it might be explained in the future, or not but i think what i have there is the most rational ( or maybe they mean like various conflicts involving them but not them against each other ??). anyway, we also see jarv getting madder obvious from the last page and then the language he uses, gone from the neutral ‘ mage ‘ to negative terms such as ‘ thugs ’. so the fire heavily wounds or kills the guards and jarv jumps head long into the flames.

the next page continues with their fight which is frankly brutal but they really skimped on detail here. it is shown that jarv cut syl/as in the chest and stuff but 1) no blood and 2) it is no where to be seen later in the comic which is unfortunate. would have been cool. other things which is cool, jarv pinwheeling kay/le’s fire away. i love the dumb ways jarv is shown to use his lance in various media, just spectacular. but yeah, syl/as going for blows in calling him ignorant about the heritage he loves. cause we know how much our man loves demacia. but i think he is trying to goad him. like i said before, jarv wears his heart on his sleeve a lot. he is an emotional man, but emotions can make you sloppy.

so on the next page, we see morg’s magic and again i love this touch but who really knows how it is there. so jarv is taken down by that which is interesting because it affected him a lot more than kay/le’s? i have theories about the magics and how they affect people based on their judgements but again that’s for discussion for another post. so with the guards taken down and then their prince, syl/as finds himself victorious.

so skipping through gar/en’s bit, we next see jarv tied up and being walked ahead of some of the mages. notably he isn’t wearing his crown helm. but also, he is very calm. jarv doesn’t really fear his own death much, he has faced dying before and to him it is simply a risk a soldier faces. so he is rather calm on the walk while syl/as threatens him. though, likely also subdued by the magic from before. but he is also talking a lot of sense, this does end badly, really sy/las doesn’t get what he wants out of this venture, not really. sylas however thinks this funny and mocks him about eating rats ( which honestly i question what he actually ate because 1) idk about you but i didn’t see rats in these panels of his cell and 2) he looks very fit and healthy for a man who eats rats. personally i think they feed the prisoners but since their magic is being sapped constantly by the petricite that they likely get hungrier faster, like they are constantly exercising, and so he ate rats. but also again, lets be real, they removed jarv being tortured so he couldn’t reply ‘ well no, but i survived being tortured by noxus. i have eaten much worse. ’ ( also syl/as uses incorrect style of address here which is either an accident or an interesting hint to the next page - majesty is for kings, highness for princes ) anyway, he drags the prone jarv to the door and...

surprise. the king is already dead by the time they get there. now jarv is obviously shocked and horrified and sy/las is too but i think that is because someone is stealing his thunder and hello his plans aren’t going to plan. this is when things start going down hill for jarv’s mental state. before he was mad but controlled, jarv’s expression on this page are wild eyed. and very much lacking of any confidence he had prior. for once, the prince looks as young as he actually is, rather than acting a stoic faced prince.

now the next page is actually the one i think the artists drew the best for jarv. i really love his eyes in the first panel. jarv’s hunched posture, the looking over his shoulder and upwards, got to say i love the composition. also i didn’t mention it yet but jarv and syl/as’hair almost look the same and idk if that is intentional but i like the idea that it might have been cause it makes our fair prince look very rugged and references his position as a prisoner. anyway. but just jarv’s silence in the last panel, before he was confident and speaking and now his words are trailing off and he has nothing to say. he lost his family and the idea of mages being monsters comes to his mind here. ( also note, while i have cut this out of the image, when syl/as is asking about who killed the king the mages say it wasn’t them but possibly another mage that came with them. this is probably true since it is anarchy at the moment but also there is no blood so unlikely to have been caused by a weapon and poison doesn’t make sense since the guards were dead too. )

but that isn’t the end of it, that is for sure. syl/as lost the king to his own anarchy so he needs a new star of his show. and so jarv continues to have a bad time. he is dragged from his grieving and through the citadel ( and past some really fucked up and burnt bodies wow trying to give jarv flash backs are you? ) and here jarv is starting to have doubts about his father and his own views. ‘ my father was wrong about your kind. he thought he could make peace with you. and you murdered him. ’ jarv puts the barrier between his people and mages at this point, condemning any thought which would have allowed this as wrong. now syl/as then insists that the king could have changed this at any time but we also know the council of demacia is quite powerful itself and the king leaves it to a more democratic style of coming to decisions together and actually regrets letting them have so much power. and jarv is marched outside to be made an example of and executed.

passing over ‘lu/x being a bad ass part one’, we return to jarv being cuffed to this really fancy chair. i like it, but also how extra can you be sy/las. anyway, as this page goes on we can really see the prince’s loss of confidence and despairing states. he starts strong when syl/as claims he has been complacent on things ( finally confirmation that he hasn’t cause riot wont tell me anything !!!! ) and he denies that neither he or his father have, and syl/as knows nothing about either of them. but his words trail off, he is stuttering through his words, head bowed, skin clammy.

what he is talking about is 1) his backstory where he fought noxian invaders of demacia’s outer borders and allied lands, 2) meeting with exiles and we know in demacia their exiles tend to be mages as magic use is given imprisonment or exile - this quite happily aligns with my own head canons that he meets with them to help provide safe passage and resources similar to j3 to the noxians in his and xin’s story - 3) now we can assume he is talking about the same person from before in the earlier comic but he is really dodging around a name. i’m inclined to think shyv right now based on the ‘not so different’ so implying similar but not mage but magical creature. but really we don’t know. though that’s cute. but syl/as simply laughs this off, deeming any effort they have made and mocking his relationship. anyway, jarv just looks really sad and upset man.

and so the next page goes on and sy/las is calling for the crowds opinion on if he should be executed. some ( likely the rebels ) say yes and some ( likely town folk ) say no and beg for someone to save him. syl/as of course listens to his own people only and takes execute as the option, and starts firing up the mages on that. some call for him to be bled ( oh i see this is where they wanted to put the noxian blood letting torture. they got rid of it to be put here i see. ) and another to behead him. and up until the end, jarv simply seems like he is simply given in, accepted his death. eyes closed and almost willing it over. he has already had to deal with one drawn out (near) death before, he doesn’t particularly want another. he only seems perturbed when syl/as tries to force him to eat a rat before he dies. again he is wide eyed, and very disgusted by the prospect.

he is already in a state where his father has been murdered, he has been pulled away from him and forced to march past the magic warped remains of his people both soldiers, councillors and innocents, his death is being made into a sceptical and now he is also being humiliated. also important to note is that he is alone in all of this, his uncle is nowhere to be found, his father is dead, when forced into an arranged marriage with someone he considered a trusted friend he was given no answer but abandonment, and his two friends are no where to be seen. that mixed with the people he loves so dearly gathered to watch him die and some even calling for his death. he is hurting really badly, and if he didn’t want to be sick at the sight of burnt bodies he now wants to be sick at the thought of eating a live rat.

and now we have ‘lu/x being bad ass part two’ and ga/ren rushes in to save them both. the comic doesn’t say and what exactly happens next is likely a flash back at the start of the next comic as i believe the next comic occurs after the short story, as it was released now and not then. but i imagine two things occur in jarv’s mind during this event of him being saved ( which he know he is ). 1) gar/en is right. he can always trust ga/ren. we know his friend is vocal in his dislike of magic and belief in the laws in place, so jarv after these events probably takes to leaning on this view point as it comes from on of the only people he has left and feels safe with him after all he has gone through.

2) can lu/x really be trusted? jarv isn’t blind nor deaf. he heard syl/as and lux talk about them used to being friends, and that he used her to kill people. he doesn’t know about her magic i don’t think, but could clue it out from that maybe, and it is unsure if he knows her involvement with syl/as but he now knows she wouldn’t even deny the proposed arranged marriage to his face and she was apparently friends at one point with the one who lead to his father’s death. this cuts him a bit. ( also i see again, the trying to insert jarv lore into here? with gar/en saving him? interesting but not nearly as emotion jerking as gar/en finding his armour blood soaked and empty next to an executioners post with the pin signifying them as the closest shit in each other’s lives in the bloody mud c’: )

now, we do not know much until the events of the aftermath short story. this story, told through xin’s point of view, is honestly very depressing and provides a lot more focus on jarv’s collapsing mental state. while in the comic he is hurt and distressed, struggling with the idea of his own views on the matter and then the significant pain cause to him by magic and the possible danger it could cause his people, aftermath shows us a prince who has been stewing on it for the night. occurring the day after, it is told to us he does not look like he has slept and his emotions are raw at the surface. i suggest reading the full story but i will only be talking about jarv’s mentions in this.

so our encounter with jarv in this short story occurs with xin finding him at the training fields. he is described as already breathing with exertion and drenched with sweat, a suggestion that he has been doing this for some time now, and his emotions wild and clear. he is also attacking wildly at the dummy, very much venting but also showing us he isn’t poised or in control of himself. yet when he speaks, calling xin uncle, it seems uncertain. i surely read it with a tired and tentative voice in mind. yet, after a pause, his emotions re-flare and he becomes angry again (something which happens several times over the course of the short story). he speaks coldly, harsh, trying to find someone to take the blame for the events, shifting rapidly from seeing xin as family to seeing him as a simple bodyguard ( something from the previous flash backs show the later of being untrue, and that xin is extremely close to jarv ). i also see this as him struggling with his own thoughts and passions, a war of heart and mind - xin being family vs xin being his father’s bodyguard, in extension we have seen mages murdered my father vs not all mages are guilty, i hate them vs i hate them all.

the prince then decides the best way to interrogate xin is by also trying to vent his frustrations with sparing. in jarv’s short story ‘ ebony, ivory, jasper ‘ we see him as a very level headed tactician which is controlled and ultimately able to see the right plays and choices in things where others can not. this is not that jarv. he is literally striking first, thoughts and questions later. xin mentions he is also not taking his strikes lightly, that he is swinging hard enough to break bone, something one wouldn’t do unarmoured or with someone you care about. he is pacing like a stressed animal, gripping his weapon like it is only lifeline, and forcing xin to fight him like it is his only reprise. another point made which shows jarv’s very altered state of mind is how xin also notes his form is sloppy, jarv is a good fighter, one of the kingdoms best, yet he observes there to be ‘ little finesse to the strikes ’ and that ‘ at any other time he would have berated the prince for his poor form—he was thinking only of attack, and leaving himself open for ripostes and counter-strikes ’. now since we know xin trained him and considers this poor form for him, it is likely jarv is definitely not of these traits normally, something further confirmed when he notes these are something he wouldn’t do now or take advantage because he sees them as caused by his justified anger.

skipping past the first flash back, jarv continues to press xin and eventually just tosses his weapon away when he doesn’t get an answer he wants. the frustration and anger is palpable. the prince isn’t the kind of person to discard something so carelessly, to be so disrespectful as to throw something of his to the ground. jarv has been raised to have the ideas of honour and respect and personal value and virtue as being very important, and the disrespect of tossing one of his weapons, staring at it while someone else picks it up, isn’t something jarv in his stable mind would do. yet he does such and grabs his lance - a sharp and deadly weapon in comparison to his blunted sword - and xin protests using them because jarv is unarmoured. now i have not heard anyone cover this exact fact but i want to talk about it for a bit, xin is armoured but jarv is not. jarv is attacking and not caring about his defence. and now he is making xin fight him with their actual sharpened weapons while only xin is armoured. either of these weapons could kill him, even his own by his own hand if he isn’t careful as noted by xin. and just, he doesn’t care if he gets hurt.

i think this exemplifies one fact about jarv, the first fact i mentioned above. he experiences a great amounts of survivor guilt in the time he failed his troops as a youth and now he sees himself as failing his people and his father by not saving them. he couldn’t even beat syl/as. and now he has to live with that fact, and very alone with it now. he is both trying to find someone else to blame to share in his own self torment or at least have someone either take him out of his misery or give him a punishment that jarv thinks is fitting for his failure. and i think perhaps, while not explicitly noted, xin acknowledges it ‘ “You are not armored,” . . . “I don’t care,” . . . Reluctantly, his heart heavy, he retrieved his spear and moved back out into the open area in the center of the hall. ’ after all, it was xin in jarv’s earliest lore which remarked on the prince’s altered mental state as one of the people that knew him best, i would say that perhaps this is our new lore equivalent. and perhaps bring another down with him. ( jarv has always had a slight discard for his own life - see his quotes and his colour story - but this is quite excessive. the others can be seen as brave, this is different )

one more flash back later, they are fighting and we know jarv is not holding back. none of the fighting right now is casual, he is serious and very angry. this is contrasted with memories of xin with jarv and how jarv once idolised heros and here he is wielding the weapon in a very non-hero-like way. and yet drakebane itself moves in conjunction with his own actions like a perfect extension of his body. we are told that drakebane ( as obvious by its name ) was forged by the great weapon smith orlon, the same who made pop/py’s hammer, in order to combat a powerful frostdrake named maelstrom and her brood. perhaps digging into it too much, but i do see in essence that while the sword was not working for him yet his lance remains faithful is by his conviction in its original purpose. this lance was created to slay great beings of magic, to kill dragons, for the great kings of demacia to wield against the mages of the runewars. and this fits the mindset this king currently has.

another flashback passed we come back to a xin who is facing a new set of concerns, before he was worried about fighting the prince with dangerous weapons while jarv are unarmoured and now he is concerned that maybe the prince getting horribly wounded is not the only issue. here we see another drastic flip in jarv, he would never hurt someone he cared about, he is especially known to put himself in harms way before anyone else. and yet. he cut xin and xin is reasonably concerned but also unafraid. while it is only explicitly stated that xin thinks there is balance in dying here but it surely seems jarv also has this opinion. they both seem to think death is what they deserve. yet ( as angry as jarv is ) he doesn’t to want kill xin as much as xin wishes not to harm him. he stops as the blade ghosts xin’s skin, begging xin for answers but upon receiving it ( if not by xin’s confession but by his own reasoning ) he just deflates. he works out xin was sent away and so he is left as the only one at fault for ‘failing’. xin was fulfilling his duty, while he failed in his.

instead, jarv is just remains tired, tired and grieving and alone. through the next two flashbacks and jarv’s reaction to them we learn the late king was a stubborn man about what he believed in and that he often put his work ahead of himself and his family despite his love for his son. and just as quickly did jarv sober did his temper re-flare, upon hearing about the rebellion again he declares that they should have killed all the mage prisoners instead of imprisoning them. xin is shocked by this for he remarks that once jarv used to be concerned with the treatment of mages in demacia like his father but acknowledges that this was before what they did to him and that his anger in the moment is justified. but he still reminds him that his father wouldn’t agree with that, as he wouldn’t have once agreed with that. here it is key to see one of the great hurts in him right now is he feels both a failure and he feels betrayed, he snaps back ‘ and they killed him. ’ the lightshields had been working towards making things better for mages and in jarv’s angry thoughts and he feels betrayed by the ones they were working to help, he feels as if his good nature was taken advantage of and hurt by those he cared about. ( also note, canonically, execution is a murderer’s punishment. killing another is punishable by death and this is shown in some stories. )

just as quickly as this outburst begins does it end however, his fire dies and he sheds any mask of princely facade and anger, revealing he is simply lost, scared, sad and confused again. he grips feebly to support, and weeps. likely not the first time given his earlier description, but likely the first true time where he might realise the full emotion and weight of the situation. and he tries to hold strongly to it, he doesn’t have confidence or stability so he is all but begging xin to be it for him. when he is told that xin sees his life as forfeit, jarv grips at strings to keep xin with him. while desperate it is still very controlled though, controlled and thought out. begging wouldn’t work, but xin’s sense of duty would. and once xin starts to relent, he asks formally, appealing to the formal requirements. and once that digs at him, he appeals to the side that is his uncle, for he needs him as much as his kingdom. strategic in all things but it also shows his reliance on xin emotionally in this point. i strongly believe, if xin denied him he would crumple and things would be a lot worse. even if xin thinks he looks more composed after his breakdown.

and the short story ends with xin accompanying jarv to a council meeting. xin remarks at how controlled jarv is compared to his outburst, likely due to two things: 1) he had his outburst and is now not bottling up his emotions as much and is able to control himself better, and 2) jarv is required to look regal. xin notes that demacia needs a strong leader right now and jarv likely knows that just as well ( which will play a part in his next actions ) and so is portraying himself in such a way regardless of how his emotions might still be. i think this is shown well when he asks to see the note xin was to deliver, the contents of which anger him. it is a reminder of his older self, of his old ambitions and everything that he lost. and so he wrings its neck like he has to his old self and what he wishes to do to those that caused this. this shocks and disturbs xin and he is concerned. it is also important to note that the mageseekers are trained to combat magic so keeping them with greater powers, he increases arrests while the note wished to limit them, is advantageous to his wants.

after this point lu/x 5 will fill but we don’t know much of it so we shall skip over it for now. lastly, we have turmoil, a short story i really suggest reading which takes place one month after these events. as not much is relevant other than a few details and the laws of stone i will summarise. in turmoil, it follows a group of demacian soldiers as they are sent to escort a foreign dignitary to the capital, a mage from arbormark called arjen. the soldiers are uneasy with this and some wish that they could be out hunting the rebellions in the woods instead. two mageseekers accompany them as is now required by the laws. as they escort the mage they run into trouble. fearing the villages of the town wish to hurt the mage they are escorting, the soldiers form a tight perimeter and try to escape through a passage and a building. however, it is revealed the mob is not mad about the mage but one of the mageseekers with them. this mageseeker, under the new laws of stone was made to remove a young girl who he had been working with prior, he laments he didn’t want to remove her for she was innocent and he wouldn’t have required to prior but the laws have changed to become stricter and so all mages are considered guilty. the mother of the young mage tries to kill him but she is talked down but the crossbow still fires in a shot which would have killed one of the more vocal mage hating soldiers but arjen carefully uses his magic to deflect the bullet with only that soldier and the main character noticing. the mage hating soldier is conflicted and says nothing, implied to be having a turn of heart. the mother tells the mob to disperse and the envoy continues to the capital.

now from this we learn a couple things: 1) is is now illegal to BE a mage. prior to sy/las it was only illegal to USE magic and so benign mages were actually educated on how to control themselves at times and we treated more of a sickness at other. but now you’re life is a crime. 2) some of the mageseekers themselves are uncomfortable with this. while mageseekers have often been portrayed as horrific people, it is shown in this story as being more a magic focused police service which holds some corruption in higher ranks but also employs people who simply want demacia kept safe and don’t agree that magic is bad but rather bad mages are bad people. 3) that demacia has a lot of allies due to their defence of realms beyond their boarders and also that they understand demacia’s place and don’t condemn them for it. they understand the position of demacia based on its history. 4) these allies are sending who they think will help advise the new king of demacia best including mages and jarv is NOT denying them entry, which shows a willingness to listen which is a step beyond his much more aggressive stance one month earlier. 5) the punishment for being a mage is exile or imprisonment. currently the prisons in demacia are overloaded and there are prison camps in the outskirts. also exile is seen as one of the worst punishments in demacia. and 6) the rebellion is being hunted by the demacian army.

so, after all this, what can be conclude? it is obvious jarv is GREATLY affected by the barrage of death around him. his pre-existing survivor’s guilt is further exasperated by the failure to protect his father and those he swore to and he feels greatly betrayed by many people in his life ( lu/x for claiming to be a friend of the one who killed all these people, the mages he was trying to help striking when he is most vulnerable ). he is greatly alone with losing many friends and family and others being seemingly absent from the events, giving him only those with views which would increase his own anti-mage sentiment if he listens to them. he is lost in his grief and his depression and his anger, his empathetic nature stretched to its breaking point and he has no respite. in the end, jarv is doing what he thinks will protect his people, note he likely does not think mages among his people anymore, and will do anything for their safety. but he is also trying to be reasonable by reaching out to his allied nations as a new king and accepting the advise of mages on these topics. he isn’t murderous, but he is hurt and alone and his actions in his hurt are making him more alone. it’s a vicious cycle demacia has always been in, and now our dear newly crowned king has fallen into it.

a little extra: i do think there is a bit of jarv’s lore MISSING given the situation with shyv. i hope this will shed light on what he was doing and how that also affected him before this happened. i also hope they eventually show us jarv being redeemed for this is FAR from the jarv that the bio shows us on his page and i think that is his true self. just, if i can recall, someone i know once said at your lowest you become your opposite and i think this is true here.

#wow um okay #thats long #like 7 k words long #kudos to you if you read it all #its just me throwing out all my thoughts on the events to read #also not going to lie #this was so long #i didn't edit it at all #sorry for the grammar errors #about /#— out of character `

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lligkv · 3 years

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In a scene early in Susan Choi's novel My Education,* two grad students are talking about a protest against an elderly male professor for the racism in his latest book.

"They were chanting 'Joseph Conrad, Joseph Conrad!' I evoked, splashing beer as I mimed a hand waving a sign. 'Because, you know, of Conrad's Colonialist Agenda. So we're going to have an emergency meeting to decide if we should boycott his class, or stay and try to subvert it somehow from within."

"Can I ask a really idiotic question?" Dutra said, in a tone that suggested his question would reveal that all idiocy lay elsewhere. "With these people, is that name, Joseph Conrad, supposed to be an insult?"

"Well, yes!--obviously... I don't think they're talking about his writing so much as his politics. And the way his discourse perpetuates the status quo. The inequities in power between whites, who control the discourse, and nonwhites, who are controlled by it--"

"Who cares about his politics?" said Dutra, swinging out of the hammock... "Do you like his books or don't you?"

"Whose?"

"Joseph Conrad's."

Here was a question I hadn't expected. "I've only read Heart of Darkness but...I liked it," I acceded at last...

"Do you like the other guy's books?"

"Whose? My professor's?"

"Exactly."

"I've never read them." Strike three.

Dutra burst out hysterically laughing. "No wonder you're confused!" he exclaimed, in the exaggeratedly bemused, tenderly condescending manner I'd already learned was his method of shifting the mood... "You don't have any empirical evidence..."

It reminded me of something I'd read about a recent controversy in the Romance Writers of America over the novel At Love's Command. accused of glorifying a protagonist who participated in the massacre of Sioux people at Wounded Knee. Specifically, comments by the president of PEN America, Suzanne Nossel, about proportionality: "When the accountability is driven by a firestorm on social media, the notion of proportionality goes out the window because nothing short of a complete repudiation is going to satisfy an audience from afar that's really not immersed in the facts and can't really assess motives. It can mean a default to the most draconian outcome."

The facts of a situation and the motives of an artist being criticized are key ways to distinguish what harm may have been done and what restitution may be necessary. They're not the sum total of the case--but they do sometimes fall by the wayside in these sorts of controversies, at least in the way they're most often covered by outlets like the New York Times. The primary focus is so often trained on the other relevant aspect of these cases, which is the harm that can be done by representations of atrocity and those who are allied with atrocity--which so often isn't quantified as clearly as it could be. (In the case of At Love's Command, for instance, the harm that could be said to have been done is: 1) the book attempts to empathize with someone who participated in a racist atrocity, and 2) it does this in a cultural context in which authors of color are systemically disadvantaged--not given as many opportunities to publish or considered in equal proportion to White peers as having the merit granted their White peers--with representation for their stories reduced as a result, so 3) it should not be celebrated; it's taking an award that could have gone to an author of color, and perhaps should have, given the fact that the award it received was named for Vivian Stephens, a Black woman who cofounded the Romance Writers of America.) Add to this virality--how easy it is to see these conflicts as they emerge and weigh in--and particular facts of a situation and evaluations of potential motives of the participants become even more distant...

I've often thought of the controversies around representation in, say, romance or young adult literature as live looks at a cultural pendulum as it swings--which is something we ought to be patient with. A landscape of what we're willing to endorse and permit is changing, in tectonic ways. We ought to give the new earth some time to settle before we begin to walk it. And many of the onlookers who deride "cancel culture" don't seem to have the patience to understand in good faith why the people who are upset at a book like At Love's Command receiving awards or honors are reacting this way. But the arguable over-the-topness that the complaints can take on when the nature of the harm that's alleged isn't spelled out--and the facts of a situation aren't widely known by all who amplify the complaint, and the motives of an artist aren't always done justice in the complaint--isn't any more helpful... To represent the interiority of a person who commits an atrocity isn't to endorse what that person does; a character's actions or opinions aren't an author's: these are truisms basic to the creation and appreciation of art. And the seeming refusal to acknowledge them in cases like the At Love's Command--so that we can focus on the practical argument about representation and artistic honors and who's getting them that, to my mind, has the most merit--gives the hostile and the ignorant all the ammunition they need to shoot all such complaints down, as "hysteria," before they've even had any impact.

In the meantime, I appreciate the measured response of the author of At Love's Command, Karen Witemeyer, who "said in an email that she did not agree with the group’s decision to rescind the award but said, 'I understand why they felt compelled to take such action, and I harbor no resentment toward them.'" The statement's a bit crisp, and you could read some passive aggression in it. But taking it charitably, Witemeyer seems to grasp what so often falls by the wayside for people injured by accusations they've caused harm, which they cannot understand or bring themselves to agree with: there is a gap between the artist's intention and the art's effect; no artist can be in perfect control of the ways their work will be received, and no artist is immune from the social spirit of the times in which they're producing their work. Sometimes you've just got to accept what happens to that work. All the paratextual stuff--how it's received, how you're thought of as a result--is secondary to it, and much of it is beyond your control.

This is all pretty "basic." But the way these conversations happen online, it's hard to approach anything resembling a first principle. Every so often I want to sit down and figure out something that might interrupt the endless cycle of this same conflict bubbling up and fizzing out before we move to its next instantiation.

A little bit of patience is called for, from everyone involved, and a little bit of grace. And an expansion of the landscape of literature, where outcry over a book like At Love's Command seems to me to encode a belief that this landscape is zero sum--that any depiction of a participant in a racist system will take away literary territory that ought to belong to the victims of that system. Those who participate in atrocious systems, even gleefully, are also part of the human fabric, and it's not always glorifying them to depict their consciousnesses at work, or to celebrate such a depiction for what it reveals about our collective condition. What's more, how much does an award matter anyway? Granted awards say something about what the culture values--but they're snapshots of the values of a moment; for every celebrated text that stays in a "canon," there are tens or more that are discarded... And there are other ways to make a case for literary value than protesting a particular moment it isn't given. Just find more ways to talk about the books you love. As someone who works in publishing, I can say publishers are listening. (Though, you know, grain of salt here: publishing's desires to capitalize on trends are (obviously) cynical; if you want to be taken up by that establishment, you'll likely find it's not what you wanted it to be.) And beyond what publishers or literary establishments do or don't do, the love you have for a book in its moment is really all you've got. No future's guaranteed for any text.

I also think, there has to be some better way of adjudicating this than "give an award" -> "experience outcry by constituents" -> "rescind the honor given." The mechanics of popularity or brand management are at work there, rather than an organization's sincere engagement with the complaint being made, the elaboration of a principled stance for its response and the taking of action according to that stance, or the desire for true resolution or restitution on either side.

*It's somewhat ironic that I'm using My Education as my decorative lead-in for this little post about ethics in artistic representation. The stories of both the male protagonists in that novel--including Dutra--involve unproven allegations of sexual harassment, in a way that probably wouldn't fly in a novel published today as opposed to 2013. I'll admit I was expecting Choi to do more with the accusations than treat them, essentially, as ways to give those characters a bit of spice, a frisson of danger. And a barrier to loving them that only a woman like her protagonist, Regina, is brave enough to surmount.

#literary #novels #ethics in art #susan choi #karen witemeyer #representation

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arielsojourner · 7 years

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Real Part 14 of Luke and Vader Save the Galaxy. Every time I think my spring of head cannons has run dry I re-watch an episode of Clone Wars or stumble across some fanart or read someone else’s marvelous story and remember there are so many characters with so many stories to add to this alternate universe before I get to the end. This is a bit short but more is coming.

-Boil watched Waxer come and go from Jedi training (Jedi training for a clone! It still boggled the mind!) and every time he did, a feeling of disquiet rose within him. Waxer was never eager to go. He was never brimming with enthusiasm for what he had learned when he came back. When the other brothers they bunked with in the barracks asked him what it was like, whether he was learning to deflect blaster bolts with a lightsaber, and when he would be getting his own lightsaber, Waxer would just chuckle and make a joke and change the subject. Sometimes Boil thought he caught Wexer just looking so . . so sad. It was really beginning to bother Boil. Had the Jedi told him he couldn’t talk about the training? Was Jedi training something horrible that Waxer never seemed to enjoy it? General Kenobi hadn’t wanted to train Waxer or any of the other brothers (and Boil didn’t like thinking ill of General Kenobi, he was a good General, but he hadn’t wanted to train Waxer in something that could save his life and others on the battle field and it made Boil furious). Was General Kenobi being too hard on all the clone troopers or treating them poorly? Was it the age thing that General Skywalker had argued with General Kenobi about, like being old made you somehow . . . tainted or stupid or unable to learn about the Force? Whatever it was, it was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, a thorn caught in his thermals under his armor and he was getting sick of it.

One night, after lights out he got out of his bunk and crouched down next to where Waxer lay. He poked his brother in the head twice until Waxer opened his eyes with a sleepy noise. “Why are you always so miserable when you are training to be a Jedi?” he whispered sharply. Waxer just blinked at him for a long moment.

“Huh? Boil–“

Boil poked him again. “You. Are. Miserable. Does it hurt to use the Force? Is General Kenobi refusing to teach you or being harsh or unreasonable? Is it hard? Is there something bad about it? Tell me!”

Waxer propped himself up. “Shh, no it is fine. General Kenobi is a fine teacher, so are the others.”

“Then why aren’t you happy? This could save your life. This could save everyone’s life. You could live through this war and– and afterwards be a Jedi. You have a future!”

Waxer looked away. It made Boil furious. Waxer had a future, an opportunity. Why was he acting this way? It made Boil want to punch something.

“How can I be happy to have this--this ability when the rest of my squad doesn’t, when you don’t?” Waxer asked back in a harsh whisper. “We are in this war together. I-I don’t want to— Can’t you see that– You don’t have the ability and I don’t want to be so different from you that you don’t want me as a friend anymore!”

Boil sat back on his heels for a moment, but only a moment. “You kriffing moron!” he swore quietly. “You think I care about that? You think any of us care or are jealous or upset about that? You can use the Force! You can protect us, lead us. A brother leading us! And why wouldn’t I still be your friend? I’ve put up with you so far! You have a chance Waxer, a chance to be something more!”

“And what’s wrong with who we are? I don’t care what the rest of the Republic thinks. We are the best damn soldiers the galaxy has ever seen! I don’t need the Force to be proud of that.”

“Your future–“

“What future?” Waxer scoffed. “General Skywalker and Commander Tano believe in us Force clones yes, but the rest of the Jedi Order? They won’t want us. Plus, we’re still property remember? I’m a clone. The fact that I have the Force isn’t going to change that.”

“We’re not property anymore,” a voice piped up in the dark a bunk away. Boil turned around quickly, eyes narrowed.

“Who asked you, Crys?”

“If you two are going to talk loud enough to wake us all, we may as well all talk,” Crys shot back. “And it’s true. I heard the Generals talking about it. Commander Tano just came from Kamino. There’re Jedi who went there to free all the troopers and cadets. They are being given a choice. They arrested General Ti and the Kaminoans. I heard it from Sketch who’s with the 104th and saw it himself. Commander Tano brought her in in binder cuffs for violation of Republic law for how us clones were treated.”

“That’s a load of bantha poodoo,” Gearshift snarled from the other side of Waxer, sitting up in his bunk. “There’s no way a Jedi arrested another Jedi.”

“Shows what you know!” Boil said hotly, “On Umbara, a Jedi let that skrag Krell get sabered and fed to a flesh eating plant!”

“Did you see it happen?” Gearshift retorted.

“I didn’t but Captain Rex did. I heard the report myself,” Boil said daring the other clone to dispute the word of Captain Rex, “and I saw the Jedi who let it happen, both dressed all in black.”

“See, it’s true,” Crys said eagerly. “It isn’t just having the Force, we’ll all have a future soon.”

“Huh, only if we live long enough in this damn war,” Wooly muttered from where he slept face down on his bunk. He raised a hand to rub the tiny scar where his chip had been removed. “At least we aren’t going to die of old age, instead we get to live a long, long time conquering and reconquering the same kriffing planets over and over again.”

“Look as much as I appreciate all the help, I was trying to have a private conversation with Waxer here,” Boil finally snapped. “Can I get back to that please and you all shut up and stay out of it?”

Muttering greeted his comments but the brothers backed off and rolled over to give the two some privacy. It was a total illusion. Everyone could still hear everything but they would try and give each other the appearance of it as much as they could.

Boil huffed and turned back to Waxer who was side eyeing him. After several long silent moments, punctuated by a few clearly fake snores from parts of the dark barracks, Boil poked Waxer one more time. “You have the Force you laser brain and I am dumb enough that I am not going anywhere either. I am happy about it so you just Be! Happy!”

“This is you happy?” Waxer asked with a smile.

“Positively ecstatic,” Boil growled at him and then climbed back up to his bunk and laid down.

– After saving the Noghri, at Luke’s request, Vader had made a list of planets, places and conflicts during the Clone Wars where things had happened outside of the sieges and campaigns. The events on the list involved environmental disasters, famines, slavery or slave trading, and other criminal activities that the Jedi and the GAR either deliberately overlooked or hadn’t know about until it was too late to do anything. The list was very, very long. Luke didn’t know it but most of this list Vader had cribbed not from Jedi briefings (because back then all Jedi briefings were only about the war or why Anakin Skywalker had done something un-befitting the Order), but from things Padme had told him or said in passing. At the time, Vader had listened, but put any concerns aside to focus on the war and the “greater good” as a “good Jedi” should. Years later, Vader had gone over in his mind every moment he had ever spent with Padme, every conversation, every glimpse. It was a kind of mental torture to do it, but Vader had turned it into a type of meditation over the years, self-flagellating, the pain and hurt of it fueling his powers and his will to get through each and every day. The side effect of this was he could recall many of the humanitarian disasters of the Clone Wars.

When Vader handed Luke the list, he had asked his son why he wanted to know when Vader had already briefed Luke on all the major battles and campaigns of the war to date. Luke had explained that based on what Vader had told him of Palpatine’s rise to power, among the many problems they had to tackle was the horrible PR problem the Jedi Order had and why wouldn’t the galaxy think they were to blame for everything when the were leading armies all over the galaxy shooting up the places that weren’t already on fire, or suffering from drought or cataclysm or pirates and slavers.

Vader crossed his arms over his chest after hearing that careful explanation. “Very nicely said, young one, but that is not your real reason. Our plans for robbing the corporate and banking guilds blind and ensuring that we own all the debts of the Republic is a better use of our time and resources to damage Sidious. What is your real reason?”

Luke ran his hand over the list. “A Jedi isn’t supposed to crave adventure,” he admitted to his father. “But Biggs and I used to imagine what we would do if we had a ship of our own and had the credits to do anything and we used to talk about adventuring from system to system being heroes. With a ship we could have done so much for the Underground. We could’ve struck a real blow against the Hutts. It was silly, but . . .” He looked up. “We have three capital ships and several cruisers. We have star fighters and an entire battalion. We know what is going to happen before it happens. We have a working mechanical knowledge 20 years more advanced than exists now. If we are really going to do this, if we are going to change the future, I want to do more than just fight in a war. Selfish and reckless, I know.”

Vader was silent for a long, long moment. How could he admit to Luke that he and Kitster had had the same dreams, made the same plans (he hadn’t thought about Kitster in years, was he still alive?) But now thinking about it, thinking about the Zygerrian slavers and the other atrocities and disasters on the list he felt a savage thrill. Luke was right. They could crush the filth in the galaxy now. Vader saw no reason why he shouldn’t encourage his son’s plans.

“It will be some days before the campaign on Felucia will begin again. I suggest we start with the Tradoshan hunting islands where they kill sentients for sport,” Vader said. “I will alter Commander Appo to calculate the hyperspace route.”

#luke and vader #sw au #star wars #star wars alternate universe #luke skywalker #darth vader #clone wars #clones #Waxer #boil #luke and vader save the galaxy #father and son save the galaxy

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takerfoxx · 7 years

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And as promised, here’s another preview of Subconscious! The others should come out faster since I don’t have any chapters to focus on anymore.

Though if you’re just checking in and want to see the first one, just check my FF.net profile for the link or search the Subconscious tag on my tumblr wall.

"The war was a mistake," Eric solemnly told his captive audience. "A very big mistake. As strong and fearsome as the Nightmares were, we were outnumbered. Everyone all joined forces, united against us. And when they stood together, they found that they no longer feared us."

The two six-year-old children sat together on the girl's bed in the room they shared together, listening with rapt attention. They were twins, a brother and sister, sharing the same light brown skin, dark eyes, curly black hair, and solemn expressions that only the very young and cats seemed capable of pulling off.

It was Eric's second time communicating with the pair. And as before, it was through a mirror, in this case the full body mirror that sat in the corner of their room. It had to be that way. Reflections were special things, in that they didn't actually exist but were instead mere tricks of the mind that appear in one's vision when the light bounced off the right kind of surface.

It was through those illusions that those in Eric's world were able to communicate with those who had the potential to fill Thelonious's empty throne. And so when the time came to tell of their destiny, it was through mirrors. A bit over the top perhaps, but Nightmares were nothing but devoted to the dramatic. Besides, having a magical friend that spoke to them through mirrors and only they could see was a common fantasy among children that age, or so Eric had been told. Personally, he felt that it was a bit creepy, in a Phantom of the Opera sort of way, but the system was in place and wasn't going to change, so on that point at least he kept silent.

Of course, Eric's reservations had been proven true the first time he had made contact, though that admittedly had been his fault. Instead of waiting until they were alone in their room, by chance Eric had appeared to them when they had been at a park restroom, the Girl's Room no less. And naturally, the bewildered children had caused quite a fuss when they told their mother about being approached by a weird man in the bathroom who talked to them about taking them away to a magical world. It wasn't until they had said that the man had been inside the mirror that it had been concluded that they were just playing a game and the cops had been called off. Either way, they weren't going to be taken to that park again.

This time, Eric made sure to do it right, waiting until they were together in their room with their mother watching television in the living room. It was still incredibly creepy as far as he was concerned, but that was what happened when millennia old traditions were still carried out in the modern world. Come to think of it, just about everything became uncomfortable when viewed in the right light.

Fortunately, if there was one thing children from any century understood, it was a good story, and as dark as Nightmare history was at times (okay, pretty much all of the time), it was certainly captivating. "They beat you?" Paul asked, his eyes wide with intense interest.

"Yes they did," Eric said. And deservedly so. Just because he served the Nightmare people didn't mean he felt any obligation to justify the atrocities they had committed. He wanted them to be better, to learn from the past rather than sugarcoat it. "They destroyed our army and attacked Thelopolius, our capital city. We tried to fight back, but there were too many. The city was overrun. And in the chaos, King Thelonious disappeared."

"What happened to him?" Kaitlyn asked.

Eric shook his head. "Nobody knows. The night before their army arrived, he was still there, sitting on his throne. But when the next day dawned, he was gone, leaving nothing but his crown, his royal regalia, and a note, all sitting in the middle of his throne."

"His royal what now?" Paul said, his brow furrowing with confusion.

For a moment Eric faltered. He had expected the next question to be about the note, but he kept forgetting that he was talking to very young children. Maybe he should attend a teaching class or something. "Oh. Uh, his king clothes. His…his robe and sword and stuff."

"Oh," Paul said. Then his face brightened, no doubt at the mention of the sword. "Oh!"

Kaitlyn, who was proving to be quite sharp, asked the required follow-up question. "What did the note say?"

"The note was from Thelonious himself," Eric said. He had seen it several times himself. It was preserved in the deepest of the royal vaults behind multiple layers of security and was only trotted out for special museum exhibitions once in a blue moon. Entire college level classes were devoted to it, despite it being no longer than six paragraphs. "He said that he was leaving, and it would do no good to find him. He said that he had realized that he had been a bad king, and we needed to find a new ruler. But of course we couldn't just hold an election." Unfortunately. Eric was actually quite in favor of the idea, but while his elders were willing to listen to some of his more progressive ideas, on this they refused to budge. "No, our new King had to be someone special. So he set up a way to find that special person. Every hundred years, a pair of twins would be born in the Waking World, your world. And when they were old enough, they would be brought into our world. And then they were to sit on Thelonious's throne, and the throne itself would tell us if they were supposed to become the new ruler or not. That was over a thousand years ago, and we still haven't found the right one."

"And it could be us?" Paul said eagerly.

"It could very well be," Eric said with a nod. He remembered what it had been like when he and his own twin sister had received a visit from a mysterious person from the world of dreams, who had spoken to them from mirrors and promised them the world. At the time it had seemed almost too good to be true. Strangely enough, everything that had been promised turned out to be completely true. They had just omitted a few key details, much like Eric had to now. "You two are the latest to in a proud dynasty, one that stretches back hundreds of-"

"Huh?" Kaitlyn said.

Eric blinked. "What?"

"We're what?"

Paul's excited face then scrunched up with worry. "Did you say we're gonna die?"

"What?" Then Eric understood. Whoops. "No. I said you're part of a proud dynasty."

Paul kept staring. "What's that?"

Eric struggled to come up with an adequate explanation, but now that he was put on the spot, his mind had gone blank. "A long line of very special people."

"Oh," Kaitlyn said, though the frown on her face made Eric doubt that she really understood. Yup, he definitely needed some lessons in how to speak to children.

To move the conversation along, he rushed to the pitch. "And one day, you too will go to the magical land where I live. You too will have the chance to become our new King or our new Queen. Would you like that?"

To be honest, he had sort of been fearing that question. It was necessary, but what if they said "no"? Eric couldn't blame them if they did, but it was still his responsibility to convince them otherwise.

However, that wasn't what they wanted to know. Instead, Paul asked, "Why us though? What's so special about us?"

Well, that was a much easier question to answer, even if Eric didn't actually have one. "Nobody knows why those chosen are selected. I certainly felt like I was ever anything special, but something did."

Kaitlyn asked the next question. "Okay, but only one of us gets to be King or Queen, right? What happens to the other one?"

Eric was impressed. These kids were sharp. "Then they get to be the Prince or Princess, which is almost as good."

"But what happens if it don't choose none of us?" Paul wanted to know. "What happens if the throne don't like us and says it don't want us being King?"

"Nothing bad happens to you," Eric reassured him. "Remember, I wasn't chosen, and I did all right for myself. If it doesn't choose you, then you get taken to a very big house with lots of servants and lots and lots of money. And when you're old enough, you'll help the rest of us boss everyone around until we find the new King or Queen." Then he winked at the pair. "And when that happens, they'll have to listen to what we tell them, because we'll be the ones who know how things work."

Paul perked up at that. "So we'll be rich?"

Eric paused. This felt a bit slimy, like dangling a carrot to get the horse to run. But he still had a job to do. "Very rich."

Naturally, this seemed to erase any doubt in Paul's mind. "Can we go now?" he said eagerly.

Eric shook his head. "No. Not until you're a little older." When the boy's face fell, he said, "Don't worry, I'll be looking after you. Anytime you want to talk to me, just ask a mirror, and I'll be here to answer any questions."

…

"Oh, and this time, please don't tell your mother," Eric said. "I don't think she would understand."

The images of young Paul and Kaitlyn Rouge winked out, leaving the screen a transparent pane of glass.

With a sigh, Eric leaned forward against the control panel, hands seizing onto the sides with a white-knuckled grip. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he mentally reviewed his conversation with the twins.

On the whole, it had gone a lot better than the initial contact had. After learning of the fuss his poor timing had caused, Erich had wanted to melt into the floor with embarrassment. He had finally earned the opportunity to push for his vision of the future of Nightmare and act as the mentor for the latest generation of potential successors, and he had blown it. Years and years of earning the capricious traditionalists’ trust, and he had come off as a playground stalker. Not exactly a sterling first impression.

Fortunately, his elders had seemed more amused than anything. Apparently such misunderstandings were common with first contacts, and he had not been taken off the project. However, lately he had been reconsidering whether or not it had been a misunderstanding at all.

"Well, I'd say you did pretty good overall," said a strong, wry voice from behind him. "You know, until you fumbled it at the end there."

Eric turned toward the young woman standing behind him. "Fumbled?" he said, a bit of irony in his voice. "I don't know. I'd say that was very much in line for someone in this business. The only thing that was missing was the offer of candy and the big white van."

The woman had the same dark chocolate skin and high forehead Eric did, though she was somewhat taller and much more athletically built. Also, instead of sharing his pure white eyes and wooly white hair, hers were both of a deep royal purple, with her hair being short and straight, falling to just below her ears like a helmet. Furthermore, she was by all appearances a classic demoness, with curving ram's horns growing out of her temples; leathery, dark violet bat's wings, long enough to reach the ground, extending from her shoulder; and a long, pointed tail slithering out from just above her derriere. She was dressed in a pair of tailored black slacks, black boots, and double-breasted black uniform shirt with silver buttons. The only ornamentation she wore were two rows of tiny silver skulls on her right shoulder, denoting her rank. Which, as it was, was very high.

Her name was Tyra of Flames. And like Eric, she was also one of the Uncrowned, the rejected contenders for the still vacant Screaming Throne of Thelonious. More impressively, she was also the Grand Warlord of the Nightmare Royal Army, a rank she had earned due to her exemplary performance in the Marauder War more than eighty years ago.

Also she was Eric's twin sister, his elder by about an hour, something that made him the baby of the Uncrowned, something that the others often took great delight in pointing out at each and every available opportunity.

At Eric's morose condemnation of his own actions, Tyra shook her head and sighed. "Oh, come on. Don't start this again."

"Start what? Let's call it for what it is, Tyra," Eric said, turning away from the control panel. All around them, the diligent uniformed engineers in charge of the Threshold slaved away at their tasks, stalwartly ignoring the disagreement of their superiors. "We're kidnapping them. It doesn't matter if we tell them years in advance. It doesn't matter if we condition them to look forward to it. We're still stealing them from their family and dragging them into a mess that they should have nothing to do with."

"I don't recall either of us complaining," Tyra said, folding her arms.

Eric fixed her with a steely stare. "Our situation was a little…different."

"Maybe so, but honestly Eric. It's still going to happen," Tyra countered. "You're not going to try to stop it, are you? Warn them not to trust us?"

At this, Eric had to shake his head. "No, of course not," he said. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

The two of them, along with the regular staff, were standing upon the circular platform known simply as the Balcony, though to the engineers that oversaw its upkeep it was known as Voyeurland. The platform itself seemed to float by itself, with nothing suspending it save for a tall metal ladder that stretched up into a hole in the sky. All around them were nothing but rolling clouds lit by golden light, though there was no sun to be seen.

And rising up out of those clouds were two enormous statues, ones seemingly carved from ice. They were perfect representations of Paul and Kaitlyn Rouge.

When most people thought of dimensions, their minds went to the ones that governed their physical world: width, depth, length, and, to some, time. A few theoretical scientists spoke the possibility of other dimensions that were beyond their ability to perceive or comprehend but surely must exist on some sort of existential plane. And those infatuated with science fiction and fantasy took it a step further, weaving tales of alternate realities filled with exotic monsters and unconventional quirks of physics, ones that had little to do with what the exasperated experts were actually talking about.

Amusingly enough, it was the latter that had it closer to the truth, though not in the matter they had expected. The fact of the matter was they had it backwards, imagining their mundane world as being the most basic of realities, with things becoming stranger and more wonderful the higher you ascended the dimensional ladder (or terrible, depending on how you looked at it). But in truth, their world, known to those who knew better as the Waking World, actually nested at the top of that ladder, with all the bizarre deviations occurring deeper down.

Directly below the Waking World was a place, if it could be called that, known as the Unconscious. It was there that the minds of the sleeping Dreamers sank whenever they slept, forming little worlds of their own that lasted mere minutes until waking dispelled them out of existence, bubbling up like suds in soapy water that tightly pressed against one another without ever overlapping. Most of the Dreamers imagined that their dreams existed entirely inside of their heads, a trick of the slumbering mind as it cleared out the mental cobwebs. If they only knew just how real those fleeting hallucinations really were, or just how close their minds came to touching the fantastic. All things considered, it was probably for the best that they remained ignorant.

But of course, those small, transient worlds didn't simply just disappear entirely when the Dreamers that conjured them up awoke. All those places and people had to go somewhere. And that somewhere was known simply as Nod, the world that sat at the bottom of the ladder, where everything eventually dripped down and became real. Everything conjured up from the minds of humanity were there. Every monster that had ever made a child wake up screaming, every lover that had made someone throb with arousal, every long deceased friend visited but for a moment, every bewildering apparition that made no sense no matter how one attempted to analyze why they had been sharing a car with an elephant-headed woman wearing a slinky evening gown. They were all there, now with minds and lives of their own.

As such, Nod was not an easy place to govern, but they did their best. Like sought out like, with the monsters, murderers, shadows, and other troubling manifestations of troubled minds banding together while the beautiful, the ambitious, the reverent, the perfect, and other embodiments of what mankind wanted to possess and become gravitated toward one another, and so on. The Nightmares were only one corner of misshaped world forged by the fears, desires, frustrations, and madness of humanity. However, they were the only ones without a Monarch.

Taking things a step further, Threshold occupied a sort of middle ground between the three worlds. It was there that the minds of the potential successors were protected, from above and below. It wouldn't do to allow them to enter the Unconscious every night. The Nightmares were not starved for enemies, many of which could also invade the dreams of the Waking World. And having dreams spawned from the one that might one day ascend to the throne of Thelonious and reign supreme over all of Nightmare just had too many political ramifications. So their minds were kept there, allowing the Nightmares to watch over them, keep them from harm, while communicating with them from afar, preparing them for the day they would be plucked from the top of the ladder and brought down to the bottom.

Like Paul and Kaitlyn were now, Eric and Tyra had grown up in the Waking World. Like the Rouge twins, they had been spoken to by a strange but wonderful guiding figure, one that existed in reflections and could be seen by no one else. And like Eric and Tyra, Paul and Kaitlyn would one day leave their world, leave their family and friends, and be tested to see if they were the ones chosen to inherit the ugliest mess known to dreamkind.

What a glorious destiny.

At Eric's pessimistic words, the radio on one of the control panels suddenly crackled, and through it Altair's salty voice came through. "Theo's saggy left testicle, boy. Are you complaining again already?"

As Eric rolled his eyes, Tyra went over to the blinking radio. With a wry smile of amusement, she leaned over and pressed the button. "Sorry about that, sir," she said. "My brother's merely expressing discomfort at the moral ramifications of the job he agreed to do."

"Yeah? Well, tell him to get over it! We chose him for a reason, and the last thing we need is for him to start his infuriating speeches and confusing the kids!"

"Eric," Tyra said, her purple eyes glittering with mischief. "The Night Mare says-"

"I heard, thank you," Eric said shortly. "And don't worry. I'll do the job, my lord."

"See that you do," Lord Altair said curtly, ending the conversation with that.

Breathing out, Eric cast one last troubled glance over to the monolithic statues, standing out there in the mists. In addition to keeping the minds of his new protégés safe while allowing him to speak to them, they acted as a sort of countdown. The statues would grow and mature with the children they represented, and when the time was right, they would fall, crumbling away to be replaced by the actual articles. And then any claim Paul and Kaitlyn Rouge might have had to a normal life would be over.

Shaking his head, Eric ascended the steel ladder, up out of the Threshold and back into his world.

He came up into the circular black marble room that contained the port into the Unconscious. Straightening his outfit, he started to make his way through the Spearhead Palace's dark corridors, heading for the exit.

He was about halfway there when his cellphone chimed, informing him of a new text. Absently he pulled it out and checked.

The number was private. The message simply said, CALL ME.

Eric paused, his face hardening. A dozen different expletives raced through is mind, each one more obscene than the last, and he was sorely tempted to type out each and every one of them and send them back in one large profane reply.

Instead he deleted the message and continued on his way, moving between the leering gargoyles and twisting pillars lit with hundreds of undying candles. He passed across perilously thin stone bridges that extended over sickly green canals. He made his way past guards with black armor and faceless helmets, all of which had been selected from the most terrifying of dreams, all of which straightened up and saluted respectfully as he passed. In his dark mood Eric barely remembered to nod in acknowledgement.

His mood didn't improve one bit even when he was out of the palace and in his car, heading back to Nocturnus Castle, that building that served as the seat of government until a new Monarch was found. The castle itself was about two thirds the size of the Spearhead, and was nestled deep in Thelopolius. The streets passed in a blur, and soon he was

Without a word he opened the body of the clock and tugged on one of the pendulums. The clock swung aside, revealing a short corridor that opened to a circular room about the size of a bathroom stall. The room contained nothing but a round wooden table, on which stood a plain, black, old-fashioned telephone.

The telephone had no means to dial a number: no buttons, no pad, not even a rotary dial. And it wasn't even ringing. Unperturbed by this, Eric walked up to it and picked it up.

"What?" he all but snarled into the receiver.

"What sort of way is that to answer the phone?" said the voice on the other line.

The voice sounded like that of a child, a prepubescent boy to be exact, one that spoke with a strong Turkish accent. But while the voice was young, the tone in which he spoke was anything but. It was snide, condescending, with contempt dripping from every word. It was the voice of someone used to getting his way and saw everyone about him as mere means in achieving his purposes.

Eric took a few moments to recompose himself. Then he hissed out, "What. Do. You. Want. Jacob?"

Jacob Draco clicked his tongue in disapproval. Then he said, "Eric, is the hostility really necessary? I mean, we've known each other for decades now. The war was almost a century ago. And it was, I should like to remind you, your fault."

Eric was quite certain that Jacob could hear the sound of his teeth gritting. He did not care. "Jacob, I have literally a hundred things I'd rather be doing right now. So, in the interest of upholding the treaty, tell me what you want and be done with it."

The other end of the line was noticeably silent. And then, with a sigh of resignation, Jacob said, "So. Dame Rumor has it that you have made contact with the next two potentials."

Several seconds passed before Eric trusted himself enough to respond. When he did, the venom in his voice had frozen into ice. "Tread carefully, Jacob. Treat very carefully."

"Oh, don't worry. You know my policies about making war on children. The kids have nothing to fear from me."

Liar, Eric thought. Jacob could go on and on about the superiority of his principles all he wanted, but Eric knew full well the sort of person he was and the sorts of things he did. Aloud, he said, "Then why bring them up? To reassure me?

"Well, no. It's me that wants reassurance. Now, how you people run your affairs is your business, and if this really is the lucky draw and you find yourselves with a brand spanking new Monarch, then you have my sincerest congratulations. But given our history, I find myself doubting that the Nightmares will still be willing to uphold our agreement should that happen. And in the interest of protecting my people from yours, I think it's time for us to discuss any possible changes to our relationship."

Eric considered this for a time. Then he said, "Jacob. Listen to me now and listen hard. The Nightmares have no intention of going back on the treaty we've signed with the Marauders. We learned our less the first time around."

"Yes, but-"

"However," Eric hissed out. "If you so much as breathe in those children's direction, our agreement is at an end. Any protection you derive from us will cease to exist. And more to the point, we will be very, very cross with you."

"Yes, because that worked out so well for you before."

"The last time, we were the ones that started the fight, I admit that," Eric said. "We blundered in ignorance and paid for our mistake. But that was nearly eighty years ago. We've learned since then. And this time, it will be you that throws the first punch. How willing will the other clans be to unite under your command once they learn that you're the one responsible for putting their lives in danger?"

Jacob didn't immediately respond, which to Eric's mind meant that he had scored a hit. Indeed, when his voice returned, all he said was, "We'll speak later." And then the line went dead.

Eric slowly breathed out. That they would be speaking again was something that he did not doubt. However, he still didn't have any intention of being polite when they did.

"I bet we will, you snake," he muttered as he left the room and its solitary telephone behind. Just you wait, he thought, in the paranoid chance Jacob had the room bugged. Just you wait. You'll get yours. Sooner or later, you'll get yours.

#Subconscious

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